“Ain’t you the bold one?” said May admiringly, when Marigold appeared among the red currants with Alicia in her arms.
But Marigold did not feel so bold when Salome, terrible and regal in her new plum-colored drugget and starched white apron, had appeared before them and haled her into Old Grandmother’s room.
“I should have known she was too quiet,” said Salome. “There was the two of ’em—with her on a chair for a throne, offering her red currants on lettuce leaves and kissing her hands. And a crown of flowers on her head. And both her boots on. You could ’a’ knocked me down with a feather. her, that’s never been out o’ that glass case since I came to Cloud o’ Spruce.”
“Why did you do such a naughty thing?” said Old Grandmother snappily.
“She—she wanted to be loved so much,” sobbed Marigold. “Nobody has loved her for so long.”
“You might wait till I’m dead before meddling with her. She will be yours then to ‘love’ all you want to.”
“But you will live forever,” cried Marigold. “Lazarre says so. And I didn’t hurt her one bit.”
“You might have broken her to fragments.”
“Oh, no, no, I couldn’t hurt her by loving her.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” muttered Old Grandmother, who was constantly saying things Marigold was to understand twenty years later.
But Old Grandmother was very angry, and she decreed that Marigold was to have her meals alone in the kitchen for three days. Marigold resented this bitterly. There seemed to be something especially degrading about it. This was one of the times when it was just as well God had arranged it so that nobody knew what you thought.
That night when Marigold went to bed she was determined she would not say all her prayers. Not the part about blessing Old Grandmother. “Bless Mother and Young Grandmother and Salome.” Marigold got up then and got into bed, having carefully placed her two shoes close together under the bed so that they wouldn’t be lonesome. She did that every night. She couldn’t have slept a wink if those shoes had been far apart, missing each other all night.
But she couldn’t sleep tonight. In vain she tried to. In vain she counted sheep jumping over a wall. They wouldn’t jump. They turned back at the wall and made faces at her—a bad girl who wouldn’t pray for her old grandmother. Marigold stubbornly fought her Lesley conscience for an hour; then she got out of bed, knelt down and said, “Please bless Mother and Young Grandmother and Salome and everybody who needs a blessing.”
Surely that took in Old Grandmother. Surely she could go to sleep now. But just as surely she couldn’t. This time she surrendered after half an hour’s fight. “Please bless Mother and Young Grandmother and Salome—and you can bless Old Grandmother if you like.”
There now. She wouldn’t yield another inch.
Fifteen minutes later Marigold was out of bed again.
“Please bless Mother and Young Grandmother and Salome and Old Grandmother for Jesus’ sake, amen.”
The sheep jumped now. Faster and faster and faster—they were like a long flowing white stream—Marigold was asleep.
7
The stars were coming out. Marigold loved to watch them—though the first time she had seen stars to realize them she had been terribly frightened. She had wakened up as Mother stepped out of Uncle Klon’s car when he had brought them home from a visit in South Harmony. She had looked up through the darkness and shrieked.
“Oh, Mother, the sky has burned up and nothing but the sparks are left.”
How they had all laughed and how ashamed she had been. But now Uncle Klon had taught her things about them and she knew the names of Betelguese and Rigel, Saiph and Alnita better than she could pronounce them. Oh, spring was a lovely time, when the harbor was a quivering, shimmering reach of blue and the orchard was sprinkled with violets and the nights were like a web of starlight.
But all the seasons were lovely. Summer, when strawberries were red on the hill-field and the rain was so sweet in the wild rose cups, and the faint sweetness of new-mown hay was everywhere, and the full moon made such pretty dapples under the orchard trees, and the great fields of daisies across the harbor were white as snow.
Of all the seasons Marigold loved autumn best. Then the Gaffer Wind of her favorite fairy-tale blew his trumpet over the harbor and the glossy black crows sat in rows on the fences, and the yellow leaves began to fall from the aspens at the green gate, and there was the silk of frost on the orchard grass in the mornings. In the evenings there was a nice reek of burning leaves from Lazarre’s bonfires and the ploughed fields on the hill gleamed redly against the dark spruces. And some night you went to bed in a drab dull world and wakened up to see a white miraculous one. Winter had touched it in the darkness and transformed it.
Marigold loved winter, too, with the mysterious silence of its moonlit snow-fields and the spell of its stormy skies. And the big black cats creeping mysteriously through the twilit glades where the shadows of the trees were lovelier than the trees themselves, while the haystacks in Mr. Donkin’s yard looked like a group of humpy old men with white hair. The pasture-fields which had been green and gold in June were cold and white, with ghost-flowers sticking up above the snow. Marigold always felt so sorry for those dead flowerstalks. She wanted to whisper to them, “Spring will come.”
The winter mornings were interesting because they had breakfast by candlelight. The winter evenings were dear when the wind howled outside, determined to get into Cloud of Spruce. It clawed at the doors—shrieked at the windows—gave Marigold delicious little thrills. But it never got in. It was so nice to sit in the warm bright room with the cats toasting their furry flanks before the fire and the pleasant purr of Salome’s spinning-wheel in the kitchen. And then to bed in the little room off Mother’s, with sweet, sleepy kisses, to snuggle down in soft, creamy blankets and hear the storm outside. Yes, the world was a lovely place to be alive in, even if the devil did occasionally carry off people who swore.
CHAPTER 4
Marigold Goes A-Visiting
1
Marigold, for the first time in her small life, was going on what she called a “real” visit. That is, she was going to Uncle Paul’s to stay all night, without Mother or Young Grandmother. In this fact its “realness” consisted for Marigold. Visiting with Grandmother was int’resting and visiting with Mother int’resting and pleasant, but to go somewhere on your own like this made you feel old and adventurous.
Besides, she had never been at Uncle Paul’s, and there were things there she wanted to see. There was a “water-garden,” which was a hobby of Uncle Paul’s and much talked of in the clan. Marigold hadn’t the least idea what a “water-garden” was. There was a case of stuffed hummingbirds. And, more int’resting than all else, there was a skeleton in the closet. She had heard Uncle Paul speak of it and hoped madly that she might get a glimpse of it.
Uncle Paul was not an over-the-bear, so was not invested with such romance as they, who lived so near the Hidden Land, were. He lived only at the head of the Bay, but that was six miles away, so it was really “traveling” to go there. She liked Uncle Paul, though she was a little in awe of Aunt Flora; and she liked Frank.
Frank was Uncle Paul’s young half-brother. He had curly black hair and “romantic” gray eyes. So Marigold had heard Aunt Nina say. She didn’t know what romantic meant, but she liked Frank’s eyes. He had a nice, slow smile and a nice, soft drawling voice. Marigold had heard he was going to marry Hilda Wright. Then that he wasn’t. Then that he had sold his farm and was going to some mysterious region called “the West.” Lazarre told Salome it was because Hilda had jilted him. Marigold didn’t know what jilted was, but whatever it was she hated Hilda for doing it to Frank. She had never liked Hilda much anyway, even if she were some distant kind of a cousin by reason of her great-Grandmother being a Blaisdell. She was a pale pretty girl with russet hair and a mouth that
never pleased Marigold. A stubborn mouth and a bitter mouth. Yet very pleasant when she laughed. Marigold almost liked Hilda when she laughed.
“Dey’re too stubborn, dat pair,” Lazarre told Salome. “Hilda say Frank he mus’ spik first an’ Frank he say he be dam if he do.”
Marigold was sorry Frank was going West, which, as far as she was concerned, was something “beyond the bourne of time and space,” but she looked forward to this visit with him. He would show her the humming-birds and the water-garden, and she believed she could coax him to let her have a peep at the skeleton. And he would take her on his knee and tell her funny stories; perhaps he might even take her for a drive in his new buggy behind his little black mare Jenny. Marigold thought this ever so much more fun than riding in a car.
Of course she was sorry to leave Mother even for a night, and sorry to leave her new kitten. But to go for a real visit! Marigold spent a raptured week looking forward to it and living it in imagination.
2
And it was horrid—horrid. There was nothing nice about it from the very beginning, except the drive to the Head with Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold, over wood-roads spicy with the fern scent of the warm summer afternoon. As soon as they left her there the horridness began. Marigold did not know that she was homesick, but she knew she was unhappy from her head to her toes and that everything was disappointing. What good was a case of humming-birds if there were no one to talk them over with? Even the water-garden did not interest her, and there were no signs of a skeleton anywhere. As for Frank, he was the worst disappointment of all. He hardly took any notice of her at all. And he was so changed—so gruff and smileless, with a horrible little mustache which looked just like a dab of soot on his upper lip. It was the mustache over which he and Hilda had quarreled, though nobody knew about it but themselves.
Marigold ate very little supper. She thought every mouthful would choke her. She took only two bites of Aunt Flora’s nut cake with whipped cream on top, and Aunt Flora, who had made it on purpose for her, never really forgave her. After supper she went out and leaned forlornly against the gate, looking wistfully up the long red road of mystery that led back home. Oh, if she were only home—with Mother. The west wind stirring in the grasses—the robin-vesper calls—the long tree shadows across a field of wheaten gold—all hurt her now because Mother wasn’t here.
“Nothing is ever like what you think it’s going to be,” she thought dismally.
It was after supper at home now, too. Grandmother would be weaving in the garret—and Salome would be giving the cats their milk—and Mother—Marigold ran in to Aunt Flora.
“Aunt Flora, I must go home right away—please—please.”
“Nonsense, child,” said Aunt Flora stiffly. “Don’t take a fit of the fidgets now.”
Marigold wondered why she had never noticed before what a great beaky nose Aunt Flora had.
“Oh, please take me home,” she begged desperately.
“You can’t go home tonight,” said Aunt Flora impatiently. “The car isn’t working right. Don’t get lonesome now. I guess you’re tired. You’d better go to bed. Frank’ll drive you home tomorrow if it doesn’t rain. Come now, seven’s your bedtime at home, isn’t it?”
“Seven’s your bedtime at home.” At home—lying in her own bed, with the light shining from Mother’s room—with a delicious golden ball of fluff that curled and purred all over your bed and finally went to sleep on your legs. Marigold couldn’t bear it.
“Oh, I want to go home. I want to go home,” she sobbed.
“I can’t have any nonsense now,” said Aunt Flora firmly. Aunt Flora was noted for her admirable firmness with children. “Surely you’re not going to be a crybaby. I’ll take you up and help you undress.”
3
Marigold was lying alone in a huge room in a huge bed that was miles from the floor. She was suddenly half wild with terror and altogether wild with unendurable homesickness. It was dark with a darkness that could be felt. She had never gone to bed in the dark before. Always that friendly light in Mother’s room—and sometimes Mother stayed with her till she went to sleep, though Young Grandmother disapproved of that. Marigold had been afraid to ask Aunt Flora to leave the light. Aunt Flora had tucked her in and told her to be a good girl.
“Shut your eyes and go right to sleep, and it will be morning before you know it—and you can go home.”
Then she had gone out and shut the door. Aunt Flora flattered herself she knew how to deal with children.
Marigold couldn’t go to sleep in the dark. And it would be years and years before morning came—if it ever did.
“There’s nobody here who loves me,” she thought passionately.
The black endless hours dragged on. They really were hours, though to Marigold they seemed like centuries. It must surely be nearly morning.
How the wind was wailing round the house! Marigold loved the wind at home, especially at this time of the year when it made her cozy little bed seem cozier. But was this some terrible wind that Lazarre called “de ghos’ wind”?
“It blows at de tam of de year when de dead peop’ get out of dare grave for a lil’ while,” he told her.
Was this the time of year? And that man-hole she had seen in the ceiling before Aunt Flora took the light out? Lazarre had told her a dreadful story about seeing a horrible face “wit long hairy ear” looking down at him from a man-hole.
There was a closet in the room. Was that the closet where the skeleton was? Suppose the door opened and it fell out. Or walked out. Suppose its bones rattled—Uncle Paul said they did sometimes. What was it she had heard about Uncle Paul keeping a pet rat in the barn? Suppose he brought it into the house at night! Suppose it wandered about! Wasn’t that a rat gnawing somewhere?
Would she ever see home again? Suppose mother died before morning. Suppose it rained—rained for a week—and they wouldn’t take her home. She knew how Aunt Flora hated to get mud on the new car. And wasn’t that thunder?
It was only wagons rumbling across the long bridge over the East River below the house, but Marigold did not know that. She did know she was going to scream—she knew she couldn’t live another minute in that strange bed in that dark, haunted room. What was that? Queer scratches on the window. Oh—Lazarre’s story of the devil coming to carry off a bad child and scratching on the window to get in. Because she hadn’t said her prayers. Marigold hadn’t said hers. She had been too homesick and miserable to think of them. She couldn’t say them now—but she could sit up in bed and scream like a thing demented. And she did.
4
Uncle Paul and Aunt Flora, wakened out of their first sound sleep after a hard day’s work, came running in. Marigold stopped screaming when she saw them.
“The child’s trembling—she must be cold,” said Uncle Paul.
“I’m not cold,” said Marigold through her chattering teeth, “but I must go home.”
“Now, Marigold, you must be a reasonable little girl,” soothed Aunt Flora firmly. “It’s eleven o’clock. You can’t get home tonight. Would you like some raisins?”
“I want to go home,” repeated Marigold.
“Who’s raising the Old Harry here?” said Frank, coming in. He had heard Marigold’s shrieks when he was getting ready for bed. “Here, sis, is a chocolate mouse for you. Eat it and shut your little trap.”
It was a lovely, brown chocolate mouse with soft, creamy insides—the kind of confection the soul of the normal Marigold loved. But now it only suggested Uncle Paul’s mythical rat.
“I don’t want it—I want to go home.”
“Perhaps if you bring her up a kitten,” suggested Uncle Paul in desperation.
“I don’t want a kitten,” wailed Marigold. “I want to go home.”
“I’ll give you my colored egg-dish if you’ll stay quietly till morning,” implored Aunt Flora, casting firmness to the w
inds.
“I don’t want the colored egg-dish. I want to go home.”
“Well, go,” said Uncle Paul, finally losing his patience with this exasperating child. “There’s plenty of good road.”
But Aunt Flora had realized that Marigold was on the verge of hysterics, and to have a hysterical child on her hands was a prospect that made even her firmness quail. She had never approved of Paul’s whim of bringing the child here anyhow. This was a Winthrop trick if ever there was one.
“I think Frank had better hitch up and take her home. She may cry herself sick.”
“She’s a great big baby and I’m ashamed of her,” said Uncle Paul crushingly. That speech was to rankle in Marigold’s soul for many a day, but at the moment she was only concerned with the fact that Uncle Paul told Frank to go out and hitch up.
“Well, this is the limit,” said Frank grouchily.
Aunt Flora helped the sobbing Marigold to dress. Uncle Paul was so annoyed that he wouldn’t even say good-bye to her. Aunt Flora said it very stiffly. When Mother had kissed Marigold good-bye she had whispered, “When you come home be sure to thank Aunt Flora for the lovely time she has given you.” But it did not seem just the right thing to say, so Marigold said nothing.
“Cut out the weeps,” ordered Frank as he lifted her into the buggy. “Upon my word, I admire Herod.”
Frank was abominably cross. He had had a hard day’s work in the harvest-field and was in no mood for a twelve-mile ride, all for the whim of a silly kid. Lord, what nuisances kids were. He was glad he would never have any. Marigold conquered her sobs with an effort. She was going home. Nothing else mattered. Frank sent his black mare spinning along the road and never spoke a word, but Marigold didn’t care. She was going home.
Half-way home they turned the corner at the school, and Martin Richard’s house was just beyond—a little, old-fashioned white house with a tall Lombardy standing sentinel at either corner, and a tangle of rose-bushes fringing its short lane.