There was a queer sort of expectant hush over the orchard as Marigold and Old Grandmother went through it to where the great spreading cedar rose out of a drift of blooming spirea-bushes. Marigold thought it must be because the flowers were watching for the moon to rise.
4
Old Grandmother sank down on the stone bench with a grunt. She sat there silent and motionless for what seemed to Marigold a very long time. The moon rose over the cloud of spruce and the orchard became transfigured. A garden of flowers in moonlight is a strange, enchanted thing with a touch of diablerie, and Marigold, sensitive to every influence, felt its charm long years before she could define it. Nothing was the same as in daylight. She had never been out in the orchard so late as this before. The June lilies held up their cups of snow; the moonlight lay silver white on the stone steps. The perfume of the lilacs came in little puffs on the crystal air; beyond the orchard lay old fields she knew and loved, mysterious misty spaces of moonshine now. Far, far away was the murmur of the sea.
And still Old Grandmother dreamed on. Did she see faces long under the mold bright and vivid again? Were there flying feet, summoning voices, that only she could hear in that old moonlit orchard? What voices were calling to her out of the firs? Marigold felt a funny little prickling along her spine. She was perfectly sure that she and Old Grandmother were not alone in the orchard.
“Well, how have you been since we came out here?” demanded Old Grandmother at last.
“Pretty comf’able,” said Marigold, rather startled.
“Good,” said Old Grandmother. “It’s a good test—the test of silence. If you can sit in silence with any one for half an hour and feel ‘comfortable,’ you and that person can be friends. If not, friends you’ll never be and you needn’t waste time trying. I’ve brought you out here tonight for two reasons, Marigold. The first is to give you some hints about living, which may do you some good and may not. The second was to keep a tryst with the years. We haven’t been alone here, child.”
No; Marigold had known that. She drew a little closer to Old Grandmother.
“Don’t be frightened, child. The ghosts that walk here are friendly, homey ghosts. They wouldn’t hurt you. They are of your race and blood. Do you know you look strangely like a child who died seventy years before you were born? My husband’s niece. Not a living soul remembers that little creature but me—her beauty—her charm—her wonder. But I remember her. You have her eyes and mouth—and that same air of listening to voices only she could hear. Is that a curse or a blessing I wonder. My children played in this orchard—and then my grandchildren—and my great-grandchildren. Such a lot of small ghosts! To think that in a house where there were once fourteen children there is now nobody but you.”
“That isn’t my fault,” said Marigold, who felt as if Old Grandmother were blaming her.
“It’s nobody’s fault, just as it was nobody’s fault that your father died of pneumonia before you were born. Cloud of Spruce will be yours someday, Marigold.”
“Will it?” Marigold was startled. Such a thing had never occurred to her.
“And you must always love it. Places know when they’re loved—just the same as people. I’ve seen houses whose hearts were actually broken. This house and I have always been good friends. I’ve always loved it from the day I came here as a bride. I planted most of those trees. You must marry someday, Marigold, and fill those old rooms again. But not too young—not too young. I married at seventeen and I was a Grandmother at thirty-six. It was awful. Sometimes it seems to me that I’ve always been a Grandmother.
“I could have been married at sixteen. But I was determined I wouldn’t be married till I had finished knitting my apple-leaf bedspread. Your great-grandfather went off in such a rage I didn’t know if he’d ever come back. But he did. He was only a boy himself. Two children—that’s what we were. Two young fools. That’s what everybody called us. And yet we were wiser then than I am now. We knew things then I don’t know now. I’ve stayed up too late. Don’t do that, Marigold—don’t live till there’s nothing left of life but the Pope’s nose. Nobody will be sorry when I die.”
Suddenly Marigold gasped.
“I will be sorry,” she cried—and meant it. Why, it would be terrible. No Old Grandmother at Cloud of Spruce. How could the world go on at all?
“I don’t mean that kind of sorriness,” said Old Grandmother. “And even you won’t be sorry long. Isn’t it strange? I was once afraid of Death. He was a foe then—now he is a lover. Do you know, Marigold, it is thirty years since any one called me by my name? Do you know what my name is?”
“No-o,” admitted Marigold. It was the first time she had ever realized that Old Grandmother must have a name.
“My name is Edith. Do you know I have an odd fancy I want to hear someone call me that again. Just once. Call me by my name, Marigold.”
Marigold gasped again. This was terrible. It was sacrilege. Why, one might almost as well be expected to call God by His name to His face.
“Say anything—anything—with my name in it,” said Old Grandmother impatiently.
“I—I don’t know what to say,—Edith,” stammered Marigold. It sounded dreadful when she had said it. Old Grandmother sighed.
“It’s no use. That isn’t my name—not as you say it. Of course it couldn’t be. I should have known better.” Suddenly she laughed.
“Marigold, I wish I could be present at my own funeral. Oh, wouldn’t it be fun! The whole clan will be here to the last sixth cousin. They’ll sit around and say all the usual kind, good, dull things about me instead of the interesting truth. The only true thing they’ll say will be that I had a wonderful constitution. That’s always said of any Lesley who lives to be over eighty. Marigold—” Old Grandmother’s habit of swinging a conversation around by its ears was always startling, “what do you really think about the world?”
Marigold, though taken by surprise, knew exactly what she thought about the world.
“I think it’s very int’resting,” she said.
Old Grandmother stared at her, then laughed.
“You’ve hit it. ‘Whether there be tongues they shall fail—whether there be prophecies they shall vanish away’—but the pageant of human life goes on. I’ve never tired watching it. I’ve lived nearly a century—and when all’s said and done there’s nothing I’m more thankful for than that I’ve always found the world and the people in it interesting. Yes, life’s been worth living. Marigold, how many little boys are sweet on you?”
“Sweet on me.” Marigold didn’t understand.
“Haven’t you any little beau?” explained Old Grandmother.
Marigold was quite shocked. “Of course not. I’m too small.”
“Oh, are you? I had two beaux when I was your age. Can you imagine me being seven years old and having two little boys sweet on me?”
Marigold looked at Old Grandmother’s laughter-filled and moonlight-softened black eyes and for the first time realized that Old Grandmother had not always been old. Why, she might even have been Edith.
“For that matter I had a beau when I was six,” said Old Grandmother triumphantly. “Girls were born having beaux in my day. Little Jim Somebody—I’ve forgotten his last name if I ever knew it—walked three miles to buy a stick of candy for me. I was only six, but I knew what that meant. He has been dead for eighty years. And there was Charlie Snaith. He was nine. We always called him Froggy-face. I’ll never forget his huge round eyes staring at me as he asked, ‘Can I be your beau?’ Or how he looked when I giggled and said ‘no.’ There were a good many ‘no’s’ before I finally said ‘yes.’” Old Grandmother laughed reminiscently, with all the delight of a girl in her teens.
“It was Great-Grandfather you first said ‘yes’ to, wasn’t it?” asked Marigold.
Old Grandmother nodded.
“But I had some narrow escapes. I was crazy
about Frank Lister when I was fifteen. My folks wouldn’t let me have him. He wanted me to run away with him. I’ve always been sorry I didn’t. But then if I had I’d have been sorry for that, too. I was very near taking Bob Clancy—and now all I can remember about him was that he got drunk once and varnished his mother’s kitchen with maple-syrup. Joe Benson was in love with me. I had told him I thought he was magnificent. If you tell a certain kind of man he’s magnificent you can have him—if you really want that kind of a man. Peter March was a nice fellow. He was thought to be dying of consumption, and he pleaded with me to marry him and give him a year of happiness. Just suppose I had. He got better and lived to be seventy. Never take a risk like that with a live man, Marigold. He married Hilda Stuart. A pretty girl but too self-conscious. And every time Hilda spent more than five cents a week Peter took neuralgia. He always sat ahead of me in church, and I was always tormented with a desire to slap a spot on his bald head that looked like a fly.”
“Was Great-Grandfather a handsome man?” asked Marigold.
“Handsome? Handsome? Everyone was handsome a hundred years ago. I don’t know if he was handsome or not. I only know he was my man from the moment I first set eyes on him. It was at a dinner-party. He was there with Janet Churchill. She thought she had him hooked. She always hated me. I had gold slippers on that night that were too tight for me. I kicked them off under the table for a bit of ease. Never found one of them again. I knew Janet was responsible for it. But I got even with her. I took her beau. It wasn’t hard. She was a black velvet beauty of a girl—far prettier than I was—but she kept all her goods in the show-window. Where there is no mystery there is no romance. Remember that, Marigold.”
“Did you and Great-Grandfather live here when you were married?”
“Yes. He built Cloud of Spruce and brought me here. We were quite happy. Of course we quarreled now and then. And once he swore at me. I just swore back at him. It horrified him so he never set me such a bad example again. The worst quarrel we ever had was when he spilled soup over my purple silk dress. I always believed he did it on purpose because he didn’t like the dress. He has been dead up there in South Harmony graveyard for forty years, but if he were here now I’d like to slap his face for that dress.”
“How did you get even with him?” asked Marigold, knowing very well Old Grandmother had got even.
Old Grandmother laughed until she had hardly enough breath left to speak.
“I told him that since he had ruined my dress I’d go to church next Sunday in my petticoat. And I did.”
“Oh, Grandmother.” Marigold thought this was going too far.
“Oh, I wore a long silk coat over it. He never knew till we were in our pew. When I sat down the coat fell open in front and he saw the petticoat—a bright Paddy-green it was. Oh, his face—I can see it yet.”
Old Grandmother rocked herself to and fro on the stone bench in a convulsion of mirth.
“I pulled the coat together. But I don’t think your great-grandfather got much good of that sermon. When it was over he took me by the arm and marched me down the aisle and out to our buggy. No hanging round to talk gossip that day. He never spoke all the way home—sat there with his mouth primmed up. In fact he never said a word about it at all—but he never could bear green the rest of his life. And it was my color. But the next time I got a green dress he gave our fat old washerwoman a dress off the same piece. So of course I couldn’t wear the dress, and I never dared get green again. After all, it took a clever person to get the better of your great-grandfather in the long run. But that was the only serious quarrel we ever had, though we used to squabble for a few years over the bread. He wanted the slices cut thick and I wanted them thin. It spoiled a lot of meals for us.”
“Why couldn’t you have each cut them to suit yourselves?”
Old Grandmother chuckled.
“No, no. That would have been giving in on a trifle. It’s harder to do that than give in on something big. Of course we worked it out like that after we had so many children the question was to get enough bread for the family, thick or thin. But to the end of his life there were times when he would snort when I cut a lovely thin paper-like slice, and times when I honestly couldn’t help sniffing when he carved off one an inch thick.”
“I like bread thin,” said Marigold, sympathizing with Old Grandmother.
“But if you marry a man who likes it thick—and I know now that every proper man does—let him have it thick from the start. Don’t stick on trifles, Marigold. The slices of bread didn’t worry me when your great-grandfather fell in love with his second cousin, Mary Lesley. She always tried to flirt with every male creature in sight. Simply couldn’t leave the men alone. She wasn’t handsome but she carried herself like a queen, so people thought she was one. It’s a useful trick, Marigold. You might remember it. But don’t flirt. Either you hurt yourself or you hurt someone else.”
“Didn’t you flirt?” asked Marigold slyly.
“Yes. That’s why I’m telling you not to. For the rest—take what God sends you. That was a bad time while it lasted. But he came back. They generally come back if you have sense enough to keep still and wait—as I had, glory be. The only time I broke loose was the night of Charlie Blaisdell’s wedding. Alec sat in a corner and talked to Mary all the evening. I flew out of the house and walked the six miles home in a thin evening dress and satin shoes. It was in March. It should have killed me, of course—but here I am at ninety-nine tough and tasty. And Alec never missed me! Thought I’d gone home with Abe Lesley’s crowd. Oh, well, he came to his senses when Mary dropped him for something fresher. But I can’t say I was ever very fond of Mary Lesley after that. She was a mischief-maker, anyhow, always blowing old jealousies into a flame for the fun of it.
“I got on very well with the rest of the clan, though my in-laws were mostly very stupid, poor things. Alec’s mother didn’t approve of us having such a big family. She said it kept Alec’s nose to the grindstone. I had twins twice just to spite her, but we got on very well for all that. And Alec’s brother Sam was a terrible bore. Nothing ever happened to him. He never even fell in love. Died when he was sixty, in his sleep. It used to make me mad to see any one wasting life like that. Paul was a black sheep. Always got drunk on every solemn or awful occasion. Got drunk at Ruth Lesley’s wedding—she was married from here—and upset two stands of bees over there by the apple-barn just as the bridal party came out here to the orchard to be married. That was the liveliest wedding I was ever at. Never shall I forget old Minister Wood flying up those steps pursued by bees. Talk about ghosts!”
Old Grandmother laughed until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Poor Ruth. She was so stung up she looked like a bride with the smallpox. Oh, well, she had only about half a brain, anyway. She always threw her arms about her husband in public when she wanted to ask him some small favor. How red and furious he got! And he always refused. You’d have thought she’d have learned sense in time. Some women never do. Be sure you have some sense, Marigold, when it comes to handling the men.”
“Tell me some more stories, Grandmother,” entreated Marigold.
“Child, I could tell you stories all night. This orchard is full of them. Up there by the scabby apple-tree Bess Lesley swooned because Alexander McKay asked her to marry him too suddenly. People ‘swooned’ in my day—‘fainted’ in your Grandmother’s. Now they don’t do either. But what a lot of fun they miss. Alexander thought Bess was dead—that he’d killed her with his abruptness. We found him on his knees by her, tearing his hair and shrieking blue murder. He thought I was a brute because I threw a dipperful of water over her. She came to very quickly—her curls were only paper ones—and such a looking creature as she was, with them hanging limp about her face and a complexion like a tallow candle. But she had a wonderful figure. It seems to me the girls look like sticks nowadays. Alexander clasped her in his arms and implored h
er to forgive him. She forgave him—and married him—but she never forgave me. Talking of ghosts—they had a haunted door in their house. Always found open no matter how it was shut and locked.”
“Do you really believe that, Grandmother?”
“Of course. Always believe things like that. If you don’t believe things you’ll never have any fun. The more things you can believe the more interesting life is, as you say yourself. Too much incredulity makes it a poor thing. As for the ghosts, we had another haunted house in the clan—Garth Lesley’s-over-the-bay. It was haunted by a white cat!”
“Why?”
“Nobody knew. But there it was. The Garth Lesleys were rather proud of it. Lots of people saw it. I saw it. At least, I saw a white cat washing its face on the stairs.”
“But was it the ghost cat?”
“Oh, there you go again. I prefer to believe it was. Otherwise I could never say I’d seen a real ghost. Over there in that corner where the three pines are, Hilary and Kate Lesley agreed to tell each other what they really thought of each other. They thought it would be fun—but they never ‘spoke’ again. Kate was engaged at one time to her third cousin, Ben Lesley-over-the-bay. It was broken off and later she found her photograph in his mother’s album adorned with horns and a mustache. There was a terrible family row over that. In the tail of the day she married Dave Ridley. A harmless creature—only he would eat the icing off his wife’s piece of cake whenever they went anywhere to tea. Kate didn’t seem to mind—she hated icing—but I always wanted to choke him with gobs of icing until he had enough of it for once. Ben’s sister Laura was jilted by Turner Reed. He married Josie Lesley and when they appeared out in church the first Sunday Laura Lesley went too, in the dress that was to have been her wedding one, and sat down on the other side of Ben. Alec said she should have been tarred and feathered, but I tell you I liked her spunk. There’s a piece of that very dress in my silk log-cabin quilt in the green chest in the garret. You are to have it—and my pearl ring. Your great-grandfather found the pearl in an oyster the day we were engaged and had it set for me. It was reckoned worth five hundred dollars. I’ve left it to you in my will so none of the others can raise a rumpus or do you out of it. Edith-over-the-bay has had her eye on it for years. Thinks she should have it because she was my first namesake. She owes me more than her name if she but knew it. She wouldn’t exist at all if it hadn’t been for me. I made the match between her father and mother. I was quite a matchmaker in my time. They really didn’t want to marry each other a bit but they were just as happy as if they had. All the same, Marigold, don’t ever let anyone make a match for you.”