Magic for Marigold (19 page)

The half-dazed driver backed his car out of the gate and broke all speed-limits down the road. Gwen was squealing with delight, the Weed Man was grinning and Marigold was trying hard to feel shocked.

Granny was in high good humor.

“My, but that did me good. I kin hold up my end of a row yit. Ye could tell by the look of that fellow his grandfather hanged himself in the horse-stable. Come to dinner, all of yez. If we'd known ye were comin' we'd a killed the old rooster. It's time he was used anyway. But there's always frog pie, hey? Now for the frog pie.”

To Marigold's relief and Gwen's disappointment there was no frog pie. Indeed, there wasn't much of anything but fried ham and potatoes with some blueberry jam—which suggested rather dismal recollections to Marigold. The dinner was a dull affair, for Aunt Lily was still sulky, Granny was busy gobbling and the Weed Man was silent. It was one of his peculiarities that he seldom talked inside any house.

“Can't think or talk right with walls round me—never could,” he had told Salome once.

After dinner the Weed Man paid for their meal with a bottle of liniment for Granny's “paralattics,” and Granny bade them a friendly good-bye.

“It's sorry I am that ye're goin' instead o' comin',” she said graciously.

She pulled Marigold so close to her that Marigold had a horrible idea that Granny Phin was going to kiss her. If
that
happened Marigold knew she would, never be the same girl again. But Granny only whispered,

“She's a bit purtier than you, but I like
you
best—ye look like a bit o' spring.”

Which was a nicer compliment than one would have expected old Granny Phin to pay.

4

Their afternoon drive led along the winding shore of a little river running into the Head of the Bay. Far down was the blue, beckoning harbor and beyond it the sunny dunes and the misty gulf. The Weed Man shook his whip at it mournfully.

“One poetry has vanished from the gulf forever,” he said, more to himself than to the girls. “When I was a boy that gulf there would be dotted with white sails on a day like this. Now there's nothing but gasoline boats and they're not on speaking terms with romance at all. Romance is vanishing—romance is vanishing out of our world.”

He shook his head gloomily. But Marigold, looking on the world with the eyes of youth, saw romance everywhere. As for Gwennie she was not concerned with romance or the lack of it but only with her stomach.

“Gee, I'm hungry,” she said. “I didn't get half enough at the Phins's. Where'll we have supper?”

“Down at my place,” said the Weed Man. “We're going there now. Tabby'll have a bite for us. After supper I'll take you home—if the weather keeps good-humored. Those weather-gaws aren't out for nothing. It'll rain cats and dogs tomorrow.”

Marigold wondered what weather-gaws were—and then forgot in thinking how interesting it would be if it really rained cats and dogs. Little silk-eared kittens everywhere by the basketful—loads of darling pudgy puppies.

The Weed Man's “place” was at the end of a wood road far down by the red harbor shore. He did not like to have his fellow-mortals too close to him. The little white-washed house seemed to be cuddled down among shrubs and blossoms. There were trees everywhere—the Weed Man would never have any cut down—and four blinking, topaz-eyed kittens in a row on the window-sill, all looking as if they had been cut out of black velvet by the same pattern.

“Cloud o' Spruce breed,” said the Weed Man as he lifted the girls down. “Your Old Grandmother gave me the great-Grandmother of them. You are very welcome to my poor house, young ladies. Here, Tabby, we've company for supper. Bring along a glass o' water apiece.”

“Goodness, aren't we going to have anything for supper but a glass of water?” whispered Gwen.

But Marigold was taken up with Tabby Derusha, about whom she had heard her elders talking. She was not, so Salome said, “all there.” She was reported to go Abel one better in the matter of heresy, for she didn't believe in God at all. She laughed a great deal and seldom went from home.

Tabby was very stout and wore a dress of bright red-and-white striped material. Her face was round and blank but her red hair was abundant and beautiful, and she had her brother's kind, childlike blue eyes. She laughed pleasantly at the girls as she brought them the water.

“Down with it—every drop,” ordered the Weed Man. “Everyone who comes into my house has to drink a full glass of water first thing. People never drink half enough water. If they did they wouldn't have to pay as many doctors' bills. Drink, I say.”

Marigold was not in the least thirsty and she found the second half of the generous tumbler hard to “down.” Gwennie drank half of hers.

“Finish,” said the Weed Man sternly.

“There, then,” said Gwennie, and threw the rest of her water in the Weed Man's face.

“Oh, Gwennie!” cried Marigold reproachfully. Miss Tabby laughed. The Weed Man stood quite still, looking comical enough with the water dripping from his whiskers.

“That'll save me washing my face,” he said—and it was all he did say.

“How
does
Gwennie do such things and get away with it?” wondered Marigold. “Is it because she's so pretty?”

She was ashamed of Gwennie's manners. Perhaps Gwen was a little ashamed of herself—if shame were possible to her—for she behaved beautifully at the table—making only one break, when she asked Tabby curiously if it were true she didn't believe in God.

“As long as I can laugh at things I can get along without God,” said Tabby mysteriously. “When I can't laugh I'll have to believe in Him.”

They had a good supper with plenty of Tabby's applecake and cinnamon buns and raisin-bread and the Weed Man's stories in between. But when he came in after supper and said the rain was very near and they must wait till morning to go home, it was not so very pleasant.

“Oh, we
must
go home,” cried Marigold. “Please, please take us home, Mr. Derusha.”

“I can't drive you home and then drive back fourteen miles in a rainstorm. I am content with my allotted portion but I am poor—I can't afford a buggy. And my umbrella's full of holes. You're all right here. Your folks know where you are and won't worry. They know we're clean. Your Grandmother was rained in here one night herself seven years ago. You go right to bed and sleep, and morning'll be here 'fore you know it.”

5

“I know I won't sleep a wink in this horrid place,” said Gwen snappily, looking scornfully around the tiny bedroom and seeing only the bare uneven floor with its round, braided rug, the cheap little bureau with its cracked mirror, the chipped pitcher and bowl, the stained and cracked ceiling, the old-fashioned knitted lace that trimmed the pillow slips. Marigold saw these things, too, but she saw something else—the view of the harbor through the little window, splendid in the savage sunset of approaching storm. Marigold was tired and rather inclined to think that doing everything you wanted wasn't such fun after all; but under the spell of an outlook like that, the sense of romance and adventure persisted. Why couldn't Gwen make the best of things? She had been grumbling ever since supper. She wasn't such a sport after all.

“If the wind changes, your face will always look like that.”

“Oh, don't try to be smart,” snapped Gwen. “Old Abel should have taken us home. He promised to. I'm scared to death to sleep in the same house with Tabby Derusha. Anyone can see she's cracked. She might come in and smother us with a pillow.”

Marigold was a little frightened of Tabby herself—now that it was dark. But all she said was,

“I do hope Salome won't forget to give the cats their strippings.”

“I do hope there aren't any bed-bugs in this bed,” said Gwen, looking at it with disfavor. “It looks like it.”

“Oh, no, I'm sure there isn't. Everything is so clean,” said Marigold. “Let's just say our prayer and get into bed.”

“I wonder you aren't afraid to say your prayers after that lie you told T. B. today about having been in Heaven,” said Gwen—who was tired and out of sorts and determined to wreak it on somebody.

“It wasn't a lie—it wasn't—oh, you don't understand,” cried Marigold, “It was Sylvia—”

She stopped short. She had never told Gwennie about Sylvia. Gwen had somehow got an inkling that Marigold had some secret connected with the spruce wood and teased her to tell it at intervals. She pounced on Marigold's inadvertent sentence.

“Sylvia! You've some secret about Sylvia, whoever she is. You're mean and dirty not to tell me. Friends always tell each other secrets.”

“Not some kinds of secrets. I'm
not
going to tell you about Sylvia, and you needn't coax. I guess I have a right to my own secrets.”

Gwen threw one of her boots at the wall.

“All right then. Keep it to yourself Do you think I want to know your horrid secrets? I
do
know one of them, anyhow. You're jealous of Clementine Lawrence.”

Marigold colored hotly. How on earth had Gwennie found that out? She had never mentioned Clementine to her.

“Oh-h-h!” Gwennie chuckled maliciously. She had to torment somebody as an outlet to her nerves, and Marigold was the only one handy. “You didn't think I knew that. You can't hide things from
me
. Gee, how sour you looked when I praised her picture! Fancy being jealous of a dead woman you never saw! It is the funniest thing I ever heard of.”

Marigold writhed. The worst of it was it was
true.
She seemed to hate Clementine more bitterly every day of her life. She wished she could stop it. It was a torture when she thought of it. And it was torture to think that Gwennie had stumbled on it.

“Of course,” went on Gwen, “the first Mrs. Leander was ever so much handsomer than your mother. Of course your father would love her best. Ma says widowers just marry the second time for a housekeeper. I could just stand and look at Clementine's picture for hours. When I grow up I'm going to have mine taken just like that, looking at a lily, with my hair done the same way. I'm never going to have
my
hair bobbed. It's
common
.”

“The Princess Varvara had
hers
bobbed,” retorted Marigold.

“Russian princesses don't count.”

“She is a grand-niece of Queen Victoria.”

“So
she
said. You needn't put on any airs with me, Marigold Lesley, because you had a princess visiting you. I'm a—a—Democrat.”

“You're not. Its only in the States there are Democrats.”

“Well, it's something that doesn't take stock in kings and queens, anyway. I forget the right word. And as for politics, do you know I'm going to be a Tory after this. Sir John Carter is ever so much better looking than our Liberal man.”

“You
can't
be a To—Conservative,” cried Marigold, outraged at this topsy-turvy idea. “Why—why—you were
born
a Grit.”

“You'll see if I can't. Well—” Gwen had got her clothes off and wriggled into one of the rather skimpy little cotton nightgowns Tabby had unearthed from somewhere for them, “now for prayers. I'm awful tired of saying the same old prayer. I'm going to invent a new one of my own.”

“Do you think it's—safe?” asked Marigold dubiously. When you were a stranger in a strange land wouldn't it be best to stick to the tried and tested in prayers as well as politics.

“Why not? But I know what I'll do. I'm going to say
your
prayer—the one your Aunt Marigold made up for you.”

“You shan't,” cried Marigold. “That's my very own special prayer.”

“Selfish pig,” said Gwennie.

Marigold said no more. Perhaps it
was
selfish. And anyway Gwennie would say it if she wanted to. She knew her Gwennie. But she also knew her own dear prayer would be spoiled for her forever if that imp from Rush Hill said it.

Gwennie knelt down with one eye on Marigold. And at the last moment she relented. Gwen wasn't such a bad sort after all. But having said that she was going to invent a new prayer it was up to her to invent one. She wouldn't back down altogether, but Gwen suddenly discovered that it was not such an easy thing to invent a prayer.

“Dear God,” she said slowly, “please—please—oh, please never let me have moles like Tabby Derusha's. And never mind about the daily bread—I'm sure to have lots of that—but please give me lots of pudding and cake and jam. And please bless all the folks who deserve it.”

“There, that's done,” she announced, hopping into bed.

“I'm sure God will think that a funny prayer,” said Marigold.

“Well, don't you suppose He wants a little amusement sometimes?” demanded Gwennie. “Anyway, it's my own prayer. It isn't one somebody else made up for me. Gee, Marigold, what if there should be a nest of mice in this bed? There's a chaff tick.”

What gruesome things Gwennie did think of. They had blown out their lamp and it was very dark. They were fourteen miles from home. The raindrops began to thud against the little windows.
Was
Tabby Derusha “cracked.”

“Abel sent in some apples for you.”

Gwennie, to use her own expression, let out a yelp. Tabby was standing by their bed. How could she have got there without their hearing her? Certainly it was eerie. And when she had gone out again they did not dare eat the apples for fear there were worms in them.

“What's that snuffing at the door?” whispered Gwen. “Do you s'pose its old Abel Derusha turned into a wolf?”

“It's only Buttons,” scoffed Marigold. But she was glad when a sudden snore proclaimed that Gwen had fallen asleep. Before she went to sleep herself Tabby Derusha came in again—silently as a shadow, with a little candle this time. She bent over the bed. Marigold, cold with sudden terror, kept her eyes shut and held her breath. Were they going to be killed? Smothered with pillows?