Magic for Marigold (26 page)

It was easy enough from one point of view. There was a door in her little tower room opening on the veranda roof and there was a little iron bedstead on it. All Marigold had to do was to slip out of bed as soon as everybody was asleep and drag her bedclothes and mattress out.

She did it—in a cold perspiration—and crept into bed trembling from head to foot.

“I
won't
be scared of you,” she gasped gallantly to the night.

But she was. She felt all the primitive, unreasoning fear known to the childhood of the race. The awe of the dark and the shadowy—the shrinking from some unseen menace lurking in the gloom. The night seemed creeping down through the spruce wood behind the house like a living—but not human—thing to pounce on her. Darkness all about her—around—above—below. And in that darkness—what?

She wanted to cover up her head but she would not. That would be shirking part of the penance. She lay there and looked up at the sky—that terrible ocean of stars which Uncle Klon had told her were suns, millions of millions of millions of miles away. There did not seem to be a sound in the whole earth. It was waiting—waiting—for
what
? Suppose everyone in the world was dead! Suppose she was the only person left alive in that terrible silence!

Then—she could not have told whether it was hours or minutes later—something changed. All at once. She was no longer frightened. She sat up and looked about her. On a world of velvet and shadow and stars. The boughs of the spruces tossed in a sudden wind against the sky. The gulf waters were silver under the rising moon. The trees were whispering in the garden like old friends. The fern scents of a warm summer night drifted down from the hill.

“Why—I like the dark,” Marigold whispered to herself. “It's nice—and kind—and friendly. I never thought it could be so beautiful.”

She stretched out her arms to it. It seemed a Presence, hovering, loving, enfolding. She lay down again in its shadow and surrendered herself utterly to its charm, letting her thoughts run out into it far beyond the Milky Way. She did not want to sleep—but after a time she slept. And wakened in the pale, windless morning just as a new dawn came creeping across Broad Acres. The dreamy dunes along the shore were lilac and blue and gold. Above her were high and lovely clouds just touched by sunrise. Below in the garden the dews were silver in the hearts of unblown roses. Uncle Charlie's sheep in the brook pasture looked amazingly white and pearly and plump in the misty morning light. The world had a look Marigold had never seen it wear before—an expectant, untouched look as if it were a morning in Eden. She sighed with delight. A mystic happiness possessed her.

Paula was over soon after breakfast to find out if Marigold really had stuck it out on the veranda all night.

“You look too happy about it,” she said reproachfully.

“It
was
a penance for a little while at first and then I enjoyed it,” said Marigold honestly.

“You enjoy too many things,” said Paula despairingly. “A penance isn't a penance if you
enjoy
it.”

“I can't help liking things and I'm glad I do,” said Marigold in a sudden accession of common sense. “It makes life so much more int'resting.”

6

Marigold was going to the post office to mail a letter for Aunt Anne. It was a lovely afternoon. Never had the world seemed so beautiful, in spite of the hundreds of millions of sinful people living in it. When she passed Mats's gate, Mats was playing by herself at jackstones under the big apple-tree. Mats had backslidden sadly of late and had returned to her wallowing in jackstones—thereby proving conclusively that she was not One of Us. She beckoned a gay invitation to Marigold, but Marigold shook her head and walked righteously on.

A little further down there was a sharp turn in the red road and Miss Lula Jacobs's little white house was in the angle. And Miss Lula's famous delphiniums were holding up their gleaming blue torches by the white paling. Marigold stopped for a moment to admire them. She would have gone in, for she and Miss Lula were very good friends, but she knew Miss Lula was not home, being in fact at Broad Acres with Aunt Anne at that very moment.

Marigold could see the pantry-window through the delphinium-stalks. And she saw something else. A dark-brown head popped out of the window, looked around, then disappeared. The next moment Paula Pengelly slipped nimbly over the sill to the ground and marched off through the spruce-bush behind Miss Lula's house. And Paula held in her hands a cake—a whole cake—which she was devouring in rapid mouthfuls.

Marigold stood as if turned to stone, in that terrible moment of disillusion. That was the cake Miss Lula had made for the Ladies' Aid social on the morrow—a very special cake with nut and raisin filling and caramel icing. She had heard Miss Lula telling Aunt Anne all about it just before she came away.

And Paula had stolen it!

Paula the Lighted Lamp—Paula the consecrated, Paula the rigid devotee of fasts and self-immolation, Paula the hearer of unearthly voices. Paula had stolen it and was gobbling it up all by herself.

Marigold went on to the post-office, torn between the anguish of disillusionment and the anger of the disillusioned. Nothing was quite the same—never could be again, she thought gloomily. The sun was not so bright, the sky so blue, the flowers so flowery. The west wind, purring in the grass, and the mad merry dance of the aspen-leaves hurt her.

An ideal had been shattered. She had believed so in Paula. She had believed in her vigils and her denials. Marigold thought bitterly of all those untaken second helpings.

Mats was not in when Marigold returned, but Marigold went home to Broad Acres and played jackstones by herself. And let herself go in a mad orgy of pretending, after all these weeks when, swallowed up in a passion of sacrifice, she had not even allowed herself to think of her world of fancy. Also she remembered with considerable satisfaction that Aunt Anne was making an apple-cake for supper.

Paula found her there and looked at her reproachfully—with purple-ringed eyes which, Marigold reflected scornfully, certainly did not come from fasting this time. Indigestion more likely.

“Is this how you, the possessor of an immortal soul, are wasting your precious time?” she asked rebukingly.

“Never mind my soul,” cried Marigold stormily. “Just you think of poor Miss Lula's cake.”

Paula bounced up, her pale face for once crimson.

“What do you mean?” she cried.

“I saw you,” said Marigold.

“Do you want your nose pulled?” shrieked Paula.

“Try it,” said Marigold superbly.

Suddenly Paula collapsed on the gray stone and burst into tears.

“You needn't make—such a fuss—over a trifle,” she sobbed.

“Trifle. You
stole
it.”

“I—I was so hungry for a piece of cake. I
never
get any—Father won't let Aunt Em make any. Nothing but porridge and nuts for breakfast and dinner and supper, day in and day out. And that cake looked so scrumptious. You'd have taken it yourself. Miss Lula has heaps of them. She
loves
making cake.”

Marigold looked at Paula, all the anger and contempt gone out of her eyes. Little sinning, human Paula, like herself. Marigold no longer worshipped her but she suddenly loved her.

“Never mind,” she said softly. “I—guess I understand. But—I can't be a Lighted Lamp any longer, Paula.”

Paula wiped away her tears briskly.

“Don't knows I care. I was getting awfully tired of being so religious, anyhow.”

“I—I think we didn't go the right way about being religious,” said Marigold timidly. “Aunt Marigold says religion is just loving God and people and things.”

“Maybe,” said Paula—going down on her knees—but not to pray. “Anyhow I got all the cake I wanted for
once.
Let's have a game of jacks before Mats shows up. She always spoils everything with her jabber. She isn't really One of Us.”

Not by Bread Alone

1

Salome had gone to Charlottetown for the day—rather unwillingly, for she had had a horrible dream of fourteen people coming to supper and nothing in the house for them to eat but cold boiled potatoes.

“And there's more truth than poetry in that, ma'am,” she said, “for there isn't a thing baked except the raisin-bread. I assure you I don't dream dreams like that for nothing. And there's the Witch of Endor polishing her face out by the apple-barn.”

It was an inflexible Cloud of Spruce tradition that there must always be cake in the pantry—fresh, flawless cake—lest unexpected company come to tea. No company had ever found Cloud of Spruce cakeless. Grandmother and Mother would both have died of horror on the spot if such a thing had happened. Kingdoms of Europe might rise and fall—famines might ravage India and revolutions sweep China—Liberals and Conservatives, Republicans and Democrats might crash down to defeat, but so long as cake-box and cookie-jar were filled there was balm in Gilead.

Yet this unthinkable thing had actually occurred. The evening before three car-loads of visitors had come out from Summerside and found cake in the pantry—but left none. No wonder Salome was upset.

“
I
have made cake before now,” said Grandmother rather sarcastically. Every once in so long Salome had to be snubbed. “And so has Mrs. Leander.”

When Grandmother called Lorraine Mrs. Leander before Salome, Salome knew she was snubbed.

“I am well aware,” she said with meek stateliness, “that I am not the only cook at Cloud of Spruce. I merely thought, ma'am, that seeing it was my duty to keep the pantry well filled, I ought not to neglect it for the sake of my own pleasure.
I
am not like my sister-in-law Rose John, ma'am.
She
hasn't any sense of shame. When unexpected company comes to tea she just runs out and borrows a cake from a neighbor. Whatever John saw in
her
enough to marry her I have never been able to imagine.”

“Go and enjoy your holiday, Salome,” said Lorraine kindly, knowing that if Salome once fairly embarked on the delinquencies of Rose John there was no telling when she would stop. “You deserve it. Grandmother and I will soon fill up the pantry.”

Alas! Mother had got only as far as getting out her mixing-bowl when Uncle Jack's Jim arrived. “… bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste,”—or the modern equivalent for it. Great-Uncle William Lesley was dying at the Head of the Bay, or thought he was. And he wanted to see Grandmother and Leander's wife. They must lose no time if they were to get there before he died.

It was a tragedy.

“I have never,” said Grandmother in a tone of anguish as she tied on her bonnet, “gone away from home and left absolutely
no
cake in the house.”

“Surely no one will come today,” moaned Mother, equally wretched. Really, it was a most inconvenient time for Great-Uncle to die.

“Don't forget to feed the cats,” Grandmother told Marigold. “And mind you don't go wandering in Mr. Donkin's hill pasture. He's turned his ox in there.”

“That's not his ox,” said Marigold. “That's his old red bull.”

Grandmother would have died before she would have said the word “bull” aloud. She drove away with Uncle Jack's Jim, sadly wondering what the young people of this generation were coming to. Apart from that she did not worry over leaving Marigold alone. Marigold was eleven now and tall for her age. One year she had been measured by the rose-bush—the next by the blue-bells. This year she was as tall as the phlox.

She liked being alone very well once in a while. It was quite important being in charge of Cloud of Spruce. She swept the kitchen, and got dinner for herself and Lazarre; she fed the cats and washed the dishes and wrote a letter to Paula.

Then the end of the world came. A car stopped at the gate; seven people descended therefrom and marched in past the platoons of hollyhocks with the air of people coming to stay. Marigold, staring aghast through the window, recognized them. She had met them all two weeks ago at a clan-funeral, where Grandmother had proffered them all a warm invitation to Cloud of Spruce. Second-Cousin Marcus Carter, his wife and son and daughter from Los Angeles; Second-Cousin Olivia Peake from Vancouver;
and
Third-Cousin Dr. Palmer of Knox College, Toronto, with
his
wife.

And there was no cake at Cloud of Spruce!

Marigold accepted the situation. In that moment she had decided what she would do.

As graciously as Mother herself could have done, she welcomed the guests at the door.

“Aunt Marian and Lorraine away? Then I don't suppose we'll stay,” exclaimed Cousin Marcella Carter, who had a long thin face, a long thin nose, and a long thin mouth.

“You must stay for supper of course,” said Marigold resolutely.

“Have you got anything good for us to eat?” asked Cousin Marcus with a chuckle. He had a square face with a spiky mustache and bristly white eyebrows. Marigold thought she did not like him and was glad she did not have to call him “uncle.”

“I know the Cloud of Spruce pantry is always well supplied,” said Mrs. Dr. Palmer, smiling. In her smooth gray silk dress she looked, Marigold decided, just like a nice sleek gray cat.

“Well, give us something that will stick to our ribs,” said Cousin Marcus. “We've had dinner at a place—I won't say where—but there was heaps of style and precious little comfort.”

“Marcus,
”
said Cousin Marcella rebukingly.

“Fact. And now, Marigold, I'll give you a quarter for a kiss.”

Cousin Marcus was quite genial. A joke was his idea of being kind and friendly. But Marigold did not know this and she resented it. Lifting her head as she had seen Varvara do, she said freezingly,

“I don't sell my kisses.”

The visitors laughed. Jack Carter said,

“She's saving her kisses for
me,
Dad.”

There was another laugh. Marigold shot a furious glance at Jack. She did not like boys—any boys. And she at once hated Jack. He was about thirteen with a fat moon-face, straight whitish hair parted in the middle, staring china-blue eyes and spectacles. Under ordinary circumstances Marigold could and would have annihilated him with ease and pleasure. She had not sparred with Tommy Blair four years without learning how to handle the sex. But a Cloud of Spruce hostess must not show discourtesy to any guest

“She's got a nice mouth for kissing, anyhow,” said Cousin Marcus more genially than ever.

2

Marigold left her guests in the orchard room and flew to the pantry. She was breathless with excitement, but she knew exactly what was to be done. There was plenty of cold boiled chicken and ham left over from the previous day; the Cloud of Spruce jam-pots were full as always. Cream galore for whipping. But hot biscuits—there
must
be hot biscuits—and cake!

If Marigold had been asked if she could cook she might have answered like canny Great-Uncle Malcolm when asked if he could play the violin. “He couldna' say. He had never tried.”

Marigold had never tried. She could boil potatoes—and fry eggs—but further than that her culinary accomplishments as yet did not go. But she was going to try now. She had the Cloud of Spruce cook-book and she had helped Salome and Mother scores of times, looking forward with delight to the time when she would be allowed to do it off her own bat.

She clasped floury hands over the cake-bowl.

“Oh, dear God, I think I can manage the biscuits but you
must
help me with the cake.”

Then she proceeded to mix, measure and beat. To make matters worse, Jack appeared. Jack was not happy unless he was teasing somebody. He proceeded to tease Marigold, not having any idea that it was a dangerous pastime, even when protected by Cloud of Spruce custom.

“I'm a terrible fellow,” he declared. “I throw dead cats into wells. S'pose I throw
yours
?”

“I'll get Lazarre to call the new pig after you,” said Marigold scornfully, and cracked an egg with violence.

Jack stared. What kind of girl was this?

“I'm just over the measles,” he said. “Black measles. Ever had measles?”

“No.”

“Mumps?”

“No.”

“I've had mumps and whooping cough and scarlet fever and chicken pox and pneumonia. I'm a wow to have things.
You
ever had any of them?”

“No.”

“Did you ever have
anything
?” Jack was plainly contemptuous.

“Yes,” said Marigold, suddenly recalling some of Aunt Marigold's diagnoses. “I've had urticaria.”

Jack stared again—but more respectfully.

“Golly. Is it bad?”

“Incurable,” said Marigold mendaciously. “You never get over it.”

Jack edged away.

“Is it catching?”

“You
couldn't catch it.” There was that in Marigold's tone Jack didn't like. Did this puling girl think she had something he couldn't have?

“Look here,” he said furiously, “you give yourself airs that don't belong to you. And your nose is crooked. See!”

Marigold crimsoned to the tip of the offending nose. But tradition held. She spared Jack's life.

“But if I ever meet you away from Cloud of Spruce I'll ask you who put your ears on for you,” she thought as she measured the baking-powder.

“What are you thinking of?” queried Jack, resenting her silence.

“I'm imagining how you'll look in your coffin,” answered Marigold deliberately.

This gave Jack to think. Was it safe to be alone with a girl who could imagine such things? But to leave her, was to confess defeat.

“In five minutes by that clock I'm going to kiss you,” he said with a fiendish grin.

Marigold shuddered and shut her eyes.

“If you do I'll tell everybody at supper what a sweet-looking baby you were.”

That
got under Jack's skin. He wished he was well out of the pantry and the presence of this exasperating creature. He shifted to a new point of attack.

“My, but I'm sorry for the man you're going to marry.”

Marigold cast tradition to the winds.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “Your wife will be able to sympathize with him.”

“Don't waste your breath now,” drawled Jack.

“It's
my
breath.”

“Think you're smart, don't you?”

“I don't think it, I know it,” retorted Marigold, beating her cake-batter terrifically.

“After all, you're only a female,” said Jack insolently.

“I heard you pinned a dishcloth to a minister's coat once,” said Marigold.

But the minute she said it she knew she had made a mistake. He was proud of it.

“What are you two young divvils up to?” demanded Cousin Marcus, peering in at the door. “Oh, fond of the boys I see, Marigold. Come along, Jack. Lazarre is going to show us the apple-orchard.”

Jack, as relieved to be rid of Marigold as she was to be rid of him, vanished. Marigold breathed a sigh of thanksgiving. Oh, would her cake be all right? That wretched boy had bothered her so.
Had
she put in the baking-powder?

The cake was a gorgeous success. Marigold was a Lesley, and besides there was Providence—or Luck. It was a delicious feathery concoction with whipped cream and golden orange crescents on it—
the
special company-cake of Cloud of Spruce. And Marigold had just as good fortune with her biscuits. Then she set the table with the hemstitched cloth and Grandmother's best Coalport. Every domestic rite of Cloud of Spruce was properly performed. The ham was sliced in thin pink slices, the chicken platter was parsley-fringed, the white cake-basket with the china roses round it was brought out, the water in the tumblers was ice-cold.

3

Marigold sat behind the tea-cups facing the ordeal before her, a gallant and smiling hostess. She could feel her pulses beating to her fingertips. If only her hands would not tremble! She steadied her legs by twisting them around the rungs of the chair. Cousin Marcus did what in him lay to rattle her by conjuring her not to fill the cups so full of tea that there wasn't room for cream—as mean Aunt Harriet always did—and Dr. Palmer helped the chicken so lavishly that she broke out into a cold perspiration lest there shouldn't be enough to go round. Mrs. Dr. Palmer took cream and no sugar and Dr. Palmer took sugar and no cream and Cousin Marcella took neither and Cousin Marcus took both. Cousin Olivia took cambric tea. It was very difficult to remember everything, but she thoroughly enjoyed asking Jack how he took his. It seemed to put him in his place for once. Eventually everybody got something to drink and the chicken
did
go round.

Jack kept quiet for a while, being fully occupied with gorging. But just as it had dawned on Marigold that the supper was almost over and had gone very well, Jack said,

“Say, Marigold,
you
can
cook.
If you'll promise to have my slippers warm for me every night when I come home, I'll come back and marry you when I grow up.”

“I wouldn't marry you—”

“Oh, come, come now, my duck,” said Jack, with an irritating snigger, “wait till you're asked.”

“So you were courting in the pantry,” chuckled Cousin Marcus.

Jack grinned like a Chessy cat.

“Marigold has such a nice little way of cuddling in your arms, Dad.”

He hadn't really meant to say it, but it suddenly struck him as a very clever thing to say.

Marigold positively came out in goose-flesh.

“I haven't—I mean—
you
couldn't know it if I had.”

“You're beginning young,” said Cousin Marcus solemnly, pretending to shake his head over the doings of modern youth.