Magic for Marigold by L. M. Montgomery
Also, Beulah. Beulah and Nancy were sisters, Aunt Stasia’s nieces—real nieces. The children of her dead sister. But whereas Marigold loved Nancy next to Sylvia, she did not like Beulah at all. Not at all. Not the least little bit. Beulah, she thought in her secret soul, was a mean, spiteful little cat. It was Beulah who had once deliberately pushed her into a bush of stick-tights; Beulah who had told her that Mother was disappointed because she wasn’t a boy. Marigold had never dared ask Mother about it for fear it was the truth, but it rankled bitterly along with her hatred of Clementine.
2
Marigold was sent from Cloud of Spruce spick and span, with her new dress and her best nightgown in her bag. She arrived at Blue Water Beach spick and span, just in time for supper, to which they at once sat down. Aunt Stasia had welcomed her kindly, though with the usual remote, haunting sound of tears in her voice. Cousin Teresa had kissed and purred; Nancy had given her an ecstatic hug; even Beulah had shaken hands in her superior way and proffered a peck on the cheek.
Marigold was hungry and the supper looked simply gorgeous. There were raspberries in generous blue saucers, and when Aunt Stasia had given her enough cream Cousin Teresa gave her a little more. Nancy was smiling happily and significantly at her across the table, as if to say, “Just wait till we get to bed. I’ve heaps to tell you.”
Altogether, in spite of Beulah and Aunt Stasia and the terrible spotlessness of everything, Marigold was rapturously happy. Too happy. The gods didn’t like it.
Then—it happened.
Marigold was sitting just where a burst of evening sunshine shone straight down on her shining pale gold hair, with its milk-white parting. Suddenly Aunt Stasia bent forward and looked with awful intentness at Marigold’s head. An expression of profound horror came into her eyes. She gasped and looked again. Then looked at Teresa, bent forward and whispered agitatedly in her ear.
“Im-possible,” said Cousin Teresa.
“See for yourself,” said Aunt Stasia.
Cousin Teresa rose and came around the table to the petrified Marigold, who was just realizing that something perfectly awful must have happened, but couldn’t imagine what. She was so agitated that she slopped her tea over in the saucer. That was a terrible break.
“Oh, dear me,” wailed Cousin Teresa. “What can we do. What can we do?”
Cousin Teresa did something. Marigold felt a light touch on her head. Cousin Teresa dashed out of the room and came back a moment later looking ready to faint.
“Do you suppose—there are any more?’ demanded Aunt Stasia hollowly.
“I don’t see any more,” said Cousin Teresa.
Beulah was snickering. Nancy was wirelessing sympathy.
“What is the matter with me?” cried Marigold.
No attention was paid to her.
“Is there—a comb—in the house?” asked Cousin Teresa in a low, shamed voice.
Aunt Stasia shook her head forcibly. “No—never was. There has never been any need of one here, thank heaven.”
Marigold was hopelessly bewildered. No comb at Blue Water Beach? Why, there was an abundance of them—one in every bedroom and one in the kitchen.
“I’ve a comb of my own in my bag,” she said with spirit.
Aunt Stasia looked at her.
“A comb? Do you mean to say that they sent you here—knowing—”
“It isn’t that kind of a comb,” whispered Cousin Teresa. “Oh, Stasia, what can we do?”
“Do. Well, we must keep her away from Nancy and Beulah at all events. Take her up to the spare room, Teresa, until we have consulted over the matter. Run along with Teresa, child—at once. And mind you don’t go near the bed. Sit on the hassock by the window. If you haven’t finished your supper, take a piece of cake and a cookie with you.”
Marigold did not want cake or cookie. She wanted to know what was the matter with her. She dared not ask Aunt Stasia but she indignantly demanded of Cousin Teresa on the stairs what she had done to be put away like this with such scorn and contumely. Marigold didn’t use those words but she felt them.
“Hush,” said Cousin Teresa nervously, as if the walls around had ears. “The less said about it the better. Of course, I don’t suppose it is your fault. But it’s simply terrible.”
3
Marigold found herself alone in the spare room. Humiliated—frightened—and a little angry. For all the Lesleys had a bit of temper, and this was no way to treat a visitor. What a hateful grin she had seen on Beulah’s face as Cousin Teresa walked her out of the room! She went to the dim mirror and scrutinized her countenance carefully and as much of her sleek head as she could see. Nothing was wrong apparently. Yet that look of horror in Aunt Stasia’s eyes!
She must have some terrible disease. Yes, that must be it. Leprosy was an awful thing. Suppose she had leprosy—or smallpox. Or that dreadful thing Uncle Klon flippantly called T.B.? What was it she had heard “ran” in the Lesleys. Agatha Lesley had died of it. Something about the heart. But this had to do with the head evidently. She wondered if and how soon it would prove fatal. She thought pathetically that she was very young to die. Oh, she must get home right away if she had anything dreadful. Charming Blue Water Beach was now simply a place to get out of as soon as possible. Poor Mother, how terribly she would feel.
Marigold was suddenly aware that Aunt Stasia and Cousin Teresa were talking together in the parlor below the spare room. There was a little grating in the floor under the window, where a small “heat hole” penetrated the parlor ceiling. Marigold had been trained not to eavesdrop. But there were, she felt, exceptions to every rule. She must find out what was the matter with her head. Deliberately she lay down on the rag carpet and laid her ear to the grating. She found she could hear tolerably well, save at such times as Aunt Stasia dropped her voice in a fresh access of horror, leaving tantalizing gaps which might hold who knew what of ghastly revelation.
“We can’t let her go to the party,” said Aunt Stasia. “What if any one were to see—what we saw. I don’t believe such a thing has ever happened to a Lesley before.”
“Oh, yes—once—to Charlotte Lesley when she went to school.”
Now, Charlotte Lesley was dead. Marigold shuddered. Of course, Charlotte had died of it.
“And Dan,” continued Cousin Teresa. “Remember Dan?”
“A boy is different. And besides, you know how Dan turned out,” said Aunt Stasia.
How had Dan turned out? Marigold felt as if she would give anything to know.
“Such a disgrace,” Cousin Teresa was wailing when Marigold could hear again. “Her hair will have to be shingled to the bone. I suppose we could get a—comb.”
“I will not be seen buying a comb,” said Aunt Stasia decidedly.
“And where is she to sleep?” moaned Cousin Teresa. “We can’t take her home tonight. In the spare room?”
“No—no. She can’t sleep there. I’d never feel sure of the bed again. We must put her in Annabel’s room.”
“But Annabel died there,” objected Cousin Teresa.
“Marigold doesn’t know that,” said Aunt Stasia.
Oh, but Marigold did—now. Not that it mattered to her how many people had died in Annabel’s room. But she would not be able to sleep with Nancy. This was a far more bitter disappointment than not going to the party.
“There was only one,” Cousin Teresa was saying hopefully, when their voices became audible again.
“There are sure to be more of them,” said Aunt Stasia darkly.
Them! Marigold had a flash of awful illumination.
Germs, of course. Those mysterious, terrible things she had heard Aunt Marigold speak of. She was—what was it? Oh, yes—a germ-carrier. Germs that perhaps she would never be able to get rid of. She must be an outcast all her life! Horror fell over her small face like a frost.
Aunt Stasia and Co
4
Marigold slept—or did not sleep—in Annabel’s room, where there was a man-hole in the ceiling with a black, spooky look. But she never thought of being frightened. What were spooks and devils and things generally compared to the horror of it. The rain began to pour down—the fir-boughs tapped against the windows. The blankets, which Cousin Teresa had thoughtfully put on because the June night was cold, simply reeked of mothballs. If she were only in her own bed at home between fragrant sheets. Marigold thought the night would never end.
In the morning she had her breakfast at a little table by herself in the corner of the kitchen. Once Nancy slipped in and snuggled down beside her. “I don’t care if you have got—them—I love you just the same,” said Nancy loyally.
“Nancy Walker! you come right out of there,” said Beulah’s sharp voice from the door. “Aunt Stasia said you weren’t to go near her.”
Nancy went out, crying.
“Oh, I’m so sorry for you,” said Beulah, before she turned away.
The malice of Beulah’s smile was hard to bear and the pity of Beulah bit deep. Marigold went dismally back to Annabel’s room—where the bed had already been stripped to the bones. She could see Cousin Teresa busy over tubs in the wash-house. Nancy was carrying a great sheaf of mauve and gold irises across the road to Johnson’s, to help decorate for the party.
Away over the harbor was a soft blur that was Cloud of Spruce—dear Cloud of Spruce—dear home. If she were only there! But Aunt Stasia had told her they could not take her home until after the party. A fog was creeping up to Blue Water Beach. It crept on and on—it blotted out the harbor—it blotted out the distant shore of Cloud of Spruce—it blotted out the world. She was alone in the universe with her terrible, mysterious shame. Poor Marigold’s Lesley spirit failed her at last. She broke down and cried.
Aunt Teresa drove her home that evening. Again she was coming home from a visit in disgrace. And when they reached Cloud of Spruce, Mother was away. Thinking Marigold would not be home till Sunday evening, she had gone to South Harmony for a visit. Marigold felt she simply could not bear it.
Cousin Teresa whispered mysteriously to Grandmother.
“Impossible,” cried Grandmother peevishly.
“We found one,” said Cousin Teresa positively.
One what? Oh, if Marigold only knew what!
“Only one.” Grandmother’s tone implied that Stasia had made a great deal of fuss over a trifle. Grandmother herself would have made enough fuss about it if she had discovered it. But when Stasia made the fuss that was a cat of a different stripe.
“Have you—a comb?” whispered Cousin Teresa.
Grandmother nodded haughtily. She took Marigold upstairs to her room and gave her head a merciless combing with an odd little kind of comb such as Marigold had never seen before. Then she brought her down again.
“No results,” she said crisply. “I believe Stasia simply imagined it.”
“I saw it myself,” said Cousin Teresa, a trifle shrewishly. She drove away a little offended. Marigold sat down disconsolately on the veranda steps. She dared not ask Grandmother anything. Grandmother was annoyed and when Grandmother was annoyed she was very aloof. Moreover, she had contrived to make Marigold feel that she was in some terrible disgrace—that she had done something no Lesley ever should do. And yet what she had done or how she was responsible, Marigold hadn’t the slightest idea. Oh, if Mother were only home!
Then Aunt Marigold came—almost as good as Mother—almost as gentle and tender and understanding. She had been talking with Grandmother.
“So you’ve been and gone and got into a scrape, Marigold,” she said, laughing. “Never mind, precious. There seems to have been only one.”
“One what?” demanded Marigold passionately. She simply could not stand this hideous suspense and ignorance any longer. “Aunt Marigold—please—please do tell me what is the matter with my head?”
Aunt Marigold stared.
“Marigold, you dear funny thing, do you mean you don’t know?”
Marigold nodded, her eyes like wet pansies.
“And I’ve just got to know,” she said desperately.
Aunt Marigold explained.
“It’s apt to happen to any child who goes to a public school,” she concluded comfortingly.
“Pshaw, is that all?” said Marigold. “I guess I got it when I changed hats with that new girl day before yesterday.”
She was so happy she could have cried for joy. Had there then ever been such a starry sky? Such a dear misty, new moon? Such dancing northern lights over the harbor? Down the road Lazarre’s dog and Phidime’s dog were talking about their feelings at the top of their voices. And Sylvia up in the cloud of spruce. It was too late to go to her tonight, but she would be there in the morning. Marigold blew an airy kiss to the hill. No germs. No leprosy. Aunt Stasia had made all this fuss about so small a matter. Marigold thought bitterly of the party, the unworn dress, the lost two nights with dear Nancy.
“Aunt Stasia is,” began Aunt Marigold. Then she suddenly snapped her lips together. After all, there was such a thing as clan loyalty, especially in the hearing of the rising generation.
“An old fool,” said Marigold, sweetly and distinctly.
CHAPTER 9
A Lesley Christmas
1
It was a Lesley tradition to celebrate Christmas by a royal reunion, and this year it was the turn of Cloud of Spruce. This was the first time it had happened in Marigold’s memory, and she was full of delighted anticipation. At heart a thorough clansman, she loved, without knowing she loved, all the old clan customs and beliefs and follies and wisdoms as immutable as law of Mede and Persian. They were all part of that int’resting world where she lived and moved and had her being—a world which could never be dull for Marigold, who possessed the talismanic power of flinging something glamorous over the most commonplace fact of life. As Aunt Marigold said, Marigold saw the soul of things as well as the things themselves.
There were weeks of preparation in which Marigold reveled. Grandmother and Mother and Salome worked like slaves, cleaning Cloud of Spruce from attic to cellar. The last week was given over to cooking. Such things as were concocted in that house! Such weighings and measurings and mixings! Mother thought they were really being too lavish, but for once Grandmother counted no cost.
“I have seen many things come into fashion and go out of fashion but a good meal abides,” she said oracularly.
Marigold thrilled with bliss because she was permitted to help. It was such fun to beat egg-whites until you could hold the bowl upside down, and dig the kinkly meats out of the walnuts. Grandmother made a big panful of Devonshire clotted cream. Mother made the mince pies that would be taken in with a sprig of holly stuck in them—piping hot, for lukewarm mince pies were an abomination at Cloud of Spruce. And there was a pound cake that required thirty-two eggs—an extravagance known at Cloud of Spruce only when there was a “reunion.” Salome baked a whole box of what she called “hop-and-go-fetch-its”—dear, humpy little cakes with raisins in them and icing over the tops and pink candies over that. Marigold knew what the hop-and-go-fetch-its were for. Just for “pieces” for herself and all the children who came.
Besides, Marigold had her recitation to learn. It was one of the Christmas reunion customs to have a “program” of speeches
2
Finally the great day of the feast came. Outside it was a gray squally day, filling the little empty nests in the maple-trees full of snow and surrounding the sad black harbor with meadows of white. But inside there was gaiety and Christmas magic in the very air. The banisters were garlanded with greenery, the windows hung with crimson rings. The big sideboard was a delectable mountain of good things. The cream was whipped for the banana cake; the kitchen range was singing a lyric of beech and maple; and Salome was purring with importance. The spare room bed really looked too beautiful to be slept in. Grandmother’s new pillow slips with crocheted lace six inches deep were on the pillows and Mother had sewed little flat bags of lavender inside them. The Christmas-tree in the hall was covered with lovely red and gold and blue and silver bubbles, such as fairies must have blown. Everyone was dressed up—Mother in her brown velvet with little amber earrings against her white neck, Grandmother in her best black silk with a wonderful crêpy purple shawl which was kept in perfumed tissue paper in the lower drawer of the spare room bureau all the year round, save only for big clan affairs like this. Even Lucifer had a new scarlet silk neck-bow, which he considered mere vanity and vexation of spirit.
So far Christmas Day had been flawless for Marigold. She had got lovely presents from everybody; even Lazarre had given her a near-silver mouse with a blue velvet pincushion erupting from its back. Marigold secretly thought it rather awful. It looked as if the mouse wasn’t—healthy. But she wouldn’t have hurt Lazarre’s feelings for the world by letting him suspect this. Again Marigold was disposed to thank goodness people did not know what you thought.