Magic for Marigold

by L. M. Montgomery

  “She has not been any trouble to us,” said Grandmother graciously, as one queen to another. “I am very sorry I was not at home this afternoon”—combining truth with courtesy to a remarkable degree.

  The great lady turned to Varvara.

  “Come, my dear,” she said softly and sweetly.

  Varvara disregarded her for a moment. She sprang past her and embraced Marigold tempestuously.

  “If you were sugar I’d eat you up. Promise me you’ll always love me—even if you never see me again. Promise—as long as grass grows and water runs. Promise.”

  “I will—oh, I will,” gasped Marigold sincerely. It was very odd, but in spite of everything she felt that she did and would love Varvara devotedly.

  “I’ve had such a satisfying time today,” said Varvara. “They can’t take that from me. I really didn’t mean to kill your old toad. And you’ve got your hair bobbed. You can thank me and God for that.”

  She danced off to the gate, ignoring Lady Clara but throwing an airy kiss to Grandmother. “Laugh, Marigold, laugh,” she called imperiously from the car. “I like to leave people laughing.”

  Marigold managed the ghost of a laugh, after which Varvara deliberately turned a complete double somersault before everybody and hopped into the back seat. Lord Percy smiled at Mother. Mother was a very pretty woman.

  “An incorrigible little demon,” he said.

  6

  “I think,” said Grandmother quite quietly when she had heard the whole tale, “that princesses are rather too strenuous playmates for you. Perhaps, after all, your imaginary Sylvia is really a better companion.”

  Marigold thought so too. She ran happily through the dreamy peace of the orchard to meet the twilight that was creeping out of the spruce-grove. Back to Sylvia, her comrade of star-shine and moon-mist, who did not pull hair and slap—or provoke pulling and slapping—Sylvia, who was waiting for her in the shadows beyond the Green Gate. She was very well satisfied with Sylvia again. It was just as Grandmother had said. Princesses were too—too—what was it? Too it, anyhow.

  She was glad she hadn’t told her about Sylvia. She was glad she hadn’t shown her the dear fat gray kittens in the apple-barn. Who knew but Varvara would have held them up by their tails? And though she felt sure she could never forget Princess Varvara—the tang of her—the magic of her mirth and storms—there was a queer, bitter little regret far down in her soul.

  She had been used to pretend “Suppose a Princess dropped in to tea.” And it had happened—and she hadn’t known it. Besides Varvara wasn’t a bit like a Princess. The way she had gobbled things down at supper. Marigold was the poorer for a lost illusion.

  Meanwhile down in Cloud of Spruce Mother was putting away Marigold’s golden braids and crying over them. Grandmother was girding an apron on with a stern countenance, to make another chocolate cake, late as it was. Salome was counting the hop-and-go-fetch-its and wondering how two children could ever have eaten so many in one afternoon. Marigold’s appetite was never very extensive.

  “I’ll bet that princess will have stomachache tonight if she never had it before,” she thought vindictively. And Lucifer and the Witch of Endor were talking over the general cussedness of things under the milk bench.

  “Take it from me,” Lucifer was saying, “princesses aren’t what they used to be in the good old days.”

  CHAPTER 11

  A Counsel of Perfection

  1

  There was really only one creature in the world whom Marigold hated—apart from Clementine, who couldn’t be said to be in the world. And that creature was Gwendolen Vincent Lesley—in the family Bible and on the lips of Aunt Josephine. Everywhere else she was Gwennie, the daughter of “Uncle” Luther Lesley, who lived away down east at Rush Hill. She was a second cousin of Marigold’s and Marigold had never seen her. Nevertheless she hated her, in her up-rising and her down-sitting, by night and by day, Sundays as well as week-days. And the cause of this hatred was Aunt Josephine.

  Aunt Josephine, who was really a second cousin, was a tall severe lady with a pronounced chin and stabbing black eyes which Marigold always felt must see to her very bones—X-ray eyes, Uncle Klon called them. She lived in Charlottetown, when she was home—which wasn’t often. Aunt Josephine was an old maid; not a bachelor girl or a single woman but a genuine dyed-in-the-wool old maid. Lazarre added that she “lived on” her relations; by which cannibalish statement he meant that Aunt Josephine was fonder of visiting round than of staying home. She was especially fond of Cloud of Spruce and came as often as she decently could, and every time she came she praised Gwendolen Vincent Lesley to the skies. But she never praised Marigold.

  The very first time she had ever seen Marigold she had said, looking at her scrutinizing,

  “Well, you have your father’s nose beyond any doubt.”

  Marigold had never known that her father’s nose had been his worst point, but she knew Aunt Josephine was not being complimentary.

  “Gwendolen Lesley has such a beautiful little nose,” continued Aunt Josephine, who had just come from a visit to Luther’s. “Purely Grecian. But then everything about her is beautiful. I have never in all my life seen such a lovely child. And her disposition is as charming as her face. She is very clever, too, and led her class of twenty in school last term. She showed me the picture of an angel in her favorite book of Bible stories and said, ‘That is my model, Aunty.’”

  Who wouldn’t hate Gwendolen after that? And that was only the beginning. All through that visit and every succeeding visit Aunt Josephine prated about the inexhaustible perfections of Gwendolen Vincent, in season and out of season.

  Gwendolen, it appeared, was so conscientious that she wrote down every day all the time she had spent in idleness and prayed over it. She had never, it seemed, given any one a moment’s worry since she was born. She had taken the honor diploma for Sabbath-school attendance—Aunt Josephine never said “Sunday”—every year since she had begun going.

  “She is such a spiritual child,” said Aunt Josephine.

  “Would she jump if you stuck a pin in her?” asked Marigold.

  Grandmother frowned and Mother looked shocked—with a glint of unlawful, unLesleyan amusement behind the shock—and Aunt Josephine looked coldly at her.

  “Gwendolen is never pert,” she rebuked.

  It also transpired that Gwendolen always repeated hymns to herself before going to sleep. Marigold, who spent her pre-sleep hours in an orgy of wonderful imagery adventures, felt miserably how far short she fell of Gwendolen Vincent. And Gwendolen always ate just what was put before her and never ate too much.

  “I never saw a child so free from greediness,” said Aunt Josephine.

  Marigold wondered uneasily if Aunt Josephine had noticed her taking that third tart.

  And with all this Gwendolen, it appeared, was “sensible.” Sensible! Marigold knew what that meant. Somebody who would use roses to make soup of if she could.

  Gwendolen had never had her hair bobbed.

  “And she has such wonderful, luxuriant, thick, long, shining, glossy curls,” said Aunt Josephine, who would have added some more adjectives to the curls if she could have thought of them.

  Grandmother, who did not approve of bobbed hair, looked scornfully at Marigold’s sleek, cropped head. Marigold, who had never before known a pang of jealousy in regard to a living creature, was rent with its anguish now. Oh, how she hated this paragon of a Gwendolen Vincent Lesley—this angelic and spiritual being, who took honor diplomas and led her class but who yet—Marigold clutched avidly at the recollection of the note Gwennie had written her at Christmas—didn’t appear to know that “sapphire” shouldn’t be spelled “saffire.”

  Gwendolen Vincent was “tidy.” She was brave—“not afraid of thunderstorms,” said Aunt Josephine when Marigold cowered in Mother’s lap during a terrible one. She always
did exactly what she was told—“See that, Marigold,” said Grandmother. She never slammed doors—Marigold had just slammed one. She was a wonderful cook for her age. She was never late for meals—“See that, Marigold,” said Mother. She never mislaid anything. She always cleaned her teeth after every meal. She never used slang. She never interrupted. She never made grammatical errors. She had perfect teeth—Marigold’s eye-teeth were just a wee bit too prominent. She was never tomboyish—Marigold had been swinging on a gate. She never was too curious about anything—Marigold had been asking questions. She always was early to bed and early to rise because she knew it was the way and the only way to be healthy and wealthy and wise.

  “I don’t believe that,” said Marigold rudely. “Phidime gets up at five o’clock every morning of his life and he’s the poorest man in Harmony.”

  And then it appeared that Gwendolen never answered back.

  Once and once only did Marigold, for a fleeting moment, think she might like Gwendolen in spite of her goodness. It was when Aunt Josephine told how Gwendolen had once got up in the middle of the night and gone downstairs in the dark to let in a poor, cold, miserable pussy-cat crying on the doorstep. But the next minute Aunt Josephine was describing how careful Gwendolen was to keep her nails clean—looking at Marigold’s as she talked.

  “Gwendolen has such lovely white half-moons at the base of her nails.”

  Now, Marigold had no half-moons.

  “In short”—though it never really was in short with Aunt Josephine—“Gwendolen is a perfect little lady.”

  Somehow that phrase got under Marigold’s skin as nothing else had done.

  “I’m fed up with this,” she reflected furiously. It was the first time she had ever dared to use this new expression even in thought. Grandmother and Mother merely got rather tired of things. But rather tired was too mild to express her feelings towards the perfect little lady. And under it all that persistent stabbing ache of jealousy. Marigold would have liked as well as anyone else to have a clan reputation of being a perfect lady.

  And now Gwendolen was coming to Cloud of Spruce for a visit. Luther had written Grandmother that he wanted his little girl to visit Harmony and get acquainted with all her relatives. Especially did he want her to know Cloud of Spruce, where he had had such jolly times when a boy. Grandmother screwed up her lips a bit over the reference to “jolly times”—she remembered some of them—but she wrote back a very cordial invitation.

  Aunt Josephine, who was just completing a visit, said she hoped, if Gwendolen came up for the mooted visit, Marigold would learn from her how a really nice little girl should behave. If Marigold had not been there Grandmother would have bristled up and said that Marigold was a pretty well-behaved child on the whole and her friends reasonably satisfied with her. She would probably have added that Luther Lesley had been a devil of a fellow when he was young and Annie Vincent was the biggest tomboy on the Island before she was married. And that it was curious, to say the least of it, that the pair of them should have produced so saintly an offspring.

  But Marigold was there, so Grandmother had to look at her sternly and say, “I hope so too.”

  Marigold did not know that when she had betaken her wounded spirit to the gay ranks of rosy hollyhocks beside the gray-green apple-barn for solace, Grandmother remarked to Mother,

  “Thank mercy that is over. We won’t have another infliction of the old fool for at least three months.”

  “Aunt Josephine ‘likes cats in their place,’” said Lucifer. “I know the breed.”

  2

  And then Gwendolen Vincent Lesley came. Marigold got up early the day she was expected, in order to have everything in perfect readiness for the task of entertaining a thorough lady. She was going to be as proper and angelic and spiritual as Gwendolen if it killed her. It was hard to have Mother say pleadingly, “Now, please see if you can behave nicely when Gwennie is here,” as if she never behaved nicely when Gwennie wasn’t there. For a moment Marigold felt an unholy desire that the very first thing she might do would be to scoop up a handful of mud and throw it at the visitor. But that passed. No, she was going to be good—not commonly good, not ordinarily good, but fearfully, extraordinarily, angelically good.

  They met. Gwendolen stiffly put out a slender immaculate hand. Marigold glanced apprehensively at her own nails—thank goodness they were clean, even if they had no half-moons. And oh, Gwendolen was just as beautiful—and just as ladylike—and just as faultless as Aunt Josephine had painted her. Not one comforting, consoling defect anywhere.

  There were the famous nut-brown curls falling around her delicate, spiritual face—there were the large, mild, dewy blue eyes and the exquisitely arched brows—there were the pearly teeth and the straight Grecian nose, the rosebud mouth, the shell-pink ears that lay back so nicely against her head, the cherubic expression, the sweet voice—very sweet. Marigold wondered if it was jealousy that made her think it was a little too sweet.

  Marigold could have forgiven Gwendolen her beauty but she couldn’t forgive her her hopeless perfection of conduct and manners. They had a ghastly week of it. They didn’t, as Uncle Klon would have expressed it, click worth a cent in spite of the determined spirituality of both. And oh, how good they both were. Grandmother began to think there might be something in a good example after all.

  And they bored each other nearly to death.

  Marigold felt forlornly that they might have had such a good time if Gwendolen wasn’t so horribly proper and if she hadn’t to live up to her. Swinging in the apple-barn—housekeeping among the currant-bushes—rollicking in the old gray hay-barn full of cats—prowling about the spruce wood—wading in the brook—gathering mussels down by the shore—making nonsense rhymes—talking sleepy little secrets after they went to bed. But there were no secrets to talk over—nice girls didn’t have secrets. And of course Gwendolen was occupied—presumably—repeating hymns.

  Once there was a terrible thunderstorm. Marigold was determined she would not show how frightened she was. Gwendolen remarked calmly that the lightning kept her from going to sleep and covered her head with the bedclothes. Marigold wouldn’t do that—Gwendolen might think she was doing it because she was terrified. Mother came to the door and said, “Darling, are you frightened?”

  “No, not a bit,” answered Marigold gallantly, hoping that the bed-clothes would keep Gwendolen from noticing how her voice was shaking.

  “Aren’t thunderstorms jolly?” asked Gwendolen in the morning.

  “Aren’t they?” answered Marigold most enthusiastically.

  It was Gwendolen’s beautiful table-manners that were hardest to emulate. This had always been one of Marigold’s weak points. She was always in such a hurry to get through and be at something. But now she liked to linger at the table as long as possible. There would be all the less time to spend in Gwendolen’s dull company, cudgeling her brains for some amusement that would be proper and spiritual. Gwendolen ate slowly, used her knife and fork with the strictest propriety, apparently enjoyed crusts, said “Excuse me” whenever indicated, and asked, “May I have the butter if you please, Aunt Lorraine?” where Marigold would have polished it off in two words, “Butter, mums?” And oh, but she would have loved Gwendolen if the latter had ever spilled one drop of gravy on the tablecloth!

  One night they went to church with Grandmother to hear a missionary speak. Marigold hadn’t wanted to go especially, but Gwendolen was so eager for it that Grandmother took them along, though she did not approve of small girls going out to night meetings. Marigold enjoyed the walk to the church—enjoyed it so much that she had an uneasy feeling that it wasn’t spiritual to enjoy things to such an extent. But the white young clouds sailing over the moonlit sky were so dear—the shadows of the spruces on the road so fascinating—the sheep so pearly-white in the silver fields—the whole dear, fragrant summer night so friendly and lovesome. But when she said timidly
to Gwendolen,

  “Isn’t the world lovely after dark?” Gwendolen only said starchily,

  “I don’t worry so much about the heathen in summer when it’s warm, but oh, what do they do in cold weather?”

  Marigold had never worried about the heathen at all, though she faithfully put a tenth of her little allowance every month in a mite-box for them. Again she felt bitterly her inferiority to Gwendolen Vincent and loved her none the better for it.

  But it was that night she prayed,

  “Please make me pretty good but not quite as good as Gwen, because she never seems to have any fun.”

  “Those two children get on beautifully,” said Grandmother. “They’ve never had the slightest quarrel. I really never expected that the visit would go off half so well.”

  Mother agreed—it was better to agree with Grandmother—but she had a queer conviction that the children weren’t getting on at all. Though she couldn’t have given the slightest reason for it.

  3

  Came a morning when Grandmother and Mother had to go into Harmony village. Grandmother was getting a new black satin made and Mother had a date with the dentist. They would be away most of the forenoon and Salome had been summoned away by the illness of a relative, but Gwendolen was so good and Marigold so much improved that they did not feel any special anxiety over leaving them alone. But just before they drove away Grandmother said to them,

  “Now mind you, don’t either of you stick your head between the bars of the gate.”

  Nobody to this day knows why Grandmother said that. Marigold believes it was simply predestination. Nobody ever had stuck her head between the bars of the gate and it had been there for ten years. A substantial gate of slender crisscross iron bars. No flimsy wire gates for Cloud of Spruce. It had never occurred to Marigold to stick her head between the bars of the gate. Nor did it occur to her now.