Marigold stifled the scream that rose to her lips. It might bring Mrs. Delagarde back. Nothing would be so dreadful as that — not even a bewitched bearskin muff. She was afraid even to move — but she managed to tiptoe to window after window. They were all nailed down — every one of them. Anyway, all of them opened on a steep bare wall. No chance of escape there. And through one she saw the home-light at Cloud of Spruce. Had they missed her? Were they searching for her? But they would never think of coming here.
She sat down in an old cretonne-covered wing-chair by the window — as far as possible from the bed and the muff! She sat there through the whole of the chilly, incredible, everlasting night. Nobody came. At first there was only a dreadful stillness. There did not seem to be a sound in the whole earth. The wind rose and the moonlight went out and the windows rattled unceasingly. And she was sure the muff moved. And the dresses in the closet surely stirred. Twice she heard footsteps in the hall.
Morning came — a cloudy morning with a blood-red sunrise sky. The windows all looked out on green widespread fields. There was no way in which she could attract attention. No way of escape. She would die here of starvation, and Mother would never know what had become of her. Again and again she heard footsteps passing along the hall — again and again she held her breath with fear lest they pause at the door. She suffered with thirst as the day wore on but she felt no hunger. A queer, numb resignation was stealing over her. Perhaps she would die very soon — but that no longer seemed terrible. The only terrible thing was that Mrs. Delagarde might come back.
Evening again — moonlight again — wind again — a snarling, quarrelsome wind that worried a vine at the window and sent a queer shadow flying across the room to the bearksin muff. It seemed to move — it was moving — Marigold suddenly went to pieces. She shrieked madly — she flew across the room — she tugged frantically at the locked door. It opened so suddenly that she nearly fell over backward. She did not pause to reflect that it could never have been locked at all, in spite of the turned key — she was past thinking or reflecting. She fled across the hall — down the stairs — out — out into freedom. She never stopped running till she stumbled into the hall at Cloud of Spruce — a hall full of wild, excited people, amid which she caught one glimpse of Mother’s white anguished face before — for the first time in her life — she fainted.
“Good God,” said Uncle Klon. “Here she is.”
4
It was next day and Marigold was in bed with Mother sitting by her bedside and Grandmother coming in and out trying to look disapproving but too relieved and thankful to make a success of it. The whole story had been told — and much more. Marigold knew all about Mrs. Delagarde now — poor Mrs. Delagarde, who had lost her only little child a year ago, and had not been right in her mind ever since. Who had sat for hours by her little girl’s side entreating her to speak to her once more — just one word. Who could not forget for a moment that she had whipped Delight the day before her sudden illness. Who had never forgiven her husband because he had been away when Delight took ill and there was no one to go for the doctor through the storm.
“The poor unhappy lady is greatly to be pitied,” Mother said. “But, oh, darling, what a terrible time you have had.”
“Some of the rest of us have had a terrible time, too,” said Grandmother grimly. “Mrs. Donkin was sure she saw you at dusk in an automobile with two strange-looking men. And Toff LeClerc’s boat is missing and we thought you had floated out into the channel in it. The whole country has been combed for you, miss.”
“I’m afraid I’m not fit to be a missionary, Mother,” sobbed Marigold when Grandmother had gone out. “I wasn’t brave — or resourceful — or serene — or anything.”
Mother cuddled her — compassionate, tender, understanding.
“It’s a very fine, splendid thing to be a missionary, dear, and if, when you grow up, you feel called to that particular form of service nobody will try to hinder you. But the best way to prepare for it is just to learn all you can and get a good education and live as happily and pleasantly as a small girl can, meanwhile. Dr. Violet Meriwether was the jolliest little tomboy in the world when we were girls together — a perfect mischief and madcap.”
Aunt Marigold made her namesake stay in bed for a week. On the day Marigold was allowed to get up Mother came in smiling.
“After all, your missionary effort seems to have done some good, Marigold. Mrs. Delagarde’s doctor says she is very much better. She has ceased to talk about Delight and she has forgiven her husband. Dr. Ryan says she is quite rational in many ways and he thinks if she is taken away for a complete change of scene and association she will recover completely. He says she told him she was ‘forgiven’ and this conviction seems to have cured some sick spot in her soul.”
“Humph,” said Grandmother — rather gently, however.
“Isn’t it funny she never came back to the room?” said Marigold.
“She probably forgot all about you the minute you were out of her sight.”
“I was so afraid she would. I thought I heard her outside all the time. That was why I never dared go near the door. And it wasn’t locked at all — though I know I heard the key turn.”
“I suppose it didn’t turn all the way. Keys sometimes stick like that.”
“Wasn’t it silly to think I was locked in when I might have got out right away? I guess I’ve been silly right through. But—”
Marigold sighed. After having been consecrated and set apart for three weeks it was somewhat flat and savourless to come back to ordinary, memoirless life.
But visions of a new apricot dress were again flickering alluringly before her eyes. And Sylvia was on the hill — a forgiving Sylvia, who made no difference at all because of her brief defection.
CHAPTER XVI
One of Us
1
“I’m going travelling to-morrow. It makes me feel very important,” Marigold told Sylvia one evening.
Hitherto Marigold had not done a great deal of visiting. Grandmother disapproved of it and Mother seldom dared to disagree with Grandmother. Besides Marigold herself had no great hankering to visit — by which she meant going away from home by herself to stay overnight. Only twice had she done it before — to Uncle Paul’s and to Aunt Stasia’s, and neither “visit” had been much of a success. Marigold still tingled with shame and resentment whenever she thought of “IT.” She vowed she would never go to Aunt Stasia’s again.
But, of course, it was different at Aunt Anne’s. Marigold loved Aunt Anne best of all her aunts. So when Aunt Anne came one day to Cloud of Spruce and said:
“I want to borrow Marigold for awhile,” Marigold was very glad that Grandmother raised no objections.
Grandmother thought it was time the child was seeing something of the world. She had her head stuffed too full of nonsense, like that Sylvia business. Despite Dr. Adam Clow — who came no more to Cloud of Spruce, having fared forth on an adventurous journey beyond our bourne of time and space — Grandmother thought it was hanging on too long. What might be tolerated at eight was inexcusable at eleven. Anne and Charles were sensible people — though Anne was too indulgent. Grandmother expected Marigold to come home with her digestion ruined for life.
But Marigold went to Aunt Anne’s with no cloud over her golden anticipations. Aunt Anne was a twinkly-eyed lady who was always saying, “I must go and see if there is anything nice in the pantry.” You couldn’t help adoring an aunty like that. It may be that Grandmother’s fears were not altogether unfounded.
But she had to content herself with exacting a promise from Anne that Marigold must eat porridge every morning — real oatmeal porridge. If that were done, Grandmother felt that the rest of the day might be trusted to take care of itself.
So Marigold went to Broad Acres and loved it at first sight. An old grey homestead right down by the sea — the real, wonderful sea, not merely the calm, land-locked harbour. Built on a little point of land running out in
to a pond, with a steep fir-clad hill behind it and slender silver birch-trees all over it. With an old thorn-hedge the slips of which had been brought out from the Old Country — that mysterious land across the ocean where the Lesley clan had its roots. Enclosing a garden even more wonderful and fascinating than the garden at home — for a garden by the sea has in it something no inland garden can ever have. An old stone dyke between the house and the hill, with gorgeous hollyhocks flaunting over it. And a dear little six-sided room in “the tower,” where you could lie at night and watch the stars twinkling through the fir-boughs. All this, with an uncle who knew a joke when he saw it and an aunty who let you alone so beautifully made Broad Acres just the spot for a vacation-visit.
And at first — Mats. Mats lived on the next farm and had been christened Martha. But she had lived that down. She was a fat, jolly little soul with round grey eyes, notorious freckles, luxuriant unbobbed sugar-brown curls, a face meant for laughter, and a generous mother who made enchanting pies. For a week she and Marigold had “no end of fun” together and got into no more mischief than two normal small girls should with no grandmothers around. And the soul of Marigold was knit into the soul of Mats and all was harmony and joy — until Paula came. Came and took immediate possession of the centre of the stage, as is the way of the Paulas.
2
It happened at Sunday-school. All the Lesleys were Presbyterians — of course — but the Presbyterian church over-the-bay was three miles away, so Marigold was sent to Sunday-school in the little white Baptist church on the other side of the pond, with the spruce-trees crowding all around it. Marigold loved it. She thought it seemed like a nice, friendly little church. She wore her pretty new green dress, with its little embroidered collar, and her smart little white hat with its green bow. And kid gloves — new kid gloves — real kid gloves. Mats, who knew no jealousy, was puffed up with pride over having for a chum a girl who wore real kid gloves. All the other little girls in Sunday-school cast envious glances at her and Marigold.
All but one. That one was sitting by herself on a bench, reading her Bible. And when Marigold and Mats sat down beside her that one got up and moved away — not contemptuously or proudly, but as some consecrated soul might remove itself automatically and unconsciously from the contamination of worldly contact.
“Well, I never,” said Mats. “Aren’t we good enough to sit beside you, Paula Pengelly?”
Paula turned and looked at them — or rather at Marigold. Mats she seemed entirely to ignore. Marigold looked back at her, spellbound from the start. She saw a girl, perhaps a year older than herself, slight as a reed, with large, glowing hazel eyes in a small, pale-brown face. A braid of long, straight, silky, dark-brown hair fell over each shoulder. Her cheek-bones were high and her lips thin and red. She was hatless and shabbily dressed and the Bible she clasped dramatically against her breast in her very long, very slender hands seemed to have been a Bible a great many years. She was not pretty but there was Something in her face. “Int’resting” was hardly a strong enough word and Marigold had not yet picked up “fascinating.” She could not help looking at this Paula. There was — something — in her eyes that made you suddenly feel she saw things invisible to others — things you wanted ardently to see, too. A look that made Marigold think of a picture over Aunt Marigold’s desk — the look of a white saint in ecstasy.
“No,” said Paula, in an intense, dramatic way that made Marigold shiver deliciously, “you are not. You are not Christians. You are children of wrath.”
“We ain’t,” cried Mats indignantly. But Marigold felt that they might be. Somehow one believed what Paula said. And she did not want to be a child of wrath. She wanted to be like Paula. She fairly ached with her desire for it.
“We’re just as good as you,” continued Mats.
“Goodness isn’t enough, wretched child,” answered Paula. “Hold your peace.”
“What does she mean?” whispered Mats as Paula turned away. Whispered it rather fearfully. Was she a wretched child? She had never thought so, but Paul Pengelly made you believe things.
“She means hold your yap,” said another girl passing. “Paulas ‘got religion,’ didn’t you know? — like her father.” Whatever it was that Paula had, Marigold felt she wanted it too. All through Sunday-school she yearned for it as she watched Paula’s saintly little profile under that prim, straight hair. Grandmother and Mother were Christians, of course. But they never made her feel as Paula had done. At one time Marigold had believed Gwennie was very saintly. But Gwennie’s supposed goodness only aggravated her. This was different. Marigold stayed for church that day because Mats was a Baptist, and Paula sat opposite them in a side seat. All through the waiting time before service Paula read her Bible. When the service began she fixed her eyes unwinkingly on the top of one of the little oriel windows. Oh, thought Marigold passionately, to be saintly and wonderful like that! She felt religious and sorrowful herself. It was a beautiful feeling. She had never felt anything quite like it before, not even when listening to Dr. Violet Meriwether. Once Paula looked from the window and right at her — with those compelling, mystical eyes. They said “Come” and Marigold felt that she must go — to the world’s end and further.
When church was out Paula came straight up to Marigold.
“Do you want to come with me on the way of the cross?” she asked solemnly and dramatically. Paula had the knack of making every scene in which she took part dramatic — which was probably a large part of her fascination. And she had a little way of saying things, as if she could have said so much more and didn’t. One yearned to discover the mystery of what she didn’t say.
“If you do, meet me under the lone pine-tree at the head of the pond to-morrow.”
“Can Mats come too?” asked Marigold loyally.
Paula flung Mats a condescending glance.
“Do you want to go to Heaven?”
“Y-e-es — but not for a long time yet,” stammered Mats uncomfortably.
“You see.” Paula looked eloquently at Marigold. “She’s not One of Us. I knew you were the moment I saw you.”
“I am,” cried Mats, who couldn’t bear to be left out of anything. “And of course I want to go to heaven.”
“Then you must be a saint.” Paula was inexorable. “Only saints go to heaven.”
“But — do you have any fun?” wailed Mats.
“Fun! We are saving our souls. Would you,” demanded Paula hollowly, “rather have fun and go to — to — a place too dreadful to speak of?”
“No — no.” Mats was quite subdued and willing — temporarily — to do and surrender everything.
“To-morrow then — at nine o’clock — under the lone pine,” said Paula.
The very tone of her voice as she uttered “lone pine” gave you a thrilling sense of mystery and consecration. Marigold and Mats went home, the former expectant and excited, the latter very dubious.
“Paula’s always got some bee in her bonnet,” she grumbled. “Last summer she read a book called Rob Roy, and she made all us girls call ourselves a clan and have a chieftain and wear thistles and tartans. Of course she was chieftain. But there was some fun in that. I don’t believe this religious game will be as good.”
“But it’s not a game,” Marigold was shocked.
“Maybe not. But you don’t know Paula Pengelly.”
Marigold felt she did — better than Mats — better than anybody. She longed for Monday and the lone pine.
“Old Pengelly’s her father,” said Mats. “He used to be a minister long ago — but he did something dreadful and they put him out. I think he used to get drunk. He’s—” Mats tapped her forehead with a significant gesture, as she had seen her elders do. “He preaches a lot yet, though in barns and places like that. I’m scared to death of him but lots of people say he’s a real good man and very badly used. They live in that little house on the other side of the pond. Paula’s aunt keeps house for them. Her mother is long since dead. Some people say
she has Indian blood in her. She’s never decently dressed — all cobbled together with safety pins, Ma says. Are you really going to the head of the pond tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Well,” Mats sighed, “I s’pose I’ll have to go too. But I guess our good times are over.”
3
Monday and the lone pine came though Marigold thought they never would. She told Aunt Anne and Uncle Charlie at the breakfast-table where she was going, and Uncle Charlie looked questioningly at Aunt Anne. As Marigold went out, he asked,
“What is that young devil in petticoats up to now?”
Marigold thought he was referring to her and wondered what on earth she had done to be called a young devil. Her conduct had really been very blameless. But she forgot all such minor problems when they reached the lone pine. Paula was awaiting them there — still rapt, still ecstatic. She had not, so she informed them, slept a wink all night.
“I couldn’t — thinking of all the people in the world who are going to be — lost.”
Marigold immediately felt it was dreadful of her to have slept so soundly. She and Mats sat down, as commanded, on the grass. Paula gave a harangue, mainly compounded of scraps of her father’s theology. But Marigold did not know that, and she thought Paula more wonderful than ever. Mats merely felt uncomfortable. Paula hadn’t even told them to sit in the shade. All very fine if you had the Lesley pink-and-white or the Pengelly brown. But when you hadn’t! Right here in the boiling sun! It must be admitted, I am afraid, that Mats just then was much more concerned with her freckles than with her soul.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 473
