Read Magic for Marigold Online
Authors: L. M. Montgomery
She opened the closet-door and Marigold saw themârows of dainty dresses hanging there, awfully like Bluebeard's wives in a picture-book she had.
Marigold found her voiceâa shaky, panicky voice.
“Please may I go home now?” she gasped. “IâI think Mother will be wanting me. It'sâgetting late.”
A look of alarm crossed Mrs. Delagarde's pale faceâfollowed by a look of cunning.
“But you
are
home, Delight. You are my childâthough you have left me so long. Oh, it was cruel to leave me so long. But I will not scold youâI will never scold you again. Now you have come back. You must never leave me again. Never. I am going to find your father and tell him you have come back. I have never spoken to him since you went awayâbut I will speak now. Oh, Delight, Delight!”
Marigold eluded the outstretched arms.
“Please, please let me go,” she entreated desperately. “I'm not your little Delightâreally I'm notâmy name is Marigold Lesley. Please, dear Mrs. Delagarde, let me go home.”
“You are still angry with me,” said Mrs. Delagarde sorrowfully. “That is why you talk so. Of course you are Delight. Don't you think I know your golden hair? But you are angry with me because I whipped you that day before you went away. I will never do that again, Delight. You need not be afraid of me, darling. Tell me again that you forgive me, sweetestâtell me again that you forgive me.”
“Oh, I doâI do.” If only Mrs. Delagarde would let her out! But Mrs. Delagarde knelt down by her entreatingly.
“Oh, we will be so happy now that you have come back, Delight. Kiss meâkiss me. You have turned your face away from me so long, my golden-haired Delight.”
Her voice was so appealing that Marigold, in spite of her terror, could not refuse. She bent forward and kissed Mrs. Delagardeâthen found herself seized in a wild embrace and smothered with hungry kisses.
Marigold tore herself from the encircling arms and darted towards the door. But Mrs. Delagarde caught her as she reached itâpushed her aside with a strange little laugh and slipped out. Marigold heard the key turn in the lock.
She was a prisoner in the house of a crazy woman. She knew now.
That
was what people meant when they called Mrs. Delagarde “a little off.”
What could she do? Nothing. Nobody knew where she was. Alone in this horrible, big, darkening room with the shrouded windows. With those dreadful dresses of dead Delight hanging in the closet. With that terrible doll lying on the bed like a dead thing. With a huge, black bearskin muff on a little stand by the bed. What wild tale had Lazarre once told her about those big, old-fashioned bearskin muffs? That they were really witches and went out on moonlit nights and danced in the snow. There was a moon tonightâalready its faint radiance was stealing into the roomâsuppose the muff began to dance around the room before her!
Marigold stifled the scream that rose to her lips. It might bring Mrs. Delagarde back. Nothing would be so dreadful as thatânot even a bewitched bearskin muff. She was afraid even to moveâbut she managed to tiptoe to window after window. They were all nailed downâevery 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 windowâas 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 cameâa 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 hallâagain 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 soonâbut that no longer seemed terrible. The only terrible thing was that Mrs. Delagarde might come back.
Evening againâmoonlight againâwind againâa snarling, quarrelsome wind that worried a vine at the window and sent a queer shadow flying across the room to the bearskin muff. It seemed to moveâit
was
movingâMarigold suddenly went to pieces. She shrieked madlyâshe flew across the roomâshe 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 keyâshe was past thinking or reflecting. She fled across the hallâdown the stairsâoutâout into freedom. She never stopped running till she stumbled into the hall at Cloud of Spruceâa hall full of wild, excited people, amid which she caught one glimpse of Mother's white anguished face beforeâfor the first time in her lifeâshe 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 toldâand much more. Marigold knew all about Mrs. Delagarde nowâpoor 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 moreâjust 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 braveâor resourcefulâor sereneâor anything.”
Mother cuddled herâcompassionate, 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 togetherâa 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 âforgiven' and this conviction seems to have cured some sick spot in her soul.”
“Humph,” said Grandmotherârather 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 allâthough 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. Butâ”
Marigold sighed. After having been consecrated and set apart for three weeks it was somewhat flat and savorless 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 hillâa forgiving Sylvia, who made no difference at all because of her brief defection.
One of Us
1
“I'm going traveling tomorrow. 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 visitâby which she meant going away from home by herself to stay overnight. Only twice had she done it beforeâto 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 a while,” 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 Clowâwho came no more to Cloud of Spruce, having fared forth on an adventurous journey beyond our bourne of time and spaceâGrandmother thought it was hanging on too long. What might be tolerated at eight was inexcusable at eleven. Anne and Charles were sensible peopleâthough 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 morningâreal 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 gray homestead right down by the seaâthe real, wonderful sea, not merely the calm, land-locked harbor. Built on a little point of land running out into 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 Countryâthat mysterious land across the ocean where the Lesley clan had its roots. Enclosing a garden even more wonderful and fascinating than the garden at homeâfor 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 firstâMats. 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 gray 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 joyâuntil Paula came. Came and took immediate possession of the center of the stage, as is the way of the Paulas.
2
It happened at Sunday-school. All the Lesleys were Presbyteriansâof courseâbut 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 glovesânew kid glovesâ
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 awayânot 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 themâor 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 wasâsomethingâin her eyes that made you suddenly feel she saw things invisible to othersâthings you wanted ardently to see, too. A look that made Marigold think of a picture over Aunt Marigold's deskâthe 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 Paula Pengelly
made
you believe things.
“She means hold your yap,” said another girl passing. “Paula's âgot religion,' didn't you know?âlike 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 herâwith those compelling, mystical eyes. They said “Come” and Marigold felt that she must goâto 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 dramaticâwhich 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 tomorrow.”
“Can Mats come too?” asked Marigold loyally.
Paula flung Mats a condescending glance.
“Do
you
want to go to Heaven?”
“Y-e-esâbut 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.”
“Butâdo you have any fun?” wailed Mats.
“
Fun!
We are saving our souls. Would you,” demanded Paula hollowly, “rather have fun and go toâtoâa place too dreadful to speak of?”
“Noâno.” Mats was quite subdued and willingâtemporarilyâto do and surrender everything.
“Tomorrow thenâat nine o'clockâunder 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 didâbetter than Matsâbetter than anybody. She longed for Monday and the lone pine.
“Old Pengelly's her father,” said Mats. “He used to be a minister long agoâbut he did something dreadful and they put him out. I think he used to get drunk. He'sâ” 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 dressedâall 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 thereâstill rapt, still ecstatic. She had not, so she informed them, slept a wink all night.
“I couldn'tâthinking of all the people in the world who are going to beâ
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.
“And now,” concluded Paula with tragic earnestness, “both of you ask yourselves this question, âAm I a child of God or of the devil?'”
Mats thought it was horrid to be confronted with such a problem.
“Of course I'm not a child of the devil,” she said indignantly.
But Marigold was all at sea. Under the spell of Paula's eloquence she did not know what her ancestry ought to be.
“What'llâwe doâabout itâif we are?” she asked unsteadily.
“Repent. Repent of your sins.”
“Oh, I haven't any sins to repent of,” said Mats, relieved.
“You can never go to heaven if you haven't committed sins, because you can't repent of them and be forgiven,” said Paula inexorably.
This new kind of theology dumbfounded Mats. While she was wrestling with it, Paula's mesmeric eyes were on Marigold.
“What wouldâyou call sins?” Marigold asked timidly.
“Have you ever read stories that weren't true?” demanded Paula.
“Ye-esâandâ” Marigold was seized with the torturing delight of confession, “andâmade them upâtoo.”
“Do you mean to say you've
lied
?”
“Oh, no. Not lies. Not lies. I meanâ”
“They must be lies if they weren't true.”
“Wellâperhaps. And I've thought ofâthingsâwhen Uncle Charlie was having family prayers.”
“What things?” said Paula relentlessly.
“IâI thought of a door in a picture on the wallâI thought of opening itâand going inâseeing what was insideâwhat people lived thereâ”
Paula waved her hand. After all what did it matter if Marigold did think of queer things while Charlie Marshall was praying? What did
his
prayers matter? Paula was after things that mattered.