Magic for Marigold (11 page)

She said her prayers that morning very earnestly. And in spite of her terror she did not forget to put on her green dress, though she didn't like it, because it was its turn and mustn't feel neglected. She tried to eat some breakfast. She went out to the road, that had suddenly stretched to miles and miles, all filled with terror for her, with her lunch-basket and her little quaking heart.

“You're not frightened to go alone, darling?” said Mother, kissing her good-bye.

“Oh, no,” lied Marigold gallantly. Mother must not know—must not even suspect.

“And I won't—I
won't
be frightened,” she whispered defiantly to the world. “I'll
make
it true. I'm
sure
God will not let The Dog be there. I'm
quite
sure.”

“Cheer up,” said Lucifer on the gate post, blinking his topaz eyes at her. “A dog is only a dog. Bristle up your tail and spit at him. Anyone can bark through a fence.”

There was no delight in the road that day for Marigold, though the fir-trees blew gaily together on the windy hill and Mr. Donkin's calves stood in a ferny corner and looked at her with elfin mischief in their soft dark eyes. As she drew near Mr. Plaxton's house she could see The Dog sitting on the steps. Marigold grew cold all over, but she came on. Old Grandmother, she was sure, would have gone on. The Dog rushed down to the gate and tore along the fence and barked. Most furiously.
Did
he
know
she
was
afraid
of
him?
It seemed a year to Marigold before she left him behind. She felt rather sickish all day in school and couldn't eat her lunch. And her spirit was bitter within her. God hadn't answered her prayer. Very likely old Cousin Malcolm was right. Of course he was right. Marigold went home past The Dog in a godless world, where only Terror reigned supreme.

4

For a week Marigold lived in that world and tasted its horror to the full. But she would have died before she admitted her cowardice to Mother or Grandmother. She might have told it to Aunt Marigold, but Aunt Marigold was away. She could not play with Sylvia, and a new batch of kittens left her cold. And every day that Dog rushed down to the gate and pursued her beside the fence with Barks. Marigold saw everything connected with The Dog in capitals. Some day—Marigold knew it—he would jump the fence.

One rainy day she felt sure he would not be there, but he was. Noisier than ever.

“I wish you were dead,” Marigold whispered passionately. But she could not pray that he would die, though once she tried to. Even a dog has some rights, she felt. She still prayed—though she did not think it a bit of use.

And then one day The Dog did jump the fence.

5

“The child is getting frightfully thin and pale,” worried Mother. “She hardly eats any breakfast. I'm sure that long walk to school is too much for her.”

“I walked two and a half miles to school when I was her age,” said Grandmother, who was worried, too, but wouldn't give in. “How is she to get to school if she doesn't walk? She can't be taken every day.”

“She has nightmares—something Marigold never had before,” persisted Mother. “Last night she screamed dreadfully that ‘it' had caught her. And do you notice how little she laughs?”

“I notice she doesn't go traipsing up the hill after Sylvia anymore and that's so much to the good,” said Grandmother in a tone of satisfaction. “I'll tell her she mustn't go tearing round with the children at school, tiring herself out. That's what's the matter with her.”

There was no need of such a command. Marigold was so quiet at school that the other children thought her stupid and the teacher thought her a model—though a little dull. She couldn't seem to remember half she was told. How could she when she didn't hear it, being wrapped up in dread of the walk home past The Dog? The terrible thing was that it wasn't getting any easier—harder if anything. Marigold felt that she couldn't go on being brave forever. Some day she would break down and confess everything, and everybody would know what a coward she was.

The Dog was at the steps as usual and as usual ran and barked. But Marigold was suddenly confronted with a new terror. The Widow Turner's geese were out on the road! They spread all over the road, and as she drew near, the big gander flew at her with huge outstretched wings, hissing furiously. Marigold dropped book and lunch-box, and screamed.

At that The Dog jumped the fence. He appeared to fly over it without effort. And just when Marigold expected to be devoured at a gulp or feel his teeth at her “juggler” vein, she saw him hurl himself at the gander. The outraged gander turned tail and ran as never gander ran before, towards the hole in the fence where he had escaped. The Dog chivied all the rest of the flock through after him and then leaped victoriously back to Marigold. His impact nearly knocked her off her feet, but the next moment she knew she was not a bit afraid. The Dog was capering around her in an ecstasy of friendliness, stopping every moment or so to yap out his good intentions. Why, he was really only an overgrown pup. And all his barking and tearing had just been sheer neighborliness. No wonder God hadn't answered her prayer.

As Marigold walked on The Dog trotted cockily along beside her, occasionally licking her hand or lifting his adoring dog face with a delighted yelp. He seemed to be the happiest Dog in the world just to be with her. He went right to the school with her and that night when she went home, no longer a bit afraid, she went right up to the gate and kissed him through the bars.

“I'm so sorry I hated you and prayed that you wouldn't be here,” she told him.

“What's a little hatred between friends?” said The Dog. “That gander shan't give you any more sass. I'll see to that, Lovely.”

Marigold's laughter rang again through Cloud of Spruce that evening. The world was once more a nice, smiling place where everybody was happy. She ate a hearty supper and then she was off up the hill to Sylvia—which didn't please Grandmother so well. After that she scurried off to school early in the morning so that she could have a little time to play with The Dog, who having found he could jump the fence when he had to, jumped it every morning and evening just to be petted by Marigold and fed little snacks from her basket.

Marigold felt a certain sweetness of victory because she had never told anyone how frightened she was. It seemed to her that she had redeemed herself from some taint of disgrace that had clung to her ever since the night at Uncle Paul's. But now that she was frightened no longer she told Mother, because she couldn't bear to have secrets from Mother. Lorraine was secretly horror-stricken when she realized what a long-drawn-out agony this small creature had been enduring in silence and solitude.

“I don't think you were a coward at all, dearest. You were very brave to go right on when you were so afraid—and keep going on.”

“If I could have picked my mother I'd have picked you,” whispered Marigold. Everything was beautiful again and every wind of the world was a friend.

“Didn't I tell you,” purred Lucifer.

“I shall always like cats a
little
better than dogs,” said Marigold, “but Mr. Plaxton's Dog
is
a Beautiful Dog.”

“There ain't no such animal,” Lucifer had the last word.

Lost Laughter

1

Marigold woke up on a Saturday morning in June with stars of delight in her eyes. She thought it the loveliest thing that Sylvia's birthday should be in June. And they were going to have a birthday-picnic in the spruce-bush by the little spring with its untrampled edges—in a banquet-hall with tall spruces for columns. With little frosted cakes—some with “M” on them in pink icing and some with “S.” And one gorgeous big cake with both “M” and “S” on it, intertwined, with a drift of coconut over everything. Mother had made it specially for Sylvia's birthday. Mother was such a brick. Grandmother, now—but Marigold was not going to think of Grandmother and her attitude in regard to Sylvia, on this wonderful morning of dawn-rosy meadows and sky-ey lures, of white young cherry-trees and winds dancing over the hills.

“Spring is
such
an exciting time,” thought Marigold blissfully, as she sprang out of bed and began to dress.

Grandmother and Mother had already begun breakfast—Grandmother, very stately and dignified as usual, with silvery hair and sharp steel-blue eyes, was looking displeased. She disapproved of this birthday picnic as much as she disapproved of Sylvia. She had so confidently expected that Marigold would get over this Sylvia-nonsense when she went to school. But Marigold had been going to school for a year and seemed more besotted on Sylvia than ever.

“We'll have to tell her today that you're going to the sanitarium tomorrow,” said Grandmother.

“Oh, not today,” implored Lorraine. “Let her have one more happy day. Not till the morning.”

Lorraine had taken a bad cold in March and it “hung on.” Aunt Marigold said there was nothing serious as yet but advised a couple of months in the sanitarium. She frightened Grandmother and Lorraine a good deal more than the latter's condition justified, but Aunt Marigold was wise in her day and generation. She knew Lorraine was tired out and run down. She knew she needed a real rest and that she would never get it at Cloud of Spruce or visiting among her relatives. And she knew she would never leave Marigold unless she were thoroughly frightened. So Aunt Marigold did it thoroughly.

“You are going in the afternoon tomorrow. That will give her very little time to get used to it.”

“Oh, but not today,” pleaded Mother. Grandmother yielded. You couldn't refuse the request of a woman who was going to the sanitarium next day, even if you did think it remarkably silly. And then Marigold came running in with her little wild-rose face all alight, and began to eat her porridge out of the dear little blue bowl she loved. Real porridge. Grandmother insisted on that. No imaginary porridges called “cereals” for Grandmother.

“Isn't it lovely that Sylvia's birthday is in June?” she said. “And she's just eight years old, too. Isn't that 'strornary? Why, it makes us pretty near twins, doesn't it, Mother? We're going to have such an elegant time today. After the picnic we're going to find that echo that lives 'way, 'way back in the hilly land.”

“Don't you go so far away that you can't get back in time for dinner,” said Grandmother. “You were late last Saturday.”

Marigold looked rather scornfully at Grandmother. Didn't Grandmother understand that when you went through The Magic Door you stepped straight into fairyland, where there was no such thing as time?

“I think I'll be a little scared to go so far back,” said Marigold confidentially to Mother. Marigold never minded admitting she was scared since the day of The Dog—The Dog that now, alas, belonged only to the beautiful far-off past. In the winter Mr. Plaxton had sold him to a man who lived over the bay. And Marigold, who had once wished he was dead, walked past Mr. Plaxton's door every school morning with an aching lump in her throat, hating Mr. Plaxton and missing woefully that friendly eager catapult of barks that had always hurled itself over the fence at her. God had answered her prayer after all—rather late, she thought very bitterly.

“I see one has to be careful what one prays for,” was her opinion.

“But Sylvia won't be scared. Sylvia isn't afraid of anything. Why—” Marigold cast about for some statement to show how very brave Sylvia was—“why, she'd just as soon call the minister John as not, if she wanted to.”

“You see,” telegraphed Grandmother's steel-blue eyes. But Mother only laughed.

“What jam do you want in your tarts, dear? Plum or gooseberry?”

Marigold liked gooseberry best, but—“Oh, plum, Mother. Sylvia likes plum.”

The lunch-basket was made up and Marigold trotted happily into the orchard room—and trotted back again.

“Please, where is the key of the orchard door?” she said.

“It's upstairs on my bureau,” said Grandmother. “Go out of the side door.”

Marigold looked reproachfully at Grandmother, wondering if when
she
got to be over seventy years old she would be so stupid.

“You know I
have
to go through the orchard door, Grandmother. It's a Magic Door. None of the others are.”

“Run upstairs and get the key for yourself dear,” said mother gently.

Grandmother sniffed, but looked rather pleased. An idea had just come to her.

Marigold, happily unconscious of Grandmother's idea, got the key and went through The Magic Door into The Land Where Wishes Come True—which unimaginative people called the old orchard. You went through the orchard and up the stone steps until you came to the Green Gate, about which grew the seven slim poplars that always turned into nymphs when she and Sylvia played there. Marigold opened the gate—shut her eyes—said The Rhyme—opened them. Yes, there was Sylvia with her floating dark hair and her dreamy eyes, her snow-white hands and feet among the fine, fair shadows of the poplars. Marigold sprang forward with a cry of joy.

“To think I once thought you were a plum-blossom bough!” she laughed.

2

Grandmother did not carry out her idea as soon as Mother had gone away. That would have been cruel and Grandmother was never cruel—intentionally. She must wait until Marigold recovered from the grief of Mother's going. At first Marigold thought she could never get over it. She was shocked the first day she laughed. She had not expected to be able to laugh again until Mother came home. But Sylvia did say such funny things. And a letter came from Mother every day—such a dear, jolly, understanding letter. Then—

“Grandmother, please, can I have the key of The Magic Door?” asked Marigold one morning.

Grandmother looked at her with cold eyes.

“I have locked that door and it is to remain locked,” she said deliberately. “I find that I often forget to lock it at night, and that is very dangerous.”

“But, Grandmother,” exclaimed Marigold, “I
must
have the key. You
know
I can't see Sylvia unless I go that way.”

“Then you must get along without seeing her,” said Grandmother immovably.

Marigold did not plead or coax. She knew quite well that no pleading would avail with Grandmother—who had been “one of the stubborn Blaisdells,” as Salome said, before she married into the Lesley clan. But she went away with eyes that were stripped of laughter. Grandmother gazed after her triumphantly. This would put an end to all nonsense.

It did. Marigold made one effort to find Sylvia. She went out through the hall door, up the orchard and through the Green Gate. She shut her eyes—said The Rhyme—opened them.

There was no Sylvia.

Marigold crept back to the house—a pathetic, defeated little figure.

For a week Marigold moped—so Grandmother termed it. Grandmother was very good to her. She let her help cook—Salome being away on one of her rare vacations—shell lovely walnuts with kinkly meats, seed raisins, slice citron peel; even—oh, bliss of happier days!—beat eggs. But Marigold seemed interested in nothing. She sat about a great deal in a big chair on the veranda, looking out on the harbor, with a smileless little face.

One night Grandmother discovered that Marigold had gone to bed without saying her prayers. Horrified, Grandmother made Marigold get right up and say them. But when Marigold got into bed again she looked at Grandmother with sad, defiant eyes.

“My soul didn't pray a bit,” she said.

When another week had passed, Grandmother began to worry about Marigold. All was not well with the child. She was growing thin and pale.

“It's the heat,” said Grandmother. “If it would only get cooler she would be all right.”

Grandmother would not even let herself look at the idea that Marigold was fretting for Sylvia. It was absurd to suppose that a child would become ill because of the imaginary loss of an imaginary playmate.

She went into Harmony and bought Marigold a magnificent doll—almost as big and beautiful as Alicia. Marigold thanked her, played with it a little, then laid it aside.

“Why don't you like your doll?” asked Grandmother severely.

“It's a very nice doll,” said Marigold listlessly. “But it isn't alive. Sylvia was.”

It was the first time she had spoken of Sylvia. Grandmother's brow grew dark.

“You are a very ungrateful little girl,” said Grandmother.

Marigold sighed. She was sorry Grandmother thought her ungrateful. But she did not really care very much. When you are horribly tired you can't care very much about anything. There was no joy in waking up any longer. The bluebells in the orchard had no message for her and she had forgotten the language of the roses. The days seemed endless and the nights—the lonely, black, dreadful nights when the windows rattled so terribly and the wind sang and sobbed so lonesomely in the tree-tops around Cloud of Spruce—worse than endless. There was nothing then but a great, empty, aching loneliness. No sweet medicine of Mother's kisses. No Sylvia. But one night Marigold heard distant music.

“I think it is Sylvia singing on the hill,” she said, when Grandmother asked her sharply what she was listening to.

Grandmother was vexed with herself that she couldn't help recalling that silly old superstition of Salome's that angels sing to children about to die. But Grandmother was really alarmed by now. The child was going to skin and bone. She hadn't laughed for a month. The house seemed haunted by her sad little face. What was to be done? Lorraine must not be worried.

Grandmother got Marigold a lovely new dress of silvery silk and a necklace of beautiful pale green beads. Nobody in the whole Lesley clan had such a beautiful necklace. Marigold put it on and thanked Grandmother dutifully, and went away and sat on her chair on the veranda. Grandmother gave Marigold her own way about everything—except the one thing that really mattered. But Grandmother did not for a moment suppose
that
mattered at all. And she certainly wasn't going to give in about a thing that didn't matter.

Marigold pined and paled more visibly every day. Grandmother was at her wit's end.

“If only Horace's wife was home,” she said helplessly.

But Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold were far away at the Coast, so Dr. Moorhouse was called in—very secretly so that no rumor of it might reach Lorraine—and Dr. Moorhouse couldn't find anything wrong with the child. A little run down. The weather was hot. Plenty of sleep, food, and fresh air. He left some pills for her: Marigold took them as obediently for Grandmother as for Old Grandmother, but she grew no better.

“I'll soon be sleeping in the spare room, won't I, Grandmother?” she said one night.

Grandmother's old face grew suddenly older. The spare room!

“Don't be foolish, dear,” she said very gently. “You are not going to die. You'll soon be all right.”

“I don't want to be all right,” said Marigold. “When I die I can go through The Magic Door without any key.”

Grandmother could not sleep that night. She recalled what Great-Aunt Elizabeth had once said of Marigold. “She is too glad to live. Such gladness is not of earth.” But then, Aunt Elizabeth had always been an old pessimist. Always predicting somebody's death. Of course she hit it once in a while, but not a tenth of her predictions ever came true. There was no need to worry over Marigold. The child had always been perfectly healthy. Though not exactly robust. Rather too sensitive—like Lorraine. The weather was so hot. As soon as it cooled, her appetite would come back. But still Grandmother could not sleep. She decided that if Marigold did not soon begin to improve, Lorraine would have to be sent for.

3

Dr. Adam Clow, professor of psychology in a famous university, was talking over family folklore with Grandmother, on the veranda of Cloud of Spruce, looking out into a blue dimness that was the harbor but which to him, just now, was a fair, uncharted land where he might find all his lost Aprils. Only the loveliest of muted sounds were heard—the faint whisper of friendly trees, the half-heard, half-felt moan of the surf, the airiest sigh of wind. Down the road the witching lilt of some invisible musician who was playing a fiddle at Lazarre's.

And the purr of black cats humped up on the steps—cats who must have been at Cloud of Spruce forever and would be there forever, changeless, ageless creatures that they were. What did the world look like to a cat, speculated Dr. Clow? Know what he might about psychology he did not know that.

Dr. Clow was a very old friend of Grandmother's, and this visit was a great event to her. There was nobody on earth for whose opinion she had such respect as she had for Adam's. He was one of the few people left to call her Marian—to remember her as “one of the handsome Blaisdell girls.”

Adam Clow was that rare thing—a handsome old man, having lived a good life so long that he was very full of the beauty of the spirit. His dark eyes were still softly luminous and his thin, delicately cut, finely wrinkled face rather dreamy and remote. But his smile was vivid and youthful and his mouth showed strength and tenderness and humor.