Magic for Marigold (21 page)

Mother was dancing—actually dancing—and Grandmother was sitting by the wall, looking as if she didn't think much of fox-trots and tangos. Beside her, a stately old dowager in mauve satin, with hair arranged a la Victoria, and a cameo brooch with Clementine's hair in it. The sight of Mrs. Lawrence spoiled things for Marigold. She was quite ready to turn away when Gwen said,

“We've seen all we can see here. Let's take a sneak around to the dining-room and have a look at the supper.”

But the dining-room blinds were down and they could see nothing.

“We'll go right in and see it,” said Gwen.

“Oh, do you think it's safe?”

“Of course, it's safe. Look at all the rigs here. We'll never be noticed. I'm going to see all that's to be seen, you bet.”

In they went. As Gwen said, nobody noticed them. The supper-table proved such a dream that they hung over it breathlessly. Never in her life had Marigold seen such
pretty
eats—such dainty cakes and cakelets, such wonderful striped sandwiches, such beautiful dishes. Cloud of Spruce could put up a solid banquet, but this alluring daintiness was something new. Gwen perceived sourly that there was no chance of “swiping” anything—there were too many waitresses around, so, after they had looked their fill, she pulled Marigold grumpily away.

“Let's take a peep at the other room again and get out.”

Hitherto all had gone well. They were reckless with success. Boldly they crossed the hall and boldly they stood in the doorway of the dancing-room. The floor was not so crowded now. The August night was warm and many of the dancers had gone out to the moonlit lawn. More of the old folks were sitting around the room. Mrs. Lawrence was more Queen-Victorian than ever as she languidly plied a huge ostrich fan of the vintage of the nineties. Old Uncle Percy was down at the end of the hall telephoning, and shouting at the top of his voice as usual. Marigold thought of the clan story about him and snickered.

“What is that racket?” a caller in Uncle Percy's office had once asked.

“Oh, that's only old Mr. Lesley talking to his wife down in Montague,” the junior partner had replied.

“Well, why doesn't he phone her instead of yelling across the Island like that?” said the caller.

Gwen turned to see why Marigold was shaking with laughter. Then the end of the world came. Gwen stepped on a small ball that somehow happened to be lying under the fringe of the portiere, shot wildly into the room and fell with a curdling scream. As she felt herself shooting she grabbed Marigold—who did not fall but went staggering across the room on the slippery floor and there sat neatly down at the very feet of old Mrs. Lawrence, who had just begun to tell Grandmother how many times she had had the flu.

The next moment Mrs. Lawrence was all but in hysterics, and the room was full. Marigold had scrambled to her feet and was standing there dazedly, but Gwen was still sprawled on the floor. It was Uncle Klon who picked her up and stripped the mask from her face.

“I knew it was you.” He stood her beside Marigold, from whose face someone else had removed the mask.

“Oh, Marigold,” cried Mother in horror. But old Mrs. Lawrence was still the center of attraction. Until she could be revived and calmed nobody had any time to spare for Gwen and Marigold.

“Clementine's dress—Clementine's dress,” Mrs. Lawrence was shrieking and sobbing. “The dress—she wore—when she came—in to tell me she had just—promised to marry—Leander Lesley. I didn't think—you'd let—your daughter—insult me so—Lorraine.”

“Oh, I had nothing to do with it—truly I hadn't,” almost sobbed Mother.

“My heart broke—when Clementine died—and now to have it brought up like this—
here
—” people made out between Mrs. Lawrence's yoops. “Oh—I shouldn't—have come. I had a presentiment—one of my dark—forebodings came to me.”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Lawrence—here, try a sip of water,” said Aunt Marigold.

“Calm—myself! It's—enough—to kill me. We all—die—sudden—unexpected—death—Oh, Lorraine—Lorraine—you took her place—but your daughter—might have left—her dress—her sacred—little—dress—alone.”

“Oh, I didn't know,” cried Marigold. She wanted to cry—but cry she would not before all those people. Had not Old Grandmother once said that a Lesley should never cry before the world? Yet it was plain to be seen she had involved Mother in some terrible disgrace. All the sense of mystery and romance had fled. She felt that she and Gwennie were only naughty, silly children who had been ignominiously found out.

Mrs. Lawrence yooped more wildly than ever.

“You'd better have her carried upstairs,” said Aunt Marigold. “She really has a weak heart—I'm afraid—”

“Oh, Clementine—Clementine,” wailed Mrs. Lawrence. “To think—of the dress—you wore—being
here.
That—dreadful—child—Lorraine—how could you—”

Gwen, who had hitherto been rather dazed and sobered by the suddenness of the catastrophe, now wrenched her shoulder from Uncle Klon's restraining hand and sprang forward.

“Shut your face, you old screech-owl,” she said furiously. “You've been told Aunt Lorraine had nothing to do with it. Neither had Marigold. It was me found that moldy old dress and made Marigold put it on. Now, get that through your dippy old head and stop making a fuss over nothing. Oh, glare—glare! You'd like to boil me in oil and pick my bones, but I don't care
that
that for you, you fat old
cow
.”

And Gwen snapped her fingers under outraged Queen Victoria's very nose.

Mrs. Lawrence, finding someone else could make more noise than she could, ceased yooping. She got on her feet, scattering a shower of hairpins on the floor, with the noted Carberry temper sticking out of every kink and curve of her abundant figure, and assisted by Aunt Marigold and Uncle Percy, moved slowly to the stairs.

“One must—make allowances—of course,” she sobbed, “for the things—children will do. I am—glad—it wasn't your fault—Lorraine. I didn't—think—I had—deserved that—of you.”

“Dear Mrs. Lawrence, don't be angry,” implored Lorraine.

“Angry—oh, no. I'm not angry—I'm only—heartbroken. If God—”

“You might as well leave God out of it,” said Gwen.

“Gwen, keep quiet,” said Uncle Klon furiously.

Whereupon Gwen threw back her head and yelled loud and long.

Everybody was now in the room or the hall, or crowding up to the windows outside. Marigold felt as if everyone in the world were staring at her.

“Could you run us home, Horace?” said Grandmother wearily. “I'm tired—and this has about finished me. Do you want to stay for supper, Lorraine?”

“No—oh, no,” said Lorraine, struggling to keep back her tears.

In the back seat of the car Marigold cried for sorrow and Gwen howled for vexation of spirit. But Uncle Klon laughed so uproariously that Grandmother said nervously:

“Horace,
do
pay attention to your steering. I don't see how you can laugh. It's been simply a terrible affair. If it had been any one but old Mrs. Lawrence!”

“Good for her,” said Uncle Klon. “I don't believe anyone ever told her the truth about herself before. It was priceless.”

Gwen stopped sniffling and pricked up her ears. After all, there
was
something nice about Uncle Klon.

“But it
must
have been a shock to see Clementine's dress suddenly come before her like that,” said Grandmother. What was the matter with Grandmother's voice? Grandmother couldn't be laughing—she
couldn't.
But was she trying
not
to laugh? “You know, Horace, she really worshipped Clementine.”

“Clementine was a good little scout,” said Uncle Klon. “I always liked her. It was to her credit that she wasn't spoiled by such a silly old mother.”

“She was a pretty thing,” said Grandmother. “I remember her in that dress. People raved about her skin and her hands.”

“Clem certainly had pretty hands. It was a pity she had such huge feet,” said Uncle Klon.

“She couldn't help her big feet,” rebuked Grandmother.

“Of course not. But they were certainly—generous,” laughed Uncle Klon. “No wonder the old lady kept all her boots. Too much good leather to waste. Clem had only one quarrel in her life that she never made up. The quarrel with Emmy Carberry. Emmy was going to marry a man neither the Carberrys nor the Lawrences approved of. ‘I wouldn't be in your shoes for the world, Emmy,' said Clem solemnly.”

“‘Don't worry, Clem darling,' said Emmy, sticking out a foot in her little Number Two's beside poor Clem's brogans. ‘You could never get into them.' Of course, Clem never forgave her.”

Just then in a twinkle something happened to poor, crushed, weeping Marigold in the back seat. The spirit of jealousy departed from her forever—at least as far as Clementine was concerned.
Clementine
had
big
feet.
And Mother had feet that even Uncle Klon thought perfection. Oh—Marigold smiled through her tears in the darkness—oh, she could afford to pity Clementine.

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn't take the hide off you,” said Uncle Klon as he lifted Gwen from the car.

“I made you laugh,” said Gwen saucily.

“You shameless young hussy,” said Uncle Klon.

Grandmother said nothing. Of what use was it saying anything to Gwen? Of what use was it trying to drown fish? And she was going home the next evening. Besides, in her secret soul, Grandmother was not sorry that Caroline Lawrence had got her “come uppance” at last.

“Well, this is the end of Wednesday. Now for Thursday. But they might have given us a bite to eat,” grumbled Gwen as she rolled into bed. “I wish I'd swiped that little plate of striped sandwiches. But did you ever see anything so funny as that old dragon yowling? Didn't I shut her up! I hope the devil flies away with her before morning. After all I'm glad I'm going home tomorrow night, Marigold. I like you better than I ever dreamed I'd do after Aunt Jo's sickening praises. But your Grandmother gets my goat.”

“Aren't you going to say your prayers?” reminded Marigold.

“No use waking God up at this hour of the night,” said Gwen drowsily.

She was sleeping like a lamb before Marigold had finished her prayers. Marigold was very, very thankful and told God so. Not exactly that Clementine had big feet, of course, but that the horrible feeling of hatred and jealousy had gone completely out of her little heart. It was
so
comfortable.

Mother gave Marigold a little scolding in the morning.

“Mrs. Lawrence might have died of heart-failure. Think how you would have felt. As it is, we heard this morning that she cried all night—cried
violently
,” Mother added, fearing that Marigold was not just alive to the awfulness of what she had done.

“Never you worry,” said Salome. “It served old Madam right. Her and her old boots. Thinking she's like Queen Victoria. But all the same, I'm thankful that limb of Satan is going home tonight. I should really like to have a few minutes' peace. I feel as if I'd been run through a meat-chopper these three weeks. Heaven help the clan when
she
grows up.”

“Amen,” said Lucifer with an emphatic whisk of his tail.

Gwennie went home that evening.

“Now maybe we can call our souls our own again,” said Salome. And yet she did not say it very briskly. Nor did she snub Lazarre when he remarked mournfully,

“By gosh, you t'ink somebody was die in de house.”

The lost serenity of Cloud of Spruce had returned to it, only slightly rippled next day by the arrival of an inky postcard from Gwen, addressed to Grandmother.

“I forgot to tell you that I dropped one of your best silver spoons through a crack in the apple-barn floor day before yesterday. I think you can get it easily if you crawl under the barn.”

Marigold missed her badly for two days and in a lesser degree for the third. But after all, it was very nice to be alone with Sylvia again. Laughter and frolics were good things, but one didn't want to laugh and frolic
all
the time. She was like one tasting the beauty of quiet after days of boisterous, stimulating wind. The velvet faces of the pansies were waiting for her in the twilight and her own intimate, beloved trees welcomed her once more to their fraternity. When she shut the little Green Gate behind her she went into a different world—where one could be happy and have beautiful hours without being noisy all the time. She turned and looked down on the old vine-hung house and the harbor beyond. There was no sound in the great quiet world but the song of the wind. And there were soft, dewy shadows in every green meadow-nook of Mr. Donkin's farm.

“If I could have picked my place to be born, I'd have picked Cloud of Spruce,” she whispered, holding out her arms as if she wanted to put them around the house—this beautiful old place that so many hands had made and so many hearts had loved.

And Clementine's ghost was forever laid. The next time she went to the graveyard she stole over and put a little flower on Clementine's grave—poor pretty Clementine. She no longer felt that she wanted to push her away from Father's side. And she knew now that Father hadn't married Mother just for a housekeeper. For she had told Mother the whole story, and Mother had laughed a little and cried a little.

“
I
was never jealous of Clementine. They were children. He did love her very dearly. But to me he gave the love of his manhood. I
know
.”

So Marigold had no further grudge against Clementine's picture. She could look at it calmly and agree that it was very beautiful. But once she gave herself the satisfaction of remarking to it,