Marigold was holding her young head high and speaking earnestly. There was mingled pity and disgust in her eyes that gave her a look of wisdom beyond her years.
“Ah, but my dear, I haven’t told you my proposition yet. You don’t realize that I would make it fully worth your while. I would settle an ample allowance on you, regardless of how my son behaved, so that you would be practically independent.”
“Stop!” said Marigold suddenly. “I don’t want to hear you say another word! Mrs. Trescott, I am not for sale!”
“Now, don’t flare up and be a foolish child! You know you will regret it by and by when you come to think it over. You don’t realize that it will mean a small fortune. I would be willing to give you—”
But Marigold marched over to her.
“I wish you would please go away!” she said, her eyes flashing fire. “I don’t ever want to hear another word about this. It is disgusting! You fill me with such shame and horror. If my father were alive, he would demand an apology for what you have said. Now go, or I shall have to call someone to escort you out.”
There was a tremble of almost rage in Marigold’s young voice, and Mrs. Trescott looked up astonished.
“Why, dear me!” she said, lifting up her eyeglasses and watching the girl, fascinated. “They didn’t tell me you had a temper! But it’s really quite becoming! I’m sure you would be a social success if you would make up your mind to try it. You know, we are immensely wealthy, and you could have almost anything you want.”
For answer Marigold whirled around and marched into her bedroom, locking the door audibly, dropping down on her knees beside her bed and sobbing silently.
The older woman, thus left to herself, waited a minute or two, walked over and tried the door, called good-bye, then hesitating, added: “If you change your mind, just call me up. The offer still holds. Or even if you didn’t want to consider marriage, if you would just come over to the hospital and try to influence him to give up drinking for a while, I would be willing to pay you well! You see, Laurie blames me for being opposed to you, and I can’t endure it! My dear angel child!”
She delivered this to the door panel with a sob in the end of her words. It was always her last appeal, that sob. But when after duly waiting she got no reply, she turned and made her way out of the room and down the stairs. Marigold, holding her breath to listen, could hear Mrs. Waterman’s quick steps downstairs scuttling out of the way, and then she could hear the front door close and the limousine roll away down the street.
Suddenly the ridiculous side of it all came over her and she burst into mingled laughter and sobs, her tired nerves giving way in a healthy minute or two of hysterics.
But after that had passed, she continued to kneel.
“Oh, God, my Father,” she cried at last, “was I so headstrong and self-willed that You had to send me a terrible lesson like this to show me how far from Home I was getting? I see that I was. I know now that I have sinned, and I’m not worthy of all the care You have had to bring me back. Forgive and help me, dear Lord, and teach me not to seek my own way anymore. Let my life be ordered as Thou will.”
Chapter 18
After her telephone conversation with Marigold that morning, Mrs. Brooke seemed more satisfied, though her sister noticed that she was more than usually quiet and thoughtful. Finally she spoke.
“You aren’t quite at rest about Marigold, are you, dear?” she said at last.
Mrs. Brooke looked up thoughtfully.
“Yes, I’m at rest about her,” she said slowly, “but somehow I keep on feeling that she needs me. I don’t know why I should. I reason it away, and then the idea returns. If Elinor were back I think I should go home this morning, or perhaps not till this afternoon. I just feel as if I didn’t want Marigold to be there another night alone. There! Now that’s silly, I know, but I’m telling you the truth.”
Her sister smiled. “Yes, I understand. Well, dear heart, you mustn’t stay for me if you feel you ought to go! But make it this afternoon, anyway, Mary. You can get there before night if you go late this afternoon. Get there in time to take her out to dinner. Surprise her.”
Mrs. Brooke pondered that. “But I don’t like to leave you alone. You don’t think perhaps Elinor and her husband might come tonight?”
“They might. They said they would telegraph as soon as they knew. But you needn’t worry about a night or two more or less for me. I’ve my nurse here, and the servants. And it isn’t as though we lived in the wilds. There are neighbors close at hand, and lots of friends. I’ll be quite all right if you think you ought to go.”
“Well, perhaps I am foolish. I don’t want to go, Marian, you know that, for there will be no certainty when I can get back again once my vacation is over. But yet I can’t settle down to feel right about leaving Marigold alone any longer. Perhaps, though, I could wait until noon and telephone her at the school. You see, this is Friday, and she might be planning something. I’d like to know just how things are with her.”
Mrs. Brooke’s brow was troubled, and her sister wore a sweetly concerned look also.
“What are you two ladies worrying about?” suddenly spoke Ethan Bevan, appearing from the stairs.
“Oh, Ethan! Are you here?” they both exclaimed eagerly. “How did you get in without making any noise?”
“Stealth is my middle name,” said Ethan solemnly. “It’s the best thing I do. I make my living at it. I just ran away from my job for a few minutes to see how my family was getting along.”
“Well, I was just wishing you would come in,” said Mrs. Brooke. “In fact, I had some thought of trying to call you up if I could find out your number without alarming my vigilant sister. Ethan, if I should go home this afternoon, could you come and stay with your aunt till Elinor gets home?”
Ethan studied her thoughtfully a minute.
“What’s the idea, going home so soon?” he said. “I just felt it in my bones you were trying to slip away from us, and that’s one of the reasons I ran over, to prevent it. I guess I could arrange to stay with Aunt Marian, if you had to go, but I’m here to try and persuade you differently. I just know Elinor and her husband will be disappointed to have you gone when they get back, and besides, there is your job. You’ll be so much fresher for it if you stay a few more days and get a little rested. What’s the idea, anyway?”
“She feels Marigold needs her,” explained Aunt Marian.
An instant gravity came over Ethan’s face and a reserve in his voice.
“That’s different,” he said gravely. “But does she? What makes you think so, Aunt Mary?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Mrs. Brooke. “I just feel so!”
“Well then, something ought to be done about it,” said Ethan determinedly. “But see here, why should you go? I have a better plan. Why don’t I go up and get her? She wouldn’t resent it, would she? I’d promise on my honor to bring her back with me or die in the attempt, and there’s always the telephone in case she balks. Besides, there are later trains on which you could go home if you had to.”
“Oh, Ethan, that would be wonderful! But I couldn’t think of making you all that trouble and taking you away from your job,” said Mrs. Brooke.
“Could you, Ethan?” beamed Aunt Marian.
“I could, and I will,” said Ethan. “You see, Aunt Mary, it’s Friday with my job, too. That is, Saturday is only a half day, and I could make up a lost Friday easily on Saturday. Besides, I have to go up to Philadelphia again soon, anyway. I would have to go next week at the latest, and personally I’d prefer to go today, provided I could have good company back. That’s a great inducement, you know.”
“Well, I know Marigold would enjoy it, too,” said Mrs. Brooke gratefully. And she hoped in her heart that she was speaking the truth. If Marigold didn’t enjoy the company of a wonderful young man like this, she ought to be spanked, she thought. “But I don’t think we ought to let you do it,” she added wistfully.
“But if he has to go
anyway, Mary?” put in Mrs. Bevan.
“All I want to know is,” said Ethan, “would it solve the situation? Or would you still feel uneasy and as if you ought to have gone? Because in that case, I’ll stay with Aunt Marian and let you go.”
“Yes, I think it would solve the situation,” said Mrs. Brooke slowly. “I’d far rather have Marigold here this weekend than at home, and I don’t see why she wouldn’t jump at the chance. It would be wonderful for her and all of us.”
“Wonderful for me!” said Aunt Marian softly.
“Then I’ll go!” said Ethan, getting up with determination. “I’ll have to run back to the job for a while, but I’m free at noon or a little after. I’ll stop at the house and see if you’ve any errands you want done at home, a clean apron or anything you want to send for.”
“I could get Marigold on the telephone,” said Mary Brooke meditatively. “Would you like me to, so she won’t plan anything else?”
He considered that an instant and then shook his head.
“No, I think I’d rather appear on the scene unannounced. She wouldn’t have so much chance to think up excuses. I’ll go armed with authority and tell her I have orders to bring her back. Just let it go at that. I’ll get in touch with you by phone if any situation arises in which I need backing.”
Then with a grin he hurried away, and the two sisters settled back to enjoy the morning. Mary Brooke kept praying that her girl wouldn’t have gone and got up some precious engagement with that Laurie that would make her refuse to come to Washington. What silly, unwise creatures girls were sometimes; the Lord arranged nice plans for them, and they already had others of their own.
Then toward noon there came a telegram from Elinor:
ARRIVE HOME LATE SATURDAY NIGHT. MAKE AUNT MARY AND MARIGOLD STAY OVER TILL NEXT WEEK. WE WANT TO SEE THEM.
“Now that makes it just perfect!” said Mrs. Bevan. “My girl and her husband will be here, too, before you leave, and I can’t imagine anything nearer to heaven on this earth.” There came a lilt in her voice that had not been there before.
So the two went placidly to knitting and talking about old times. Ethan came back for a minute and went again, and the smiles on the two mothers’ faces grew more radiant as the hours went slowly by, full of eager anticipation.
Even out in the kitchen there was a flutter of expectation. Delectable things were being manufactured for the next day’s menu because Miss Marigold was coming back.
But secretly, as the evening drew on, Marigold’s mother kept wondering, would Marigold elect to come? And supposing she didn’t, how would Ethan feel about it? How could she ever apologize for her daughter’s rudeness?
Oh, but she wouldn’t let herself think that Marigold wouldn’t come. She put the thought of Laurie and the plans he might have made to absorb Marigold right out of her mind and tried to trust it all to the Lord.
She had, however, secretly folded her garments and gotten things pretty well packed in her suitcase, in case Ethan should telephone that he couldn’t find Marigold and he was going to have to return without her.
Suddenly her sister spoke.
“He wouldn’t!” she said, right out of a silence.
“What?” asked Mary Brooke, looking up astonished from counting stitches.
“He wouldn’t come home without Marigold,” said Marian Bevan, knitting away hard on the coat that she was making for Elinor. “Isn’t that what you were thinking, dear?”
“Why yes, something like that,” faltered the other, “but how in the world did you know?”
“Oh, you had it written right out plainly across your forehead. You were thinking what if Ethan should come home without her. You were wondering what you would think next. But he won’t. I know Ethan.”
“Well, but suppose she isn’t there? Suppose she’s gone home with one of the teachers to supper and hasn’t left any word? I should have reminded her always to leave word with Mrs. Waterman. Ethan wouldn’t find her if she hadn’t left any word.”
“Ethan would find her,” said Mrs. Bevan calmly. “He’s clever. He would find her or he wouldn’t come back till he did. And what’s more, he would telephone before it was late enough for you to be anxious.”
“Oh, of course,” said Marigold’s mother, relaxing into a smile.
“I’ll tell you what we will do, Mary,” said her sister. “There’s nobody near enough to hear. Let’s sing! The servants are down in the kitchen, and the nurse is out. It can’t hurt anybody, and there’s nobody to laugh at us, either. Let’s sing all the old songs we used to sing when we were little girls washing the dishes. You take the alto as you always did, and I’ll take the soprano. Let’s begin on ‘When You and I Were Young, Maggie,’ and go on to ‘Silver Threads among the Gold,’ and ‘Juanita,’ and ‘Bide a “Wee,”’ and a lot of others.”
Mary’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, and ‘Little Brown Church in the Vale,’ too, and ‘Where Is Now the Merry Party, I Remember Long Ago?’ I haven’t thought of them in years. Yes, let’s sing!”
So the two sweet old sisters began to sing. Their voices were still good, though higher and thinner, and with a quaver here and there, but they blended out in the dear old songs they had both loved, and in between each there were old memories to be trotted out.
“Do you remember, Marian, how Randall Silver came in that day while we were singing that and asked for a piece of the chocolate cake Mother had just baked for the church supper that night? The new minister was to be installed, you know—and you gave it to him?”
“Yes, and how Betty Hemstead was jealous and baked a coconut cake for him the very next day, and left the baking powder out!”
“Yes, and Ran said it reminded him of a pancake it was so thin,” contributed Mary. “How long has Ran been dead, Marian? Almost thirty years, isn’t it? Seems strange we never knew his wife. They said she was sweet. But, Marian, what did Mother say when she found you’d cut her cake before she had a chance to send it down to the church? I don’t remember.”
“Why, she just went and made another,” Marian said, smiling. “That was the deadliest punishment she could have given me. Mother working away patiently and frantically to get that cake done, when I knew she was so tired she was ready to drop. I never did that again. Mother was sweet, you know.”
And then there was a space of silence during which both sisters counted stitches assiduously, brushing away surreptitious tears now and again.
Presently they drifted into more songs. Sweet old hymns now, “Softly Now the Light of Day,” “Abide with Me, Fast Falls the Eventide,” “How Firm a Foundation, Ye Saints of the Lord,” and others, each bringing its set of memories, sweet and sad.
As they sang, they glanced from time to time at the clock ticking away on the mantel and smiled, remembering that it was Ethan Bevan, and not Laurie Trescott, who had gone after Marigold, and that God was with Ethan Bevan. At least that was what Marigold’s mother thought.
Though sometimes, again, she would go over quickly in her mind just how many things had to be put in her suitcase and where she had placed her gloves and coat and hat and purse, in case it became suddenly necessary for her to take the train home that night.
Then Marian Bevan, watching her quietly, would start another song:
“Children of the heavenly King,
As ye journey, sweetly sing.”
It was a song their father used to love, and it brought back the picture of the family gathered at evening for family worship. They sang on through the well-remembered verses:
“We are traveling home to God
In the way our fathers trod;
They are happy now, and we
Soon their happiness shall see.”
How many years it had been since they had all sung that together, those two girls and their brothers and parents, all now gone on before them to the heavenly home, except one brother in the far West whom they hadn’t seen for years. Their voices choked as they went on with the other verses:
&nbs
p; “Fear not, brethren; joyful stand
On the borders of your land;
Jesus Christ, your Father’s Son,
Bids you undismayed go on.”
“And now, Mary, I think you might go and turn on the porch light, don’t you? They ought to be here in about fifteen minutes if they come on the same train you did.”
Chapter 19
In a quiet, sparsely settled, somewhat obscure suburb of Philadelphia, in a great, massive stone building entirely surrounded by dense foliage, which was now heavily draped in snow, Laurie Trescott thrashed about on a luxurious bed and cursed his male nurse, who was really his jailor.
He had tried all the arts and cajoleries he knew, and these were many, for this was not the first time he had been confined within stone walls for a brief period. No period of confinement, however brief, was to be tolerated, Laurie felt. He had offered bribes, varying in value according as his keeper grew stubborn, regardless of the fact that he was not at present in a position to pay even the smallest. But when it became evident that his parents’ bribe was greater than he could exceed, he had gone on to promises and cunning.
The man, however, into whose charge he had been put, was a knowing man and twice as big and strong as Laurie. He paid no more attention to all this than if Laurie had been a rabbit trying to cajole him.
Laurie had wearied himself by coaxing for liquor, and he was now in torment, as the effects of the liquor taken the last twenty-four hours began to wear off. He was desperate and frantic.
As he lay there thinking back over all he could remember of the time previous to his installment in this bed, gradually a grudge evolved from the vagueness, a grudge against Marigold Brooke. He wasn’t just sure how she became connected with it all, but little by little some of it came back. He had offered to marry Marigold and she had declined. She had deserted him at the altar, as it were. There was a little white house in the snow and a minister. That was it. There had been a sign that said so. He was smoking a long black cigar and he needed a haircut, but he had opened the door cordially and put out a flabby hand. Laurie had told him he wanted to get married and had called to Marigold to come, and she didn’t answer. He went out to get her, and she wasn’t there. He didn’t exactly remember what came next, only there was some snow connected with it, down his neck, and he couldn’t find Marigold. Then he had jumped in his car and somebody ran into him and smashed things up. All Marigold’s fault, and he’d like to get even with her. He thought hard about that, drawing his brows in a frown. He might get married to someone else. That was it. Show her she wasn’t the only girl there was. That would teach her a good lesson. Next time she’d do as he said. Yes, that was it. He’d marry someone else. Now that he knew where that minister lived, he could go back. The minister wouldn’t know whether he had the same girl or not. He would go and get Lily. Lily was a good sport. He remembered when she had lied once in school to keep the teacher from finding out who it was that put chewing gum all around the inside of her hat. Lily would go through with anything if she agreed to. Not that Mara had agreed. She never did anymore. She was getting stubborn. But Lily always agreed to anything he asked. Lily would marry him quick enough. He would marry Lily, and afterward he would call up Mara and tell her he was married and she had lost her chance to be a lady. Then she would be sorry.
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