“Just think how splendid it would ‘a’ been there. I wouldn’t have to be respectable for one minute — only on Sundays and then I could ‘a’ stood it for a change. I could go barefoot — and slide down the pighouse roof — and eat everything that come handy. Hot dogs. There’s a hot-dog stand just outside Aunt Nora’s gate.”
Billy groaned. It was agonising to think of the delights one might enjoy at Aunt Nora’s and contrast them with the bitter reality at Aunt Min’s.
“Why wouldn’t your father let you go to Aunt Nora’s?” asked Marigold.
“Search me. I think he had some fool notion Aunt Min would be offended. I was to Aunt Nora’s last summer and Aunt Min thought it was her turn. Mind you, it isn’t because she likes me. She’s got some fool idea of doing her duty by Dad. And mind you, she thinks Aunt Nora’s is an awful place because Aunt Nora is poor. She thinks I wouldn’t be ‘happy’ there. Happy!”
Billy groaned again.
“I never had such a good time as I had at Aunt Nora’s. Say, I had to hunt her turkeys up every evening. Roam everywhere I liked and no questions asked so long’s I turned up at bedtime with the turks. Here if I go outer the gate it’s, ‘William, where have you been?’ and ‘William, did you scrape your boots?’ Why, the cats here have to wipe their feet afore they go in.”
“Now, Billy, that’s exaggerating,” said Marigold rebukingly.
“Well, ‘tain’t exaggerating to say I don’t dast throw a single stone here,” said Billy defiantly. “It’s aggravating, that’s what it is. Millions of cats and not a chance to throw a stone at one of ‘em. I did throw one first day I was here — gave her old yellow Tom the thrill of his life — and she jawed at me for a week and made me read a chapter of the Bible every day. I’d rather she’d taken it out of my hide. She thinks out so many different ways of punishing me and I never know what to expect. And then—’ja hear her? — telling Mrs. Kent what I looked like when I was a baby? She’s always at it. Catch Aunt Nora telling on a feller like that. Or kissing me goodnight. Aunt Min always does. Thinks it’s her ‘duty,’ I s’pose.”
Billy thrust his hands in his pockets and scowled at the universe. But he was feeling better. Remained only one grievance to be discussed. The worst of all.
“I could worry along if it wasn’t for Sundays,” he said. “I hate Sunday here — hate it worse’n p’isen.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause I have to write a snopsis.”
“What’s a snopsis?”
“Why, you go to church and when you come home you gotter write out all you can remember of the sermon. And if you can’t remember enough — oh, boy! She says her children always done it. She’ll make you do it, too, next Sunday, I’ll bet.”
Marigold reflected a bit. She didn’t think she would mind. It might be int’resting — a kind of game in fact. For one Sunday. But poor Bill had to do it every Sunday.
“Well, never mind,” she said soothingly. “Sunday’s a long way off yet. Let’s see how much fun we can have before that.”
Decidedly, thought Billy, here was a girl.
2
Sunday might be far off — but Sunday came. After a week during which Billy forgot to hanker for Aunt Nora’s. That was all very well. But Marigold was going home Tuesday. Billy would have been torn in pieces by wild horses before he would have confessed how he hated the thought.
But here was Sunday afternoon — and church. To which Billy and Marigold must go alone because Aunt Min had been summoned to Charlottetown to see an old friend who was passing through and could be seen on no other day.
“I’m sorry I can’t go to church,” she said, “because young Mr. Harvey Nelson is preaching for a call and I’d like to hear him. But it can’t be helped. I’ve left your suppers in the pantry for you. Now be good children. Marigold, you’ll see that Billy behaves properly, won’t you? Don’t forget to pay close attention to the sermon. You must both write out a synopsis of it this evening, and I want to see a better result than last Sunday, Billy.”
“A-ha,” gloated Billy as Aunt Min went out. “I told you you’d have to do it, too.”
Marigold did not resent his gloating. He was really behaving very well, considering she had been told to look after his behaviour. That was too awful of Aunt Min. Why couldn’t people understand certain perfectly plain, self-evident things?
“Oh, my, ain’t we Sundayfied!” chanted Davy Dixon on the fence, as they went down the lane. Davy was freckled and snub-nosed, bareheaded and barefooted. With no more clothes on than decency required. But he did look so jolly and care-free. All the Dixons did. But they were a family Aunt Min detested. She never let Billy and Marigold play with them, though they lived only a cat’s walk away through the bush behind Aunt Min’s.
“Comin’ to the picnic?” asked Davy.
“What picnic?”
“Oh, just the Dixon family picnic,” grinned Davy. “This is Mom’s and Pop’s wedding-day. Twelve years married ‘n’ ain’t sorry for it yit. We’re going to take our new car ‘n’ go to the sand-hills. Got a basket of eats ‘d make your eyes stick out. Yum-yum. ‘N’ mom said to ask youse to come along, too, ‘cause she knew your Aunt Min was going away ‘n’ youse’d be lonesome.”
Marigold found herself wishing they could go. At home she liked going to church, but she was sure she wouldn’t like going to Windyside church. She didn’t like the look of it; a big, bare, wind-beaten, drab-tinted church with a spire as long and sharp as a needle; somehow it was not a friendly church. And she knew nobody there. A drive in a motor-car to the sand-hills sounded very alluring. But of course it was unthinkable.
What was Billy saying?
“I’ll go if you’ll lend me that book at your place — The Flying Roll.”
“Bill-ee,” said Marigold.
“Oh, all right,” said Dave. “It belongs to old Aunt Janey but she won’t care.”
“I’ll go,” said Billy decidedly. “Coming, Marigold?”
“Oh, please, remember what day this is,” implored Marigold, with a wild wish in the back of her mind that she could go. “And what will Aunt Min say?”
“Aunt Min isn’t going to know a thing about it. I’ve got a plan. Aw, come on. We’ll have a rip-roaring time.”
“Billy, you don’t mean it.”
“You bet I do. You can go to church if you want to and stick all the afternoon to varnishy seats.”
“Gotter make up your mind quick,” said Dave. “Lizzie’s waiting.”
Marigold reflected rapidly. She couldn’t go alone to a strange church. And it would be so lonesome to stay home. The sand-dunes — the waves — the wind on the sea —
“I’ll — go,” she said helplessly.
“I knew you’d some gizzard in you. Atta girl,” gloated Bill. “Let’s scoot back and take off our proud rags. Jes’ a minute, Dave.”
A few minutes later they were running along the path through a scented field of hay on a short cut to the Dixons. Ordinarily Marigold felt she had wings on a day like this. Now she suddenly felt leaden-footed. But Billy must not suspect it. He would despise her if he found out she really did not care for all this lawlessness.
The Dixons’ new car proved to be a very second-hand snub-nosed little Ford, into which they all piled and rattled and bounced down a narrow deep-rutted lane to the sand-dunes. Marigold sat on the knee of Mrs. Dixon, a big, pink, overblown lady who used what even Billy knew to be bad grammar, in a cheerful, excruciating voice. Marigold thought the bones would be shaken out of her before they got to the dunes.
It should have been a wonderful afternoon. Polly Dixon was a pretty, gentle little girl and Marigold liked her. They slid down the sand-hills and made shore pies and dug wells in the sand. They gathered clam-shells and went bathing in a little sand-cove up the shore where the water was like soft, warm, liquid turquoise. They played games with the boys. They laughed and ran and scampered. And under it all Marigold knew perfectly well that she was not having a good time. She was
only trying to make herself think she was.
Even the lunch — to which she looked forward a little ashamedly after a week of Aunt Min’s diet — was a disappointment. There was plenty of it — but Mrs. Dixon was not a good cook. Marigold ate stale sandwiches, and cookies that reeked of soda, and a piece of mushy lemon-pie. She always believed that she also ate two crickets that had got tangled up in the meringue of the pie. But Billy thought that feed was extra-x. “I wish to goodness I could eat some more but I can’t,” he sighed, bolting the last morsel of a gorgeous piece of cake whose iced surface was decorated with violent red-and-yellow candies.
3
“Wasn’t it jolly?” said Billy, drawing a long unregretful breath as they walked home together through the hayfield.
“Won’t it be jolly when Aunt Min asks you to write a synopsis and you can’t?” demanded Marigold rather wearily and sarcastically.
Billy grinned.
“I’ll just write it. This Flying Roll book is full of sermons. I read some dandy ones in it one day down at Dixons’ before you came. We’ll just write a snopsis of one of them, and Aunt Min will never know the difference.”
“We won’t,” cried Marigold. “You can do as you like, but I won’t cheat like that.”
“Then you’ll go and give the whole thing away,” said Billy pale with wrath and fear.
“No-o-o, I won’t. I’ll just tell Aunt Min I couldn’t write a synopsis.”
“She’ll send you to bed ‘thout any supper.”
“I don’t care,” said Marigold pathetically, putting her hand on her stomach. “That lemon-pie was awful.”
Billy betook himself to a little room Aunt Min called her library. His opinion was that writing a “snopsis” with the printed sermon before you was a snap. When Aunt Min came home he was ready for her. Marigold said, with a very good imitation of Grandmother Lesley’s manner, that she could not write a synopsis.
Aunt Min looked at her for a moment but said nothing. She took Billy’s copious sheets with a very grim smile — a smile that speedily changed to a frown.
“Surely — surely Harvey Nelson never preached such stuff as this.”
“Why, what’s the matter with it?” cried Billy.
“Matter. It’s heresy — rank heresy. Why, the man must be a Second Adventist. I never read such doctrines. Well, he’ll not get any call to Windyside if I can prevent it. I was in favour of him because he’s engaged to Dovie Sinclair and she is a distant relation of mine. But this preposterous sermon is too much.”
Aunt Min rustled indignantly out of the room, leaving Billy to reflect on the snares and pitfalls of existence.
“What do you suppose was wrong with it?” he whispered miserably.
“I don’t know,” said Marigold agitatedly, “but I do know that if Mr. Nelson is engaged to Dovie Sinclair he’s got to get that call. Dovie is my Sunday-school teacher at home and I won’t have her disappointed through our fault.”
“Don’t you dare snitch on me,” cried Billy. “Let things alone. Maybe she’ll cool down — or find out from some one else he didn’t preach it.”
Marigold’s face was white and tragic.
“She never will. She’ll just say he doesn’t preach sound doctrine and she won’t explain anything about it. You know Aunt Min. She’s got to be told and I’m going to tell her. But you needn’t come if you’re scared.”
“I’m scared but I’m coming. You don’t suppose I’m going to leave you to do it all alone?” said Billy staunchly. “Besides it was all my doings. I made you go. If Aunt Min has to be told, she’s gotter be told that, too.”
No wonder folks liked Billy.
4
Half an hour later Billy and Marigold were sitting on the granary steps. The fatal interview was over and it had not been a pleasant one, to state it mildly.
None the pleasanter for Marigold in that Aunt Min forgave her readily because Billy had led her astray. Perhaps Aunt Min did not want to get in wrong with the Cloud of Spruce people. But all the vials of her wrath were uncorked on Billy’s devoted head. She told Billy he had disgraced his name and ordered him to go out and stay out until she had decided on his punishment.
If it had not been for Billy, Marigold would have been feeling very happy. It was so delightful to be good friends with herself again. And — if only one knew what was going to be done to Billy — it was such a perfect evening. Those little golden dells among the sunset hills — that path of moonrise glitter on the harbour over which a ship of dreams might come sailing — those gossiping poplars — the green creaminess of that field of buckwheat-blossom in the shade of the wood — those pines behind the well like big green purring pussy-cats — that sweetest imp-faced kitten purring at her from under the milk-bench — but —
“What do you suppose she’ll do?” she whispered to Billy. The subject had such a gruesome fascination.
“Oh, likely make me wear a girl’s apron for a week,” groaned Billy. “She made we wear one for two days the time I put the peanut-shells in Elder Johnny’s pocket at prayer-meeting. Say—” Billy began to laugh, “that was fun. When he pulled out his hanky in the middle of his prayer the shells flew every which way for a Sunday. One struck the minister on the nose.”
Marigold saw the picture and laughed satisfyingly. Billy reflected gloomily that she was going home Tuesday. If only she were to be around to help him through whatever Aunt Min would visit on him. To be sure, she had got him into the scrape but he bore her no grudge for that. She was a good little scout.
The moon had come up until she seemed to be resting on the very tip of the tall Lombardy on the hills when Aunt Min came across the yard, a rigid figure of outraged majesty. She looked scornfully at Billy and spoke in a sad, gentle way. When Aunt Min banged doors and looked or spoke sourly or sharply no one worried. But when Aunt Min smiled in that curious sweet fashion and spoke in that low, even tone, then beware. It was the calm before the levin-bolt.
“Do you realise that you have behaved very badly?” she asked.
“Yes’m,” gulped Billy.
“I have decided—” Aunt Min paused.
Billy was speaking. What fiendish punishment had Aunt Min devised? Marigold slipped a little cold hand of backing into his.
“I don’t feel equal to the responsibility of looking after you any longer,” resumed Aunt Min more gently than ever, “so I have decided to send you to your Aunt Nora’s to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XXI
Her Chrism of Womanhood
1
A new magic had fallen over Cloud of Spruce. Grandmother solemnly decreed that Marigold might play with Sidney Guest. Grandmother would not, of course, call him Budge as everybody else did. His mother was a Randolph from Charlottetown, so that he was a quite permissible playmate for a Lesley of Harmony. Mr. Guest had bought Mr. Donkin’s farm and so Budge lived right next door to Cloud of Spruce.
He was a “nice-mannered” little boy, so Grandmother said. Rather thin and scrawny as to looks, with sandy hair but fine clear grey eyes. The only thing Grandmother was seriously afraid of was that they might poison themselves in some of their prowls and rambles. Not an ill-founded fear at all. For, in spite of all warnings, they ate or tried to eat nearly everything they came across.
Marigold had never had a real playmate in Harmony before, save for Gwen’s hectic three weeks. She did not seem to care for any of the girls in Harmony, and though she wrote fat gossipy letters to Gwen and Paula and Bernice she did not see them very often. Perhaps Sylvia spoiled her for other little girls, as Mother sometimes thought rather anxiously. Mother had always defended Sylvia sympathisingly against a Grandmother who did not understand some things. But sometimes lately she wondered if she had been wise in so doing. It would not be a good thing if the wild secret charm of fairy-playmates spoiled Marigold for the necessary and valuable companionship of her kind. Marigold was twelve. Her golden hair was deepening to warm brown and she had at last learned not to pronounce interesting “int’rest
ing.” Surely it was time she was outgrowing Sylvia.
So Lorraine Lesley was glad when, just at the beginning of vacation, the Guests bought the Donkin place and Marigold and Budge took a prompt liking to each other. Marigold was amazed to find herself really liking a boy. She had never liked any of the boys in school. She had liked Billy but she had forgotten him. She had detested Cousin Marcus’s Jack. As for Hip Price, he had made her hate all boys for a time. But Budge was different from any boy she had ever known.
For weeks Marigold’s existence became one of hair-raising excitement. She did things to win Budge’s approval that she had never dreamed of doing. They went trouting up the brook and Marigold was such a sport in regard to worms that Budge thought in his heart — but did not say — that she was almost as good as a boy. They waded under the bridge. They climbed to the ventilator on top of the big Guest barn. They played pirate on an old green boat — the Daisy Dean — stranded on the harbour shore, with a black flag made out of Salome’s old black silk skirt and decorated with a skull and cross-bones. In it they sailed on amazing voyages hunting for gold and glamour and adventure. They had a password and a secret sign. They fixed up a stove of stones and cooked mussels and potatoes over it.
With Budge, Marigold could explore all the pretty play-lands down the harbour where she would never have dared to go alone. They even went as far as that grey misty end of the world known as the harbour’s mouth, where the silver-and-lilac sand-dunes stretched in all their wild sweet loveliness of salt-withered grasses and piping sea-winds. Nobody ever knew that, or that they had got caught by the tide and had to climb the banks and come home through dripping wet meadows. ’Twas a guilty triumphant secret. And another was the driftwood fire they made on the shore one twilight. They had both been told never to play with fire, but that did not spoil their enjoyment of it one bit. Rather heightened it, I am afraid. This secret forbidden thing had a charm all its own. And some days they fairly lived in the froggy marsh — where a very decent dragon also had his abode and grizzly bears grizzled.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 479