Читать книгу Magic for Marigold - L. M. Montgomery - Страница 18

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And it was horrid—horrid. There was nothing nice about it from the very beginning, except the drive to the Head with Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold, over wood-roads, spicy with the fern scent of the warm summer afternoon. As soon as they left her there the horridness began. Marigold did not know that she was homesick, but she knew she was unhappy from her head to her toes and that everything was disappointing. What good was a case of humming-birds if there were no one to talk them over with? Even the water-garden did not interest her, and there were no signs of a skeleton anywhere. As for Frank, he was the worst disappointment of all. He hardly took any notice of her at all. And he was so changed—so gruff and smileless, with a horrible little moustache which looked just like a dab of soot on his upper lip. It was the moustache over which he and Hilda had quarrelled, though nobody knew about it but themselves.

Marigold ate very little supper. She thought every mouthful would choke her. She took only two bites of Aunt Flora’s nut cake with whipped cream on top, and Aunt Flora, who had made it on purpose for her, never really forgave her. After supper she went out and leaned forlornly against the gate, looking wistfully up the long red road of mystery that led back home. Oh, if she were only home—with Mother. The west wind stirring in the grasses—the robin—vesper calls—the long tree shadows across a field of wheaten gold—all hurt her now because Mother wasn’t here.

“Nothing is ever like what you think it’s going to be,” she thought dismally.

It was after supper at home now, too. Grandmother would be weaving in the garret—and Salome would be giving the cats their milk—and Mother—Marigold ran in to Aunt Flora.

“Aunt Flora, I must go home right away—please—please.”

“Nonsense, child,” said Aunt Flora stiffly. “Don’t take a fit of the fidgets now.”

Marigold wondered why she had never noticed before what a great beaky nose Aunt Flora had.

“Oh, please take me home,” she begged desperately.

“You can’t go home to-night,” said Aunt Flora impatiently. “The car isn’t working right. Don’t get lonesome now. I guess you’re tired. You’d better go to bed. Frank’ll drive you home to-morrow if it doesn’t rain. Come now, seven’s your bedtime at home, isn’t it?”

“Seven’s your bedtime at home.” At home—lying in her own bed, with the light shining from Mother’s room—with a delicious golden ball of fluff that curled and purred all over your bed and finally went to sleep on your legs. Marigold couldn’t bear it.

“Oh, I want to go home. I want to go home,” she sobbed.

“I can’t have any nonsense now,” said Aunt Flora firmly. Aunt Flora was noted for her admirable firmness with children. “Surely you’re not going to be a cry-baby. I’ll take you up and help you undress.”