Читать книгу Magic for Marigold - L. M. Montgomery - Страница 20

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Uncle Paul and Aunt Flora, wakened out of their first sound sleep after a hard day’s work, came running in. Marigold stopped screaming when she saw them.

“The child’s trembling—she must be cold,” said Uncle Paul.

“I’m not cold,” said Marigold through her chattering teeth, “but I must go home.”

“Now, Marigold, you must be a reasonable little girl,” soothed Aunt Flora firmly. “It’s eleven o’clock. You can’t get home to-night. Would you like some raisins?”

“I want to go home,” repeated Marigold.

“Who’s raising the Old Harry here?” said Frank, coming in. He had heard Marigold’s shrieks when he was getting ready for bed. “Here, sis, is a chocolate mouse for you. Eat it and shut your little trap.”

It was a lovely, brown chocolate mouse with soft, creamy insides—the kind of confection the soul of the normal Marigold loved. But now it only suggested Uncle Paul’s mythical rat.

“I don’t want it—I want to go home.”

“Perhaps if you bring her up a kitten,” suggested Uncle Paul in desperation.

“I don’t want a kitten,” wailed Marigold. “I want to go home.”

“I’ll give you my coloured egg-dish if you’ll stay quietly till morning,” implored Aunt Flora, casting firmness to the winds.

“I don’t want the coloured egg-dish. I want to go home.”

“Well, go,” said Uncle Paul, finally losing his patience with this exasperating child. “There’s plenty of good road.”

But Aunt Flora had realised that Marigold was on the verge of hysterics, and to have a hysterical child on her hands was a prospect that made even her firmness quail. She had never approved of Paul’s whim of bringing the child here anyhow. This was a Winthrop trick if ever there was one.

“I think Frank had better hitch up and take her home. She may cry herself sick.”

“She’s a great big baby and I’m ashamed of her,” said Uncle Paul crushingly. That speech was to rankle in Marigold’s soul for many a day, but at the moment she was only concerned with the fact that Uncle Paul told Frank to go out and hitch up.

“Well, this is the limit,” said Frank grouchily.

Aunt Flora helped the sobbing Marigold to dress. Uncle Paul was so annoyed that he wouldn’t even say good-bye to her. Aunt Flora said it very stiffly. When Mother had kissed Marigold good-bye she had whispered, “When you come home be sure to thank Aunt Flora for the lovely time she has given you.” But it did not seem just the right thing to say, so Marigold said nothing.

“Cut out the weeps,” ordered Frank as he lifted her into the buggy. “Upon my word, I admire Herod.”

Frank was abominably cross. He had had a hard day’s work in the harvest-field and was in no mood for a twelve-mile ride, all for the whim of a silly kid. Lord, what nuisances kids were. He was glad he would never have any. Marigold conquered her sobs with an effort. She was going home. Nothing else mattered. Frank sent his black mare spinning along the road and never spoke a word, but Marigold didn’t care. She was going home.

Half-way home they turned the corner at the school, and Martin Richard’s house was just beyond—a little, old-fashioned white house with a tall Lombardy standing sentinel at either corner, and a tangle of rose-bushes fringing its short lane.

“Why, Frank,” cried Marigold, “what’s the matter with the house?”

Frank looked—shouted, “My Golly!”—stopped the mare—sprang out of the buggy—tore into the yard—hammered on the door. A window over the door opened—Marigold saw a girl lean out. It was Hilda Wright, who must have been staying all night with her cousin, Jean Richards. Frank saw her, too.

“The house is on fire,” he shouted. “Get them up—quick. There’s no time to lose.”

A wild half-hour followed—a most int’resting half-hour. Luckily Frank’s mare had been trained to stand without hitching, and Marigold sat there watching greedily. The house suddenly sparkled with lights. Men rushed out for buckets and ladders. Gigantic grotesque shadows went hurtling over the barns in the lantern-light. Dogs barked their heads off. It was very satisfying while it lasted. The fire was soon put out. The kitchen roof had caught from a spark. But after it was out, Marigold could see Frank and Hilda standing very close together by one of the Lombardies.

Marigold sat in the buggy and enjoyed the sudden swoops of wind. It was not a stormy night after all—it was a windy, starry night. How thick the stars were. Marigold would have liked to count them but she did not dare. Lazarre had told her that if you tried to count the stars you would drop down dead. Suppose—somewhere—a star fell down at your feet. Suppose a lot of them did. Suppose you were chasing stars all over the meadows—over the hills—over the dunes. Till you picked up handfuls of them.

Frank and Hilda came out to the buggy together. Hilda was carrying a little lantern, and the red silk scarf around her head fluttered about her face like a scarlet flame. The bitterness had gone out of her mouth and she was smiling. So was Frank.

“And you’ve sat here all this time alone without a word. And Jenny not even hitched. Well, you’re a plucky little kid after all. I don’t wonder you were homesick and scared in that big barn Flora calls a spare room. I’ll get you home now in two shakes. Nighty-night, honey.”

The “honey” was not for Marigold but for Hilda, who after being kissed, leaned forward and squeezed Marigold’s hand.

“I’m glad you were homesick,” she whispered. “But I hope you won’t ever be homesick again.”

“I guess Frank won’t go West now,” whispered Marigold.

“If he does I’ll go with him,” whispered Hilda. “I’ll go to the ends of the earth with him.”

“Look here, darling, you’ll catch cold,” interrupted Frank considerately. “Hop in and finish your beauty sleep. I’ll be up to-morrow night. Just now I’ve got to get this little poppet home. She saved your uncle’s house to-night with her monkey didoes, anyway.”

Frank was so nice and jolly and funny all the rest of the way home that Marigold was almost sorry when they got there. Every one at Cloud of Spruce was in bed, but Mother was not asleep. She came down at once and hugged Marigold when she heard Frank’s story—at least as much as he chose to tell. He said nothing about Hilda, but he gave Marigold a fierce parting hug and put two chocolate mice in her hand.

“Guess you can eat these fellows now without choking,” he said.

Marigold, safe in her own dear bed, with her kitten at her feet, ate her mice and fell asleep wondering if Frank were “dam” because he had, after all, spoken first.