Читать книгу Magic for Marigold - L. M. Montgomery - Страница 21
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After all Old Grandmother did not live out her hundred years—much to the disappointment of the clan, who all wanted to be able to brag that one of them had “attained the century mark.” The McAllisters over-the-bay had a centenarian aunt and put on airs about it. It was intolerable that they should go the Lesleys one better in anything when they were comparative newcomers, only three generations out from Scotland, when the Lesleys were five.
But Death was not concerned about clan rivalry and somehow even Old Grandmother’s “will to live” could not carry her so far. She failed rapidly after that ninety-eighth birthday-party and nobody expected her to get through the next winter—except Marigold, to whom it had never occurred that Old Grandmother would not go on living forever. But in the spring Old Grandmother rallied amazingly.
“Mebbe she’ll make it yet,” said Mrs. Kemp to Salome. Salome shook her head.
“No; she’s done. It’s the last flicker of the candle. I wish she could live out the century. It’s disgusting to think of old Christine McAllister, who’s been deaf and blind and with no more mind than a baby for ten years, living to be a hundred and a Lesley with all her faculties dying at only ninety-nine.”
Marigold in the wash-house doorway caught her breath. Was Old Grandmother going to die—could such a thing happen? Oh, it couldn’t. It couldn’t. The bottom seemed to have dropped out of everything for Marigold. Not that she was conscious of any particular love for Old Grandmother. But she was one of The Things That Always Have Been. And when one of The Things That Always Have Been disappear, it is a shock. It makes you feel as if nothing could be depended on.
She had got a little used to the idea by next Saturday, when she went in to say her verses to Old Grandmother. Old Grandmother was propped up on her rosy pillows, knitting furiously on a blue jacket for a new great-grandson at the Coast. Her eyes were as bright and boring as ever.
“Sit down. I can’t hear your verses till I’ve finished counting.”
Marigold sat down and looked at the brides. She did not want to look at Clementine’s picture but she had to. She couldn’t keep her eyes from it. She clenched her small hands and set her teeth. Hateful, hateful Clementine, who had more beautiful hands than Mother. And that endless dreamy smile at the lily—as if nothing else mattered. If she had only had the self-conscious smirk of the other brides, Marigold might not have hated her so much. They cared what people thought about them. Clementine didn’t. She was so sure of herself—so sure of having Father—so sure of being flawlessly beautiful, she never thought for a moment of anybody’s opinion. She knew that people couldn’t help looking at her and admiring her even though they hated her. Marigold wrenched her eyes away and fastened them on the picture of an angel over Old Grandmother’s bed—a radiant being with long white wings and halo of golden curls, soaring easily through sunset skies. Was Old Grandmother going to die? And if she did, would she be like that? Marigold had a daring little imagination but it faltered before such a conception.
“What are you thinking of?” demanded Old Grandmother so suddenly and sharply that Marigold spoke out the question in her mind before she could prevent herself.
“Will you be an angel when you die, ma’am?”
Old Granny sighed. “I suppose so. How it will bore me. Who’s been telling you I was going to die?”
“Nobody,” faltered Marigold, alive to what she had done. “Only—only—”
“Out with it,” ordered Old Grandmother.
“Mrs. Kemp said it was a pity you couldn’t live to be the hundred when old Chris McAllister did.”
“Since when,” demanded Old Grandmother in an awful tone, “have the Lesleys been the rivals of the McAllisters? The McAllisters! And does anybody suppose that Chris McAllister has been living for the last ten years? Why, she’s been deader than I’ll be when I’ve been under the sod for a century! For that matter she never was alive. As for dying, I’m not going to die till I get good and ready. For one thing, I’m going to finish this jacket first. What else did Mrs. Kemp say? Not that I care. I’m done with curiosity about life. I’m only curious now about death. Still, she was always an amusing old devil.”
“She didn’t say much more—only that the Lawson baby couldn’t live and Mrs. Gray-over-the-bay had a cancer and Young Sam Marr had appencitis.”
“Cheerful little budget. I dreamed last night I went to heaven and saw Old Sam Marr there and it made me so mad I woke up. The idea of Old Sam Marr in heaven.”
Old Grandmother shook her knitting-needle ferociously at a shrinking little bride who seemed utterly lost in the clouds of tulle and satin that swirled around her.
“Why don’t you want him in heaven?” asked Marigold.
“If it comes to that I don’t know. I never disliked Old Sam. It’s only—he couldn’t belong in heaven. No business there at all.”
Marigold had some difficulty in imagining Old Grandmother “belonging” in heaven either.
“You wouldn’t want him in—the other place.”
“Of course not. Poor old harmless, doddering Sam. Always spewing tobacco-juice over everything. The only thing he had to be proud of was the way he could spit. There really ought to be a betwixt-and-between place. Only,” added Granny with a grin, “if there were, most of us would be in it.”
She knitted a round of her jacket sleeve before she spoke again. Marigold put in the time hating Clementine.
“I was sorry when Old Sam Marr died, though,” said Granny abruptly. “Do you know why? He was the last person alive who could remember me when I was young and handsome.”
Marigold looked at Old Grandmother. Could this ugly little old woman ever have been young and pretty? Old Grandmother caught the scepticism in her eyes.
“You don’t believe I ever was. Why, child, my hair was red-gold and my arms were the boast of the clan. No Lesley man ever married an ugly woman. Some of us were fools and some shrews, but we never shirked a woman’s first duty—to please a man’s eyes. To be sure, the Lesley men knew how to pick wives. Come here and let me have a look at you.”
Marigold went and stood by the bed. Old Grandmother put a skinny hand under her chin, tilted up her face and looked very searchingly at her.
“Hmm. The Winthrop hair—too pale a gold, but it may darken—the Lesley blue eyes—the Blaisdell ears—too early to say whose nose you have—my complexion. Well, thank goodness, I don’t think you’ll be hard to look at.”
Old Grandmother chuckled as she always did when achieving a bit of modern slang. Marigold went out feeling more cheerful. She didn’t believe Old Grandmother had any idea of dying.
