“It”
1
Mother was home—pink-cheeked and rested and well—and Marigold was going to Blue Water Beach to stay from Friday evening to Sunday night. In other words, a weekend, though that expression had not yet penetrated to Cloud of Spruce. And Marigold was delighted for several good reasons. The best reason was that she would see Nancy—fascinating Nancy of the brown eyes and russet hair; and not only see her but play with her—play with Nancy’s beautiful set of dishes kept in the little square box-cupboard in the wall, with the glass door, and not only play with her but sleep with her two whole nights in her fascinating little room, where there was a dressing-table with a lovely frill of sheer white muslin over a pink lining, and a turquoise blue jug and basin with fluted edges, and peacocks on the wallpaper. They would talk delicious little secrets which nobody in the world but their small selves knew. Aunt Stasia’s house was near a railroad, and it was such thrilly fun to watch the lighted trains go by in the night, like great dragons breathing smoke and fire.
Then there was to be a party on Saturday afternoon at Lily Johnson’s, just across the road from Aunt Stasia’s, to which Marigold was invited, and she had the loveliest new dress for it.
Moreover, Blue Water Beach was in that realm of magic “over the bay,” where at sunset there were dim old shores of faded gold and dusk. Who knew but that some time she might actually get down to Blue Water Point and see what was beyond it—the Hidden Land, which she had longed all her life to see? She had never dared to ask anyone what was beyond Blue Water Point for fear she should be told that there were only the same red coves and headlands and blue silk water that there were on this side of it. Surely there must be something more than that if one could only reach that far purple misty outpost of the “fairylands forlorn” Aunt Marigold talked about. As long as Marigold didn’t know there wasn’t, she could still dream that dear dream.
In the third place, she wanted to wipe out the memory of that old disgrace three years ago, when she had behaved so terribly at Uncle Paul’s. Uncle Paul always ragged her about it every time he saw her, and Aunt Flora had never really forgiven her. To be sure, they had to admit that if Marigold had been the good and proper child she should have been, Martin Richard’s house would have burned down and Frank Lesley and Hilda Wright would probably never have married each other. Still, Marigold knew she had behaved badly and she burned for a chance to redeem herself.
Standing on the veranda of Cloud of Spruce, Marigold could see three houses in a row over the bay. Three little white dots only six miles away as the crow flew, but nearly fifteen when you had to drive around the Head of the Bay. Though there was a delightful possibility that Uncle Klon just back from the Coast would have his new motor-boat in time to run her over Friday evening.
The middle dot was Aunt Stasia’s house—an int’resting house—an unexpected kind of house; like one of those houses in dreams where you are forever discovering new, fascinating rooms; a house where there was red flannel in the glass lamps; a house with a delightful, uncared-for garden where gnarled old apple-trees bent over plots of old-fashioned flowers—thickets of sweet clover, white and fragrant, beds of mint and southernwood, honeysuckles and blush roses; and where there was an old mossy path running up to the ivy-grown front door. Oh, Blue Water Beach was a charming spot, and Marigold couldn’t eat or sleep properly for a week because of looking forward to her week-end there.
Of course, this world being as it is, there were one or two small flies in her ointment. Aunt Stasia herself now. Marigold always felt a little frightened of Aunt Stasia—who wasn’t really an aunt but only a cousin. Aunt Stasia of the tragic, wrinkled face, where nothing was left of her traditional beauty but her large dark eyes. Aunt Stasia who always wore black and a widow’s veil and never, never smiled. Marigold supposed you couldn’t smile if just a few minutes after you had been married, your husband had been killed by a flash of lightning. But Marigold sometimes wondered, supposing such a thing happened to her, if she wouldn’t have to smile now and then—after years and years had passed, of course. There were so many things in the world to smile at.
Then, too, Aunt Stasia was—fussy. In spite of her romantic and tragic airs, Aunt Stasia was very fussy. A crumb on the carpet unfitted her for the day. A fly on the ceiling sent her to bed with a headache. If you got a spot on the tablecloth, Aunt Stasia looked at you as if you had broken all the Ten at once. Marigold knew she would have to be exceedingly proper and perfect at Blue Water Beach if she did not want to smirch the honor of Cloud of Spruce. She liked gentle, kitteny Cousin Teresa better. Cousin Teresa was Aunt Stasia’s sister, but she was never called Aunt. There was nothing auntish about her. When Aunt Stasia wasn’t around Cousin Teresa could be just like a little girl herself. But then Aunt Stasia mostly was around.
Also, Beulah. Beulah and Nancy were sisters, Aunt Stasia’s nieces—real nieces. The children of her dead sister. But whereas Marigold loved Nancy next to Sylvia, she did not like Beulah at all. Not at all. Not the least little bit. Beulah, she thought in her secret soul, was a mean, spiteful little cat. It was Beulah who had once deliberately pushed her into a bush of stick-tights; Beulah who had told her that Mother was disappointed because she wasn’t a boy. Marigold had never dared ask Mother about it for fear it was the truth, but it rankled bitterly along with her hatred of Clementine.
2
Marigold was sent from Cloud of Spruce spick and span, with her new dress and her best nightgown in her bag. She arrived at Blue Water Beach spick and span, just in time for supper, to which they at once sat down. Aunt Stasia had welcomed her kindly, though with the usual remote, haunting sound of tears in her voice. Cousin Teresa had kissed and purred; Nancy had given her an ecstatic hug; even Beulah had shaken hands in her superior way and proffered a peck on the cheek.
Marigold was hungry and the supper looked simply gorgeous. There were raspberries in generous blue saucers, and when Aunt Stasia had given her enough cream Cousin Teresa gave her a little more. Nancy was smiling happily and significantly at her across the table, as if to say, “Just wait till we get to bed. I’ve heaps to tell you.”
Altogether, in spite of Beulah and Aunt Stasia and the terrible spotlessness of everything, Marigold was rapturously happy. Too happy. The gods didn’t like it.
Then—it happened.
Marigold was sitting just where a burst of evening sunshine shone straight down on her shining pale gold hair, with its milk-white parting. Suddenly Aunt Stasia bent forward and looked with awful intentness at Marigold’s head. An expression of profound horror came into her eyes. She gasped and looked again. Then looked at Teresa, bent forward and whispered agitatedly in her ear.
“Im-possible,” said Cousin Teresa.
“See for yourself,” said Aunt Stasia.
Cousin Teresa rose and came around the table to the petrified Marigold, who was just realizing that something perfectly awful must have happened, but couldn’t imagine what. She was so agitated that she slopped her tea over in the saucer. That was a terrible break.
“Oh, dear me,” wailed Cousin Teresa. “What can we do. What can we do?”
Cousin Teresa did something. Marigold felt a light touch on her head. Cousin Teresa dashed out of the room and came back a moment later looking ready to faint.
“Do you suppose—there are any more?’ demanded Aunt Stasia hollowly.
“I don’t see any more,” said Cousin Teresa.
Beulah was snickering. Nancy was wirelessing sympathy.
“What is the matter with me?” cried Marigold.
No attention was paid to her.
“Is there—a comb—in the house?” asked Cousin Teresa in a low, shamed voice.
Aunt Stasia shook her head forcibly. “No—never was. There has never been any need of one here, thank heaven.”
Marigold was hopelessly bewildered. No comb at Blue Water Beach? Why, there was an abundance of them—one in every bedroom and one in the kitchen.
“I’ve a comb of my own in my bag,” she said with spirit.
Aunt Stasia looked at her.
“A comb? Do you mean to say that they sent you here—knowing—”
“It isn’t that kind of a comb,” whispered Cousin Teresa. “Oh, Stasia, what can we do?”
“Do. Well, we must keep her away from Nancy and Beulah at all events. Take her up to the spare room, Teresa, until we have consulted over the matter. Run along with Teresa, child—at once. And mind you don’t go near the bed. Sit on the hassock by the window. If you haven’t finished your supper, take a piece of cake and a cookie with you.”
Marigold did not want cake or cookie. She wanted to know what was the matter with her. She dared not ask Aunt Stasia but she indignantly demanded of Cousin Teresa on the stairs what she had done to be put away like this with such scorn and contumely. Marigold didn’t use those words but she felt them.
“Hush,” said Cousin Teresa nervously, as if the walls around had ears. “The less said about it the better. Of course, I don’t suppose it is your fault. But it’s simply terrible.”
3
Marigold found herself alone in the spare room. Humiliated—frightened—and a little angry. For all the Lesleys had a bit of temper, and this was no way to treat a visitor. What a hateful grin she had seen on Beulah’s face as Cousin Teresa walked her out of the room! She went to the dim mirror and scrutinized her countenance carefully and as much of her sleek head as she could see. Nothing was wrong apparently. Yet that look of horror in Aunt Stasia’s eyes!
She must have some terrible disease. Yes, that must be it. Leprosy was an awful thing. Suppose she had leprosy—or smallpox. Or that dreadful thing Uncle Klon flippantly called T.B.? What was it she had heard “ran” in the Lesleys. Agatha Lesley had died of it. Something about the heart. But this had to do with the head evidently. She wondered if and how soon it would prove fatal. She thought pathetically that she was very young to die. Oh, she must get home right away if she had anything dreadful. Charming Blue Water Beach was now simply a place to get out of as soon as possible. Poor Mother, how terribly she would feel.
Marigold was suddenly aware that Aunt Stasia and Cousin Teresa were talking together in the parlor below the spare room. There was a little grating in the floor under the window, where a small “heat hole” penetrated the parlor ceiling. Marigold had been trained not to eavesdrop. But there were, she felt, exceptions to every rule. She must find out what was the matter with her head. Deliberately she lay down on the rag carpet and laid her ear to the grating. She found she could hear tolerably well, save at such times as Aunt Stasia dropped her voice in a fresh access of horror, leaving tantalizing gaps which might hold who knew what of ghastly revelation.
“We can’t let her go to the party,” said Aunt Stasia. “What if any one were to see—what we saw. I don’t believe such a thing has ever happened to a Lesley before.”
“Oh, yes—once—to Charlotte Lesley when she went to school.”
Now, Charlotte Lesley was dead. Marigold shuddered. Of course, Charlotte had died of it.
“And Dan,” continued Cousin Teresa. “Remember Dan?”
“A boy is different. And besides, you know how Dan turned out,” said Aunt Stasia.
How had Dan turned out? Marigold felt as if she would give anything to know.
“Such a disgrace,” Cousin Teresa was wailing when Marigold could hear again. “Her hair will have to be shingled to the bone. I suppose we could get a—comb.”
“I will not be seen buying a comb,” said Aunt Stasia decidedly.
“And where is she to sleep?” moaned Cousin Teresa. “We can’t take her home tonight. In the spare room?”
“No—no. She can’t sleep there. I’d never feel sure of the bed again. We must put her in Annabel’s room.”
“But Annabel died there,” objected Cousin Teresa.
“Marigold doesn’t know that,” said Aunt Stasia.
Oh, but Marigold did—now. Not that it mattered to her how many people had died in Annabel’s room. But she would not be able to sleep with Nancy. This was a far more bitter disappointment than not going to the party.
“There was only one,” Cousin Teresa was saying hopefully, when their voices became audible again.
“There are sure to be more of them,” said Aunt Stasia darkly.
Them! Marigold had a flash of awful illumination.
Germs, of course. Those mysterious, terrible things she had heard Aunt Marigold speak of. She was—what was it? Oh, yes—a germ-carrier. Germs that perhaps she would never be able to get rid of. She must be an outcast all her life! Horror fell over her small face like a frost.
Aunt Stasia and Cousin Teresa were going out of the parlor. Marigold got up and crept pathetically to the window, feeling as if it were years since she had left home that afternoon, so happy and light-hearted, never dreaming of it. Away out beyond the harbor, a little lonely ship was drifting over the edge of the world. The lonely red road wound past Blue Water Beach in the twilight. A lonely black wind was blowing. Marigold always felt that winds had color—and this one was certainly black. Everything was black. No party—no night of soul-satisfying exchange of thought with Nancy. Nothing but—germs.
4
Marigold slept—or did not sleep—in Annabel’s room, where there was a man-hole in the ceiling with a black, spooky look. But she never thought of being frightened. What were spooks and devils and things generally compared to the horror of it. The rain began to pour down—the fir-boughs tapped against the windows. The blankets, which Cousin Teresa had thoughtfully put on because the June night was cold, simply reeked of mothballs. If she were only in her own bed at home between fragrant sheets. Marigold thought the night would never end.
In the morning she had her breakfast at a little table by herself in the corner of the kitchen. Once Nancy slipped in and snuggled down beside her. “I don’t care if you have got—them—I love you just the same,” said Nancy loyally.
“Nancy Walker! you come right out of there,” said Beulah’s sharp voice from the door. “Aunt Stasia said you weren’t to go near her.”
Nancy went out, crying.
“Oh, I’m so sorry for you,” said Beulah, before she turned away.
The malice of Beulah’s smile was hard to bear and the pity of Beulah bit deep. Marigold went dismally back to Annabel’s room—where the bed had already been stripped to the bones. She could see Cousin Teresa busy over tubs in the wash-house. Nancy was carrying a great sheaf of mauve and gold irises across the road to Johnson’s, to help decorate for the party.
Away over the harbor was a soft blur that was Cloud of Spruce—dear Cloud of Spruce—dear home. If she were only there! But Aunt Stasia had told her they could not take her home until after the party. A fog was creeping up to Blue Water Beach. It crept on and on—it blotted out the harbor—it blotted out the distant shore of Cloud of Spruce—it blotted out the world. She was alone in the universe with her terrible, mysterious shame. Poor Marigold’s Lesley spirit failed her at last. She broke down and cried.
Aunt Teresa drove her home that evening. Again she was coming home from a visit in disgrace. And when they reached Cloud of Spruce, Mother was away. Thinking Marigold would not be home till Sunday evening, she had gone to South Harmony for a visit. Marigold felt she simply could not bear it.
Cousin Teresa whispered mysteriously to Grandmother.
“Impossible,” cried Grandmother peevishly.
“We found one,” said Cousin Teresa positively.
One what? Oh, if Marigold only knew what!
“Only one.” Grandmother’s tone implied that Stasia had made a great deal of fuss over a trifle. Grandmother herself would have made enough fuss about it if she had discovered it. But when Stasia made the fuss that was a cat of a different stripe.
“Have you—a comb?” whispered Cousin Teresa.
Grandmother nodded haughtily. She took Marigold upstairs to her room and gave her head a merciless combing with an odd little kind of comb such as Marigold had never seen before. Then she brought her down again.
“No results,” she said crisply. “I believe Stasia simply imagined it.”
“I saw it myself,” said Cousin Teresa, a trifle shrewishly. She drove away a little offended. Marigold sat down disconsolately on the veranda steps. She dared not ask Grandmother anything. Grandmother was annoyed and when Grandmother was annoyed she was very aloof. Moreover, she had contrived to make Marigold feel that she was in some terrible disgrace—that she had done something no Lesley ever should do. And yet what she had done or how she was responsible, Marigold hadn’t the slightest idea. Oh, if Mother were only home!
Then Aunt Marigold came—almost as good as Mother—almost as gentle and tender and understanding. She had been talking with Grandmother.
“So you’ve been and gone and got into a scrape, Marigold,” she said, laughing. “Never mind, precious. There seems to have been only one.”
“One what?” demanded Marigold passionately. She simply could not stand this hideous suspense and ignorance any longer. “Aunt Marigold—please—please do tell me what is the matter with my head?”
Aunt Marigold stared.
“Marigold, you dear funny thing, do you mean you don’t know?”
Marigold nodded, her eyes like wet pansies.
“And I’ve just got to know,” she said desperately.
Aunt Marigold explained.
“It’s apt to happen to any child who goes to a public school,” she concluded comfortingly.
“Pshaw, is that all?” said Marigold. “I guess I got it when I changed hats with that new girl day before yesterday.”
She was so happy she could have cried for joy. Had there then ever been such a starry sky? Such a dear misty, new moon? Such dancing northern lights over the harbor? Down the road Lazarre’s dog and Phidime’s dog were talking about their feelings at the top of their voices. And Sylvia up in the cloud of spruce. It was too late to go to her tonight, but she would be there in the morning. Marigold blew an airy kiss to the hill. No germs. No leprosy. Aunt Stasia had made all this fuss about so small a matter. Marigold thought bitterly of the party, the unworn dress, the lost two nights with dear Nancy.
“Aunt Stasia is,” began Aunt Marigold. Then she suddenly snapped her lips together. After all, there was such a thing as clan loyalty, especially in the hearing of the rising generation.
“An old fool,” said Marigold, sweetly and distinctly.