How It Came to Pass
1
When Marigold had gone to visit Aunt Anne and then Aunt Irene, something was started. Grandmother gloomily said,
“They’ll all be wanting her now,” and her prediction was speedily fulfilled. Aunt Marcia wanted her share of Marigold, too.
“If Anne and Irene Winthrop could have her I think I should too. She’s never spent a night in my house—my favorite brother’s child,” she said reproachfully.
So Grandmother with a look of I-told-you-so and Mother with a look of How-can-I-do-without-Marigold again consented rather unwillingly.
“Jarvis is so—odd,” said Grandmother to Mother.
Grandmother had very little use for Jarvis Pringle, even if he were her son-in-law. Nobody in the clan had much use for him. He was known to have got up once in the middle of the night to dot an “i” in a letter he had written that evening. As Uncle Klon said, that was carrying things rather too far.
Marigold did not know, as the grown-ups of the clan knew, that he had lived all his life with the shadow of madness hanging over him. She didn’t know what Uncle Klon meant when he said Jarvis took the universe too seriously. But she did know she had never seen Uncle Jarvis smile. And when Uncle Jarvis once asked her if she loved God and she had said “yes,” she had the oddest feeling that she was really telling a lie, because her God was certainly not the God Uncle Jarvis was inquiring about. And she did know that she didn’t like Uncle Jarvis. She loved him, of course—you have to love your relations—but she didn’t like him—not one little bit. She always made her small self scarce when he came to visit Cloud of Spruce. She did not know he had the face of a fanatic; but she knew he had a high, narrow, knobby forehead, deep-set, intolerant eyes, austere, merciless mouth, and a probing nose, which he had a horrible habit of pulling. Also a fierce, immense, black beard which he would never even trim because that would have been un-Scriptural and contrary to the will of God.
Uncle Jarvis knew all about the will of God—or thought he did. Nobody could go to heaven who did not believe exactly as he did. He argued, or rather dogmatised, with everyone. Marigold was so small a fish that she generally slipped through the meshes of his theological nets and he paid scant attention to her. But she wondered sometimes if Uncle Jarvis would really be contented in heaven. With nobody to frown at. And a dreadful God who hated to see you the least bit happy.
Nevertheless she was pleased at the prospect of another visit. Uncle Jarvis and Aunt Marcia also lived “over the bay,” which of course had a magic sound in Marigold’s ears. And she loved Aunt Marcia, who had calm, sea-blue eyes and one only doctrine—that “everybody needs a bit of spoiling now and then.” Her pies praised her in the gates and she was renowned for a lovely cake called “Upside-down cake,” the secret of which nobody else in the clan possessed. Marigold knew she would have a good time with Aunt Marcia. And Uncle Jarvis couldn’t be ’round all the time. Grain must be cut and chores done no matter how dreadful the goings-on might be in your household during your absence.
So she went to Yarrow Lane farm, where she found a low-eaved old house under dark spruces and a garden that looked as if God smiled occasionally at least. Aunt Marcia’s garden, of course. The only thing in the gardening line Uncle Jarvis concerned himself with was the row of little round, trimmed spruces along the fence of the front yard. Uncle Jarvis really enjoyed pruning them every spring, snipping off all rebellious tips as he would have liked to snip off the holder of every doctrine he didn’t agree with.
Marigold had a room with a bed so big she felt lost in it and a small, square window looking out on the silver-tipped waves of the bay. She had the dearest little bowl to eat her porridge out of—it made even porridge taste good. And the Upside-down cake was all fond fancy had painted it.
Uncle Jarvis did not bother her much, though she was always secretly terrified at his gloomy prayers.
“Why,” Marigold wondered, “must one groan so when one talks to God?” Her own little prayers were cheerful affairs. But perhaps they oughtn’t to be.
The only unpleasant day was Sunday. Uncle Jarvis was almost as bad as the man in another of graceless Uncle Klon’s stories—who hung his cat because she caught a mouse on Sunday. When he heard Marigold laugh the first Sunday she was at Yarrow Lane he told her sternly that she must never laugh on Sunday in his house.
“Whatever may be done at godless Cloud of Spruce,” his manner seemed to say though his tongue didn’t.
2
Marigold was not long at Yarrow Lane before she picked up a chum. By the end of a week she and Bernice Willis had known each other all their lives. Aunt Marcia had rather expected Marigold to chum with Babe Kennedy on the next farm, who lived much nearer than Bernice. And Babe was very ready to be chummed with. But chumship, like kissing, goes by favor. Marigold simply did not like Babe—a pretty little doll, with hair of pale, shining, silky-red; pale green eyes, an inquisitive expression and an irritating little snigger that set Marigold’s nerves on edge. She would have none of her. Bernice was the choice of her heart—the first real friend she had ever had—the first real rival to Sylvia.
Bernice lived half a mile away, with an odd old aunt in “the house behind the young spruce wood.” The very description intrigued Marigold. The young spruce wood—so delightful. What charming things must foregather in a young spruce wood. Bernice was ugly but clever. She had uncut mouse-colored hair and big, friendly gray eyes in a thin, freckled face—a face that seemed meant for laughter, although it was generally a little sad. Her father and mother were both dead and Bernice did not seem to have any relatives in the world except the aforesaid odd old aunt. Lots of the girls in Ladore—even magical, over-the-bay places have to have post-office names—didn’t like her.
But it happened that she and Marigold talked the same language—liked the same things. They could both have supped on a saucer of moonshine and felt no hunger—for a time, anyhow. They both understood the stories the wind told. They both liked silk-soft kittens and the little fir woods that ran venturesomely down to the shore and the dancing harbor ripples like songs. A bluebird singing on the point of a picket in the Yarrow Lane thrilled them and an imaginary trip to the moon was all in the evening’s work. And they made every day a gay adventure for themselves.
“You’ll find out she isn’t as good as you think her,” Babe told Marigold with sinister significance.
But that, Marigold believed, was only Babe’s jealousy.
3
Then one night Marigold and Bernice had the supreme bliss of sleeping together. And not only of sleeping together but sleeping in the granary-loft—the little white granary across the small, hollow field carpeted with sheets of green moss and full of birch-trees. Such a romantic thing.
Aunt Marcia had told Marigold to ask Bernice to stay all night with her. And soon after Bernice’s arrival two loaded automobiles came out from Charlottetown. The guests must be put up somehow for the night. The little house was taxed to its limit. Marigold’s room must be commandeered in the emergency. But what was the matter with sleeping in the neat little granary-loft this warm September night? Aunt Marcia would make them up a comfortable bed. If they wouldn’t be afraid!
Afraid! Bernice and Marigold hooted at the idea. They were all for it at once. So after they had prowled about till nearly ten—Bernice had gone to bed at eight every night of her life and Marigold was supposed to go—they went through the moonlit birches with their nighties under their arms and a huge piece of apple-pie in their paws. Aunt Marcia actually let people eat pie at night. Perhaps that accounted for some of Uncle Jarvis’s religious gloom. They took a drink from the truly delightful stoned-up spring behind the granary, which Uncle Jarvis called the barn-well, and then mounted the outside granary stairs to the loft. Its bare boards were beautifully white-washed, and Aunt Marcia had made up a bed on the floor and covered it with a charming white quilt that had red “rising suns” all over it. And she had set a lighted candle on a barrel for them, feeling that it would never do to give them a kerosene lamp in the granary.
They bolted the door—more romance—and blew out the candle to have the fun of undressing by moonlight.
It was when they were ready for bed that Marigold made her shocking discovery.
“Now, let’s say our prayers and snuggle down for a good jaw,” she said. “We can talk just as long as we like tonight and nobody to pound on the wall and tell us to stop.”
Bernice turned from the loft window whence she had been gazing rapturously on the glimpse of moonlit bay over the birches.
“I never say any prayers,” she announced calmly.
Marigold gasped.
“Why, Bernice Willis, that is wicked. Aren’t you afraid God will punish you?”
“There isn’t any God,” said Bernice, “and I won’t pray to anyone I don’t believe in.”
Marigold stared at her. This thing had been said—and yet the granary still stood and Bernice still stood, a slim, white skeptic in the moonlight.
“But—but—Bernice, there must be a God.”
“How do you know?”
“Mother told me,” said Marigold, gasping at the first argument that presented itself to her dumbfounded mind.
“She told you there was a Santa Claus, too, didn’t she?” asked Bernice relentlessly. “Mind you, I’d like to believe in God. But I can’t.”
“Why not?” wondered Marigold helplessly.
“Because—because I haven’t anybody. Nobody but Aunt Harriet—and she’s only a half-aunt and she doesn’t like me a bit. Father and mother are dead—and she won’t even talk to me about them. I had a kitten and it died and she won’t let me have another. As for this praying-business, I used to pray. Once when I was so small I can just remember it Aunt Harriet sent me down to the store on an errand. The wind was awful cold. And I knelt right down on the road behind a little spruce-bush and asked God to make the wind warmer before I came out of the store. He didn’t—it was colder than ever and right in my face. And when my kitten took sick I asked God to make it well. But it died. And then I knew there was no God. Because if there had been He wouldn’t have let my kitten die when it was the only thing I had to love. So I never prayed any more. Of course I have to kneel down when Aunt Harriet has family prayers. But I just kneel and make faces at God.”
“You just said you didn’t believe in Him,” cried Marigold.
“Well—” Bernice was not going to be posed, “I just make faces at the idea of Him.”
So this, Marigold reflected bitterly, was what Babe Kennedy had meant.
“Besides, look at me,” continued Bernice rebelliously. “See how ugly I am. Look at the size of my mouth. Why did God make me ugly? Babe Kennedy says I’ve got a face like a monkey’s.”
“You haven’t. And think how clever you are,” cried Marigold.
“I want to be pretty,” said Bernice stubbornly, “Then people might like me. But I don’t believe in God and I’m not going to pretend I do.”
Marigold got up with a long sigh of adjustment and flung her arms about Bernice.
“Never mind. I love you. I love you whether you believe in God or not. I only wish you did. It’s—it’s so much nicer.”
“I won’t have you long,” said Bernice, determinedly pessimistic. “Something’ll happen to take you away, too.”
“Nothing can happen,” Marigold challenged fate. “Oh, of course I’ll have to go home when my visits ended—but we’ll write—and I’ll get Mother to ask you to Cloud of Spruce. We’ll be friends forever.”
Bernice shook her head.
“No. Something will happen. You’ll see. This is too good to last.”
A new fear assailed Marigold.
“Bernice, if you don’t believe in God how can you expect to go to heaven?”
“I don’t. And I don’t want to,” Bernice answered defiantly. “Aunt Harriet read about heaven in the Bible. All shut in with walls and gates. I’d hate that.”
“But wouldn’t it be better than—than—”
“Hell? No. You wouldn’t have to pretend you liked hell if you didn’t. But I don’t believe in either place.”
“Bernice, don’t you believe in the Bible at all?”
“Not one word of it. It’s all about God and there isn’t any God. It’s just a—just a fairy-tale.”
Somehow, this seemed more terrible to Marigold than not believing in God. God was far-away and invisible but the Bible was right in your hand, so to speak. She sighed again as she knelt to say her own prayers. It seemed a very lonely performance—with that little skeptic of a Bernice standing rigidly by the window, disbelieving. But Marigold prayed for her very softly. “Please, dear God, make Bernice believe in You. Oh, please, make Bernice believe in You.”
4
At dinner-time next day Marigold made the mistake of her life. Aunt Marcia asked what she was worrying about. And Marigold confessed that she was—not exactly worrying about Bernice but so sorry for her
“Because, you see, she doesn’t believe in God. And it must be terrible not to believe in God.”
“What’s that?” Uncle Jarvis shot at her suddenly. “What’s that about Bernice Willis not believing in God?”
“She says she doesn’t,” said Marigold mournfully.
“Poor child,” said Aunt Marcia.
“Poor child? Wicked child!” thundered Uncle Jarvis. “If she doesn’t believe in God you’ll not play with her again, Marigold.”
“Oh, Jarvis,” protested Aunt Marcia.
“I’ve said it.” Uncle Jarvis stabbed a potato with a fork as if he were spearing an infidel. “Woe to them that are at ease in Zion. We keep the Ten Commandments in this house.”
“Oh, Jarvis, remember the poor child has no one to teach her really. That queer old—”
“Marcia, be silent. She has had plenty of opportunity in a Christian land to learn that there is a God. Doesn’t she go to Sunday-school and church? And Harriet Caine is an earnest Christian woman. There is no doubt that Bernice has been taught the truth. But she is plainly not of the elect and she is too wicked for you to play with. Why, I refused to shake hands with Dr. Clarke because he said he believed there were two Isaiahs. Do you think I’ll tolerate infidelity?”
Aunt Marcia knew he was inexorable and Marigold felt he was. She began to cry, though she knew tears would have no influence on Uncle Jarvis.
“Oh, Uncle Jarvis—if Bernice—if Bernice comes to believe there is a God can’t I play with her then?”
“Yes, but not till then.” Uncle Jarvis gave his nose a frantic tweak and left the table, his black beard fairly bristling with indignation. Uncle Jarvis had one of his headaches that day and so was more than usually theological. Aunt Marcia wanted him to take an aspirin to relieve it but he would not. It was flying in the face of God to take aspirin. If He sent you pain it was for you to endure it.
Aunt Marcia tried to comfort Marigold but could not hold out much hope that Uncle Jarvis would change his mind.
“Oh, if I’d only held my tongue,” moaned Marigold.
“It would have been wiser,” agreed Aunt Marcia sadly. Thirty years of living with Jarvis Pringle had taught her that.
Marigold never forgot Bernice’s sad little face when she told her Uncle Jarvis wouldn’t let them play together any longer.
“Didn’t I tell you? I knew something would happen,” she said, her lips quivering.
“Oh, Bernice, couldn’t you—couldn’t you—pretend you believe in Him?” Marigold’s voice faltered. She knew, deep in her soul, that this wasn’t right—that a friendship so purchased must be poisoned at the core. Bernice knew it, too.
“I can’t, Marigold. Not even for you. It wouldn’t be any use.”
“Oh, Bernice, if you come to find out—sometime—that you do believe in Him after all, you’ll tell me, won’t you? And then we can be friends again. Promise.”
Bernice promised.
“But I won’t. Isn’t this very thing that’s happened a proof? If there was a God He’d know it would make me feel more than ever there wasn’t.”
The week that followed was a very lonely one for Marigold. She missed Bernice dreadfully—and that hateful Babe was always poking round, triumphing.
“Didn’t I tell you. I knew ages ago Bernice didn’t believe there was a God. I’ll bet He’ll punish her right smart some of these days.”
“She doesn’t pronounce sepulcher ‘see-pulker,’ anyhow,” retorted Marigold, thinking of the verse Babe had read in Sunday-school the day before.
Babe reddened.
“I don’t believe Miss Jackson knows how to pronounce it herself. You make me sick, Marigold Lesley. You’re just mad because you’ve found out your precious Bernice isn’t the piece of perfection you thought her.”
“I’m not mad,” said Marigold calmly. “I’m only sorry for you. It must be so terrible to be you.”
Marigold prayed desperately every night for Bernice’s conversion—prayed without a bit of faith that her prayer would be answered. She even tried to consult the minister about the matter, the night he came to Yarow Lane for supper.
“Tut, tut, everybody believes in God,” he said when Marigold timidly put a suppositious case.
So that wasn’t much help. Marigold thought wildly of refusing to eat unless Uncle Jarvis let her play with Bernice. But something told her that wouldn’t move Uncle Jarvis a hair’s breadth. He would only tell Aunt Marcia to send her home.
And, oh, the raspberries were thick on the hill—and there was a basketful of adorable kittens in the old tumbledown barn—Uncle Jarvis was always so busy with theology that he hadn’t time to patch up his barns. And it was a shame, so it was, that Bernice must miss all this just because she couldn’t believe in God.
5
“I’ve found out something about Bernice Willis. I’ve found out something about Bernice Willis,” chanted Babe Kennedy triumphantly, rocking on her heels and toes in the door of the granary-loft, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Marigold looked scornfully over her shoulder from the corner where she was arranging her cupboard of broken dishes.
“What have you found out?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” crowed Babe. “I’m going to tell Bernice, though. I gave her a hint of it this afternoon at the store but I wasn’t going to tell her then—I just gave her something to think of. I’m going right down to her aunt’s to tell her as soon as I’ve taken Mrs. Carter’s eggs to her. Oh, it’s awful—the awfullest thing you ever heard of. You’ll find it out pretty soon. Everybody will. Well, bye-bye. I’ve got to be off. It’s coming up a storm, I guess.”
Marigold made one swift bound across the granary, caught Babe by the arm, pulled her with scant regard for her eggs into the loft, slammed and bolted the door and stood with her back to it.
“Now, you just tell me what you mean and no more nonsense about it.”
Marigold was not a Lesley for nothing. Babe surrendered. She snapped her thin-lipped, cruel little mouth shut, then opened it.
“Very well then. Bernice Willis’s father isn’t dead. Never was dead. He’s in the penitentiary at Dorchester, for stealing money.”
“I—don’t believe it.”
“It’s true—cross my heart. I overheard Mrs. Dr. Keyes from Charlottetown telling Ma all about it. He was in a bank—and he—em—embezzled the money. So he was sent to the pen for twelve years and his wife died of a broken heart—though Mrs. Keyes said it was her extravagance drove him to stealing. And Bernice’s Aunt Harriet took her. She was just a baby—and brought her up to think her father was dead, too.”
Marigold wanted to disbelieve it. But it was too hopelessly, horribly, evidently true.
“My, ain’t I glad I’ve never played with Bernice!” gloated Babe. “The daughter of a jail-bird. Just think of her face when I tell her!”
“Oh, Babe—” Marigold stooped to plead with Babe Kennedy piteously, “oh, you’re not going to tell her. Please—please don’t tell her.”
“I will so tell her. It’ll bring that pride of hers down. Carrying her head as high as if she came of honest people.”
“If you were changed into a toad this minute you’d only look like what you are,” cried Marigold passionately.
Babe laughed condescendingly.
“Of course you’re sore—after thinking nobody was good enough for you to play with but Bernice. Oh, my, Miss Lesley. You can pull in your horns now, I guess. I’m going to tell Bernice right off. She’d have to know it, anyhow, soon—her father’ll soon be out of jail. I’m going to have the fun of telling her first. Think of her face. Now, you just open that door and let me out.”
Marigold did as she was ordered. The spirit was clean gone out of her.
This was dreadful—dreadful. No hope now that Bernice would ever believe in God. Marigold felt she could hardly blame her. “Think of her face—”
Marigold did think of it—that dear, freckled, sensitive, homely little face—when Babe told her the terrible truth. And of course Babe would tell. Babe did so love to tell ugly things. Hadn’t she told Kitty Houseman she was going to die? Hadn’t she told the teacher Sally Ford had stolen Jane McKenzie’s pencil in school?
“If I could get there and tell Bernice first,” said Marigold. “If she has to hear it she could stand it better from me. I could go by the Lower road—Mrs. Carter lives on the Upper road and I could get there before Babe. But it’s dark—and going to rain—”
Marigold shuddered. She didn’t mind being out after dark on a road she knew. But a road she didn’t know was different.
She ran down the granary stairs and across the birch field to the Lower road. She must get to Bernice first. But, oh, how weird and lonely that Lower road was in the sudden swoops of wind and the sudden gushes of wan moonlight between the clouds. Melancholy dogs were howling to each other across the dark farms. The wind whistled dolefully in the fence corners. Something—with red eyes—glared out at her from under a bush. And the trees!
By daylight Marigold was a little sister to all the trees in the world. But trees took on such extraordinary shapes in the dark. A huge lion prowled through John Burnham’s field. An enormous, diabolical rooster strutted on the fence. A queer elfish old man leered at her over a gate. A very devil squatted at the turn of the road. The whole walk was full of terrors. Marigold was in a cold reek of perspiration when she reached the house behind the young spruce wood and stumbled into the little kitchen, where Bernice was—fortunately—alone.
“Bernice,” gasped Marigold, “Babe’s coming to tell you something—something dreadful. I—tried to stop her but I couldn’t.”
Bernice looked at Marigold with fear in her sad gray eyes.
“I knew she meant something this afternoon. She asked me where my father was buried. I said in Charlottetown. ‘Go and see if his grave is there,’ she said. What is it? Tell me. I’d rather hear it from you than her.”
“Oh, I can’t, Bernice—I can’t,” cried Marigold in agony. “I thought I could—but I can’t.”
“You must,” said Bernice.
In the end Marigold told her—haltingly—tearfully. Then buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, I’m so happy,” said Bernice.
Marigold pulled her away. Bernice was radiant. Eyes like stars.
“Happy?”
“Yes—oh, don’t you see. I’ve got somebody after all. It was so dreadful to think I didn’t belong to anybody. And Father’ll need me so much when he comes out next year. There’ll be so much I can do for him. Oh, Marigold—I do believe in God now—I’m sorry I ever said I didn’t. Of course there’s a God. I love Him—and I love everybody in the world. I don’t mind a bit how poor and ugly I am now that I have a father to love.”
In Marigold’s utter confusion of thought only one idea stood out clearly.
“Oh, Bernice—if you do—believe in God—Uncle Jarvis will let us play together again.”
“Well, I do declare.” Babe Kennedy stood in the doorway. A vicious, disappointed Babe. “So that was why you didn’t want me to tell—so’s you could tell youself.”
“Exactly.”
Marigold put her arm around Bernice and faced Babe defiantly. “And I have told it first. So you can just go home, Miss Meow. Nobody wants you here.”