"I don't believe THAT," said Marigold rudely. "Phidime gets up at five o'clock every morning of his life and he's the poorest man in Harmony."
And then it appeared that Gwendolen never answered back.
Once and once only did Marigold, for a fleeting moment, think she might like Gwendolen in spite of her goodness. It was when Aunt Josephine told how Gwendolen had once got up in the middle of the night and gone downstairs IN THE DARK to let in a poor, cold, miserable pussy-cat crying on the doorstep. But the next minute Aunt Josephine was describing how careful Gwendolen was to keep her nails clean - looking at Marigold's as she talked.
"Gwendolen has such lovely white half-moons at the base of her nails."
Now, Marigold had no half-moons.
"In short" - though it never really was in short with Aunt Josephine - "Gwendolen is a perfect little lady."
Somehow that phrase got under Marigold's skin as nothing else had done.
"I'm fed up with this," she reflected furiously. It was the first time she had ever dared to use this new expression even in thought. Grandmother and Mother merely got rather tired of things. But rather tired was too mild to express her feelings towards the perfect little lady. And under it all that persistent stabbing ache of jealousy. Marigold would have liked as well as any one else to have a clan reputation of being a perfect lady.
And now Gwendolen was coming to Cloud of Spruce for a visit. Luther had written Grandmother that he wanted his little girl to visit Harmony and get acquainted with all her relatives. Especially did he want her to know Cloud of Spruce, where he had had such jolly times when a boy. Grandmother screwed up her lips a bit over the reference to "jolly times" - she remembered some of them - but she wrote back a very cordial invitation.
Aunt Josephine, who was just completing a visit, said she hoped, if Gwendolen came up for the mooted visit, Marigold would learn from her how a really nice little girl should behave. If Marigold had not been there Grandmother would have bristled up and said that Marigold was a pretty well-behaved child on the whole and her friends reasonably satisfied with her. She would probably have added that Luther Lesley had been a devil of a fellow when he was young and Annie Vincent was the biggest tomboy on the Island before she was married. And that it was curious, to say the least of it, that the pair of them should have produced so saintly an offspring.
But Marigold WAS there, so Grandmother had to look at her sternly and say, "I hope so too."
Marigold did not know that when she had betaken her wounded spirit to the gay ranks of rosy hollyhocks beside the grey-green apple- barn for solace, Grandmother remarked to Mother,
"Thank mercy THAT is over. We won't have another infliction of the old fool for at least three months."
"Aunt Josephine 'likes cats in their place,'" said Lucifer. "I know the breed."
2
And then Gwendolen Vincent Lesley came. Marigold got up early the day she was expected, in order to have everything in perfect readiness for the task of entertaining a thorough lady. She was going to be as proper and angelic and spiritual as Gwendolen if it killed her. It was hard to have Mother say pleadingly, "Now, PLEASE see if you can behave nicely when Gwennie is here," as if she never behaved nicely when Gwennie wasn't there. For a moment Marigold felt an unholy desire that the very first thing she might do would be to scoop up a handful of mud and throw it at the visitor. But that passed. No, she was going to be good - not commonly good, not ordinarily good, but fearfully, extraordinarily, angelically good.
They met. Gwendolen stiffly put out a slender immaculate hand. Marigold glanced apprehensively at her own nails - thank goodness they were clean, even if they had no half-moons. And oh, Gwendolen WAS just as beautiful - and just as ladylike - and just as faultless as Aunt Josephine had painted her. Not one comforting, consoling defect anywhere.
There were the famous nut-brown curls falling around her delicate, spiritual face - there were the large, mild, dewy blue eyes and the exquisitely arched brows - there were the pearly teeth and the straight Grecian nose, the rosebud mouth, the shell-pink ears that lay back so nicely against her head, the cherubic expression, the sweet voice - very sweet. Marigold wondered if it was jealousy that made her think it was a little TOO sweet.
Marigold could have forgiven Gwendolen her beauty but she couldn't forgive her her hopeless perfection of conduct and manners. They had a ghastly week of it. They didn't, as Uncle Klon would have expressed it, click worth a cent in spite of the determined spirituality of both. And oh, how good they both were. Grandmother began to think there might be something in a good example after all.
And they bored each other nearly to death.
Marigold felt forlornly that they MIGHT have had such a good time if Gwendolen wasn't so horribly proper and if she hadn't to live up to her. Swinging in the apple-barn - housekeeping among the currant-bushes - rollicking in the old grey hay-barn full of cats - prowling about the spruce wood - wading in the brook - gathering mussels down by the shore - making nonsense rhymes - talking sleepy little secrets after they went to bed. But there were no secrets to talk over - nice girls didn't have secrets. And of course Gwendolen was occupied - presumably - repeating hymns.
Once there was a terrible thunderstorm. Marigold was determined she would not show how frightened she was. Gwendolen remarked calmly that the lightning kept her from going to sleep and covered her head with the bedclothes. Marigold wouldn't do that - Gwendolen might think SHE was doing it because she was terrified. Mother came to the door and said, "Darling, are you frightened?"
"No, not a bit," answered Marigold gallantly, hoping that the bed- clothes would keep Gwendolen from noticing how her voice was shaking.
"Aren't thunderstorms jolly?" asked Gwendolen in the morning.
"Aren't they?" answered Marigold most enthusiastically.
It was Gwendolen's beautiful table-manners that were hardest to emulate. This had always been one of Marigold's weak points. She was always in such a hurry to get through and be at something. But now she liked to linger at the table as long as possible. There would be all the less time to spend in Gwendolen's dull company, cudgelling her brains for some amusement that would be proper and spiritual. Gwendolen ate slowly, used her knife and fork with the strictest propriety, apparently enjoyed crusts, said "Excuse me" whenever indicated, and asked, "May I have the butter if you please, Aunt Lorraine?" where Marigold would have polished it off in two words, "Butter, mums?" And oh, but she would have loved Gwendolen if the latter had ever spilled one drop of gravy on the tablecloth!
One night they went to church with Grandmother to hear a missionary speak. Marigold hadn't wanted to go especially, but Gwendolen was so eager for it that Grandmother took them along, though she did not approve of small girls going out to night meetings. Marigold enjoyed the walk to the church - enjoyed it so much that she had an uneasy feeling that it wasn't spiritual to enjoy things to such an extent. But the white young clouds sailing over the moonlit sky were so dear - the shadows of the spruces on the road so fascinating - the sheep so pearly-white in the silver fields - the whole dear, fragrant summer night so friendly and lovesome. But when she said timidly to Gwendolen,
"Isn't the world lovely after dark?" Gwendolen only said starchily,
"I don't worry so much about the heathen in summer when it's warm, but oh, what DO they do in cold weather?"
Marigold had never worried about the heathen at all, though she faithfully put a tenth of her little allowance every month in a mite-box for them. Again she felt bitterly her inferiority to Gwendolen Vincent and loved her none the better for it.