But, of course, it was different at Aunt Anne's. Marigold loved Aunt Anne best of all her aunts. So when Aunt Anne came one day to Cloud of Spruce and said:
"I want to borrow Marigold for awhile," Marigold was very glad that Grandmother raised no objections.
Grandmother thought it was time the child was seeing something of the world. She had her head stuffed too full of nonsense, like that Sylvia business. Despite Dr. Adam Clow - who came no more to Cloud of Spruce, having fared forth on an adventurous journey beyond our bourne of time and space - Grandmother thought it was hanging on too long. What might be tolerated at eight was inexcusable at eleven. Anne and Charles were sensible people - though Anne was too indulgent. Grandmother expected Marigold to come home with her digestion ruined for life.
But Marigold went to Aunt Anne's with no cloud over her golden anticipations. Aunt Anne was a twinkly-eyed lady who was always saying, "I must go and see if there is anything nice in the pantry." You couldn't help adoring an aunty like that. It may be that Grandmother's fears were not altogether unfounded.
But she had to content herself with exacting a promise from Anne that Marigold must eat porridge every morning - real oatmeal porridge. If that were done, Grandmother felt that the rest of the day might be trusted to take care of itself.
So Marigold went to Broad Acres and loved it at first sight. An old grey homestead right down by the sea - the real, wonderful sea, not merely the calm, land-locked harbour. Built on a little point of land running out into a pond, with a steep fir-clad hill behind it and slender silver birch-trees all over it. With an old thorn- hedge the slips of which had been brought out from the Old Country - that mysterious land across the ocean where the Lesley clan had its roots. Enclosing a garden even more wonderful and fascinating than the garden at home - for a garden by the sea has in it something no inland garden can ever have. An old stone dyke between the house and the hill, with gorgeous hollyhocks flaunting over it. And a dear little six-sided room in "the tower," where you could lie at night and watch the stars twinkling through the fir-boughs. All this, with an uncle who knew a joke when he saw it and an aunty who let you alone so beautifully made Broad Acres just the spot for a vacation-visit.
And at first - Mats. Mats lived on the next farm and had been christened Martha. But she had lived that down. She was a fat, jolly little soul with round grey eyes, notorious freckles, luxuriant unbobbed sugar-brown curls, a face meant for laughter, and a generous mother who made enchanting pies. For a week she and Marigold had "no end of fun" together and got into no more mischief than two normal small girls should with no grandmothers around. And the soul of Marigold was knit into the soul of Mats and all was harmony and joy - until Paula came. Came and took immediate possession of the centre of the stage, as is the way of the Paulas.
2
It happened at Sunday-school. All the Lesleys were Presbyterians - of course - but the Presbyterian church over-the-bay was three miles away, so Marigold was sent to Sunday-school in the little white Baptist church on the other side of the pond, with the spruce-trees crowding all around it. Marigold loved it. She thought it seemed like a nice, friendly little church. She wore her pretty new green dress, with its little embroidered collar, and her smart little white hat with its green bow. AND kid gloves - new kid gloves - REAL kid gloves. Mats, who knew no jealousy, was puffed up with pride over having for a chum a girl who wore real kid gloves. All the other little girls in Sunday-school cast envious glances at her and Marigold.
All but one. That one was sitting by herself on a bench, reading her Bible. And when Marigold and Mats sat down beside her that one got up and moved away - not contemptuously or proudly, but as some consecrated soul might remove itself automatically and unconsciously from the contamination of worldly contact.
"Well, I never," said Mats. "Aren't we good enough to sit beside you, Paula Pengelly?"
Paula turned and looked at them - or rather at Marigold. Mats she seemed entirely to ignore. Marigold looked back at her, spellbound from the start. She saw a girl, perhaps a year older than herself, slight as a reed, with large, glowing hazel eyes in a small, pale- brown face. A braid of long, straight, silky, dark-brown hair fell over each shoulder. Her cheek-bones were high and her lips thin and red. She was hatless and shabbily dressed and the Bible she clasped dramatically against her breast in her very long, very slender hands seemed to have been a Bible a great many years. She was not pretty but there was Something in her face. "Int'resting" was hardly a strong enough word and Marigold had not yet picked up "fascinating." She could not help looking at this Paula. There was - something - in her eyes that made you suddenly feel she saw things invisible to others - things you wanted ardently to see, too. A look that made Marigold think of a picture over Aunt Marigold's desk - the look of a white saint in ecstasy.
"No," said Paula, in an intense, dramatic way that made Marigold shiver deliciously, "you are NOT. You are not Christians. You are children of wrath."
"We ain't," cried Mats indignantly. But Marigold felt that they might be. Somehow one believed what Paula said. And she did not want to be a child of wrath. She wanted to be like Paula. She fairly ached with her desire for it.
"We're just as good as you," continued Mats.
"Goodness isn't enough, wretched child," answered Paula. "Hold your peace."
"What does she mean?" whispered Mats as Paula turned away. Whispered it rather fearfully. WAS she a wretched child? She had never thought so, but Paul Pengelly MADE you believe things.
"She means hold your yap," said another girl passing. "Paulas 'got religion,' didn't you know? - like her father." Whatever it was that Paula had, Marigold felt she wanted it too. All through Sunday-school she yearned for it as she watched Paula's saintly little profile under that prim, straight hair. Grandmother and Mother were Christians, of course. But they never made her feel as Paula had done. At one time Marigold had believed Gwennie was very saintly. But Gwennie's supposed goodness only aggravated her. THIS was different. Marigold stayed for church that day because Mats was a Baptist, and Paula sat opposite them in a side seat. All through the waiting time before service Paula read her Bible. When the service began she fixed her eyes unwinkingly on the top of one of the little oriel windows. Oh, thought Marigold passionately, to be saintly and wonderful like that! She felt religious and sorrowful herself. It was a beautiful feeling. She had never felt anything quite like it before, not even when listening to Dr. Violet Meriwether. Once Paula looked from the window and right at her - with those compelling, mystical eyes. They said "Come" and Marigold felt that she must go - to the world's end and further.
When church was out Paula came straight up to Marigold.
"Do you want to come with me on the way of the cross?" she asked solemnly and dramatically. Paula had the knack of making every scene in which she took part dramatic - which was probably a large part of her fascination. And she had a little way of saying things, as if she could have said so much more and didn't. One yearned to discover the mystery of what she didn't say.
"If you do, meet me under the lone pine-tree at the head of the pond to-morrow."
"Can Mats come too?" asked Marigold loyally.
Paula flung Mats a condescending glance.
"Do YOU want to go to Heaven?"
"Y-e-es - but not for a long time yet," stammered Mats uncomfortably.
"You see." Paula looked eloquently at Marigold. "She's not One of Us. I knew YOU were the moment I saw you."