Mickey had gotten a berth aboard the Jasmine, a ship setting off for the Orient—part of the spice trade. He would leave at the end of the week. Marigold's agony, though acute was nothing compared to Sylvia's. Mickey steadfastly refused to see her or speak to her—he said it wouldn't be honorable to pursue their relationship without her parents' permission—so Marigold was the one who broke the news to her. When she finished speaking, Sylvia looked at her wordlessly, and then just turned around and went into her bedroom. Marigold heard the door lock, and went down the stairs, feeling fiercely as though she'd like to hit—something.
Murray joined her on the walk back to Misty Hollow. The uproar had taken a toll on him, as well. His cheeks were hollow, and his dark-blue eyes were rimmed with smoky circles. When Marigold passed the news of Mickey's departure on to him, he shook his head sadly.
"This whole thing is such a mess. If he leaves—I don't know what will happen to Sylvia. She hasn't eaten or slept much at all since—well, since it all began." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I haven't either, for that matter. We're all worried sick over her. I think Mother and Father would relent now, and give them their blessing, just out of concern for her health, but I suppose Mickey wouldn't settle for that."
"No," agreed Marigold sadly. "He wants to be accepted for himself, not as a means to keep Sylvie well." She sighed, and unburdened her soul to Murray. "I think this whole thing is my fault. I'm the one who told Mickey to confess his feelings. If I'd kept my mouth shut, none of this would have happened."
Murray patted her hand. "From what I understand, he still would have left the Island, and Sylvia would still be pining away for him. The only difference is, now it's all out in the open. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything, but you can't blame yourself for all this. That's too much responsibility."
Marigold managed a small smile. That was Murray all over—kind, comforting, and yet still painfully honest.
They walked in companionable silence the rest of the way to Misty Hollow. Mickey's lithe figure was silhouetted against the dark green pines as he energetically finished planting the garden, wanting to have all his responsibilities to Aunt Edna taken care of before leaving. Murray sighed. "He is a fine fellow, and I'd be proud to have him as a brother. Do you—do you think he'd mind if I told him so?"
"I think some encouragement would be nice," Marigold replied.
Mickey straightened up as they approached, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Afternoon," he nodded to them.
As Murray began speaking, Marigold turned slightly aside. The shuttered look on Mickey's face and the curtness of his speech was almost too painful to witness.
She suddenly squinted. Flying down the road toward them was a slight, girlish figure.
"Murray!" she said in alarm, recognizing the girl.
He spun around. "Sylvia!" he cried as she approached.
It was obvious something was wrong. Sylvia's face was flushed, and tear-stains marked her cheeks. "Oh Mari—Murray—oh Mickey!"
Mickey made an impulsive move toward her, but stopped himself, pain written all over his countenance. Murray put an arm around his sister's shoulders and steered her to the old stone bench.
"Sit down—calm yourself. What's wrong?"
She drew in one or two deep, shuddering breaths, and finally composed herself enough to speak. "It—it's Uncle Perry," she said, her voice quiet. "Aunt Ilse just got the 'phone call. Apparently Charlie was out—drinking—with his group of friends, and Uncle Perry finally had enough. He—he went down to the nightclub—to bring Charlie home—and there was a fight—someone had a knife"—her voice failed her as she gave in to tears again.
Marigold quickly sat down next to her, wrapping her in a comforting hug. Her own heart was sick for the Millers. What a horrible thing! Sylvia buried her face in Marigold's shoulder and sobbed for a while before straightening back up. She brushed her black hair out of her flushed face.
"He's in the hospital—in Montreal," she continued. "The doctors say there is a chance—but it's very slim. Aunt Ilse is wild—simply wild. She and Mother are on their way to the ferry now. Mother's going with her to Montreal. She says Aunt Ilse can't possibly be alone at a time like this. Rosy—Rosy's coming here to stay with us; and Charlie—nobody knows where he is. He took his father to the hospital and hasn't been seen since. Aunt Ilse said—she said if she saw him—she'd wring his neck. Oh Mari, it's all so—ugly! How could this happen?"
Marigold rocked her back and forth, making comforting noises. She wished desperately there was something she could say, but nothing came to mind. How could you console somebody over something like this? She looked up at Mickey in mute appeal, but his face seemed frozen in some kind of internal struggle. Without even seeming to remember that they were still there, he turned abruptly and went out back, toward the pine woods.
Murray's face was frozen in shock. "Uncle Perry—dying," he said in a dull voice. "And Charlie"—he shook his head hopelessly. "I haven't forgiven him for—this winter—but I never wanted to see him end up like this." He sat down next to them. "What are we going to do?"
Sylvia was still crying, but softly now, under control. "I've been so angry with Aunt Ilse and Uncle Perry—I know they were the biggest influences on Mother and Father against Mickey—but now I would do anything to not have had this happen—anything!"
"I know," said Marigold miserably, giving up the idea of being comforting and joining in the sorrowing whole-heartedly. "I've wished and wished that something bad would happen to Charlie—that he'd get his comeuppance! And I've thought such spiteful things against Rosy. But I didn't think it would be anything like this. Now I feel like the worst person in the world, like I wanted this to happen!"
Somehow, her trembling voice was all that Murray needed to snap out of his trance. "Nonsense," he said resolutely, yet with a slight shake to his voice still. "None of us would have asked for this to happen. We aren't to blame for Charlie's recklessness—even he isn't to blame for the other fellow's knife. Sitting around and moping about it won't do us any good. Sylvia, we should get home and see what we can do to help Mother. Marigold"—
"Just tell me if there's anything I can do to help," she said, standing up and speaking firmly.
"For right now, just pray," he answered softly.
"Count on it," she said. She bent over and helped Sylvia to her feet. "Don't fret, Sylvie darling," trying to speak cheerfully. "I'm sure it won't turn out to be as bad as it sounds now. Have faith, dearest."
Sylvia managed a wan smile. "I will. It was just—hard—coming on me suddenly like that. Especially on top of—everything else."
As if on cue, the three of them automatically turned their eyes to the pine woods, but there was no sign of Mickey. Marigold wondered what on earth he was doing back there.
The Kents left, Murray assisting his stumbling sister. Marigold remained in place for a few more moments, and then fell to her knees, regardless of mud and cold. "Oh God," she prayed aloud. "Please don't let it be as bad as it sounds. Please let it be all right."
But it wasn't all right. In fact, the news just got worse and worse. Rosy arrived on the earliest possible train, passing her mother and Mrs. and Mr. Kent in the night on their way to Montreal. Mr. Kent was trying to locate Charlie, but without much success, while Mrs. Kent devoted her efforts to supporting Mrs. Miller.
Sophie took over running the Kent household, with help from Sylvia. Murray helped out as well, looking and feeling utterly helpless and useless. He wanted very much to be in Montreal with his father, looking for Charlie, but Mr. Kent had instructed him to "take care of the girls at home."
Marigold, thinking it was kindest to leave them alone, stayed away for the first several days. She went back to working around the house with Cousin Mira and Aunt Edna, but her thoughts were constantly at Hope Fulfilled.
That is, when they weren't with Mickey. He had come inside late the night they'd first heard the news, and had a long, private talk with Aunt Edna. The next morning, with a resumption of his old cheery manner, he left at dawn with a smile and a kiss on the cheek for Marigold, and not a word as to where he was going. The mystery was driving her crazy, but Aunt Edna wasn't saying a word.
Meanwhile, the word from the Montreal hospital just got worse and worse. Perry Miller hovered on a knife edge between life and death, sometimes almost speaking coherently to his wife, who never left his bedside, and then falling into a delirious, feverish dream. He had been overworking himself before all this happened, the doctors told Mrs. Kent, and his body just didn't have the strength to recover from such a dangerous wound.
For days, all of Blair Water held its collective breath and prayed. As the reports grew grimmer, Marigold took to working feverishly outside in the Misty Hollow gardens. She knew that compared to a human life, flowers and plants were not much, but at least it gave her a feeling of accomplishment, and kept her hands busy.
Aunt Edna, watching her as the second week of waiting began, decided it was time for a little interference. She hobbled out to the garden, where Marigold, clad in muddy overalls and an old shirt that Mickey had left behind, was planting furiously.
"You know," the old lady said, leaning on her stick. "I thought you were hoping to become a doctor so you could help people."
Marigold looked up from her work, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. "I do," she answered simply.
Aunt Edna thumped her stick irritably on the ground. "Then what are you doing moping away, hidden here? Why aren't you helping your friends? You don't have to wait until a pompous man hands you a piece of parchment and reels off a whole string of letters after your name to start being of use to others."
Marigold brushed a strand of hair out of her face, leaving a muddy streak across her cheek. "But what can I do?" she asked, not challengingly, but in a plaintive query. "I feel like I'd be intruding on their grief if I was to go over to the Kents now."
"That sounds remarkably like an excuse to me. It's a well-known fact that you don't like the Millers. You're uncomfortable doing anything nice for them."
"That's not true!" Marigold cried hotly.
"No? Then why are you wandering around here instead of over helping your friends? You could help with meals, or with cleaning, or even just be there to support them, but you're too afraid you'll see that Rose Miller, and you don't want to have to deal with her."
There was a great deal of truth in Aunt Edna's words, and Marigold had sense enough to recognize it. She hadn't consciously been avoiding Rosy, but that had been lurking in the back of her mind, keeping her from doing what she could for them. "But Rosy hates me," she said. "Even if I wanted to help her, she wouldn't want anything to do with me."
"At this point, that child needs as many friends as she can get," Aunt Edna said shrewdly. "And if Mickey can put aside his personal feelings and give up his berth on the Jasmine in order to get to Montreal and search for Charles, then the least you can do is go over and offer a shoulder for Rose to cry on!"
Marigold's eyes widened. "Is that what he did? He never said a word to me!"
"Of course that's what he did! That boy knows about doing what's right, no matter how you feel. Now, are you going to hang around here and continue to destroy my gardens with overwork, or are you going to do the right thing and be a good friend?"
A smile glimmered on Marigold's face. "If you'll excuse me, Aunt Edna," she said demurely. "I think I should go clean up."
She slipped off to the house, leaving Aunt Edna smiling proudly. "Knew she had it in her," she muttered. Then she looked at her ravaged gardens and sighed.
Marigold was halfway to Hope Fulfilled when she lost her nerve. She wanted to help—she really did—but she was afraid she would just make things worse. Rosy really did hate her, and what if seeing Marigold would cause the other girl to go into hysterics or some such thing? Rumors were already spreading 'round the village of her uncontrolled frenzy and wild tantrums. Marigold decided to slip into Lofty John's bush and collect her courage.
"After all," she whispered to herself as she traversed the Tomorrow Road—most inappropriately named, she always thought, with its huge trees and air of ageless calm, "If Mickey can search the streets of Montreal for Charlie, surely I can face Rosy."
Still, it was a bit of a shock when she rounded the corner of the Tomorrow Road into the heart of the bush and came face to face with the girl in question.
Rosy didn't look anything like the proud, sophisticated city girl she had appeared at Christmas. Her spun-gold hair was pulled severely back, held tight against her head, her amber eyes were dull from weeping, her face was free of any makeup and heavily swollen from tears, and she was dressed in a simple grey dress and an old jacket. Yet for all that, Marigold liked her appearance better now—for the first time, Rosy looked real.
She looked up sullenly as Marigold came into view. "Oh," she said drearily. "What do you want?"
Despite her ungracious words, Marigold's warm heart swelled with pity. She stopped and replied slowly, "Why…I don't know. Except, maybe, to be your friend, if you want."
It was as if the words were magic. Rosy's eyes filled up with tears again, and she flung herself on Marigold, weeping her heart out on the taller girl's shoulder. Slightly taken aback, Marigold patted her comfortingly on the back.
"There, there," she said, and then could have kicked herself for her inane words. "Don't fret so. It'll come out all right, you'll see. Have faith. God will take care of your father."
Finally, Rosy's tears ceased, and she sat down on a fallen log. Tentatively, Marigold sat next to her. Rosy shook her head and wrung out her handkerchief.
"It's all been so awful," she said, with a sob in her voice. "I know Dad will die—I know it! And Mama—she won't be able to stand it, and everything will just fall apart! I can't stand it!"
Her voice was starting to sound hysterical. Marigold had an instinctive dislike of uncontrolled displays of emotion, and hurried to prevent any outbursts. "I'm sure your dad will get better, Rosy. Some of the best doctors in the world are looking after him."
"But what if he doesn't?" Rosy moaned. "I'll have to go through the rest of my life with no father!"
"I've had to go through my whole life without a father," Marigold said quietly.
Rosy looked at her with the first spark of interest she had yet shown. "Really? How do you bear it?"
Marigold smiled a bit sadly. "Well, I still have Mums and Grandmother and the rest of the clan—plus, I just found Dad's old journal and some of his medical books, and it really makes me feel almost like I know him. Actually, you have a lot to be thankful for."
"What do you mean?"
"You've had your father for fifteen years. That's a lot of memories. Even if something happens—and it won't—you'll always be able to remember him, and what he was like, and all that. My father died before I was born. I don't even really know what he looked like—except that I have his nose and chin and brow—whatever that tells you."
Rosy managed a watery smile. "I think I heard Mama say once that Lee Lesley was one of the handsomest boys on the part of the Island—and she would have attempted to snag him if she weren't already in love with Dad." She gave a shuddering sigh. "I can tell you—I can't tell Sylvia or Sophie or Murray—but you already think badly of me, so it won't matter. I don't know my father at all. He works all the time, and all I ever see of him is when I'm trying to wheedle a new present out of him, or when he's yelling at Charlie. I get so jealous of Sylvia sometimes—Uncle Teddy is so close to all of them—and I feel like my dad's a stranger. And now he's dying—and I can't even remember the last time I told him I loved him!" Her voice rose to a shriek.
"Hush!" Marigold said authoritatively. Then she stopped, aghast. What kind of a way was that to comfort anybody? However, it did seem to grab Rosy's attention, so Marigold threw caution to the winds and proceeded to follow her instinct.
"Your father knows that you love him. But sitting here feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to do him any good. He would want you to pull yourself together. Your mother is worried sick about him, and she doesn't need to be worried about you too. The best thing you can do right now is buck up."
Rosy's mouth was hanging open. Marigold winced, sure she had just completely unhinged the other girl. Then, to her utter surprise, Rosy laughed.
"Well, Marigold Lesley, you certainly aren't afraid to speak your mind, are you? You know, you're the only person who's ever dared tell me anything uncomplimentary about myself, and this is the second time you've done it? By all rights, I ought to be furious, but instead I'm grateful. I've been acting like a spoiled brat—probably because I am one," she added with unwonted honesty. "Dad and Mama need me to be strong now, and I will!" She tossed her head. "I know people think Rosy Miller can't control herself, but I can. I am strong—strong-willed and strong-minded—and I can do anything I put my mind to. I am going to be calm and courageous, and if—when—Dad gets better, I will be the very best daughter he ever imagined!"
Marigold laughed as well. "I shouldn't have said all that," she admitted. "It was impatient and unkind, but if it helped, then I guess I'm glad."
Rosy looked at her pensively. "I can't believe you'd be so nice to me, to try to come and comfort me, when I've been so horrid to you. Why?"
Marigold shrugged uncomfortably. "It was the right thing to do."
Rosy impulsively hugged her. "I thought I was jealous of you because Sylvia liked you better—but now I think I was jealous because you're a better person than I, and it made me feel guilty. I'm—I'm sorry."
Marigold had the suspicion that this was the first time Rosy had ever apologized for anything in her entire life. "Forgiven and forgotten," she replied, giving her a squeeze in return. "Now, come on, let's go see if Sophie can get us some lunch."
Rosy made a face. "Now that I'm being so strong and dutiful, I suppose I ought to offer to do the dishes afterwards." She sighed. "I guess I can do it—for Dad."
