Marigold
Marigold
Written and illustrated by Rose D.M. Kelly
This is the story of a man so miserable that at end of this tale, he flung himself down in an deserted
graveyard and fervently begged the Almighty to take his wretched life. Though this may sound depressing, it is not meant to be so. The story I am about to tell you is, in fact, one of hope and redemption.
It began one blustery Christmas Eve several years prior to the Great War on a bleak little hill overlooking a collection of hovels. On this bald undulation of the earth’s crust there stood an ancient and dilapidated old manor. A great family had dwelt there once and their ghosts still haunted the halls like the echoes of forgotten laughter. Sadly, by the time this tale begins the family was all but moved away. Only ghosts, memories, servants, and one man trod the lonely passages between rooms. The only sounds to be heard in that castle of gloom were the moaning of the wind, the squeaks and rustlings of vermin, and the grumbling of the sole inhabitant.
Anyway, to continue, upon this eve of the birth of our hope, the lonely man who dwelt in the aforementioned manor was seated by his harth. Said man was pondering his annoying neighbors, his indigestion, and the stingy attitude of the grocer. His stomach had been particularly delicate of late, therefore he had been proportionately nasty to everyone and was not expecting visitors or gifts. Hence his surprise when there came a knock upon the door.
Knock! Knock!
“Probably that blasted bluster or one of my annoying neighbors come to bother me with tree decorating, or ice skating, or some other festive poppycock.”
Knock! Knock!
“Who is it?” queried the young man after muttering some choice obscenities.
The door was flung wide and a blast of cold wet air came scurrying into the room, laden with freezing raindrops. With this icy sigh of winter, there entered another, quite different, force of nature.
Shutting the door firmly behind her, the cloaked figure screeched, “Norbert!”
“Go away!” replied Norbert, not even attempting to be civil.
With a fwoosh, the tiny figured denuded herself of her cloak and surveyed her wayward grandnephew with piercing black eyes.
“Get up, boy,” the elderly lady commanded as she nudged Norbert. “I want to sit down.”
“Why are you here, Ophelia?”
Settling herself in Norbert’s recently vacated armchair, great aunt Ophelia replied, “I am your great aunt, therefore you shall address me as such.” She punctuated this statement by poking he grandnephew in the ribs with her ebony cane. “As to the purpose of my visit, I have come for Christmas.” Her raisin-like countenance crinkled as she smiled.
“I don't remember inviting you.” Norbert remarked, his gray eyes turning to ice.
“Norbert,” great aunt Ophelia was patient, “I am doing you a kindness, really. You are all alone in a huge manor in the midst of an insignificant backwater.”
It was Norbert’s turn to glower, “I don't even like Christmas.” He whined.
“Whether you like it or not, I am staying and we are celebrating,” the imperious old lady decreed.
“Get out of my house!” Norbert spat.
“As I said, I am staying for the holidays.” Insisted great aunt Ophelia.
“No, you most certainly aren’t, you and your Christmas can go to…”
“Hush!” The wise old lady put a wrinkled forefinger to her pale lips. “Christmas is the Lord’s birthday,” she lectured. “If we abolished Christmas, we’d have to do away with Easter too, and then what would we do?”
...Settling herself in Norbert’s recently vacated armchair,...
“We would waste a lot less money and have a lot more peace and quiet! Now go away!” The overgrown brat turned his back upon the old woman.
“Without Easter, we would have no hope of salvation…” she began.
“I’m atheist,” interrupted Norbert.
This argument continued for some time, until great aunt Ophelia threw up her claw-like hands and declared, “ Norbert, you are the most selfish excuse for a centipede ever to crawl the Earth! I swear, you shan't see a penny of my money until you have learnt to love at least one other person as much as you do yourself!”
Before her grandnephew could protest, Ophelia grabbed her cloak and departed in a huff.
…
It was a bitter winter and a soggy spring that year. Then suddenly, the weather became so muggy as to be uncomfortable. Brooding and sweating, Norbert sat at his desk writing letters to great aunt Ophelia imploring her to rescind her vow of parsimony. Still, after six months and illness that had left her quite feeble, Ophelia was as stubborn as ever.
Upon one extremely humid day in July, while Norbert was signing his name and swearing as his ink blotted the page and the sweat trickled down his spine, a man came to visit him.
“How do you do?” The man greeted Norbert as he entered the room.
They shook hands.
“Mr. Stucco, you have the money?” Norbert leered at the shorter man.
“N-no, I'm afraid not, sir. You see, since we borrowed from you to buy the farm, Fortune has not smiled upon us.”
“So you wish to become a resident of a debtor’s prison?”
The man flinched, “A-actually, sir, I noticed that you are rather, er, understaffed and I was wondering...You see I've a daughter and I was thinking that maybe she could work to pay the debt?”
Norbert considered the proposition, “How old is this daughter of yours, Mr. Stucco?”
“She was twenty three last month.”
“Is she married or engaged?”
“Er, no.”
“Is she level headed and dependable?”
Mr. Stucco smiled, “Yes, she hasn't been late to milking for a year now.”
Norbert sighed, “Fine, but she must understand that she is signing herself up for a good three years of work without pay or benefits.”
“She understands, sir. Thank you, sir. You are very generous.” Mr. Stucco bowed.
“Your daughter will begin on Monday,” ordered Norbert, “Good day.”
…
Monday was a day of perpetual rain. The clouds cried, the wind moaned, the lightning crackled with anger, and the thunder grumbled. At about seven in the morning, an umbrella, held by a young girl in a brown dress, approached the back entrance of Norbert's manor.
Knock! Knock!
Mrs. Rollings, Norbert's cook and housekeeper, had been made aware of her master’s new servant and therefore was ready to greet her when she arrived.
“Come in,”
The door was opened a crack, Just enough to allow the very tip of a folded umbrella to be seen. Slowly it was opened wider, this time revealing a small calloused hand with knobby knuckles. Then came a skinny arm encased in an unremarkable brown sleeve, then the hem of a skirt the color of chocolate, and finally, a timid face with mousy hair, a pointed nose, and large soft brown eyes.
“Hullo, girl,” The housekeeper said with growing impatience. “Close the door, won't you?”
The girl obeyed, “How do you do?”
“How do you do what?”queried Mrs. Rollings with a chuckle that called to mind a grumpy donkey, “What's your name, girl?”
“Marigold Stucco, ma’am,”
Again, Mrs. Rollings laughed, “Marigold? Haha! What sort of name is that? I'm Jane Rollings, my husband’s Bob Rollings, and our son’s Tom Rollings. Nice simple names for simple folk, not like Marigold! Haha!”
Poor Marigold, in an attempt to enlighten this obviously confused woman, suggested, “If it would be easier, you may call me Mari, as my sisters do at home.”
“Mary? The master won't like that.” Mrs. Rollings lowered her voice, “He’s atheist, you know, and doesn't like to be reminded of those superstitious Christians.”
“I'm afraid you misunderstood me, ma’am. I meant that you should call me Mari, when our master isn't present but Marigold when he is.”
“All right. Haha! Now, there is the sink for washing the plates, get to work and don't break any,” Mrs. Rollings elbowed Marigold as she turned to leave. “The master wants to see you at ten o’clock sharp.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you!”
…
Norbert was casually strolling past the scullery when he heard a surprising sound. A high childish voice was singing a bittersweet song.
“Blast! Who has the nerve to make that wailing sound in my scullery?” He said to himself as he surreptitiously enjoyed the song.
To his great annoyance, the song ended soon afterward, there was a clattering of dishes, and out of the scullery walked a tall girl with mousy hair and soapy hands.
“The new girl.” He thought. Checking his watch, he realized that it was a minute to ten. After cursing his absent mindedness, he sprinted to his study.
“How do you do?” Marigold greeted her employer.
“Er,” Norbert gasped, “How do you do?” he replied.
The girl curtsied, “I am named Marigold Stucco. I would like to thank you on behalf of my father for letting me work here,” Marigold’s timid face was lit by a friendly smile.
Norbert nodded but did not smile, “I will expect much of you.” He cleared his throat, “You will have one half day off per month and I will fire you if any gentlemen come to call.” He glared at his servant, “Mrs. Rollings will provide your dinner and answer your questions.”
“Very good, sir.” The girl curtsied again, “I have but one request.”
Norbert's frown deepened, “Yes?”
“As opposed to a half day every month, could I take an hour off every Sunday?”
“For what purpose?”
The girl hesitated, “I need to go to church.”
“You do realize that I am doing you a favor by allowing you to work here?”
“Hullo, girl,”
“Yes, and I thank you for that privilege.”
“Why do you need to go to church?”
“Because of the bread there.”
Norbert laughed cruelly, “Go to the bakery!”
“There is no bread like it,” the girl murmured dreamily, “If do not have it, I shall die.”
“Crazy theist!” cried Norbert, losing patience, “You would risk your farm for a piece of bread?”
“Yes,”
Norbert rolled his eyes, “Fine! Have your hour on Sundays! I don't much care. You are dismissed.”
Again, the girl smiled, “Thank you so much!” She curtsied for the third time and scampered off.
…
Great aunt Ophelia died in late august. Norbert received a letter from her attorney saying that there was a large sum of money in a Swiss vault waiting for him to become less selfish. Our selfish protagonist burnt the letter and, putting on a black suit, prepared to attend his great aunt’s funeral.
“Marigold,” he snapped.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell Mr. Rollings to bring out my carriage.”
“You are traveling, sir?”
“Yes, my great aunt Ophelia has just passed away.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry. God rest her soul.”
Norbert glared at her, “If there is an all powerful deity up in the sky somewhere. I have no doubt that he is regretting the creation of my great aunt. She was quite batty.”
“God does not make mistakes,”replied the girl “Anything more, sir?”
“Yes,” Norbert hesitated, “keep singing while you wash my plates.”
“Er, if it pleases you, sir,” blushing, Marigold retreated.
Norbert scratched his chin, “It appears that I was unable to persuade Ophelia,” He thought glumly. “Stupid old woman! It seems a waste to love someone who will be dead in less than one hundred years.” with a sigh, he realized that he would not get any money if he didn't start loving someone. Running through his list of relatives, he realized that they all annoyed him somehow, so, he moved on to his servants.
“Mr. Rollings?
No, he snores, drinks, and smells of stale beer.
Mrs. Rollings?
A saint would have difficulty loving that woman.
Tom Rollings?
No, that delinquent ought to be locked up.
Marigold Stucco is by far the least annoying. She will have to do.”
This decided, he went to his carriage. Marigold was helping Mr. Rollings by holding the horse’s reins.
“Thank you,” he mumbled awkwardly.
The girl positively beamed, “Your horse is so beautiful that it's no trouble,” she replied.
“What on earth do I say now? This isn't love, this is awkward!” Just as Norbert was about to despair, he remembered something. It was a dreary day in November. Aunt Ophelia had been giving one of her sermons about how he was selfish. Even though he had been resentful at the time, a phrase of her rant had stuck with him.
“...take interest in other people, boy!” She had boxed his ears.
“Do you like horses?” he blurted.
“Yes, I had a sweet little pony once but we had to sell it.”
“Er...I'm sorry,” he desperately searched for an escape, “Now, I had better go...er...talk to Mr. Rollings about the...er...trip,’ Norbert retreated, “Stupid Ophelia!”
…
In the weeks following his aunt’s funeral, Marigold noticed a huge change in her employer.As opposed to pretending she was invisible when she greeted him, Norbert would try to smile. (The affect was somewhat disturbing.) He would occasionally allow her a few hours off on a Saturday afternoon. Also, he appeared to be extremely interested in her life. One evening in September, he returned from a trip and, finding her mending one of his shirts, asked if she would please sing for him.
“Yes, sir,” she replied meekly, “What song?”
“The one about... blast! What was it?”
“Um...was it the song about the daffodils?”
“No, I think it's about a sheep and a valley.”
Marigold giggled, “You mean Psalm 23?”
“Er, I haven't the foggiest, but go ahead and sing this ‘Psalm 23’.”
“But sir, you're an atheist.”
“What does that have to do with a song about sheep?” Norbert demanded.
“Er, quite a lot, actually. Psalm 23 is a song that praises God.”
“Then I shall treat it as one does a fairytale.”
“All right, sir.”Marigold took a deep breath and began to sing the ancient song.
When she was finished, Norbert asked, “What became of the other 22 psalms?”
Again, his servant laughed, “There are more than 23 psalms and they are all in here,” she replied, taking a tiny book from her pocket.
“The Bible?”
“Yes, you didn't know?”
“No, I had forgotten.”
“You may borrow it, if you like,” she gave him the tiny volume.
To his surprise, Norbert replied, “Thank you, I would.”
Marigold smiled.
“I must retire now,” he pocketed the book and stood up.
“Good night, sir.”
Whistling, our protagonist ambled up the stone stairs.
“When I get my hands upon aunt Ophelia’s money I will buy that girl a new dress,” he thought cheerfully.
…
Throughout the rest of September, Norbert read all the psalms and the gospel of Luke. Upon the first of October, he made a surprising discovery.
“Where is Marigold?” He enquirer of Mrs. Rollings.
“The girl?” Norbert's housekeeper shrugged, “She asked me to tell you that she has fever.”
As opposed to being annoyed and thinking of the inconvenience, Norbert was quite concerned, “I do hope she feels better soon.”
The housekeeper smirked, “Haha! You love her, don't you?
“I don't see how that's any of your business, but, yes, I do.”
...finding her mending one of his shirts, asked if she would please sing for him.
“Why? She is the daughter of a poor farmer and pretty homely besides.”
“I don't care. Now, why don't you mind your own business and begin washing the dishes?”
Mrs. Rollings was quite indignant, “Your marriage is my business, sir.”
Confused, Norbert retorted, “Who said I was getting married?”
“You did. To that ugly milkmaid.”
Suddenly, Norbert understood, “Marigold? I am not marrying her. I love her as a sister.”
“Oh,” subdued, Mrs. Rollings retired.
“I do hope Marigold is all right,” he murmured to his oatmeal. Then came Norbert's epiphany.
“Wait, I love Marigold! I’m not selfish anymore!”
Before one could say ‘money’, His chair was pushed aside, and he ran to his desk. He wrote a quick note to great aunt Ophelia’s attorney and returned to his oatmeal. “Now I shall be rich,” Norbert gloated.
Unfortunately, his good humor only lasted for a few seconds. “Blast! Now that I have this money. What on earth will I do with it?” Norbert thought about this detail as he finished his oatmeal. “I should like to thank Marigold for being such a good friend,” he finally decided
The aforementioned servant girl recovered within a week and was quite happy for her master.
One afternoon, as she was serving his dinner, Norbert casually asked her what she planned on doing after her
father’s debt was paid.
“Oh, I have always wanted to be a religious sister.”
“You mean one of those ladies in the long robes who spank bad little boys when they act up in Sunday school?”
Marigold laughed, “Um, I guess.”
“Very well, I give you permission to spank my future sons as much as you like.”
“Why thank you, sir!”
…
Aldrich Eggenberger, the manager of a Swiss bank, or, as he called himself, ‘The Vault Meister’ was quite
surprised to see Mr. Norbert Smythe.
“I should like to withdraw some of Miss Ophelia Smythe’s money, please,” Norbert commanded.
“Please?” Aldrich was taken aback, “Has the man had a knock on the head? I could swear I've never
heard him say that before.” Aloud, Mr. Eggenberger remained calm, “Yes, Mr. Smythe.”
The Vault Meister led Norbert through the hassle of security, down a flight of stone steps, and to a heavy
metal door with multiple locks. After several minutes of fumbling for keys and swearing, the door was unlocked and Norbert laid eyes upon his great aunt’s fortune. Gold, silver, jewels, and bags of coins were piled in a great glittering stack that almost reached the ceiling. Indifferent to the cold beauty of the vast wealth before him, Aldrich handed Mr. Smythe a medium sized bag of coins.
“Thank you,” Norbert grinned.
“The man has gone mad,” Aldrich mused, “What are you going to do with it, sir?”
“The money? Oh I was thinking of buying a little farm.”
“Definitely mad. Next I hear of him, he'll have retired to Bedlam, ” Thought The Vault Meister as he
showed his client to the door.
As soon as he was out of the bank, Norbert went to the inn at which he was staying, ran up the stairs,
and proceeded to write a short letter.
“..I was thinking of buying a little farm.”
Monsieur Stucco,
We regret to inform you that your late third cousin’s grandson has just died, leaving you, his closest living relative…
…
A few days after his return from Switzerland, Norbert received a visit from his debtor.
“Mr. Stucco, how are you?” Norbert could hardly keep from laughing.
Mr. Stucco beamed, “Never better! I've the most glorious news.”
“Do tell.”
“Yesterday, I received a letter from a chap in France.”
“...or a man passing through France on his way home,” thought Norbert gleefully.
“He said that one of my distant relatives had left me a considerable amount of money!”
“Splendid!”
“Yes, in fact, I am here to pay the debt I owe you and to, um, collect my daughter,” the farmer handed
Norbert a small sack of coins.
“Marigold?” Mr. Smythe asked sadly, “she was a wonderful servant, I, er, shall be sad to lose her.”
“I'm glad to hear that she was a competent maid.”
“No, she was better, she was a great friend.”
…
Shortly after leaving the Smythe manor, Marigold became a postulant of the Dominican order. Norbert
missed her terribly. In his misery, our unhappy protagonist returned to some of his old ways. Though he continued to read the Bible and was less scornful of the idea of God, he was extremely grumpy.
“I've failed,” realized Norbert, “Aunt Ophelia was right, I am the most self centered excuse for a
centipede ever to crawl the earth. I only ever loved anyone in order to increase my wealth.Now Marigold is gone and I am still as beastly as ever.”
He wallowed in loneliness for a year, until he could bear it no longer. Upon one frigid night near
Christmas, he ran out of his draughty old manor to the little white church at the centre of the village, Trying the door and finding it locked, our despairing protagonist ran into the small and snow covered church yard.
“What good have I done in these 26 years?” Norbert asked himself. “None,” He answered himself. “In
fact, it would be better had I never lived at all,” he sat down in the snow, not caring that he’d forgotten to bring his coat.“I've done no good. All I've been is a wretched beast.” He continued to think these mournful thoughts until finally he sobbed out a prayer, “God, if you exist, please have mercy upon me and let me die!”
No lightning struck.
No meteor fell.
The heavens were not torn apart.
Just as Mr. Smythe was about to conclude that either there was no all powerful deity or said deity had
better things to do than listen to the prayer of a desperate apostate, he began to feel very tired. Lying down, the miserable man dozed for what seemed like a year. Finally, he awoke and felt quite warm. A young woman in the outfit of a Dominican postulant sat beside him.
“Mr. Smythe?” She quavered.
“Marigold!”
“Yes, sir,” she looked worried, “Why are you lying in the snow?”
His sadness returned, “I haven't done one good deed in 26 years. I am here to die.”
“I've done no good. All I've been is a wretched beast.”
“No, you have done atleast one good deed,” insisted Mr. Smythe’s former servant.
“What do you mean? Marigold, why are you here?”
“I was here to visit my family.” Marigold explained, “I saw the letter from the Frenchman who told my
father about the money. It was in your handwriting.”
Norbert had to smile, “I bought a little farm,” He murmured.
“Yes, I came to thank you and found you dozing in the snow. How long have you been here without a coat?”
“Oh, hours, I should think.”
Marigold blanched, “Sir, you need a doctor.”
“Whatever for? I am going to die, anyway.”
“Yes, you will if you don't get a doctor, now! Where is doctor Haroldson?”
“In this graveyard. He died this past fall. No doctor has moved here since.”
Marigold began to cry, “Sir, I can't lift you and if I go for help you'll freeze while I'm away. I'm afraid that
there is no hope for you.”
“Marigold, the entire point of this conversation was that I'm going to die. I don't see how it took you so long to figure that out!”
“No, sir, you won't die from being wicked, you aren't wicked, you're dying of cold.”
There was a pause.
“Oh,”
“Sir, you do believe there is a God, right?”
Norbert thought of his life. He reflected upon the death of his father, his mother sending him to Sunday
school, his rebellious youth, his great aunt’s vow of parsimony and, finally, his timid maid with mousy hair. For the first time in his short life, our miserable protagonist saw the will of God at work.
“I think so, yes,” he replied.
“Sir, do you remember any of the prayers I taught you?”
“Y-yes,” Slowly, Norbert began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. As he neared the end, he began to have
difficulty speaking. Soon, his eyes closed for the last time.
…
After Norbert's funeral, the Smythe estate was inherited by a distant relative, who sold Norbert's manor
to an eccentric elderly lady and lived in luxury for the rest of his days.
As for Marigold, she became a great and holy sister, who never, in all her years of teaching Sunday
school, spanked little boys.
As I mentioned at the beginning, some may call this tale depressing, but, though I may be delusional, I
believe it to be the tale of the reversion of Norbert Smythe and therefore a story of hope and redemption.
The End
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