Marigold A story
up and looking at him intently. “You like her, don’t you? She sings
beautifully--about the fairies dancing in the moonlight, and she is
good and kind. You don’t mind her coming to see me now and then, do
you?”
The other smiled.
“No, Timothy. She may come as often as she likes, so long as she goes
when she isn’t wanted. She looks lively enough to be good company
for you in your duller hours. Good-morning! I’ll be round to-morrow,
certain sure. Tell her the time, if she comes in again--half-past ten,
and if she’s sensible she’ll take the hint.”
CHAPTER XI
That evening, as was his usual custom, the High Priest went to vespers.
St Armand also went, and walked through the city first, entering the
Temple just as the service was beginning. The service was exquisite,
though short; the singing beautiful, worthy the splendid building; yet
the High Priest never heard it, for, as he sat there on his magnificent
throne to the side of the golden steps inside the sacred railings, his
mind was wandering again over the conversation of the morning. In the
early part of the day he had almost forgotten it, but now, as the magic
of evening settled, the lights in the Temple, the music, all things
subdued brought back to him the utter empty coldness in his heart--the
icy burden so intolerable to the Living man.
That day he had met a lady, a life-long friend of his--and
half-seriously had thought on St Armand’s words, forgetting the chief
stipulations. He had found her dull, heavy, flabby, though considered
handsome and even clever by the world. Impatiently he snapped his
fingers at his guest’s suggestion. Women! to the initiated still more
uninteresting than men.
Thus, as he thought, his eyes wandered down the Temple aisles to the
choirs, and in his reverie he became aware of the presence of St
Armand, also some others, men and women, whom he knew; and as his
wandering eye scanned the groups of worshippers, he became aware in
that front pew of the little beggar girl he had seen twice lately,
sitting alone. Almost unconsciously he fixed his eyes upon her,
wondering idly why she, in rags, had presumed upon so prominent a
seat. And at last she looked up from the book she was holding--right
across the choir-stalls and attendant clergy towards the High Priest’s
throne, and, seeing him looking back at her, like a child who considers
pleasantness the acme of good manners, she smiled. It was a smile
purely friendly, a little shy, and greatly serious; it gave a sweet and
winsome expression to a face quite sweet enough before.
Alphonso, it is needless to inform you, did not smile back. He looked
away for a little time, and even went so far as to examine well the
ceiling; the morning’s conversation had completely died from his mind.
Yet he did look back again, and from curiosity alone, when they were
kneeling. Her face was buried in her hands--only the gleam of golden
hair under the old straw hat, and the slope of a graceful shoulder.
Once more during the anthem their eyes met again, but this time she did
not smile.
“Very sensible of her,” thought the High Priest, and gave his attention
to the service, for the moment only. Yet it was nothing more than
a professional interest that he began to take in her. Had he not
promised to try to raise her from the beggar state? and how soon had
he forgotten! Had she not come to the Temple that evening, he would
have remembered her no more. She was a pretty girl with a sweet face;
he must see what he could do. Having some business to attend to after
the service, it was rather later when he left the Temple. St Armand
had gone home, and he and his Chaplain came out together alone as the
dusk was settling. And suddenly a great longing for freedom came over
him. Why could he not walk the streets unmolested by attendants, as St
Armand did? It seemed to him, standing there on that top step looking
out on to the busy, restless city, that could he once break through the
trammels of his hard-set life, he might regain the power of youthful
feeling--the thing he had lost, and only lately felt. He had no
particular work that evening, he remembered--nothing till nine o’clock,
and dinner was at eight.
“Eaglestone,” he said, as they went down the steps together, “you will
drive back to the Palace alone--I am walking. There are some matters I
wish to think about; I shall be home soon after you arrive.” He watched
the carriage drive away, and then himself set out in the approaching
darkness.
“Friar’s Court”; why not perform his own errands, instead of eternally
commanding? For the first time in his life for years back, he felt a
quickening pulse at his unusual action. It was easily found, and the
distance very short. How homely all the little houses looked, with
their drawn blinds and red lights! He felt for one moment envious of
the poor. Number 5: he soon found it, and gently knocked. It was opened
by Alice, peering out into the darkness, not recognising who it was
who stood there. Unaccustomed to thus visiting the poor, he now felt
somewhat at a standstill. His errand seemed absurd; he remembered he
did not even know the name of the girl for whom he had come to enquire.
Yet now it was too late to draw back, and once more he settled into the
cold man of the world he really was. His tone, if anything, was more
than usually proud. He remembered with irritation that unaccountably
he had stepped from the dignity of his position.
“I have come to enquire about a beggar girl who is reported to be
living here. I have brought her a Form of Entrance for the ‘Poor
Sisters’ Home.’ You will perhaps give it to her.” So saying, he took
out a book of forms he kept already signed, and handed one to Alice.
But just then Marigold’s form appeared behind the stouter woman, and
her voice entered into the conversation. “Will you come in, sir? The
house is quite clean and tidy inside, though it’s small.”
Again the longing to break through forms and ceremonies overcame him,
just as suddenly as it had disappeared. After all, that was the voice
he wanted--the voice that failed to remind him he was stooping near the
ground in thus visiting the very poor.
Yet his tone was just as cold and even, as he said: “Thank you! For one
moment, I will step inside. I remember I must fill in your name, which
was not given me when I saw you at the Palace.” He came in, and the
little door closed. He was inside a kitchen spotlessly clean and very
bright. A meal was on the table, and everything looked very nice and
cheerful too.
But how tall he looked in this little doll’s house, and how novel to
him the situation!
Marigold ran and brought him a chair, and dusted it off with her own
apron as she had seen the poor folks do, and did it all with such a
charm of manner, that--well, he sat down on the chair, if only to see
what it felt like doing as he was bid.
Yet never did he smile, but took the chair with the utmost
condescension, sitting there condescendingly. She stood back a few
steps, her hands folded, waiting demurely, but with an exquisite colour
in her cheeks. “Your name?” said he, placing the paper on the table and
bringing out a fountain pen.
“Marigold, please your Holiness.”
“Marigold what?”
“Nothing but Marigold, please your Holiness.”
“But,” said he, and looked at her, and somehow almost forgot what he
was going to say, “you must have another name.”
“Yes, I _have_ another name, but I’d rather not give it you. Not
just now!”
“Where are your brothers and sisters?” he asked, suddenly remembering
them.
“I was telling you lies; I haven’t any.”
She was looking down on the ground--the most exquisite picture of
shame and contrition he had ever seen.
“And your father?”
“I haven’t one; I made that up too,” and suddenly a pair of eyes, very
serious, flashed up to his--one minute, then down again.
“What possessed you to be so--so wicked?” He tried to speak severely,
and succeeded except for one false note--and that the last word--the
sternest one that should have been.
“I wanted to come to the Palace to see what it was like, and they said
you couldn’t come unless you were poor and had a lot of children, so I
made the tale up to get there--and--and--and I got.”
“What was there at the Palace to interest any one so young as you?”
“Oh! everything. It was beautiful. I dreamt about it afterwards. And I
saw you, and the three gentlemen writing, and the one smoking! And the
lovely room with all the big books.”
What big beautiful eyes she had, and how young and easily
impressionable she seemed! What a child-like, innocent face!
“And could you dream about such trivial things as those?” said he, a
tone almost envious in his voice.
“Why, yes,” she answered shyly, “because I saw _you_, and you’re
not trivial. You are one of the greatest men in all the land, and every
one respects you.”
He laughed, almost forgetting to be condescending. Then, suddenly
remembering his errand, he said:
“But if you will not let me have your other name, I cannot fill you up
the form.”
“I don’t want to go to the Poor Sisters’ Home, I want to stay here with
my aunt, near the Temple. I love the Temple, I wasn’t born to live in a
convent--I feel I wasn’t.”
There was nothing flippant in her tone, for she was very earnest; and
he persisted no further, but got up to go.
“Good-night! and if you ever want help or need advice of any sort,
you can always apply at the Palace for it. My Chaplain or one of my
secretaries will see that you are attended to.”
And then he held out his hand--greatest of condescensions, yet from the
weakness of curiosity, not quite from charity--and Marigold’s hand was
as soft and pretty as she herself was charming, and all the way back to
the Palace the pressure of the tiny fingers lingered in his palm.
Then, when the door was closed, Marigold and Alice sat down to supper
together, and for a little while neither of them spoke. At last Alice
said, wiping the perspiration from her brow:
“Who would have thought it! The great High Priest himself!”
“I wasn’t a bit surprised,” said Marigold. “Do you like him, Alice, or
don’t you?”
“He was very nice to you, Princess--very fatherly and nice, I thought.”
And Marigold burst out laughing.
“Why don’t you say _grand_fatherly? One’s just as bad as the
other, you know; and the last time I spoke to him he was even nastier
to me than he was to you at the door. I think he must be falling in
love with me, and I like him more than ever.”
“Oh! Princess, don’t talk so!” said Alice in grief and pain. “Remember
he is a holy man, and quite outside all earthly affections. If you must
fall in love, let it be with one of the golden priests whom you may
marry honourably.”
“Be quiet, Alice! when you whine it gets on my nerves. Now listen! I
want you to go to the Palace--_my_ Palace, not his--and bring
the patchwork quilt, the one worked in little silk sixpences by my
godmother, the one that is all the colours in the universe from sunrise
to sunset, with the rainbow thrown in.”
“But why?” said Alice, surprised at the sudden change in the
conversation.
Marigold put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped
hands.
“Because it’s highly respectable--tiny patches and not a single rag.”
Alice still stared, not understanding; and Marigold continued, a
curious expression in her eyes:
“You know I went in to see little Patches again this afternoon, and he
told me the doctor didn’t approve of my appearance. He said a decent
woman wouldn’t dress in rags, and he said he was coming at half-past
ten to-morrow morning, and hoped I’d take the hint. Patches repeated it
all angelically, like the little cherub he will be so soon.”
“I liked the look of the doctor,” said Alice sturdily. “As I peeped