Marigold A story
themselves obnoxious in any other department. Shall I tell you why you
got to imagining great things of the little Wigg boy?”
“No.”
“Yes. Barringcourt came along with his good looks and better figure. He
talked a lot of nonsense to Timothy, and incidentally to you--he’s good
at it. And the nonsense was so sweet, you fell in love with it. Believe
me, it’s all nonsense from beginning to end.”
“It isn’t,” and unconsciously she put her hand up to her throat.
“Oh no. _That_ isn’t. But the rest is. He has a temper that would
lock most men up in a lunatic asylum.”
No answer.
“Not only that, but he is absolutely made without a heart.”
The white hands trembled over the embroidery.
“Not only that, but he has a habit of despising those who show theirs
too freely--as perhaps, being young, you may have done.”
The handkerchief had fallen--her hands were clenched.
“I never did! I never did! I stifled every feeling, I never showed a
thing. And I won all along the way till--till just the end. And then I
was weak and ill, and I couldn’t help it--and even then I don’t know
what I did.”
“No; I expect it’s one of those cases in which men blame women, and
women blame men, instead of going equal shares. But is it true you’re
going to sit here moping, making him believe that with you it was all a
serious affair--whilst with him it was nothing but a passing folly?”
Marigold looked up at him.
“What do you advise?”
“Get back some of your old life. Not all of it. Men are heavy--even
the best of them. They don’t understand.”
“I will never speak or look at him again.”
“Oh yes, you will. You imagine you’ve done something terrible, and, in
reality, you’ve done nothing at all. Look like that long enough, and
people will begin to believe dreadful things of you. Marigold, you are
now quits with Mr Barringcourt. He has broken your heart--smashed it
completely, when he flung you there upon the ground. And with no heart
left--that wretched stumbling-block in the path of all successes--you
are free and safe. Here is the High Priest longing to see you once
again--but too big a coward--too eaten up with habit--to step out of
his monastic shell. If you wish to hurt Barringcourt, to humble him as
he has humbled you----”
“I don’t think I do,” said Marigold sweetly and earnestly, shaking her
lily head, as if these baser passions were rather big enigmas to her.
St Armand stopped. Then he looked across at her and smiled--the
child-like voice having arrested his thoughts as well as words. And
suddenly he moved across the seat towards her, and took her hands in
his.
“Well then, at any rate you’re no woman if you wouldn’t care for him
to fall in love with you--or learn, at least, that you were made for
admiration, not for contempt. You must rouse out of this lifelessness.
It is not becoming to your station.”
“But--but,” said she, sadly and yet shyly, “it would be so easy to
admire a Princess--even to love her. And I feel so uncertain of myself.
My neck--it was so very beautiful, and now I’m forced to wear this
bandage round. For what is it but a bandage, even with pearls? And
lately I’ve felt more forgiving--this last few days; but now, whilst
you are speaking to me, the scars seem to have gone red-hot. Oh! he had
no business to hurt me so--no business at all!”
“That’s what I keep telling you. Rouse up! and enjoy life--heartless or
broken-hearted.”
CHAPTER XXIII
The next day being Sunday, Marigold went to the Temple for the morning
service. It was not a long drive, and she sat in the big carriage, very
stiff and straight, beside the old stone-deaf governess, who generally
accompanied her to these affairs--strictly, however, when she was
invited.
They had just risen from their knees when Marigold perceived Mr
Barringcourt and St Armand pass them to a seat just beyond on the other
side of the aisle. Again she felt that burning feeling on the scars on
her neck, and a hundred quick emotions and memories throbbed in her
heart and brain. It was not easy to sit there straight and calm, but
Marigold managed it, and all through the service listened attentively,
but with lack of interest, to what was going on. But now and again
her strange, expressive eyes would wander across to the two figures
opposite--so different, yet in some unaccountable way so much alike.
The High Priest preached himself--a very learned and eloquent address,
all about nothing, yet marvellously well delivered, though in a pompous
way.
Marigold studied him. Where had all the old infatuation vanished? All
that exuberance of spirits that made her see something exceptional in
everything he did and said?
“I can’t,” she said to herself. “It is too much fag--going acting
through life.”
And then her eyes stole across again to the dark figure opposite--and
the feeling of fag vanished.
So, when the service was over, it was Marigold who, having prayed no
prayer at all, rose to her feet with a quiet face and beating heart.
She took her long gold-handled umbrella, and gathered up her silken
trailing skirts with a quiet grace that was the admiration of many
watching--for on Lucifram half the people went to Church to see the
other half, and the other half mostly to see each other.
And stepping down from the pew, her eyes came straight to the eyes of
Mr Barringcourt. It was the first time he knew her to be in the Church,
and, for the first instant, though he looked at her with interest, he
did not recognise her. And even then his expression was more that of
incredulous surprise than recognition.
But Marigold was more prepared; and though every joint in her body felt
loose and powerless, she walked on down the aisle without showing any
signs of it at all. But on the steps, before entering her carriage, she
was accosted by St Armand.
“Good-morning, Princess. What delightful weather we are having! It is
almost a pity there are such things as sermons, with the sun shining
like this.”
“Oh! I liked the sermon very well. His holiness has such a wonderful
delivery; it is a pleasure to listen to him.”
Thus she spoke to the little man in the old sweet voice grown sweeter,
but her thoughts were all with the taller one who stood waiting,
standing to one side.
“You do not know Mr Barringcourt,” said he, keeping all the
maliciousness out of his voice, and speaking only with politeness. “The
Princess Marigold of--of--Ellel.”
A strange, deep colour, that left him unusually pale, flushed into Mr
Barringcourt’s face, and Marigold, who had always found him so easily
self-controlled and self-assured, felt a certain pleasure in it. Yet
she gave no signs of it, but inclined her head very coldly, and just as
coldly he returned her salutation, and in the silence that followed
she entered the carriage. It was St Armand who closed the door, and to
him her last glance was directed, and she smiled as they rolled away.
And then Mr Barringcourt turned to him--his hands deep in his pockets.
“Is that--is that the beggar girl?”
“No--it’s the Princess.”
“Is it the beggar girl, St Armand?”
“You know as much about that as I. Looks very like her, I should say.”
“And have you known this all along?”
“Known what?”
“Who she is.”
“No, but I’ve _guessed_ at it. I possess a marvellous intuition,
you know. But you yourself, surely you have guessed at it too?”
“No. By the Holy Serpent, no!”
“Did you seriously take her for a beggar girl?”
“I took her for what she said she was--what she acted up to.”
“Who would have given you credit for such stupidity? To believe a woman
so implicitly! But, after all, with your reputation, princess or beggar
maid, it is all the same to you.”
“You called her the Princess of Ellel,” he answered harshly. “There is
no Princess of Ellel--Ellel in Fairy Sky belongs to me.”
“Well, that’s what she calls herself. I’m sure I don’t
know. If you object, bring a law-suit. It is stamped on her
belongings--‘Marigold--Princess of Ellel.’ That would be evidence
sufficient for any judge.”
“And you have known this and never told me?”
“I simply got to know yesterday. I was wandering through the Duke of
Mendona’s grounds, valuing his effects from idle curiosity. Suddenly
I came across our little beggar girl, all dressed up in silks, pearls
round her neck, high up under the chin--curious fashion that, when
a woman has a lovely neck”--and he looked out of the corners of his
eyes at the haggard face of his companion--“so naturally I stopped to
speak, and she explained the episode of Friar’s Court was nothing but
a girlish prank. She didn’t call it a prank--her words were all picked
from the choicest dictionary.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Do you accuse her of using slang? No; please don’t look so devilishly
angry, Barringcourt. I really don’t want to wear pearls round my neck,
much as they might enhance my natural complexion. Moreover, my neck is
rather tough and scraggy--the last thing on Lucifram for you to try
your strength upon.”
He saw by the rigid face that every idle word had hit.
“Was--was she badly hurt?”
“Well, women are very inconsistent. You wring their neck one day, and
they don’t feel it; the next you touch them with your little finger,
and they faint right off.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she fainted, didn’t she? That shows the little finger process.”
“Oh! I was under the impression I wrung her neck.”
But he wasn’t laughing, neither did he mean to imply that Marigold had
not felt what he had done. St Armand alone perceived it, and he smiled
tolerantly enough.
“By the way,” he said suddenly, “you must have known her. Hasn’t she
lived at your Palace in Fairy Sky all these years, and isn’t that
exactly the place where you have been?”
“You know I have not been there.”
“Ah! I remember. Alphonso said your letter dropped from Heaven, but
it was beastly sharply-worded to have come from such a place. You’ll
give them a bad reputation up there. Now, when they wanted to take your
one house, you should have offered them also the other. They’d have
swallowed both without needing pepsin tablets, I can tell you.”
“I’m going.”
“So am I. Remember you’ve asked me to lunch, and too much Sunday
doesn’t suit me. Alphonso’s like a third-rate ship biscuit. It’s
nothing but ME--my office and my Church! I wonder the Serpent
doesn’t swallow him. Too hard and dry, perhaps--not soft enough about
the neck.”
So they went back to Marble House together--these two so friendly on
all points but one. And all that afternoon the Master gave to his
companion--observing the strict rules of an etiquette that made them
both for the time being the most charming companions of all.
And Marigold went back to the Palace, and Alice sat with her reading
all the afternoon. And a very proud little curve had settled on
Marigold’s lips, for she kept saying to herself:
“How could I ever love him?--a man to whom one’s position in the world
makes such a difference. When I was poor he was always self-assured
and self-composed, and even when he might have hurt me badly, he never
cared or sent once to enquire. And as soon as I am rich--he hears my
name--a Princess--that quick confusion, even a startled, anxious look
at the strings round my neck. Oh! it is too despicable--more than I
can stand. I think I could forgive him everything but that.”
So do we all at times misjudge our neighbours.
And that night the High Priest said to St Armand, with excitement in
his manner:
“There has been twice at Church to-day a lady dressed in black, bearing
a wonderful, though more refined resemblance to the beggar girl--to
Marigold. I think I’ve seen her there before. I noticed she observed
me pointedly. That is the style of woman I admire. The beggar girl
was pretty, but too coarse in her manner--too free in her speech for