Marigold A story
a cultivated mind. These poor! when they open their mouths, how they
disappoint one!”
So did he speak--himself believing what he said. And thus St Armand
patiently--the High Priest never seeing the contemptuous smile.
“The beggar girl, I grant, was empty-headed, coarse, and uncultivated
in her speech--but she was pretty. This lady whom you speak of is the
Princess of Ellel--Marigold too. But more than different when you come
to speak to her.”
Thus was the High Priest blinded--believing as his prejudices swayed
and St Armand taught him.
CHAPTER XXIV
Next afternoon, as Marigold was sitting near a window, idle as usual,
the great High Priest was ushered in.
He came without any qualms of conscience, any loss of worldly dignity,
without having to stoop his head to get within the door, and with no
sense of being too big for the room where he now found himself.
Marigold, from her seat in the far window, saw him coming, and rose to
greet him. Her heart beat a little faster, yet not with love, or that
more common form, infatuation, but with a little sense of power and
some unshown amusement.
But he, after all these weeks and their humiliations, forsaken by
a beggar girl and laughed at by St Armand, felt his thin pulses
quicken--for the face and figure before him were very beautiful, very
dignified--an ideal wife for one in Holy Orders--had he not been too
high.
“The Princess of Ellel, I believe?”
She smiled very sweetly, and drew a chair for him beside her own, near
to the open window.
“It is not often I have such visitors,” she said. “It is ages and ages
since I saw a clergyman except in Church.”
“I think you are a stranger to these parts. I noticed you in the Temple
for the first time yesterday.”
“Yes; I live in Fairy Sky, and am renting this house from the Duke of
Medona just for a little time. This is a pretty country.”
“But nothing to your own. The only dark blot on the fair beauty of your
country is its religion.”
“I don’t know much about it.”
“You are a follower of the Serpent, I believe?”
She shook her head.
“I was brought up to worship nothing--at least, to worship something
that I couldn’t see. But that is very unsatisfactory, you know.
Now--now, with you, there really is something behind that wondrous
curtain, is there not?”
How should he perceive the smile within those wondrous eyes, so
shadowy, so bright, so tender, and so serious?
“Believe me, the only true God.”
“Is there any chance of ever really seeing Him?”
“For men, yes; for women, not--not at present.”
“I don’t see why it should not be--do you?”
Marigold’s voice was very soft and persuasive, her eyes more so.
“It is a canon of the Church,” he answered rigidly. Then, seeing her
face, he added more unsteadily: “Laws are laws, Princess, much as at
times we feel they might be broken.”
A sigh he heard, and which, despite his narrow education, he also
understood, escaped the coral lips and was her only answer.
Again that dangerous stillness settled on the room, as once before in
the Cathedral precincts.
He looked across at her, too weak to look away. Marigold smiled. Why
not? for he was there to play with, and ease the horrid aching of her
heart.
“It seems to me,” said he, “that I have met you previously. I feel as
if I’d known you quite a lifetime.”
“I too. I felt it in the Temple yesterday, and now again to-day.”
“And you, being young, should have the better memory.”
But Marigold’s lips had almost pouted, and she shook her head.
“I should like _you_ to remember where it was you first saw
_me_.”
“I cannot think. Only some weeks ago, I met a girl who struck me as
being rather like you.”
“But not very?”
“No, indeed. Her prettiness was her nearest qualification. But her hair
was very tousled, and her general appearance most untidy.”
“And I am the essence of neatness,” and Marigold laughed.
“An absolute necessity to distinguished beauty.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it. Are you interested at all in charitable work,
Princess?”
“Well, occasionally. But in Fairy Sky there were so many beggars you
didn’t know where to begin and where to stop. They seem to be better
organised here. Now, your charity dinners----”
“You have heard of them?”
“Oh yes. Every one has praised them to me. Should I give you a
subscription? I should simply love to.”
“I--they are quite a private charity?”
“I should like to take part in a private charity. When you give to
public ones, it all goes in big salaries to the wrong people.”
“But I could never think of asking any one to subscribe to the dinners.”
“But I am such a stranger. And your charity appeals to me. Yet I would
not for the world set up in opposition.”
And they both laughed. Yet it pleased the High Priest that she should
wish to join him in something--and at her own request.
“Then we have shelter homes for women----”
But here Marigold got up and stopped him by going across and laying her
hand upon his chair.
“I don’t want to hear any more,” she said. “Charities only interest me
in the morning. Do you not find it very lonely in your big Palace--all
alone?”
Her voice acted on him like a spell, as it always had done.
“At times, yes, it is very lonely.”
“So it is here.”
“But you are young. You can have the companionship that pleases you.”
“Indeed, no. I was brought up with a very exalted idea of my own
position--very quiet and exclusive. And it is hard to break through
a life-training. Only now and then I feel as if I really want to run
away.”
“A natural feeling in youth.”
“Then you are young, because sometimes you want to run away too.”
He sat, at a loss for words, because, after all, it needs practice to
talk to a woman lightly and retain one’s common-sense. Especially when
you’ve gone a whole lifetime asking to be delivered from them in order
to satisfy a capital ambition.
“I feel very sorry for you,” she continued, half-laughing. “I should
like you to feel sorry for me.”
Again he had no words, but Marigold knew that she was not distasteful
to him.
“I should love to see through the Temple,” she continued. “I feel happy
there--far more at home than here.”
“I will take you myself, whenever you care to go,” he answered, getting
up eagerly. “Fix a day. To-morrow or any day I am quite at your
service.”
And Marigold looked up at him and blushed, just sufficient for beauty
and nothing more.
“I should like to go now--this afternoon.”
And the imperious tone, the imperious action, coming, as it did, like
an unexpected lightning flash after sweetness and gentleness and
childish loveliness, completed from that moment his moral downfall.
Never having been a lover, he became a slave, and, like most men who
in theory admire the gentle, placid woman, it was in practice the
domineering woman who had conquered him. A domineering woman, with a
voice like music, and the manner of an empress, and the waywardness of
a child.
So she drove back with him in the big, lumbersome High Priest’s
carriage; and her face and station and the simple mourning robe were
sufficient guarantee of decorum, even had his character not been.
The Temple was silent and grand as ever, and it impressed Marigold as
it had never failed to do, for it brought back some heavy remembrance
to her that she mistook for admiration of its exquisite beauty.
And he explained everything, whilst she listened most attentively; and
the dim religious light suited her deep eyes and delicate ethereal
face, as it suited all those saints and martyrs who carried golden
sunbeams round their heads and were a credit to the great masters who
had painted them.
“These panels are Crockerby’s work,” said he, stopping before six
full-length paintings of the greatest female saints. “You have heard of
him?”
“Oh yes, there are some of his pictures in the house where I am
staying.”
“This last one, the sixth, is considered one of his best works--some
say the best. But, believe me, we almost had a quarrel over it.”
“Why?” Marigold had gone up close to it, her cheeks flushed, her eyes
alight.
“Because it is the exact face and figure of a woman who was a
mischief-maker--one who caused much ill-feeling at the time of the
late High Priest’s death, and one who escaped the punishment that was
justly hers.”
“How?”
“By running away with a Mr Barringcourt. You may have heard of him.”
“Yes; what was her name?”
“Rosalie Paileaf.”
The shadows of the Temple hid Marigold’s face, its heaviness dulled the
quick beating of her heart, for this was an exact copy of the face in
Timothy’s bedroom.
“You did not like her?”
“I had every cause to dislike her. And he, knowing it might have shown
himself a--a truer gentleman. Even now I never stand before it without
irritation.”
“Why--why not send it to this Mr Barringcourt if--if he was so
infatuated?”
“It would not be a bad idea. It has been consecrated; but still--his
house is built after the cathedral style. I’ll think about it.”
And, as he passed along, Marigold followed him.
“I don’t think she has exactly the eyes for a Church--do you?” she
asked at length.
“Who?”
“Rosalie--Rosalie, I forget her name.”
“No, she should have been imprisoned for a lifetime, had the law been
justified.”
“Ah!” said Marigold softly, “then she would have looked more of a saint
and less of a goddess. It is all very well to smile so when you’ve
never felt any pain, and you love who loves you. I don’t like her a
bit. She never suffered at all, and I am suffering every day.”
But aloud she said:
“Has he not flattered her?”
“No, except the eyes. They were at times tragic and rather startling.
Where he got that trumped-up expression from I can’t tell. I asked
him to alter them and stick to the truth, but he wouldn’t--said he’d
as soon cut off his head. Like an artist, everything ideal, nothing
natural.”
“But in the Church it is allowable.”
“Well, yes, but the right kind of ideal.”
And after this he found Marigold very quiet. But he did not object to
it, for she went with him quite untiringly, and he felt the sympathy
of her companionship, and liked her in this silent mood; for every one
that came upon her suited her exactly as the one before.
And at last they left the Temple, and going down the steps met Mr
Barringcourt coming up them. For the Temple was one of his especial
interests. He spent much wealth and thought upon it.
And Marigold felt all the passion of pride lash up in her, the scars
on her neck red-hot, the wounds in her heart new opened--those raw
wounds that would not, would not close and heal. For all that day she
had expected a humble letter of apology, and none had come. And if it
had come, the old French proverb stealing to her mind would have surely
made her tear it in a thousand pieces. But of this she never thought.
If only he would have said that he was sorry (and set them both in
a most ridiculous position). But neither of this did she think. She
thought of nothing tangibly. Why should she?--feeling so much. So now
she bowed very coldly, and the High Priest saluted him as stiffly, for,
since St Armand’s few gliding, simple words, suspicion and dislike had
filled his heart. And somehow in the glance the Master gave to Marigold
he detected something the jealous lover, though a slave, might take
amiss. He remembered what St Armand had said about the beggar girl
and this same man, and therefore would have passed him. But Marigold,
woman-like, having one man there for a protection, felt fully capable of
fighting with the other.
“Mr Barringcourt,” said she, standing two steps above him, and
remembering St Armand’s words to good effect quite suddenly, that she
had no heart. “Mr Barringcourt, we have been talking about you.”
“Indeed!”