Marigold A story
a little heightened colour; and he in his turn (but that is best left
to Marigold, because she loved him, though it was rarely if they ever
spoke, and that only in the stress of circumstances).
Yet Marigold would pray every night:
“Holy Serpent! dearest guide and counsellor, preserve the man I love,
and bring him to Heaven. And I--I am nothing but a child, I should like
to come to Heaven too.”
And the Serpent was very kind to Marigold, because she prayed the
right way and not too long, and perhaps because she was a convert, and
perhaps because she didn’t enquire too minutely into his three tails,
but took him quite for granted. And perhaps again because she prayed
for the right man, and prayed for him nicely, for the Serpent owed a
great deal to Mr Barringcourt, the Master, and his Father’s house; for
he, the Serpent, had been built up by them, endued with power and
fascination quite outside his own sphere to compel.
And so a few weeks sped by, and then, when the High Priest was
indisposed--a sudden heart-attack, the doctors said--Marigold called to
see him and stayed the afternoon, St Armand being there too; and, as
you know, she made an ideal nurse. And when she was gone, the patient
became gloomy and irritable, and then St Armand smiled, looked at his
watch, and went out for a stroll.
CHAPTER XXVI
It was that hour of dusk that was his favourite--not night, not day,
but glimmering shadows suited to Lucifram.
With shadowy strides, the shadowy cloak encircling him, he passed the
cattle grazing lazily within the parks that stretched round Marigold’s
dwelling-place, and thence through the rose-garden, the velvet lawn,
towards the open windows. He had chosen his hour wisely and well, for,
thinking of love-sick maidens and their curious lack of all originality,
he remembered the twilight was their special hour--twilight and
silence, the open window with the sad night breezes, the solitary
figure, the total oblivion of time.
Thus also he found Marigold, sitting alone upon a couch drawn near to a
window, leaning against the cushions.
Her simple satin dress, pure white in the shadows, draped the fragile
figure gracefully; but, as he crept shadow-like through the open
window, he paused to look at her.
All the animation that deceived the world with its strange brilliancy
had vanished, and he saw only the face of a tired woman, with pure
face-lines, and an expression never meant for Lucifram--a haunting
sweetness struggling triumphant through the sadness.
“Ah, Marigold,” said he, “you’re very pretty, though it takes an old
married man like myself to notice it evidently. Considering you’ve got
such a little time left upon Lucifram, it seems too bad you should
spend it idling.”
And so he approached her from behind, laying his hand with the
blood-red ring upon it, on the couch back.
“Marigold.”
She started and looked up.
“St Armand! What an unusual hour for a call! I--I thought I left you
looking after the High Priest.”
“You did. But, like all people who have nothing tangibly the matter
with them, he is bad to do for sometimes.”
“What is the matter with him? I thought him looking unusually well.”
He came and sat down beside her, on the other side of the couch.
“Yes, you were his medicine. As soon as you came, he was better.
Before, he was worse; and since, he has been much worse.”
“Then I was a very poor medicine.”
“No, you are dangerous. To accomplish a lasting cure, you must stay
with him for ever.”
She laughed.
“Well, I couldn’t do that.”
“But you might arrange a kind of continuity.”
“What do you mean?”
“You could come oftener, and with a certain promise to return.”
“I don’t think I am good for him,” and she shook her head thoughtfully.
“You are squeamish, Marigold. Your greatest charm at one time was that
you were not.”
“And now my greatest charm has gone.” And she sighed and laughed in a
breath.
“No. But you are labouring under a false impression. You are growing
highly moral, therefore highly dull.”
“I don’t think I have the strength I used to have. I tire of things
quickly. I am tired of the High Priest. It is all such empty twaddle to
me.”
“But not to him.”
A silence.
“Marigold! I am disappointed in you. You were meant to be a wonderful
woman, and you have allowed yourself to be mastered and subdued by a
man who doesn’t care that much for you.”
“Ah!” she said, half-rising, “I--I will not let you speak so to me. I
shall go.”
“I speak as it pleases me,” he said in the heavy tone of authority
that few ever withstood when he used it. “Your infatuation for Mr
Barringcourt is senseless as it is useless. Half the town talks of it.
You are a little fool.”
“Don’t!” she whispered, cowering down against the pillows, her hand
stretched out as if to send him away; “I--I have so much pain lately
everywhere--spirit and mind and body--I can’t stand any more.”
“You want to be a bit harder, Marigold--to have a bit more pride. There
was never a man yet who loved a woman who deliberately let him see she
was in love with him, even through snubs.”
“I scarcely ever see him, and I rarely speak to him. If the town talks,
it is because----”
“You blush every time you meet him, and then like as not go deathly
pale; flattering to him, no doubt, but not calculated to inspire
much--much affection.”
“I don’t want him to love me. He loves some one else.”
“Then you love some one else too?”
“I can’t find any one.”
“The High Priest.”
“You will make me hate him.”
“Make you love him rather. Marigold, he simply worships you.”
“He should worship the Serpent.”
“The Serpent is an obsolete idol. Even women have seen through it since
Barringcourt’s lady-love peeped behind the scenes.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You understand me sufficiently well. The High Priest loves you as
deeply as you love the Master of the Marble House. You have it in
your power to be very kind to him, even though you may not marry him.
His illness is all caused by you, Marigold--you have treated him
badly--just as your illness is caused by some one else.”
“I got mine through little Patches,” she answered softly.
“And every one was very kind to Timothy when he was ill,” said he.
“And I’m left all alone.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re a Princess born to the purple--born to hardness and to
suffering. There is a man less proudly born, a mortal, weak and
hungering--he, too, is all alone.”
“I cannot help him.”
“You were kind to Patches.”
“Oh! but in a different way. I loved him.”
“Love this man. It’s very easily done--a little condescension, a little
stooping, you will cure him.”
“But I am dying.”
“But surely you intend to live to the end?”
In the strange dusky shadow that was gradually encircling them, the
room around quite dark, Marigold glanced across at him, her fine thin
face clearly silhouetted against the shadowy curtain.
“You will not pity me; how, then, can I pity myself?”
“You were born to greatness; why should I pity the great? I pity him,
but your weakness I despise as quite unworthy of you. You are taking
life too seriously. It’s nothing but a game, a plaything, at the best.”
And suddenly he moved across to her, and in listening to the strong
persuasive voice, low-pitched and softly, she forgot the little man had
disappeared, the presence near to hers but half disguised.
The fascination of that powerful presence drew her magnetically--the
strong arm round her, the shadows encircling them, giving her new life.
Marigold sat up, her white dress gleaming, her golden hair shining, her
wondrous eyes sparkling in--what was the light? Nothing on Lucifram.
And the old childish merriment and laughter came bubbling back to the
parted lips, coral and pearl of exquisite beauty.
And recklessly, not understanding, she held out her one disengaged
hand, and now both of hers were hidden in his--the strong shadowy hands
holding the white ones.
“You can afford to be kind to him, Marigold.”
No answer.
“Not only that, but there is always a certain stimulus in love-making.
It will relieve the monotony of the few months left you here on
Lucifram.”
No answer.
“And Mr Barringcourt has got so accustomed to your devotion, given so
silently, that he’ll be quite jealous.”
And suddenly Marigold drew herself out of his arms, and stood up
laughing.
“Yes, I’ll come, if you can guarantee that he won’t be mopey, and
grumpy, and talking of his ailments all the time. I’ll come to-night.
I’m tired of being good. I do get deadly tired of it every now and
then; no one knows the struggle that it is. And, after all, I must
amuse myself. Being love-sick is so monotonous.”
CHAPTER XXVII
Shortly afterwards St Armand went back to the High Priest’s Palace,
and, with a certain quiet power he had of ordering things to his own
liking without anybody being aware of it, he arranged that all personal
attendants and others should be dismissed for the night. He gave them
to understand that he himself would wait upon his holiness. And in this
there was nothing unusual, for St Armand was an old man, well skilled
as a physician, with a certain authority about him, and he was known to
be high in favour with the priest.
St Armand said nothing about Marigold’s approaching visit, for,
like all immortals, he had great faith in the unexpected. Prepare
a man--and, well, somehow or other he is prepared, and at times is
troublesome.
So, with the ordinary medicine at eight o’clock he mixed a little of
his own, for, said he:
“I promised Marigold he should neither mope nor grump, and this fool’s
quackeries will enlarge his liver and raise up the ghost of conscience
itself. But mine is just a _gentle_ stimulus to feeling, sleep for
an hour or so--our best medicine--then awake.”
So the High Priest slept in his big arm-chair beside the fireplace, and
St Armand, hearing his regular breathing, turned down all the lights,
threw fuel on the fire, went downstairs by the private staircase
leading from this private suite of rooms, and so out into the garden,
unobserved, and away, leaving the door unlocked.
“For,” said he, “I should be nothing but a damper and a gooseberry,
for, give a man and a woman each other’s society under certain mutual
conditions, and the devil’s presence is altogether unnecessary.”
Yet he waited till he heard the sound of wheels, and presently saw a
woman’s figure gliding through the gardens toward the private door.
Then, shadow-like, he vanished, laughing.
“I wonder what Barringcourt will say?” said he. “Quarrel again--lovers
are always quarrelling, but nothing serious. Well, he ought to look
after her, for no one else will, not even I--although, speaking
modestly, I believe she’s taken quite a fancy to me.”
But, whilst he had walked, waiting in the private grounds for Marigold,
Mr Barringcourt had entered by the big front door--informed, as
spirits are, that something was about to happen, not knowing what.
Like as St Armand might, he had passed unnoticed up the famous
staircase, along the corridors, and to the private suite of rooms. He
found them quite deserted, the High Priest quite alone and sleeping,
the fire burning brightly, all other light subdued.
And he felt the holy pulse, and looked a little puzzled.
“Stronger than usual, and yet he’s only a few more days to live. St
Armand’s medicine, I suppose. I’ll wait a while, and make up his
accounts whilst I am waiting. From ten o’clock till midnight,” and he
glanced at the timepiece. “It’s getting on for ten.”
Then he laid his hand upon the High Priest’s brow and eyelids, and the
peaceful sleep became a little heavier, the breathing longer drawn and
more pronounced; and then he pulled out a notebook, and began making up
a list.