Marigold A story
“It will spare time when he is dead,” said he.
And twice he got up from his chair beside the invalid and opened the
heavy eyes. They stared out as meaningless and fixed as death, yet the
Master had been trained to read the mental impression of long-past
incidents that still remained.
So absorbed was he again in writing, that he never heard the clock
strike, nor presently the softly opened door.
And there stood Marigold, perceived by no one. And all the mourning
colours, clinging black and simple white, she wore since Patches’
death had vanished. And instead, there stood a radiant vision, a shot
effect of ruby and amber and emerald, changing and glowing even in the
firelight. A wealth of hair dressed to perfection, yet neat and close
enough to show the shape of her dainty head, bosom and arms quite
uncovered, white and shining too, more so in contrast to the glowing
shades beneath, and here and there a gleaming jewel. But beside her
face all the rest was insignificant.
The pallor and extreme thinness had vanished. She seemed more like
the Marigold of olden times, yet with a difference, a ten-times’
difference. She had learnt everything that goes to make a woman, and
no ordinary woman, but one in the highest, broadest sense--one born to
true and natural impulse, but just now a bit thrown out of the course,
and having no restraining force in the world’s opinion, Death being so
near at hand.
To her the room was so dimly lit, that, looking in, she mistook the
figure sitting by the sleeper for St Armand, for she had learnt the
deception of the white head and shrunken form.
“You here!” she said, coming in and closing the door behind her; “you
said you were going to leave me all alone.”
Then he sprang to his feet with a start, and she stood still scarcely
six paces off in the flickering firelight, her hand upon a chair, each
looking at the other, almost horror-stricken--scarcely comprehending
what it was that brought the other there.
“Yes, I am here,” he said at last, deliberately, closing the book as
slowly, and putting it away. “I am here. I’ve come to stay.”
“Well now, that is very strange, because I’ve come for exactly the same
thing.”
Marigold looked dangerous--dangerous in temper as well as in beauty,
though her voice was subdued. She had set her mind on this night’s
escapade, still felt every pulse thrilling with the touch of St
Armand’s hands upon her wrists, and in dressing she had laughed at
and hated the Master, feeling that he, and he only, had driven her to
this--hated him for making her hate herself through failing to win the
love she coveted.
“Then,” said he, just as slowly, his eyes full on her, “we will both
stay.”
“Oh no, I will awaken the High Priest, and he shall settle for us, I
think--I really think you will have to go.” And she took another step
forward, laughing.
He shook his head.
“He is too fast asleep. I’ve drugged him for a few hours to come. I did
not know that you were coming.”
She heard the heavy breathing, and her face set like marble, and a
terrible anger flashed into her eyes; and then as suddenly she laughed.
“Ah, well!” she said, “I will stay till he awakes.” And she took one
of the unconscious hands, fondled it in her own, and kissed it. And,
as she did so, she looked up sideways at the Master, her vivid eyes
gleaming.
“How long will he sleep?” she asked.
“Till midnight.”
“Oh, that’s not long, only a little over an hour. I have lived long
enough to learn a little patience.”
And still she held the thin intellectual hand, and yet she knew the
gleaming eyes above were watching it and her, and that the silence had
something terrible about it.
“You will tire of standing. You had better take a chair.”
“I can look after myself, thank you. I am perfectly acquainted with the
room.”
Again silence settled, and at last, with a gesture of impatience, she
began walking about the room--the soft swishing silk, and the delicate
scent of violets that Timothy had loved so much, having their own
fascination to make up the total sum.
Mr Barringcourt leant his elbows on the mantelpiece, and looked into
the fire.
She had turned on one light, and still continued pacing back and
forwards; and the clock struck the hour before midnight.
“I think,” he said at last, quietly and steadily, “it would be much
better if you composed yourself a little. There is no need to move
about so incessantly.”
“Don’t!” she cried, stopping abruptly. “Don’t stand there and preach to
me. You are ten times worse than I am--only you--you have made up your
mind not to show it.”
“Do you seriously intend to stay here till he awakes?” He had turned
round to her again.
“Yes. I’ll stay, if only for the pleasure--of seeing you--s-sent away.”
“And then what?”
“Oh! then I will stay for the pleasure of staying.”
And her head was very high, and she looked at him unflinchingly.
“Pleasure?” said he, and he raised his eyebrows.
And Marigold laughed quite naturally, and raised her eyebrows too.
“That is why I came,” she said. “The High Priest is very fond of me,
and I have grown fond of him. Perhaps you wish to take _him_ away
from me too--like you did Timothy Wiggs.”
The Master looked across at her, more narrowly than before.
“You are not yourself to-night.”
“I’m afraid I cannot say the same of you. You are as irritatingly
superior as ever you were.”
And she clasped her hands in the old attitude, and he turned abruptly
back to the fireplace; and she mistook the action for dislike, and she
laughed again--a low, dangerous laugh.
And once more, this time with a face more set and white than ever, he
turned again to her.
“Marigold----”
“You shall not call me Marigold. To you I am the Princess of Ellel.”
A queer, stiff smile came to his lips for an instant, then disappeared
again, as he bowed his head in acknowledgment of what she said.
“Princess, have you thought seriously about to-night?”
“That is my own affair entirely. It has nothing to do with you. I
have thought over it perfectly seriously.” Her tone was anything but
serious.
“And have you weighed to-morrow morning?”
“Why to-morrow morning?” she asked carelessly, her eyes travelling to
the High Priest.
“Because then the excitement of to-night will quite have died away.
There will be nothing but a memory left in the place of--of all this
that you anticipate.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and began drumming with her fingers upon
the table-cloth.
“To-morrow mornings come to every one.”
“But some are pleasant, and some are very black.”
For the moment she looked at him seriously, and opened her lips as if
to ask a question. Then remembering, and feeling the burning scars upon
her neck--the only blemish to her beauty--she began pacing about again,
making no answer.
“Have you thought about it?” he asked again at length.
“Oh! your voice will drive me mad--it’s worse than a corncrake” (and
yet it was the voice that Marigold had always dreamt about). “Yes, I
have certainly thought about it. I don’t mind to-morrow morning in the
least.”
“He is not your equal.”
“Oh yes. He is the highest dignitary in the Church, and comes of a good
family.”
Another pause. Then suddenly he took a step nearer to her, and her
heart gave a curious flutter of alarm, but her face showed nothing, and
the feeling was but momentary.
“Marigold--Princess--whatever you are, listen to me.”
“No, I won’t,” she said; and put her fingers up to her ears, with all
the waywardness a child might show.
And suddenly both the delicate wrists were caught in hands as gentle as
they were strong. Yet Marigold cried out with a sudden pain, as if he
hurt her, and her cheeks went deathly white. But he held her at arm’s
length, and his face was stern and set, and every feeling repressed as
in a vice of iron.
“You have no regard for yourself,” said he. “So now I ask you to think
of other people. I am going to make a very unusual, perhaps to you
ridiculous, request. I am going to ask you to give up this man for the
sake of another woman.”
“Ah! has he, too, some one else who loves him?”
“No. I ask it for the sake of the woman I love.”
The green eyes flashed, and she tried to shake the hands off her
wrists.
“Ah! that woman--that Rosalie--Rosalie, what is her name?--I hate her.
How could any man love such an insipid doll as she?” And her breath
came in angry pants.
But the shadowy eyes, with their strength and beauty, looked full
into hers. “Whatever she is, I love her. That is enough for me. The
High Priest harmed and wronged her, but it was done ignorantly, in
justifiable bigotry--and--and some dislike. It is forgiven him--mostly
forgiven, any way. But her life has been curiously connected with his,
and even yet she may be obliged to suffer through him. I love her very
much, this woman whom you hate. If you make him sin, as to-night you
must do if you persist in staying here, it is she who must suffer for
it--she and I. I had hoped to see her very soon--in a few days--to make
her my wife. This act of yours will separate us many years again--a
lifetime, reckoned on Lucifram.”
“And--and I can separate you--by staying here to-night?”
The terribly strained expression on his face had only one meaning for
Marigold--that of love for another woman.
“Yes. You can separate us. Perhaps for ever. I cannot tell.”
She burst out laughing.
“Then of course I will. What fool do you take me for?” And she wrung
her hands free of his, and laughed again in scorn and mockery.
When he spoke again, his voice was almost inarticulate.
“You remember Timothy?”
“What?”
“Timothy. You remember him?”
“Oh yes. The little Wigg boy.”
“This act of yours may also be his death.”
“He is dead.”
“His spiritual death.”
“Ah, then!”--and she held her hands out eagerly like a child--“give him
to me. I’ll take care of him. If you can’t, I will.”
“Be careful,” he said harshly. “Be careful. You’ll try me too far. I
have stood too much already. What is your decision?”
“About Rosalie?”
“Yes.”
“I--I hate her.”
“And you will let this ugly passion get the better of you, along with
others?”
“You--you have ugly passions as well as I. Remember how you shook
me--and--and all because of her.” And her hand went up to the pearls at
her throat, consciously this time.
“I have asked your forgiveness.”
Then suddenly Marigold stiffened, and she asked sharply:
“Is--is Timothy to be her child?”
“Yes.”
“Then I--I--will he die otherwise?”
He simply nodded.
Then a long silence.
And at last Marigold’s face softened, and almost immediately every
feature was twisted with pain and anguish.
She put one hand up to her throat, as if stifling, and the other on
to her open lips, white and drawn with pain, and, with her great eyes
fixed on his, after one glance at the High Priest, she crept from the
room. And, when she passed the Master, she crept far from him, near to
the wall; yet all the time her eyes were fixed on his, and she looked
like a wizened little woman, very plain and very old, and the wondrous
dress seemed nothing but a wretched mockery.
And closing the door behind her, she crept down the stairs, one by
one, heavily, wearily, on into the open garden. And here the moon was
shining brightly--but what was that to her? She crawled along through
grounds and park, till she came to the Temple close--then towards a
side door used only by those in authority, and thus into the Temple.
And first she dragged herself towards the famous panels; and there the
laughing, tender eyes looked down on her--the moon shining full upon
the lovely face.
“His mother. And I--I’m dying--because I wasn’t used to nursing sick
people--and I caught his disease--that’s all.”