Marigold A story
And then she wandered out again to the central aisles, and for some
time she stood there uncertainly. And then at last she whispered, the
hollow echoes carrying the sound uncannily:
“I’ll go to the Serpent. It won’t matter, and I must go to
something--something strong. I’m dying.”
And she climbed up the many steps and crept within the heavy curtains.
And there the last pulse of feeling, given so strongly to her by St
Armand earlier in the evening, suddenly snapped--for the strange fight
had ended. And the fight being ended, and the wretched after-weakness
gone, the child-like sweetness and beauty returned to her features; and
stealing close to the golden table, she sank forward wearily upon the
topmost step.
“Little--little Patches.” A tear glided down her cheek, her lips parted
in the same tender smile that once before had parted his, and the whole
great building was silent--silent and lifeless too.
CHAPTER XXVIII
It was thus that two hours later the Master found her, the moonbeams
streaming down upon the golden Serpent, and thus directly down upon the
golden hair. And kneeling down upon the steps beside her, he raised
her head on his knee. And then, taking her in both his arms, the soft
white bosom, cold and stiff, pressed to his, and his warm lips upon her
frozen ones, he held her so a long time, till he felt the feeble pulse
in the new heart, and saw the tiny flutter of her eyelids.
That was all. With a sigh of relief he rose to his feet, still holding
her, and carried her away with him, through the private door, to where
the chariot and horses he used by night were waiting.
The moon was setting, the streets deserted still, and quite unnoticed
they came to Marble House. And then, leaving the horses in the charge
of one of his attendants, the Master himself carried her upstairs to
that same bedroom that Rosalie once had occupied for a week of tears.
And here he left her with a woman as silent and as dignified as
Mariana, though not the same.
And all that day till evening Marigold slept, and the long sleep of
health--heaven-sent, not Nature’s commoner medicine--was bringing back
the roses to her cheeks, as she nestled in among the silken pillows,
contented, and unconscious of everything around.
And, whilst she slept, the Master wrote a note to Alice, and sent it
off at daybreak.
“Your mistress is here, and will require your services at once.”
And when Alice saw the signature and the address, she threw up her
hands in consternation; but, being trained to obedience, returned in
the carriage that was sent for her.
This time there was no demur made at the door. She was conducted to Mr
Barringcourt’s study almost immediately.
“Where’s my young lady?--where’s my mistress?” she asked him bitterly,
suspiciously, before the door had closed.
“Upstairs, in bed. She is recovering from a long illness.”
“I’ll take her home. Sick people are always best at home. Let me go to
her.”
“At present she is fast asleep. I sent for you, because you are not
strange to her.”
“I’d like to know,” said Alice sturdily, “what she’s doing here. It’s
through no wish of her own--of that I am certain. She always called
you a heartless quack--a hignorant one, I mean. And--and I haven’t
forgotten the last time I came. You used some queer language then,
sir--quite unbecoming a gentleman.”
“So did you, Alice. You called me a big brute. I’ve done you the honour
of remembering it.”
“And you called us beggar-folk. My mistress! whom, I told you, was
better born than you are.”
“I remember that too. But I think we are perhaps about equal. Ellel
in Fairy Sky belongs to me. Most of the servants there know me well.
I think you are a more recent addition. You came with a very good
character, I believe. I remember seeing the testimonials.”
Alice’s eyes were wide open in amazement.
“Then--what--what about the Princess?”
He smiled.
“Nothing. At least, too long a story for repetition. I’m surprised
that you should let her act as a beggar girl, and thus cause all the
mischief that has followed from it.”
“Nay--I--I--I can’t turn her,” Alice stammered apologetically. “I tried
all I could--but what could I do? I followed on behind as well as I
could; but lately, since we went back to the old life, I’ve seen very
little of her. I--I wondered what all that fine dressing was for last
night, when all along she’s been in mourning. And when she said she
wouldn’t be back till into the morning, I felt that uneasy I wanted
to go after her, only I couldn’t. But I’ve never spied on her, and
she knows it. When I’ve followed her, I’ve followed her outright. She
didn’t tell me she was coming to you--and I--I thought she was going
somewhere else. But she perhaps wouldn’t bother to tell me she was
coming here, because, although she called you ignorant, sir, I believe
she had great faith in you. And I’ve always spoken ill of you since my
last visit here. I--I thought it might help to harden her.”
“Well, now you can come upstairs. I’ll take you. You’ll have nothing
to do but watch till evening; but I want you to be there when she
awakes. It will be somewhere about six. Then you will see she eats the
meal that is prepared for her, and afterwards I should like to see her
in this room. If you tell one of the attendants when the Princess is
ready, she will conduct her here.”
Then he led her upstairs, and when she saw her mistress sleeping
peacefully, with such an utter change from the last months, she burst
into tears and took the Master’s hand and wrung it in her own.
“I knew it! I knew it!” she cried, veering round to her first opinion
of him. “I knew it from the first, you were a clever man. I swore by
you, till you turned on us so suddenly after Timothy died. But then we
were all upset then.”
And the Master looked at her with tolerant good-nature; for, when the
mask was laid aside, he had sympathy and kindness too.
And so Alice waited alone in the room, and commented to herself upon
the curious furniture, and dwelt upon the Master’s conversation, and
put two and two together, yet could make very little out of it, except
the one thing positive--her mistress’s returning health.
And soon after six, Marigold moved--the first time in all that day; and
then she slept a little longer, and then moved again, and finally awoke.
And it was Alice’s broad, good-natured face that first met her eye. And
she sat up in bed, laughing and stretching her arms.
“What’s the time?”
“Six o’clock, Princess.”
“How early! I think I’ll get up, though. I feel so ready to.”
Alice smiled.
“It’s six o’clock in the evening, Princess.”
“Never!”
“Indeed yes. You must take this food before rising, though.” And she
brought in a tray from the outer room, that had just been left there.
“Thank you. I feel quite hungry. Where--where are we? I know this room
quite well. Where--where are we, Alice?”
“We’re in Dr Quack’s house.”
“Never! Oh! I say--it’s enough to take all my appetite away.”
“Indeed no, Princess. It is his prescription that is making you so
well.”
Marigold laughed--a charming mixture of fright, wonder, and
self-confidence.
“Ah, well!” said she, “I believe he owes me something. I believe
somewhere or somehow I’ve done him a good turn, and I certainly do
feel well. I feel so intensely happy, Alice--not too happy, but really
happy. Now, this is champagne, Alice--the real thing. Just taste--that
side of the glass. Isn’t it lovely?”
“Delicious!”
“I’ve eaten every scrap. And I could have eaten more, I’m sure. But
just let me think a minute or two. I seem all in a mist.”
And she rested her forehead on her hands, whilst Alice removed the tray
and began to prepare for dressing.
“Alice,” she called at last, with none of that restlessness that lately
had characterised her speaking, “I’m afraid I shall have to go as soon
as I’m dressed. I don’t feel quite equal to meeting him.”
“He said I was to tell you he wished to see you as soon as you found it
convenient to-night.”
“I don’t think I care to see him. I--he knows what an inferior kind of
woman I am. He knows better than any one. Indeed, he is the only one
who does know.”
“If you’re inferior, I don’t know what the other women are.”
“Ah! but I have been terribly silly and wicked too. And it’s no good
pretending with him that I haven’t been, because, somehow or other, he
has always been there, just when I’ve been doing something or other I
shouldn’t do. Oh! and I’ve been so spiteful and jealous too, Alice. I
really wonder how I can feel so well, when I’ve been so bad.”
But she got up and dressed, and Alice brushed out the wavy golden hair
with much greater pleasure than last night, and arranged the simple
white dress with greater pleasure too.
And at last Marigold stood ready, and she looked at herself in the long
mirror, and said with laughing excitement:
“You know, Alice, I don’t feel a bit like myself to-night--I don’t
really. I shall go to see the--Mr Barringcourt, and--and if he looks
superior, as he is nearly sure to do, I shall tell him I was very ill,
and I wasn’t responsible. Good-bye.”
And Marigold went with the waiting-woman, and she felt happy and
prettily confident, because, after all, as she had thought of it in
dressing, she remembered that the Master had not been at all superior
last night, that he had looked terribly worn and anxious, and had
appealed to her in a way that had surprised her. And not only that,
but she had conquered once and for all, after many weary months of
struggle, that lower nature, fierce and passionate, which, if it dies
at the right time, is the best guarantee of the higher life unhampered.
“He won’t keep me long,” she said, as she went down the staircase, a
smile lighting up her eyes. “He will be getting ready to go away to the
woman he loves.”
And there was nothing pathetic in her smile or words--but happiness and
laughter.
CHAPTER XXIX
Her conductor knocked at the study door, and the next minute Marigold
entered. The old feeling returned of familiarity with her surroundings,
and Mr Barringcourt, all anxiety banished from his face, seemed to
bring back still more remembrances. And Marigold looked at him, a
mixture of health and blushes in her cheeks.
“Good--good-morning,” she said, and held out her hand.
“Good--yes. Good-morning. You have slept very soundly through the
night.”
“Yes; and it is very pleasant waking. That is--if--if you will forget
all about my wickedness last night.”
“I can remember no wickedness--nothing but good.”
“Don’t you really think then it was very wicked of me?” And she looked
up at him seriously, evidently no judge of her own line of conduct.
“No.” And he looked at her honestly and simply.
“It is very kind of you. Ah! there is Rosalie’s (her intonation on the
word was very sweet) portrait, the one that was in little Patches’
room. You will be going to her, will you not?”
“Yes, very shortly.”
“And I wish you every happiness. But there is one thing, Mr
Barringcourt.”
“What is it?”
“When you are married to Rosalie, you will never tell her about me.
How I loved you and hated her, and all the things I did. She wouldn’t
understand, you know. Women haven’t so much sympathy with one another.
I don’t know how it is, but it is so.”
“I think she would have every sympathy with you.”
“But you will not tell her?”
“Not if you wish it.”
“What medicine did you give me, that has made me feel so well, so
different?”
“A very simple one. A moral tonic, prescribed specially by Heaven for
those who acknowledge their own weakness, and have conquered it.”
“I am thinking of going back to Fairy Sky very shortly. And, with all
due deference to you as a physician, I must go back to Mendona House