Marigold A story
to-night. I--I am beginning to study appearances, and I don’t think it
is quite the thing for me to be here. But I should like a bottle of
medicine, if you can spare it.”
“Oh! you will find the one dose quite sufficient. But why should you
not stay here? It is part hospital, part workhouse--and it will not be
for long.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me.”
And he led her into the inner room with all its appliances--scientific
and otherwise. And again the feeling of familiarity returned to
Marigold.
And there upon the table was a crystal, and he took it and gave it
into her hand, and set the room in darkness, with the door closed; and
then he came and held her other hand, and, on the instant, a pale-blue
mystic light lit up the magic ball.
She held it, gazing spellbound into it. And suddenly she saw a cottage
bedroom, and a girl kneeling there--a pretty girl, with flaxen hair and
a sad, thoughtful face. And again, the long vistas of the Temple--the
heavy curtains drawn, revealing the same figure kneeling before the
Serpent. And then again, the same girl in a garden surrounded by the
loveliest brilliant flowers, with a look of eagerness and expectation
on her face that Marigold somehow felt she understood. And then
instantaneously a blight had settled on the garden--the flowers
shrivelled and dead; but this as nothing to the human face, white and
paralysed of every feeling except despair and pain. And then a deep-red
glow, a palace garden, terraced and ornamented, a chariot and horses,
and two figures just for the instant--and one was the Master, and the
other the girl, who came and went all through.
“Rosalie.” The word slipped from Marigold’s lips, and then again was
silence.
And then the image of the Serpent melted within the pure white fires of
Heaven. Pure and intense--the real curtain that divides man from God.
And it seemed as if the crystal seethed and burned within this holy
light a long time; and though there came no forms or scenes with it, it
was to Marigold the most glorious scene of all, for she had felt and
understood that fire--so cruel, yet, to the strong, so kindly.
And then at last another garden, with long lawns and blossoming bowers.
And this time a little girl, playing alone, the sun having dyed her
hair a pretty golden. And then Marigold looked a little while, and at
last she put the crystal down, and she said:
“It’s me.”
And when the ordinary light came back to the room again, she looked
around with a new interest and a heightened colour, and she rubbed her
eyes.
“I don’t understand a bit,” she said.
“Neither did I,” he answered, smiling. “At least, not when you played
the beggar girl. That was rather an expensive whim of yours, Marigold.
Had I met you as the Lady of Ellel, I should have been prepared for
you, and all would have been smooth sailing from the first. But when
you’re looking for a Princess with a pair of lovely eyes, with an
expression in them you have learnt to love and know through all the
changes of eternity, and suddenly a beggar girl appears in rags, with
just the same expression, you are allowed surely to feel--well, some
annoyance.”
And Marigold laughed and clapped her hands.
“Oh! you are dull and stupid,” she cried gaily, shaking his arm and
almost dancing with delight. “Don’t you see, I--I couldn’t have done
anything better? I--I never knew what pain and suffering were till I
became the beggar girl.”
“You’d learnt it all before.”
“Ah! was I--was I--am I--Rosalie?”
“Did you not remember the scenes?”
“Ye-es--ye-es. I don’t understand it. I can only feel. But there
_must_ be a Rosalie, besides myself, because I was so horribly
jealous of her. You know I was.”
“I know. That proves how reasonless jealousy can be.”
“And have you known this all along, and never told me?”
“How could I? If you had acted consistently to what you were, all
through, there would never have been the slightest need for it.”
“Still,” said she thoughtfully, “I think there must have been some
purpose to fulfil in acting as I did.”
“Yes, one--Marigold. And thank Heaven the purpose is fulfilled--and to
our side the victory!”
“What do you mean?”
“It refers to the High Priest.”
She started, and the colour dyed her cheeks. “What of him?”
And seriously, too, he answered her:
“Last night was a serious time for you and for me, and for others. Had
the High Priest fallen, and through you, he would have been one more
big stumbling-block in the path from Lucifram to Heaven--and there are
many. They wanted a soul to fill the hole in the broken net, to make it
smaller. And he was chosen. But, since his election, for over quarter
of a century he has shown a remarkable attention to duties. He has
sacrificed in that direction almost more than a good man sacrifices
to his God. No sin against him--for narrowness and bigotry, if they
be genuine, are rarely let to count. In fact, the one great blot on
his life was that plot against the late High Priest, which Rosalie
exploded, and thus saved him a life-long penalty, and received small
thanks for it. And now you, Rosalie over again, but with the deeper
light of Heaven around you, came to him once again. Had he fallen,
he had gone to Hell, to fill an office most contemptible, with the
additional pain of hard imprisonment; for he, judging his Master hardly
for the same offence, unjustly, was falling into it himself--the common
fate of sinners. And you and I again had long been parted--lost to each
other--and, knowing little of futurity, I cannot say how long. For you
could not have lived in the higher state, even though almost of it,
with those untamed passions still alive in you.”
“Ah! but it was St Armand. I had felt good for months--almost since
little Patches went--and suddenly he came and put his arms around me,
and I was ill and weak. What could I do?”
“What, indeed? But I should have blamed myself. I should have known you
even in the beggar state, as Patches did.”
“Yes, he did--didn’t he? And you were so angry, and I thought you
silly, because I thought he was getting too weak to think or see
properly--and, being a doctor, I thought you should have known. And
there he has been the cleverest of all--of both of us. I’m so glad
I’m Rosalie, because it’s allowable to hate yourself. And I always
used to hate myself when I was jealous of her. It _sounds_ rather
mixed, but it doesn’t _feel_ mixed at all. I’m glad you’re Dr
Quack instead of a scientist, because you’ve taught me so many nice
things that they would shake their heads at. Do you think there are any
scientists in Heaven?”
“Oh yes. Hell too.”
“And--and can they get any one to marry them?”
“Yes. Without exception, they have very charming wives. I thought I’d
told you a story of one.”
“Oh no, you’ve never told me any stories--neither this time nor last.
You only kissed me twice last time too. And once wasn’t a kiss at all,
but what I call a mark of condescension.”
“And this time I haven’t kissed you at all.” And he turned and looked
down at her.
“Oh yes,” said Marigold rather shyly, and moving back a step or two,
“you’ve kissed me many times.”
And her hand went to the covering at her neck, and his eyes went there
too.
“If you’re a doctor, you should be able to make this all right,” she
said. And she removed the pearls, and held her face up, and he saw
the red mark at the side of her neck. And then very gently he drew
her to him, and stooped and kissed each place, and a deep rosy colour
spread over her neck and face, and when it had gone there were no marks
left--nothing but fairest beauty. And then impulsively, for his head
still bent towards hers, she raised her arms and clasped them round his
neck and kissed him.
And Marigold was very happy, because she knew she was secure in
that strong love and those strong arms. And now there was no
misunderstanding to dash the cup of happiness away, and leave nothing
but bitter, humiliating dregs, and ugly scars of memory.
* * * * *
That night she stayed with him for dinner--too happy to eat much,
radiantly contented.
“I don’t care very much for this house--do you?” she asked at length.
“No. It’s a necessity, so I tolerate it.”
“I think it would make me unhappy. It is so very gloomy, and the
servants are so unapproachable. Alice says they’re as proud as if they
were ‘the family.’”
He laughed.
“Poor Alice! You’ll have to pension her off, Marigold. You’re going
where Alice cannot follow.”
“When?”
“To-night.”
“But I have settled nothing. Remember, I have an estate in Fairy
Sky--I----”
“Oh! that estate is mine. That is why they sent you here. If I had
looked better after that bit of property, I should have met you
earlier, but I had no notion you were there.”
“It used to be very lonely, I can tell you. But it was very lovely. Now
this place----”
“Is a heathenish barracks. I agree with you. But it’s right enough for
business purposes.”
“Do you think if I began to re-arrange the furniture I could improve
upon it?”
He looked at her with a half-indulgent, amused look.
“Why, no. But if you only knew the number of ladies who have raved
about it, it would surprise you. They have considered it an ideal home
for their daughters. But I don’t. Now, I must be going.”
“Where?”
“To see the great High Priest.”
“When he awoke last night, how was he?”
“Worse.”
“Was he pleased to see you?”
“He did not see me. He was as blind as usual.”
“Will he get better?”
“No. He is dying.”
“And what are you going to do with him? He--he is not like Patches.”
“No. He will die. It is a merciful dispensation. He has just missed
Hell, and fallen far short of Heaven.”
“Had I met you earlier, before I went as a beggar girl, he would never
have known me.”
“Yes, he would. That is perhaps one of the advantages of your escapade.
You should then have tempted him, but under my protection.”
“Ah! and then he would have fallen. I think it was best that the
temptation should have come to me as it did, for I was stronger. When
will he die?”
“I expect to-night at midnight, for now there is no reason why he
should live. But he may be longer. It depends upon when St Armand and
myself have come to terms. It is only mortals who can foretell the
future; to others it is the great game, uncertain.”
But before he went away, he took her to the moonlit garden, and showed
her the stables with a doorway built in them, no longer cupboard-sized.
“At midnight come through here, and of two roads choose that to the
left. Either is right, but on the higher road you’ll meet me sooner.
I will come straight to you when I leave the High Priest’s Palace.
Good-bye for a little while.”
And so saying, he kissed her and went away. And Alice and she walked
through the moonlit gardens silently.
CHAPTER XXX
That afternoon the great High Priest had taken worse, and, as the
evening set in, all knew certainly that he had little time to live.
Nurses and physicians had been called to the dying bedside, and
conspicuously amongst the number was St Armand. Not conspicuous for
his attentions to the dying man, but simply for his presence there.
He was the only one who dared to defy appearances, and occasionally
to yawn. Moreover, he insisted on smoking his cigars--the High Priest
was too far gone to object, he said. Thus on till nearly midnight--a
gusty, showery night, with an eerie wind that rose and fell in sobbing
intervals.
“Sister,” said he, as the shutters were being closed and the lights
turned on, “how do you expect his holiness to die easily, lying under a
cross beam and with the windows shut?”
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“How, in the name of the Serpent’s three tails, is he to get away under
those conditions?”