Marigold A story
The nurse, who was a sensible woman, thought that he was jesting, and
she paid no attention.
After a while it was noticed that the dying man was becoming excited
and very restless. His hands worked incessantly, and his sinking eyes
gleamed with fire; but he could not speak, and the doctors thought
his tongue was partially paralysed, for he made many efforts to frame
words, but could not. Two or three times he tried to get out of bed,
but was forcibly restrained.
“If you don’t open the windows he’s safe to be like that,” said St
Armand, and he went over himself and unlocked the shutters, flinging
open the window and looking out into the blackness of the night.
Everything without was absolutely silent, but for the rustling trees,
swishing and bending in the wind, and the pattering rain-drops. For the
skies above the gardens at Marble House were moonlit and serene--these
storm-tossed and full of desolation.
And suddenly, in one of the long, intense pauses between gust and
gust, was heard the soft rumbling of wheels, the rhythmic trampling of
horses; and they came nearer and nearer into the courtyard underneath.
And every one who heard them--besides St Armand there were five persons
in the room--stood still and looked at one another, for there had been
the sound of many hoofs, not few. The High Priest likewise, panting
hard, sat up amongst his pillows, listening intently. Then, with a new
excitement, he tried to speak, opening his mouth grotesquely, no sound
issuing from the blue lips. It was so painful to see him, that those
around, accustomed as most were to death-scenes, never forgot it.
But St Armand, curiously callous, after glancing once round at him,
went abruptly from the room.
In the antechamber all was silent, till suddenly the panelled oaken
door burst softly open, and Mr Barringcourt walked into the room.
“You’re late.”
“I’ve no morbid taste for watching people die. How is he?”
“Oh! very lively. Fidget! fidget! incessantly. Now, how about last
night? All this is rather sudden.”
“Oh! last night passed quite all right. That is why he’s dying so soon,
as you know.”
St Armand had drawn himself up to that height when he matched the
Master.
“I don’t think it was so all right. So far as I have been able to make
out, he underwent no temptation.”
“Under the circumstances it would have been too strong for him. I kept
him sleeping.”
In the feeble light, each head thrown back, they looked at one another,
and the gleaming lightning from each pair of eyes filled the room with
a strange uncertainty.
“You kept him sleeping?”
“I did.”
“And what of Marigold?”
“She underwent the temptation instead.”
“That’s no test for him.”
“He is not qualifying for Heaven, you know--nor yet for Hell.”
“I’m not so sure of that latter. He ought to be. So Marigold underwent
the temptation? Well, I did for her what you should have done. I showed
her the way to go about it.”
“Yes. I think you rather went beyond the bounds of good taste.”
“Oh no. I blundered slightly, owing to your keeping so distinctly
neutral since your return. I wonder, Barringcourt, if you’ve shown any
distinctive skill over this game, or if a kindly Providence has done
the work for you. You seem to me to have been particularly blind all
through.”
The Master laughed lightly.
“You’ve just hit it. I’ve been as blind as a bat, with the one
redeeming feature that I was there at the climax. I wondered you had
left the coast so clear.”
“Yes. I presumed too far upon a lover’s quarrel.”
“And you’ve discovered your mistake.”
“That confounded beggar girl! She tricked me, she tricked you, she
tricked him, and she tricked herself. Would I have wasted two minutes
over her, if I had known from the first who she was? ‘Remarkably pretty
girl,’ thought I at first; ‘too pretty to have been made for nothing.’
Then I saw Alphonso casting sheep’s-eyes that way. ‘Just the tool I
want,’ thought I. ‘The one I’ve been looking for all over.’ And so she
led us on all through, skill-less and innocent. All the same, she’s
a fascinating little thing, Barringcourt. Just when you think she’s
going to do something very, very bad, she does something exceptionally
good--and when you anticipate something most saintly, then you’ll have
to be careful. What are those papers?”
“For him to sign.”
“You’ve settled to close to-night, then?”
“Yes. I’m taking back all we ever gave him. There won’t be much left
for you then.”
“No. I’m not keen on a husk. All the same, I think Vestasian should
have given him another chance.”
“What! In all the record of these pages there is not one ‘Thank
you’--not one sincere and humble prayer of thanks.”
“I mean you should have given him a chance of going to Hell.”
“You’ll never miss him. The crowd is amply big enough. I must go in.
Good-night.”
“Good-night. Remember me to Marigold when next you see her. Till we
meet again!”
And so he went--and that little game was over. Plucritus checkmate--yet
most even-tempered through it all.
And the Master went into the death-chamber, and the doctors,
recognising him, made way, for, though he was but Dr Quack, he never
advertised, and they had gained so much from his advice to them when
struggling, unknown doctors, that they had called him “the Physician,”
not knowing who he was.
The Master took the feverish pulse in his cool hand, his eyes looked
into the restless dying ones, and a calmness settled on the room--only
the shallow gasps were heard in quick succession.
And at last, to the surprise of all those who had watched beside him,
the High Priest panted “Pen and ink,” and almost instantly the shallow
breath had flown, and life departed.
And afterwards they thought all kinds of things, and wondered what he
wished to write--wondering in vain.
That done, the Master left the High Priest’s Palace, and took the
direct path to where he had fixed to meet Marigold.
Meanwhile, at midnight, as he had directed her, she had passed through
the door in the shadowy stables--remembering how she had first crept
through there--the terror and emotion.
And turning to the left, she walked on through the silent country,
thinking on all the strange events of the past, so curiously linked
with those of the present.
And she thought of Alice too--Alice, who would not be comforted--even
with a comfortable pension, paid each month. And then most naturally
her thoughts flew to the Master, and all the long waiting and the
tender love, and the misunderstandings that, if possible, had endeared
them to each other.
And, as the road grew steeper, her attention was directed to the scenes
around.
Below, the blue abysses, hidden in mists, with jutting pinnacles of
rock rising from out of them. Mountains and wooded plains on every
side--massed peak behind peak into the far distance. Yet, covering the
path where she was walking, a velvet carpet of mountain flowers blowing
in the moonlit breezes. And above, the mystic rowan berries, scarlet
and drooping--a contrast to the white airy bells beneath. And, thrilled
with the intense beauty of the scene, Marigold sat down and waited.
And then, in the far distance, she heard a merry whistling, rich and
clear, that came vibrating on the moonbeams--a simple shepherd song
they sang in the mountain valleys, in that Land of Song where she had
lived--a child.
And Marigold rose to her feet, smiling and joyous; and, as the sound
came nearer, she began to sing--the old sweet notes, yet now far
sweeter, that Patches used to love. And her rich notes, mingled with
that flute-like accompaniment, caused all the air to tremble, and, from
the shading bowers and trees around, a thousand merry throats poured
forth a song--the magic notes of the perfect nightingale--passion and
tenderness and love all blended with gaiety and Heaven’s sadness too,
not that of duller spheres. Then, on an instant, the merry whistle
ceased, Marigold’s song, and the birds’ ecstatic trills. For he had
climbed the last steep point and stood beside her.
Intense stillness; the air still vibrating, though the song had gone in
a thousand echoes up to Heaven.
Without a word, with eyes for no one else but him, she felt the strong
arms round her, drawing her to his breast.
And thus they soared away, high over peaks and precipices, above the
moon--the song of birds in the distance, like the lark in the deep blue
sky; and beauty and light all round them, the rosy shafts of sunrise
dyeing the silver rays of the moon.
THE END
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Reginald Turner’s Novels
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Castles in Kensington
Review of Reviews.--“Distinctly amusing.”
Dally Telegraph.--“We welcome the gaiety and humour with which
the book is brimming over.”
Times.--“A light, good-tempered, and amusing comedy.”
St James’ Gazette.--“A clever and delightful exposition of the
true art of trifling. No one with a taste for humour, without labels,
can help liking this book.”
Record.--“A thoroughly honest and amusing story, the aim of
which is to gently chide the pretentiousness of the more harmless type
of summer society at a minor French watering place.”
The Comedy of Progress
Pall Mall Gazette.--“A cleverly-written story of more than
usual interest. Mr Turner has here something to say, and says it well.
From the first page onward we ollow the career of Maurice Yorke with
close interest, an interest which never flags, and the final chapter
is in every way equal to the book’s earlier promise. There is nothing
slipshod, no falling off. The author has given us sterling good work
throughout. The characterisation of Lady Sothern is excellent--so human
withal. ‘The Comedy of Progress’ is a brilliant novel, its title, by
the way, fitting it like a glove.”
Morning Post.--“Readers will be delighted with the ‘Comedy of
Progress,’ by Reginald Turner. The story is told with skill and true
artistic effect. Lady Sothern is an artistically drawn character, full
of life and force. The charm and influence which she exercises over
all who know her are quite convincingly expressed, and the scene with
her husband when she confesses herself an old woman and stamps on her
jewels is very ably done. Mr Turner may be sincerely congratulated on
accomplishing a difficult task with more restraint and ability than one
generally expects in such efforts.”
The Steeple
Bookman.--“A story of ar more than average merit, strongly
imagined and developed with considerable craftsmanship....
Emphatically, this is a book to be read.”
Illustrated London News.--“One reads with unflagging interest.
The great merit lies in the very cool and effective demonstration of
character, and especially of character that is off conventional lines.
The psychology, perhaps, is not very deep, but in the plane on which it
works is remarkably given. We have thoroughly enjoyed ‘The Steeple.’”
Cynthia’s Damages
Shefflied Telegraph.--“Mr Turner s style is bright and
sparkling, and his powers of observation are evidently keen. Those who
read ‘Cynthia’s Damages’ will, we are convinced, look forward with
pleasure to another novel from the same pen.”
The Dally Telegraph.--“A story in which wit, humour, farce, and
sarcasm are admirably blended--an extravaganza brimful of fun, and
showing considerable power in the management of dialogue, as well as
in character-drawing. The author appears to be what the French call a
_blagueur_, and treats the affair of stage-life and society with a
polished and easy cynicism that evokes a smile and compels us to read
on.... The story from beginning to end is sprightly and vivacious,
contains many quaint touches of observation, and is altogether a
readable book”
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