Marigold A story
tin-voiced man in a peculiarly soft tone. “Only, poor women are like
rich ones in the matter of dress--they like a frequent change. I only
recognise her by her extremely colourless eyes.”
“Last night she came and begged gold of me. I was astonished and
displeased that any one so young could be so bold at begging.”
Marigold sat and listened; it scarcely seemed to her they were speaking
of herself--she heard as a rather interested third person might, with
an occasional deeper prick.
She noticed a sudden interest come into the other’s eye--as again he
looked across at her, his mouth smiling, his eyes not troubling to.
“Asked gold of you? Ah! I forgot. Your position makes it quite
respectable for her to do so.”
“Oh, quite. It was not on those grounds I objected. Though I believe
she is not the one to have discriminated as to whom she asked. Any man
catching her eye would have been met with the same request.”
“I hardly agree with you--hardly agree with you. Why did she want gold?”
“The old tale--mother dead--father drunk--a large family.”
“There are none here beside her to-day, I notice.”
“Now you mention it, I notice also. Pierman, just step across to the
young girl yonder with red hair, and tell her I wish to speak to her
when the meal is over.”
Marigold noticed the smile had travelled for a moment to the other’s
eyes--then, as if it never had been there, it vanished.
She received the message calmly--once in a day to have shown the white
feather, or even a vestige of it, was quite enough for her. She laughed
to herself, enjoying the situation--a certain something running riot
in her blood. She with such a saintly face--and prayers night and
morning.
The High Priest had retired to the upper end of the hall; soon grace
was said, and the satisfied crowd prepared to depart in order. Then
Pierman, the attendant, came once more and conducted Marigold away from
that part of the building altogether, through baize doors and long
stone corridors, till the smell of dinner and diners had disappeared
through open windows and doorways, and only what was spotlessly clean
and beautiful met the eye and nose.
Then, when they came to the large library, Pierman withdrew. Marigold
found herself in a vast chamber with wide open windows opening on
grass-covered cloisters. Two secretaries sat writing at oaken tables,
matching the panelled walls. Eaglestone was going over a list of
engagements with his superior; the guest stood a little apart, a cigar
between his teeth. The fragrance was particularly delicious, and she
noticed the curious red glow at the end of the stump; also on his long
white finger she noticed a blood-red ring. Again the persistent eyes
sought hers, and this time Marigold drew up her head and looked back at
him--and, because he smiled very pleasantly, she smiled too. Then, and
not till then, did he remove the cigar definitely from his mouth.
“You will object to this pernicious habit?”
“No--please don’t. Remember I have been in the poor people’s
dining-hall, and it positively reeked of typhoid.”
Her voice was low, but there was a sparkle in it. The curious eyes
seemed to hold her like a doll in the centre of a target, yet Marigold
stuck to her ground, and the good people would have thought the
something running in her blood was very, very bad, and the bad people
would have misunderstood it too.
“You must not let the High Priest hear you speak so. These dinners are
his pet charity.”
“Ah! and a very gracious charity too, sir,” and she clasped her hands
in a certain mocking humility and looked up at him. “We who are very
poor, only know how gracious.”
“You enjoyed the roast beef and suet pudding?”
“Indeed, I was very hungry. But the old man next to me would use his
fork to the potatoes instead of a spoon, and the man with a wooden leg
on the other side--oh! he was worse. He had a cold, and he has given it
to me--I _feel_ he has.”
And Marigold sneezed from sheer naughtiness, and everybody in the room
looked up, and everybody smiled--and then the High Priest came forward
with the stately walk that she could imitate so well.
“My child, I wish to speak to you,” said he, and laid his hand solemnly
upon her shoulder. This she had never been prepared for. In connection
with herself she had always looked upon him as a man--and--and--here
he was acting the priest. In her astonishment and silent laughter, she
quite forgot to appreciate the condescension, yet with a miraculous
suddenness liked him sincerely for his way of speaking.
Acting, which was no acting, came as usual to her assistance.
Never humblest, shyest beggar girl looked more sweet than she, as she
glanced up at him.
“I’ve brought your holiness the change back out of six loaves of bread.
The children thank you very much for them.”
“I said you were to keep the change. Why have you not brought the
children here to-day?”
“I thought only the grown-up people came to the dinner. I thought one
had bread tickets for the children.”
“Only the very young ones. Those over eight come here; they have a
table to themselves.”
“All mine are under eight.”
“How many are there?”
“We have--six. Five with the baby.”
“And you--how old are you?”
What indignities the poor must undergo!
“I--I really don’t know how old I am. Mother lost the birth
certificate, and father knows nothing at all--he never did.”
Then the guest laughed, and the High Priest followed suit.
“You mean you don’t intend to tell us?” said the former.
“I mean I really don’t know.”
“You are in an enviable position for a woman. Now, can you tell us your
address?”
She looked at the High Priest. He was certainly easier to deal with
than his companion, but he also seemed to expect this information.
“We live in a very poor part, your holiness. Father’s drinking has
brought us to it. We were quite respectable at one time.”
“Still, I should like your address. I think if you were put under
suitable care you would promise better things than a beggar girl. It
is a disgrace you should be one.” Here he glanced at the fine old
clock between two windows, and continued more hurriedly: “Give me your
address, and I will see what can be done for you.”
Marigold went a trifle pale. Like most people who don’t scheme deeply,
and like some who do, her plans seemed just now rather shaky, but she
answered at random, and recklessly: “3 Mouse Court, Midget Lane.”
The High Priest was about to copy it, when his companion interrupted
him by a laugh.
“There is no such lane or court in the city,” said he. “The little girl
has made a mistake.”
And here Alphonso looked at her, and his face took on the hard look
that was habitual to it, and with much excuse.
“You understand, of course, to whom you are speaking?”
Tears were in her eyes.
“Yes, indeed. I live No. 5 Friar’s Court, just outside the Temple
Close.”
“Thank you!” Then he rang a bell, and she was dismissed.
CHAPTER VI
“Alice! Alice! where are you? Come quickly.”
And Alice appeared at the head of the narrow stairway and came
accordingly.
“Alice! I am quite returned to my old way of feeling. I love him
adoringly--all the better for that horrid feeling of coldness I had
last night.”
“Is it the High Priest you have seen?” Alice asked, with as much
superstitious horror in her voice as is consistent with materialism.
“Of course. Did I not say I should see him? And oh! what I went
through first! Rags and dirt and vulgarity and bad language--actual
bad language though they spoke it low down. And soapy potatoes--at our
table anyway. And--and--oh! Alice, what _do_ you think?”
“I think nothing but ill-luck to us, Princess!”
“Don’t be dull! Think! Whom do you think I saw there with
_him_--with my star of Eden?”
“Indeed, no one short of the devil under the circumstances--and I speak
with piety.”
“Never heard of the devil. He isn’t fashionable with educated
classes--not on Lucifram. Now guess again!”
“His Chaplain?”
“No. _The man we saw this morning under the archway!_”
It is no exaggeration to say that Alice both started and turned pale.
She put her hand up warningly.
“Remember what you said--about being knocked off the chess-board,
Princess!”
“Oh! I’ve forgotten about that. He was quite fascinating. Not any more
ill-mannered than he could possibly help being!”
“Did you speak to the High Priest?”
“Yes, I went into his own private rooms--just imagine it! The sensation
was delicious. I don’t suppose many women have often gone there, do
you?”
“None except in a religious cause, I should think.”
“Well, my cause wasn’t religious. He sent one of the attendants to
take me to him. And he put his hand on my shoulder ever so nicely. No,
don’t open your eyes. It was quite in accordance even with Board-School
etiquette; there were four there besides himself and me.”
“Did you curtsey to him?”
“No, I did better still. I looked as if I simply worshipped the ground
he trod on. And I felt it too--really felt it.”
“With other people present?”
“Of course. It would have been too dangerous otherwise. And then he
asked me where all the children were.”
“What children?”
“Oh! I said I was one of a large family, you know: drunken father--and
six children--me the eldest--the next one about eight.”
“They never believed that?”
“Of course they did. The only time men don’t believe you is when you’re
speaking the truth--at least, taking them out of business hours.
They’re worse then; they won’t even believe you then when you’re
telling lies.”
“And that was all of your visit. You came away then?”
“No. He--he wants to reform me--make me give up begging. I think he
thinks I would make a good nun. He says it is a disgrace anybody should
be dressed in rags.”
“He is an honourable gentleman. I always knew it. I wonder your royal
highness does not shame to behave as you insist on doing?”
“There was never any shame attached to royalty. It’s a base feeling
that belongs purely to the lower orders. If you are _really_ royal
you are born without shame, live without it--die without it. Don’t
speak to me about anything so plebeian again, Alice.”
“Then you have promised to reform?” said Alice, much sat on, and but
imperfectly understanding.
But Marigold’s face beamed out once more all smiles and dimples.
“Oh no; he is too _clever_ to believe in promises. He has asked
for our address.”
“Sakes alive! Sakes alive! Princess, we’re done for. All the priests
knowing where we live. And that white-haired man with the little body
and big eyes. Oh! I daren’t stay here any longer, I dare not really.”
“Alice, you are a much braver woman than you take yourself to be. You
will certainly stay.”
“Not if he is coming.”
“Which _he_?”
“The man we saw this morning.”
“No one will ever think of coming except a very respectably dressed
priest of the lower orders, or perhaps a sister from the convents. And
they have most of them very sweet faces. I think I should like the
sisters.”
“They wouldn’t like you, if they knew what you are about.”
“But I should never tell them. All the same, I hope they don’t come.
Women won’t laugh and be easy with you--not religious women. When the
High Priest asked me my address, I was so afraid I told him wrong, and
he would have believed me, only his friend laughed and said there was
no such address in the town. Then he was very displeased with me. He
spoke to me as if I were nothing but the poorest beggar, and he--oh!
far above me; and then was when I loved him. I suppose it _must_
be love, for I felt I should never leave him--till--till he knew I
was a princess, even in my rags. He had no business to speak to me
so, even if I had told him lies. I am too beautiful. I can speak his