CHAPTER XVII

And now Marigold’s days were fully occupied. The nurse came at ten, and stayed till nine in the morning, and after that Marigold’s duties began, though she invariably went in before with breakfast, and scraps of news, and to have a talk with the nurse, from whose experience and professional knowledge she learnt a great deal concerning the management of the sick.

Each day Mr Barringcourt came at his accustomed hour, and each day, no matter how bad little Timothy might be, he slept peacefully and happily in the strong arms that so tenderly held him.

Marigold, during this time, would sit in her seat beside the fire, sewing or knitting; very quiet, as unobtrusive as the best-trained nurse could ever hope to be.

And Alice noticed the gradual change in her, the paler colouring--the rounded contour of youth being moulded to a more delicate and classic moulding. And sometimes, as she heard the merry laugh less often, and the quick tongue slower to answer and more gentle, she felt the shadow of anxiety creep over her, and then she would say:

“She is better there. Work is good for her. This little boy was sent by Heaven to take her mind off the High Priest and her infatuation.” Thus did Alice reason, wisely yet foolishly, and only feared the strain upon her mistress’s health--forgetful that the young are strong. Yes. In the little cottage there was much to alter Marigold, for in the magnitude of splendour it was a palace.

The little crippled child--so patient, so winning, so clinging, so interested in life, so swiftly passing towards Death’s solemn secret--how much he taught her every day! unfolding as a rosebud opens, and with silent pain, every tender passion and all the mother-love stored in her nature. But that was only part of Marigold--only a part, though an important one, and in itself complete. But something deeper grew as well, strong and more painful--something that she scarce believed, and did not, would not, understand.

For here had come into her life, just at that headlong stage when the world is a plaything and life a toy, the strong current that starts with love, goes on to pain, and, for the strong, ends in life that is not borrowed nor restricted.

She would sit and watch the Master as he played or talked with Timothy--the forgotten third, greatly remembering.

At first she had smiled as she bent over her sewing--the High Priest far in the recesses of her mind--smiled to think how she would defeat the Master by no other weapons than those easily at hand--beauty and tact and fascination. So from the first, after that little outburst near the Temple, she had taken his criticisms meekly--half acting, half really feeling, as the true actress must ever do. And therein lay the first great germs of danger, that latter half.

And each day went by slowly, and each day he came, with the same coldness for her, the same tenderness for little Timothy. And, as the days went by, Marigold felt it very hard to stand. It was as if she were left outside the gates of a sunlit garden--alone in the wilderness--with no one, whilst they two had each other.

And by degrees, as he took no notice of her, she took to studying the Master--his fine head, the eyes in which she read all that dangerous tenderness, not meant for her--the whole fascination of a personality no human being yet of Lucifram ever withstood.

Why would he not treat her as a child too, and let her join them in the conversation? At times, it was almost more than she could bear--this love of his for the little cripple--this coldness to herself. No wonder that the child-like, merry laugh had vanished--the merry answer from a merry tongue--and the round pink cheeks of happy, thoughtless youth.

One day he had come in again in the afternoon, and Timothy’s wooden soldiers were out upon the table. He had sat down beside him, and had arranged them all for marching, and then he told a story about each one--their big adventures--how this one lost an arm, that one a leg, this his nose, and this his head. He told them with such realism and sympathetic feeling, that Timothy sat entranced, Marigold too; she had never heard the Master telling tales before, and had realised only the two extremes of his nature--coldness and tenderness. But now she saw the playful humour in his eyes, watched his power of mimicry, and that great understanding of human nature that underlay it all; and she found herself wondering many times who could he be?--where, after all these years, had he suddenly come from?

Sometimes during his visits he would turn to her with an occasional look or word, and now and then their eyes would meet; but, with a sickening feeling of disappointment, Marigold would notice the hard, cold look that immediately stole into his--repellent almost in its severity. Why? Why? Was she not behaving to the best of her ability? Behaving perhaps too well--for it all came so naturally, no acting now--except the forcing back of all feeling--for pride’s sake, yet not quite pride alone.

To her, untamed, wholly impulsive, the fight with nature was well-nigh unendurable. Yet who could have passed through that icy barrier he had set between himself and her? And, on the other hand, was Timothy, teaching the big lessons of silence, self-control, and non-complaint.

So Marigold passed through the first great fire--the first passion of unrequited love--and came out partly purified.

At last there came a day when Timothy could no longer dress and come downstairs. The shadow of death was gathering round, cruelly, slowly--some weeks yet, no doubt, before the lingering end.

For the first time in Marigold’s presence there, the doctor came upstairs, and she heard his step upon the steep wooden stairs with more than usual beating of her heart.

As he entered the door, their eyes met. He was looking in the best of spirits, yet she had expected to find him sad.

“Timothy is too tired to get up to-day,” she said gently.

“And some one else looks tired too,” he answered, the first attention or kindness he had in any way bestowed upon her. Who can blame Marigold if, from the pallor of waiting and watching, her cheeks flushed a rosy red, or if her eyes having once looked up to his, should suddenly sink to the ground again, and the deep colour die away, leaving her deathly white?

And then he sat down on the low bed by the cripple--and she knew instinctively that he had felt annoyance at her confusion.

Timothy was too weak and tired that day to sit up at all. He held the doctor’s hand very tightly in his hot fingers, and looked up at him with big, pathetic eyes.

Suddenly he said:

“Dr Quack, when I go away, will you get another little boy?”

“Why, no,” he answered; “you’re not going away. You’re coming to live with me, Timothy--coming to live with me.”

The big eyes were still fastened on him.

“But I’m dying, ain’t I?”

“No. You’re living. That is why I come to see you so often. If you were dying, I should stay away.”

“You’re sure I’m living?”

“Certain.”

“Even when I feel bad?”

“You won’t feel bad much longer, Timothy. Some day now soon you’ll have a big turn for the better. Then I’ll come and take you away.”

“And Miss Rags? Has she to come as well?”

“No. I think she’ll stay here.”

“But you said she was tired too. I think I should like us all three to be together.”

“We’ll see about her then.”

“Dr Quack, have you heard Miss Rags sing?”

“No.”

He turned his head to her side of the bed.

“Sing, please. Dr Quack’s never heard you.”

But Marigold could not even speak, and the doctor came to her assistance.

“Now I think of it, I have heard her sing, Timothy. I remember she has a very pretty voice.”

“It’s lovely. Dr Quack, you know my best queen, don’t you?”

“Yes. What of her, little one?”

Marigold had never heard him speak so before. His voice was so soft it scarcely rose above a whisper, and he bent nearer the little figure on the bed.

“Well,” continued the child, a certain excitement in his manner, “Miss Rags is just like her. She grows more like her every day.”

“I think you’re mistaken, Timothy.” He had never spoken so coldly to the invalid before, and he moved back stiffly.

“No. No. I’m not! Last night, when everything was quiet, she came down out of the picture--right down--and she came and sat on the bed and took me in her arms--and I closed my eyes and leant up against her--and--and I know it was Miss Rags. No one else feels like her--no other woman--not mother, nor nurse, nor Aunt Alice; they’re all kind and nice--but they aren’t half so soft to lean against as Miss Rags. They aren’t really.”

Then this strange and unaccountable man got up, for he was acknowledged throughout the whole of Lucifram to be eccentric, and he went and stood with his back to them, looking at the picture a long time. And Marigold watched his face, and understood the meaning of it--and from it, part of the reason of his unfailing coldness to her--yet not the whole of it. And suddenly she went up quietly and stood beside him, looking also at the picture; and she said almost in a whisper:

“Timothy gets strange ideas now and then, like most sick people do. I know I am not like the lady there, for she is good, acknowledged good, and I am only struggling to be.”

And the haunting eyes, half-tender, half-laughing, looked down on them.

And again, still very softly, she continued:

“Did you love her?”

And he answered sternly, turning to look down at her:

“I still love her. What is that to you?”

But Marigold’s face was very white and beautiful as she looked back at him, and she said:

“I asked, because she is so very beautiful.” And, forgetful of her own beauty, went back to the bed.

“It’s like, isn’t it, Dr Quack?” piped Timothy’s feeble voice from the bed.

“I don’t think so even yet.” And he turned very deliberately and went out of the room, even without saying “Good-morning” to them.

The look of pain on Timothy’s face was to Marigold well-nigh unendurable.

“Where--where’s he gone?” he cried, raising his head from the pillow.

“It’s all right, Patches, dear. He’s busy.”

“No. No. Miss Rags, he’s angry. I feel he’s angry. Because--because I said you were like my best queen.”

“You shouldn’t have said it, Timothy, dear. I’m not like her. She is in Heaven, very, very good--and I’m not good, though I try to be.”

“But I love you even if you’re bad--it doesn’t make any difference that.”

And then he relapsed into silence. But all that day he fretted, and twice Marigold found him with big tears in his eyes. And she sang for him every song she could think of, repeating often those which were his favourites. And just about four o’clock he called her to him, and he whispered: “Miss Rags, will you send for Dr Quack?”

“I don’t know where he lives.”

“But I do--it’s at the back of that picture.”

So Marigold went and found, as he had said, “Marble House, Greensward Avenue,” and she remembered noticing the building many times.

“What shall I say to him?”

“Ask him to come back. Say I’m very tired, and it’s making me tireder.”

But the message never went, because the doctor came before it got away.

“I’ve come to stay the evening, Timothy, to make up for running off this morning--I’ve come to stay till twelve o’clock.”

“No!”

“Yes. We’ll give Miss Rags an evening holiday, because she’s tired, you know.”

“But--but she always stays, and she always sings the evening hymns for me.”

“Do you wish to stay?”

“Yes, I wish very much. I won’t have him much longer--not--not if you are going to take him away. He--he loves me. So few people ever do that.”

“Then,” said he grimly, “you’ll have to sing the evening hymns for me as well as Timothy.”

And she answered very quietly:

“I sing the hymns to God.”