CHAPTER XXII

So the next day Marigold and Alice returned to the Palace in the suburbs, which had been rented from a Duke whose pockets were always empty. And it was quite a treat again to be in the long gardens and the big airy rooms, away from poverty and the extreme closeness of neighbours. So, at least, Alice found--she who was less susceptible to surroundings than her mistress, yet at present evidently more so. For, though Marigold went back to her usual dress and her usual occupations, and received calls from certain stately ladies who had heard of her return from abroad, and returned them, it was all done without heart or life, or, rather, such a pathetic imitation that Alice could not bear to see.

For now no more the gay voice rang through the corridors, nor the merry laugh; and the stoutest, stiffest dowager might come and go without one smile, one wry face or mimic action as the door closed. Marigold, who did it with no thought of offence, nor forgetfulness of her own shortcomings, but because it came so natural, and one must laugh at these dear things just as one laughed at oneself. And now, instead of the bright colours that had so greatly suited her, she dressed in nothing but black; and one day, when Alice remonstrated, having heard some remarks from the servants on her altered looks, she turned to a window, and for a minute the absent colour rose in her cheeks.

“You forget; Timothy is dead,” she said, and the subject never rose again.

Yet to Alice, in these simple silk frocks, she looked more lovely than ever before; and then again, the other difference, the close band of velvet round her neck, hiding the red scar that still spoilt, and perhaps would always spoil, the lovely neck.

And many a time Alice would find her sitting alone in the big gardens with their bright-coloured flowers and the butterflies playing round, and to her the Princess looked nothing but that fairest, sensitive plant, the heavenly lily, transformed from a golden butterfly into something lovelier still. Then Alice, to hide her feelings, would scold from the distance, where she was not heard, and had no wish to be.

“Moping,” said she, in the homely language of those who are not taught to pick their words except in company. “Moping, and it’s not all for Timothy. And it’s wearing her into her grave. Consumption! That’s what he said to salve his conscience. Telling me the symptoms so that I might know them when they rose. And it’s as well, perhaps, because I’d never have guessed myself--I thought it was all the other way about. But what can I do--what can I do?”

And one day a brilliant idea struck her--send for St Armand. He who, in their return to the old life, had quite slipped her memory. Was he not a gentleman of good birth?--a friend of the great High Priest? And had he not promised her the best physicians?--though her mistress absolutely refused to have a doctor near the place.

So she wrote a plain letter to the address that he had given her--the High Priest’s Palace--and asked for his advice.

And the next afternoon Marigold walked out alone as usual in the flower-gardens, taking a book and some trivial needlework, and sat as usual, thinking and grieving, and scarcely understanding what she felt. And looking up, she beheld St Armand approaching her, with the easy confidence that characterised him.

“Marigold! This is better than a game of hide-and-seek--now that I’ve found you.”

His manner was so kind, his voice so cheerful, that she smiled, though the colour had risen all over her neck and face, for he was one of the links in her past life--had he not been intimately acquainted with the doctor?

“How did you find me?”

He sat down beside her. “A restless activity that leads me to discover everything. You have treated us somewhat shabbily.”

“Whom?”

“Myself, who wished to be your friend; and the High Priest, who wished to be your lover.”

Marigold took up the handkerchief she was embroidering.

“Believe me, I have grown too old for that last. I am no longer so thoughtless as I used to be.”

“How old _are_ you, Marigold?”

“I don’t know. They never kept count, and it was impossible, under the circumstances, that I should do.”

And the first tantalising smile crept on to her face as she looked across at him, though with a difference from the olden times.

“You’re not too old for friendship, though. I will speak candidly--you’re looking very ill.”

She drew herself up a little stiffly.

“It is the climate.”

“The climate is delightful. You nursed Timothy Wiggs too untiringly.”

“Don’t call him Timothy Wiggs. We never--I never used his last name.”

“I think, if you could bring yourself to call him Timothy Wiggs six consecutive times without stopping, you would be quite cured of your infatuation.”

“Sir!” said she, rising to her feet.

“Saint, you mean. Sit down, Princess. It is only fools and hypocrites who can’t bear plain speaking. Sit down.”

He spoke so authoritatively, that somehow she obeyed him.

“You imagined a great deal about Timothy Wiggs, you know.”

“Oh, please don’t. He was the sweetest little boy I ever met.”

“I don’t doubt. They’re all sweet when they’re too ill to make themselves obnoxious in any other department. Shall I tell you why you got to imagining great things of the little Wigg boy?”

“No.”

“Yes. Barringcourt came along with his good looks and better figure. He talked a lot of nonsense to Timothy, and incidentally to you--he’s good at it. And the nonsense was so sweet, you fell in love with it. Believe me, it’s all nonsense from beginning to end.”

“It isn’t,” and unconsciously she put her hand up to her throat.

“Oh no. _That_ isn’t. But the rest is. He has a temper that would lock most men up in a lunatic asylum.”

No answer.

“Not only that, but he is absolutely made without a heart.”

The white hands trembled over the embroidery.

“Not only that, but he has a habit of despising those who show theirs too freely--as perhaps, being young, you may have done.”

The handkerchief had fallen--her hands were clenched.

“I never did! I never did! I stifled every feeling, I never showed a thing. And I won all along the way till--till just the end. And then I was weak and ill, and I couldn’t help it--and even then I don’t know what I did.”

“No; I expect it’s one of those cases in which men blame women, and women blame men, instead of going equal shares. But is it true you’re going to sit here moping, making him believe that with you it was all a serious affair--whilst with him it was nothing but a passing folly?”

Marigold looked up at him.

“What do you advise?”

“Get back some of your old life. Not all of it. Men are heavy--even the best of them. They don’t understand.”

“I will never speak or look at him again.”

“Oh yes, you will. You imagine you’ve done something terrible, and, in reality, you’ve done nothing at all. Look like that long enough, and people will begin to believe dreadful things of you. Marigold, you are now quits with Mr Barringcourt. He has broken your heart--smashed it completely, when he flung you there upon the ground. And with no heart left--that wretched stumbling-block in the path of all successes--you are free and safe. Here is the High Priest longing to see you once again--but too big a coward--too eaten up with habit--to step out of his monastic shell. If you wish to hurt Barringcourt, to humble him as he has humbled you----”

“I don’t think I do,” said Marigold sweetly and earnestly, shaking her lily head, as if these baser passions were rather big enigmas to her.

St Armand stopped. Then he looked across at her and smiled--the child-like voice having arrested his thoughts as well as words. And suddenly he moved across the seat towards her, and took her hands in his.

“Well then, at any rate you’re no woman if you wouldn’t care for him to fall in love with you--or learn, at least, that you were made for admiration, not for contempt. You must rouse out of this lifelessness. It is not becoming to your station.”

“But--but,” said she, sadly and yet shyly, “it would be so easy to admire a Princess--even to love her. And I feel so uncertain of myself. My neck--it was so very beautiful, and now I’m forced to wear this bandage round. For what is it but a bandage, even with pearls? And lately I’ve felt more forgiving--this last few days; but now, whilst you are speaking to me, the scars seem to have gone red-hot. Oh! he had no business to hurt me so--no business at all!”

“That’s what I keep telling you. Rouse up! and enjoy life--heartless or broken-hearted.”