CHAPTER XXV

Early next morning the Princess went out to gather roses for a table decoration, and Mr Barringcourt paid an unusually early and very unexpected call. He saw her stretch up eagerly to snip a glorious damask queen, and then, before she cut it, suddenly turn to see him standing there. And her cheeks went the colour of the uncut rose, and the scissors and basket slipped out of her hand, and the gathered flowers all lay in confusion at her feet.

And both of them stood looking at each other without a word, and the deep colour died away from Marigold’s face.

It must be admitted that Alice was watching in the distance, watching with a triumphant heart, for it was at her telling that he had been admitted to the rose-garden--Alice, who had an old score to pay off.

“I have come to apologise.”

Marigold clasped her hands in front--always a dangerous attitude with her--and looked at him with a little cold surprise, bent on not answering.

He bit his lip, as well he might; yet made another clean breast of it.

“I didn’t know who you were.”

Scorn arose and flashed out of the beautiful eyes.

“That accounts for everything, then. Your conduct under those circumstances was quite excusable.”

“You do not understand me.”

“I--I understand you perfectly. Perhaps I--I ought to apologise too. I--I forgot myself for--for a little while. I--I took you for some one else. I--I----”

Everything had died away from Marigold now that she had begun to speak--everything, except the pretty, unconscious attitude, and those wonderful eyes, half-truthful, half-frightened, with no acting at all.

“Then,” said he gently, “let us forget it.”

But she shook her head.

“I can’t.” And her hand went up to the ribbon at her throat unconsciously.

“I--I hurt you.”

“Oh no; but if you were a gentleman you would keep away. I--I was very silly, but I was ill.”

“Yes. You had been so very kind to Timothy.”

Marigold’s eyes fell to the ground, and she clenched her hands tightly as each fell suddenly to her side, for, at the mention of the little cripple child and the accompanying tenderness of tone, the old dangerous feeling began to rise in her, almost suffocating her. It was one of the few times when she ceased to look beautiful, for the wave of feelings, and the great will-power needed to at all subdue or rather hide them, gave to every feature a strange, hard, full look not its own.

“Yes, I was kind, and you were kinder. We’ll let that pass, and other things. You must go.”

Her voice, too, was thick and unnatural.

“Then you must forgive me.”

“No, no, I never can. There are a hundred things for which I never can forgive you.”

“My only fault all through was that I misunderstood you.”

“Rather that you hated me.”

“I misunderstood you. You said you were a beggar girl, and I believed you.”

“How contemptible you are! Holy Serpent! what are men coming to, to see no shame in their own cowardice and lack of chivalry?”

“Marigold, I----”

“You will perhaps remember my title; this familiarity is the last insult. If you will not go, I shall send for the--the footman to show you the--the gate.”

She expected some retort, but did not get it, for he stood there, his head bent towards the ground.

“If you will not forgive me, I must cease to ask for your forgiveness. But you cannot prevent my feeling shame and sorrow for what I did so unaccountably, so unexpectedly. You say you were tired with nursing Timothy; perhaps I was tired too.”

“You weren’t,” she panted; “you got him away from me, and--and then you were happy. You--you were jealous of me all the time.”

“Yes, for another woman’s sake. At least, I thought so. He is quite safe with me. You were not strong enough. What would you have done with him?”

“Why do you always torture me? Is it a pleasure to you to see me all--all unstrung? Go away, or--or I must.”

She turned and walked unsteadily, if quickly, to the open windows. Yet he had made no attempt to follow her, for her voice was nothing but hard pride and shame, at being thus found too weak to fight against her own emotions.

Inside the room she sank into a chair, trembling and shivering.

And then at last a sudden change came in her face, bringing the old beauty.

“I’ll run after him, and say I’ve--I’ve changed my mind--that I’ve forgiven him, if he’s forgiven me.”

And quickly she ran out across the smooth lawn, through the gates, and into the broad park. But he was nowhere, neither near nor far, and Marigold’s face was white with disappointment, and grey with the long strain. So she went back to the rose-garden, and flung herself down upon the grass amongst the bowers of roses, and cried just as when a child, in the big grand gardens far away in Fairy Sky, when night descended and the stars came out, and she remembered she was quite alone, with no companion, nothing but the beauty of the world--an orphan, with a child’s heart aching for love.

And now the same, only the child’s heart was changed into a woman’s. Yet there was so little dross in it that it was far too soft for daily use, though the crust of tiny diamonds might at times make it look hard.

“He’ll never come back now,” she said, “because I was so horrid to him. I couldn’t help it. I thought it so contemptible to come with that excuse. But oh! I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t tell whether he is contemptible or not. I only know I love him.”

And when she went upstairs to change the simple morning-robe for one a little more elaborate, she sat before the glass alone, and removed the velvet at her neck.

“I am glad these marks are on my neck. I hope they never disappear,” she said. “It is our little secret away from the world. They used to burn with anger--at least, I thought it anger, but I don’t know, I don’t understand a thing. I wish the marks had been on my hands or arms, or somewhere that I might have kissed them.”

And she kissed the velvet that encircled them instead.

And suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

“And Timothy--he said that Timothy was safe. Patches! dear little Patches! It was you who taught me how to be good--how to try. And now you’ve gone, everything is black again. Who cares really whether I’m good or not?”

And then life went on evenly again, though Marigold passed over the rough stones bare-foot. And every day her loveliness became more ethereal and spiritual, and no one but Alice noticed the gradual wasting away; yet she dare not presume across the silent barrier that had sprung up between her mistress and herself--nay, between her mistress and every one around her.

For Marigold now went out far more than she had ever done--sickness and charities and social duties each claiming her attention.

And now she laughed just as in the olden times, but with the world of difference to the faithful servant’s ears; for sometimes in the night she would hear the stifled cry of pain, the restless motion, the weary sigh.

And one night in the darkness she crept up to her mistress’s bed.

“Princess,” she cried, “say you’re ill, and let us have a doctor.”

“Alice! what nonsense! go back to bed at once, or we’ll be having the doctor to you.”

“You’re growing thinner every day, Princess.”

“Then it suits me,” and she laughed. “For to-night I had more compliments paid me than even is usual with a Princess.”

And Alice went away, the hard, brilliant tone covering the childish sweetness in her voice, that rang out so pathetically, because you were not meant to hear it.

And each day the High Priest’s infatuation grew, and who could blame him? Yet, since the interview with Mr Barringcourt, Marigold had held slightly back, now smiling, now laughing and merry, now very silent, wistful, and retiring, and he knew not in which mood he loved her best.

Yet they met little as yet except in public, and it was well.

And in public also she had met Mr Barringcourt, and almost like a child might, tired at last of straining and pretending coldness or indifference, she met him simply with a sweet gravity, and sometimes a little heightened colour; and he in his turn (but that is best left to Marigold, because she loved him, though it was rarely if they ever spoke, and that only in the stress of circumstances).

Yet Marigold would pray every night:

“Holy Serpent! dearest guide and counsellor, preserve the man I love, and bring him to Heaven. And I--I am nothing but a child, I should like to come to Heaven too.”

And the Serpent was very kind to Marigold, because she prayed the right way and not too long, and perhaps because she was a convert, and perhaps because she didn’t enquire too minutely into his three tails, but took him quite for granted. And perhaps again because she prayed for the right man, and prayed for him nicely, for the Serpent owed a great deal to Mr Barringcourt, the Master, and his Father’s house; for he, the Serpent, had been built up by them, endued with power and fascination quite outside his own sphere to compel.

And so a few weeks sped by, and then, when the High Priest was indisposed--a sudden heart-attack, the doctors said--Marigold called to see him and stayed the afternoon, St Armand being there too; and, as you know, she made an ideal nurse. And when she was gone, the patient became gloomy and irritable, and then St Armand smiled, looked at his watch, and went out for a stroll.