THE MASTER
Rosalie outside the temple never paused, apparently, to think. She did
not take the direction of her old home, but flew on as if scarcely
touching the ground towards that portion of the city where lay the
mansions and the ancient park. The usually crowded streets were almost
deserted, the rain kept wayfarers within doors. Nothing hindered her
rapid movements onward.
Greensward Avenue was one long vista of shining pavements, dripping
trees, and glistening street lamps. Here and there brighter lights shone
from the entrances to houses. But on Rosalie sped till she came to the
central house, which stood a little back behind high iron palings.
The door had two leaves, and opened inward from the centre. There was a
vestibule beyond, and then another double door of thickest glass,
polished and cut to shine like diamonds. Above the hall door a deep red
lamp was burning, which cast its light well out into the street. The
only furniture within the vestibule was a broad chair of oak, and a
massive umbrella stand all carved with hideous faces, very ancient, no
doubt, but not exactly beautiful.
Rosalie noticed these as she stood on the top step touching the bell,
and because each face was very fascinating she would have continued
looking at them had not the inner door opened upon the instant.
It was not a creaking door. It opened noiselessly and swiftly, and in
the doorway stood a man.
He had none of the superabundant dignity generally associated with the
servants in rich houses. His hair was not powdered, his dress was plain,
and black.
Rosalie, so swift and impetuous until now, came to a standstill. She
looked at him, and he at her. She had no voice with which to explain her
errand, and suddenly remembered her only chance of admittance there was
the card. For it was to Marble House she had come, the house of the man
whom she had met in the temple just a year ago.
“What is it that you want?” he asked. These were the exact words with
which she had been greeted by the master.
Then she remembered the card was hidden away in the bosom of her dress
in a little silken bag she had made in an idle moment for it months ago.
She must produce it, that was evident, and trust to Providence to do the
rest. She turned round towards the many-headed umbrella stand, and began
to extricate the card of introduction. The man stood there waiting, and
when she turned round, flushed and flurried, holding the card, and
glancing at him suspiciously to trace the smile upon his lips, she found
nothing there, not even surprise. He evidently was old enough to be
beyond it
Rosalie pointed to the back; he read it, then motioning her to sit in
the chair facing the hydra-headed umbrella stand, went in once more
behind the polished doors and closed them after him.
The door opened silently again before long.
“Come this way,” said the low, serious voice.
The doors swung to behind them. They entered upon a large square hall.
It was not brilliantly lighted, and the farther end was dim and scarcely
discernible. But every thing was rich and massive, and highly polished.
It reminded her in some indescribable way of the temple she had just
left. Carved oak chairs, just as those seen in the sacred building,
lined the walls, standing round in a perfect square, except where
interrupted by some other article of furniture. These chairs seemed to
be endless.
As Rosalie passed along she became accustomed to the dimness, and
noticed from this farther end a spiral staircase ascending to the upper
floor. It was built in polished oak, and went round and round in a way
that reminded her of the Serpent’s coils. It led to a gallery that
overlooked the hall on all sides.
Three double glass doors of the same peculiar lustre as the entrance
(which made the fourth) led out of this hall, one on each side, one
being beyond the staircase.
Her companion passed through that door to the left, and she followed
him. They came upon a corridor, and stopped before the last door on the
left-hand side. Her guide knocked, then opened it. There was no name to
give; Rosalie had no tongue to speak, no card to show. Then the door
closed again, and she found herself in the presence of the man whom she
had come to seek.
He was sitting by a table reading. A fire was burning in the hearth near
by. A high shaded lamp stood on the ground beside him. The floor was
thickly carpeted, the walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling,
one other door led from the room.
The Master looked up as she entered, then got up, pushing the book away.
“So you have come,” he said. He came forward and held out his hand.
Rosalie, trembling and uncertain, returned the hand-shake, nodding.
“What! you cannot speak yet?”
She shook her head, but as he was withdrawing his hand she clutched it
eagerly, unconscious of anything but this one little sinking straw of
hope.
This time he looked at her more closely. “What is it?” he asked.
She raised her other hand to her throat and mouth, then pointed to him,
her eyes full on his face.
“I’m not the Serpent,” he answered, and he shook his head and tried to
disengage his hand.
But Rosalie’s fingers tightened with a fierceness and determination
altogether foreign to her. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashed angrily;
she gave one little imperious stamp with her foot.
The Master looked at her and smiled—a smile that travelled from his eyes
to the corners of his mouth.
“I see. You do not intend to go till I have performed an—an
impossibility?”
Rosalie nodded in all seriousness.
“It is the gift of speech you’re wanting?”
She nodded.
“It’s very dangerous; leads people into all kinds of indiscretions.”
She shook her head vehemently.
“You think you differ from the commonality?”
But Rosalie neither shook her head nor nodded. She only looked up at him
with no other expression in her eyes except dumb entreaty.
“Come to the light,” said he, “and try to look less ghostly. After all,
if you can’t be cured you can’t. You’re brave enough to stand that,
aren’t you?”
Again she nodded, still looking at him.
He pushed the shade of the lamp up. “Now open your mouth,” he said.
Obediently Rosalie did as she was told.
“Why, you’ve got a tongue!” said he, bending his brows, and stooping
down to her. “Can’t you move it?”
But Rosalie could not. It was complete paralysis of the muscles
evidently.
“Come with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
He led her through the other door into another room. The walls of this
place were lined with chests and cupboards with glass fronts, containing
curious instruments. In the centre was a long table. The room was also
fitted up with chairs such as dentists use, and a marble washing basin
fitted with water pipes, hot and cold.
Yet when the light was turned on the general effect was cheerful.
Rosalie found it so, at any rate, for renewed hope was springing in her
heart. She sat down upon the chair he drew for her, and watched him
whilst he went to the cupboard and brought out something shaped like a
very long darning needle. It was thick at one end, very fine and pointed
at the other. Then from another shelf containing flasks of glass
polished and cut he took a liquid shining like silver, and poured some
into a tiny crucible. With these he came back to her and placed them on
the table. Then he looked at her, smiling.
“This will hurt you very much,” he said; “but you asked for it, so you
will have to go through with it.”
Anyone but Rosalie would have noticed that the expression of his face
was not particularly kind. But she noticed nothing. She leant back
against the head-rest; he placed his hand upon her eyes. After that they
were too heavy for her to open them. She opened her mouth instead.
It was a curious kind of pain, if pain it could be called. Never in the
whole of her life had she ever felt anything so soothing. She could not
tell how long the sensation lasted, but it ceased very suddenly. Then
although her eyes were closed she felt (this was the curious part of it)
a strong light shining into her mouth, right back to the roots of that
so far silent tongue. It was a light that had the power to heal and
strengthen, and for a long, long time it played upon every unused nerve
and delicate muscle. At last all was over; the master laid his hand upon
her eyes again and opened them.
“Now,” said he, “the miracle has been performed. Are you satisfied?”
From long custom Rosalie nodded.
“You must speak,” he answered, laughing, “if but to show your
appreciation of the gift.”
“Thank you,” she said, quite perfectly, with just a little break in the
word that took nothing from its sweetness.
“Did you find the pain very bad?”
“I nev-er felt it.”
“Never felt it?” he repeated. “Give me your hand.”
But her pulse was even, and he frowned.
“Where did you come from when you came to me?” he asked, bending his
eyes down to hers with a keen, penetrating glance.
“I came from the temple.”
“From the prayer?”
“Yes.”
“Then you—” but here he stopped. “I see,” he continued, but in reality
he didn’t.
“Did you expect I should be hurt?” she asked.
“I can hardly believe you were not.”
“But I should have screamed. I made no sound.”
“That was scarcely possible. For my own part, I always think it best to
guard against screams, they are so unhelpful and unnecessary.”
Now Rosalie looked at him, with eyes just as keen and penetrating as his
had been.
“Why do you stare at me?” he asked, smiling.
“To see if you are disappointed.”
Here he laughed.
“Be careful. Your tongue is getting rather out of bounds already.”
“I think you would rather have enjoyed my being hurt.”
“Well, what can you expect in a country where vivisection is disallowed?
One must take what little pleasure one can get.”
Here he led the way back into the outer room. When they were both
through he turned the key and put it in his pocket.
“I rarely go in there,” he said. “Few folks are fool enough to come to
me. I have no ambition to become a doctor, and I shun the popularity
that hangs upon the quack.”
They were both standing by the table now, one on either side. Rosalie’s
eyes were fixed dreamily on a large glass ink-stand in the centre of the
table. She was beginning to feel indescribably tired. There was nothing
very wonderful in this, the operation had lasted longer than she was
aware. But though tired, she was feeling remarkably light-hearted,
longing to get outside and give herself two or three decided pinches to
become convinced she was awake, and that this great good fortune of her
prayer had at last come to her.
But over and above the tired feeling and the unreality came gratitude to
her deliverer. The thought of this made her suddenly raise her eyes and
look across at him.
Certainly his face was very proud, and the shadows lurking underneath
his eyes and at the corners of his mouth gave it a dark, forbidding
expression. It was not altogether pleasant.
“The feature I like best is his nose,” thought Rosalie. “The one that
frightens me most is his mouth; the one that most interests me is his
eyes.”
“You have been very kind to me,” she said. “Is there any way in which I
can pay you back?”
But he shook his head.
“I do not think you could give me anything tangible, but perhaps you
yourself will be able to suggest something.”
Rosalie flushed to the roots of her hair. “I haven’t anything,” she
answered.
“Not even a soul?”
“What is that?”
“That part of you which under certain conditions becomes immortal.”
“That part of me belongs to the Serpent.”
“The Serpent passed you on body and soul to me.”
“The Serpent did nothing of the sort,” she answered vehemently, if
slowly. “I—I—I—”
“You what?”
“I nothing.”
His eyebrows came together in a frown.
“Yes,” he answered quietly, “there is one way in which you can pay me
back. Speak the truth in answering my questions.”
“I’ll try,” said Rosalie meekly.
“Then put an ending to that ‘I—I—I—.’”
“I came because I thought it was time. I got a little bit tired of the
Serpent.”
“Why?”
“Because it never took any notice of me.”
“Are you sure?”
Rosalie’s curious eyes looked up innocently and met his.
“Does that surprise you very much?”
“I confess that it does.”
“Do you know, I’m very tired. If you don’t mind, I’ll come again
to-morrow and talk it over.”
But he shook his head, and smiled again.
“I don’t think I’ll let you go,” he said. “Your answers are not very
satisfactory. Besides, where is there you can go?”
“Oh, with a tongue one can go anywhere and do anything.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
And here from sheer weariness and exhaustion she slipped down in the
arm-chair beside her.
It had been a very hard day, and the ending had told upon her strength.
She had not fainted, however, she was only sleeping.
Mr. Barringcourt crossed the room and looked at her very narrowly, even
dropping on one knee to examine her features more nearly.
It was a very pale, thin, and tired face he looked at, delicate and
fragile, with dark lashes, and faint blue shadows underneath the closed
eyes. The backs of her hands were rough, and he took each up and
examined it as though he had been a fortune-teller—back and front.
Then he began walking slowly back and forwards through the room. His
face, though handsome after a kind, was certainly not of the most
prepossessing; and yet in repose his expression was one of weariness and
contempt.
“What shall I do with her?” he muttered. “Keep her to prevent blabbing
as usual. Keep her and bring her up to talk properly. When she is old
enough, or rather fit enough, I’ll let her out on a lease long enough to
take her to the devil. Always the same! everlastingly the same! coming
and going, with nothing to give and everything to ask. Dull to the very
core, chattering like magpies, smiling and aping God knows what! Rich
and poor, all of them alike. And for some reason best known to myself I
stand it. What an excellent patient fisherman I should make!”
Then he sat down again very deliberately in his chair, and drew the book
he had been reading towards him, at the same ringing a bell. The same
man who had admitted Rosalie answered it.
“Take her away, and see she doesn’t get out,” said he, without looking
up; and the other evidently understood so well that he never asked a
question.