GARDEN AND HOUSE OF SHADOWS
The next morning the sensation of waking in such fine surroundings had
lost all its charm. Rosalie awoke with a dull leaden pain at her heart,
that gained rather than lost power as she recalled one by one the
articles of furniture in this new home. The long mirror had lost its
fascination; so had the silken bed-hangings. She did not jump out of
bed, but rather lay there idly, with no wish to rise; oppressed with
such a heaviness that to lie still seemed the only ease from all those
aches and pains that twine around a heavy heart. As the grey light of
early morning brightened and broadened, she curled in among the
bed-clothes, and shut her eyes.
“If only they would let me lie here, and not disturb me! I would never
disturb them, I’m sure. I feel so weary that the least exertion is the
biggest effort.”
Then she lay very still for a long time, till at last Mariana knocked at
the door and opened it, bringing the customary cup of tea.
“I feel so tired, Mariana,” Rosalie said, “and there’s nothing to do.
Don’t you think I might spend the day in bed?”
“It is against the rules.”
“Who makes all the rules here?”
“The Master.”
“But he has gone away till to-morrow.”
“That does not excuse us.”
“But he would never know unless you told. I am tired, really, Mariana. I
could just lie still, and never move an inch all day.”
“You must get up.”
“When I get up my heart aches.”
“That does not enter into the consideration of the rule. You must get
up, or you will be shaken out when the bed is made.”
So very reluctantly Rosalie rose, with a day of nothingness and
imprisonment before her. She was dressed in about the same time as
yesterday, had breakfast served in the same room in the same way, and
then walked out on to the corridor aimlessly and disconsolately.
Mariana had disappeared. Although Rosalie tried every door along the
corridor she could not find her. Many of these were locked, and others
she discovered to be bedrooms, furnished much as her own, with the
exception of the little sitting-room and the room in which she had her
meals.
At last, weary of this, she passed out to the high gallery overreaching
the square central hall. She walked round it, and tried various doors
leading off from it, but all were locked. Below, the dim hall lay in
silence. Nothing of light or life was there, though it was not yet
mid-day. She looked down over the high oaken balustrade, and sighed, and
the echo brought her sigh back to her. She whispered “Rosalie”; the word
ran round the arching dome, and then returned—a mocking, hollow voice
within the silence. So the morning crept away, with no brightness to
speed its dragging hours, no companionship, no occupation. Not a sound
fell on her ear. So still was everything, the house might have been a
City of the Dead.
At dinner-time she ate mechanically the food they placed before her. To
refuse was simply to raise up insistence. Then she withdrew to the
little sitting-room, to idle away what time would go, to find after
endless waiting that scarcely an hour had passed. Then she got up and
went back to the bedroom to bring her hat, and with the same difficulty
as the day before, reached with safety the foot of the spiral staircase.
The doorkeeper was sitting not far away from it, reading a paper. She
went towards him, and as she approached him he looked up, and then rose
from his seat.
“Would you mind telling me which way I should go to find the garden?”
she asked.
“Certainly. If you will come this way I will take you.”
Rosalie smiled sadly.
“Suppose somebody got out or in whilst you are away?”
“No one would wish to go out, and the door only opens from within,” he
answered.
He walked across the hall, and she followed him to the glass door behind
the staircase. This door likewise entered upon a corridor with doors
leading from either side of it. The house seemed all doors, but at the
farther end a spacious fernery opened out, the curtains (of deep red)
which shut it off being now looped and drawn back, so that much beyond
was visible. Through the magnificent fern-house he led her till they
came to a door of glass leading down into the garden beyond.
The doorkeeper opened it, and let her pass through, himself following.
Outside, broad flights of steps descended by terraces to a lawn of
smoothest grass. The terraces were paved in large squares of black and
white marble, and from the central one a huge fountain was sending up
showers of sparkling water to meet the brilliant sun. Beds of flowers,
all of colours resembling scarlet geraniums, were laid out bordering the
side walks. One magnificent bed of what looked like crimson gladioli ran
up a steep bank bordering the left-hand wall. The high walls themselves
were covered with creepers, all of brilliant red, just as autumn leaves
are often found, and the only relief afforded was that of the dark
foliage of the trees that clustered willow fashion in the rear portion
of the garden. This was a kind of wooded avenue along which a carriage
drive led from the big gates in the outer wall round to those stables
where the Master’s favourite horses were.
“This is the garden,” said her companion, when he had brought her so
far; “you will return any time before five. After that the doors are
locked.”
When Rosalie was left alone she walked across the lawn slowly, taking in
all the beauty and striking nature of the scene. The gardens were large.
The avenue and shrubbery beyond were shaded, and provided with many
rustic and artistic seats. Rosalie walked along the carriage drive as
far as she could, and then a sudden and unaccountable gloom seemed to
fall upon her and all things. Just then a sudden bend in the road
brought her full in view of the stables. It seemed to her for one
instant as if against the gloom surrounding her they shone out in
flashing whiteness. They were flat-roofed, though high, and the strong
pillars supporting and ornamenting the building were an exact fac-simile
of those used in the decoration of the temple.
And standing there looking at it, Rosalie smiled.
“I wonder whose idea that was?” she thought. “A devout architect and
designer would never have thought of such a thing. But perhaps I’m
mistaken; this may be a private place of worship. I’ll go on and see.”
So she advanced as far as the building; but whether it were stable or
chapel she could not tell, for it possessed no doorway. She walked
around it as far as she could on either side, till prevented by a wall
of great height, but found nothing to serve as a clue as to the nature
of its use. No sound came from within—none of the odour that generally
characterises such places, either of sanctity or horses—and for the
third time Rosalie walked round with growing curiosity. Marble, marble,
all was marble, cold and hard and lifeless.
“I really think granite would be a welcome change,” she said, and sighed
and walked away.
But it was really pleasant and enjoyable to be in the open air. To be
able to look up at a sky that belonged in common to prisoners and free
men, there was some little consolation in that.
As she emerged once more from the wooded avenue, her eye fell full on
the house. She was surprised and startled at its beauty, viewed thus
from the back. Whereas looking at it from the street it showed as
nothing but a large square mansion, almost ugly in its plainness, it was
from here one of the most graceful and artistic buildings she had ever
seen. It was turreted and towered, with polished oriel windows, shining
with a lustre all their own against the dusky background of dark marble.
The windows on the basement all opened on the ground.
“I believe this is the front, and the front is the back,” thought she.
“A kind of topsy-turvy, like the rest of things. What a magnificent
door!”
This last expression escaped her involuntarily and aloud.
The door from which she had come was a small side one leading from the
conservatory of palms and ferns, but in the centre of this huge
construction of glass was a double door of thick carved glass, or some
substance very like it, of fine workmanship and execution.
Rosalie went up the many steps towards it, passing the silver fountain
that fell with almost a merry sound into the marble basin. Both leaves
of the door were shut, and the carving represented was that of a temple,
the inner portion, with arched aisles and fluted pillars, and in the
centre an altar, with above it the image of a toad. Below it, on the
steps outside the customary railing, bowed figures knelt in bare feet,
their shoes and stockings at some considerable distance. The
representation was comprehensive. Each figure and detail was drawn with
great exactness and clearness. The curious polish it possessed was its
most striking feature, especially that brilliancy radiating from the
toad. Rosalie bent her eyes closer to it, shuddered to find that there
was something horribly repulsive in such an animal, and then found
herself attracted by the light shining from its head. Its eyes were
meaningless and staring, even in the carved picture, but from its head,
and this she only discovered after steady looking, the light shone very
curiously. Instead of the white light of the rest, this was almost red.
Just a faint tinge of red! All the rest, carved as it were from blocks
of ice, was utterly lifeless. Yet it was this tinge of colour, so subtly
introduced, which made the whole great difference between an
uninteresting and an interesting thing. At last she left it and looked
down once more into the garden. She saw that several narrow paths led
into the shrubberies at the sides. But what struck her attention most
was that glorious rising bank of scarlet lilies and harebells and
gladioli, that extended right down one side to the wooded avenue beyond,
and reached almost to the height of the wall.
She perceived a narrow winding path led up this bank to its summit, and
there a garden seat was placed. This was the highest point of vantage in
the garden.
“I believe if I could only get up there I should be able to see away
over the opposite wall, for it’s lower!” she cried excitedly. “Oh, how
glorious to be able to see the city and everything! I’ll go.”
But alas! from the times of Cinderella downwards, clocks have often had
a knack of striking at an awkward time. And now there came the sound of
chimes, the silver warning, and then the five plain strokes that told
the closing hour of fettered liberty.
Rosalie re-entered the house. In the central hall she met Mariana coming
from the entrance door in hat and jacket, and carrying a muff.
“Where have you been?” she cried, running across to her.
“Out for a walk.”
“Oh, Mariana! What a shame never to tell me, and never to take me!” And
she took hold of her hands hungrily, and kissed her on either cheek.
“Why do you kiss me?” the other asked, smiling.
“To try to get some real fresh air into my lips.”
“It is not very fresh. There is quite a fog coming on.”
“Ah! But it’s free air. I feel all the better just for kissing you. But
why do you never take me?”
“It is against the rules.”
“But why can you go, and not I?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. See, I have brought you some sweets,” and
Mariana held out a very pretty box containing a delicious assortment of
chocolates.
Rosalie took it, somehow more touched than she liked to show by this
simple little act of graciousness.
“Come and sit with me after tea, and let us eat them together.”
“I am afraid I cannot. I am always busy in the evening.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making a wedding-dress.”
“Are you going to marry, then?”
“Oh, no; I’m not making it for myself. I don’t know that it is a
wedding-dress either. However, I am making it very beautifully, and so I
am ambitious for it.”
“Who is going to wear it?”
Here Mariana’s brow puckered, and a puzzled, tired look came on to her
face.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I expect if I finish it, and no one
applies for it or wants it, it will shrivel up again. For there is no
wardrobe but what is overrun with moths; and the moths here eat away all
colours except red and black.”
“Then how can you preserve it till it’s done?”
“By steeping the silk I sew it with in tears. But when the last stitch
is in the effect has gone. The moths cannot perceive the bitterness
afterwards. They eat it all away.”
Rosalie stared at her, as well she might.
“Won’t you let me see it?” she asked at length; but Mariana shook her
head.
“It would be no pleasure to you.”
“Indeed it would. Let me see it, Mariana, just for one minute. There can
be possibly no harm in that.”
“The room I sew in is very damp for such as you.”
“But I’m stronger than you. I’m accustomed to hard work.”
The other looked at her and smiled, with more sadness than mirth in her
expression.
“What strange ideas you get about things, Rosalie. The work I do would
kill you in a month.”
“But you will let me come with you, will you not?”
“Yes, if you wish it very much. After tea at six o’clock I will come for
you.”