It was that hour of dusk that was his favourite--not night, not day,
but glimmering shadows suited to Lucifram.
With shadowy strides, the shadowy cloak encircling him, he passed the
cattle grazing lazily within the parks that stretched round Marigold’s
dwelling-place, and thence through the rose-garden, the velvet lawn,
towards the open windows. He had chosen his hour wisely and well, for,
thinking of love-sick maidens and their curious lack of all originality,
he remembered the twilight was their special hour--twilight and
silence, the open window with the sad night breezes, the solitary
figure, the total oblivion of time.
Thus also he found Marigold, sitting alone upon a couch drawn near to a
window, leaning against the cushions.
Her simple satin dress, pure white in the shadows, draped the fragile
figure gracefully; but, as he crept shadow-like through the open
window, he paused to look at her.
All the animation that deceived the world with its strange brilliancy
had vanished, and he saw only the face of a tired woman, with pure
face-lines, and an expression never meant for Lucifram--a haunting
sweetness struggling triumphant through the sadness.
“Ah, Marigold,” said he, “you’re very pretty, though it takes an old
married man like myself to notice it evidently. Considering you’ve got
such a little time left upon Lucifram, it seems too bad you should
spend it idling.”
And so he approached her from behind, laying his hand with the
blood-red ring upon it, on the couch back.
“Marigold.”
She started and looked up.
“St Armand! What an unusual hour for a call! I--I thought I left you
looking after the High Priest.”
“You did. But, like all people who have nothing tangibly the matter
with them, he is bad to do for sometimes.”
“What is the matter with him? I thought him looking unusually well.”
He came and sat down beside her, on the other side of the couch.
“Yes, you were his medicine. As soon as you came, he was better.
Before, he was worse; and since, he has been much worse.”
“Then I was a very poor medicine.”
“No, you are dangerous. To accomplish a lasting cure, you must stay
with him for ever.”
She laughed.
“Well, I couldn’t do that.”
“But you might arrange a kind of continuity.”
“What do you mean?”
“You could come oftener, and with a certain promise to return.”
“I don’t think I am good for him,” and she shook her head thoughtfully.
“You are squeamish, Marigold. Your greatest charm at one time was that
you were not.”
“And now my greatest charm has gone.” And she sighed and laughed in a
breath.
“No. But you are labouring under a false impression. You are growing
highly moral, therefore highly dull.”
“I don’t think I have the strength I used to have. I tire of things
quickly. I am tired of the High Priest. It is all such empty twaddle to
me.”
“But not to him.”
A silence.
“Marigold! I am disappointed in you. You were meant to be a wonderful
woman, and you have allowed yourself to be mastered and subdued by a
man who doesn’t care that much for you.”
“Ah!” she said, half-rising, “I--I will not let you speak so to me. I
shall go.”
“I speak as it pleases me,” he said in the heavy tone of authority
that few ever withstood when he used it. “Your infatuation for Mr
Barringcourt is senseless as it is useless. Half the town talks of it.
You are a little fool.”
“Don’t!” she whispered, cowering down against the pillows, her hand
stretched out as if to send him away; “I--I have so much pain lately
everywhere--spirit and mind and body--I can’t stand any more.”
“You want to be a bit harder, Marigold--to have a bit more pride. There
was never a man yet who loved a woman who deliberately let him see she
was in love with him, even through snubs.”
“I scarcely ever see him, and I rarely speak to him. If the town talks,
it is because----”
“You blush every time you meet him, and then like as not go deathly
pale; flattering to him, no doubt, but not calculated to inspire
much--much affection.”
“I don’t want him to love me. He loves some one else.”
“Then you love some one else too?”
“I can’t find any one.”
“The High Priest.”
“You will make me hate him.”
“Make you love him rather. Marigold, he simply worships you.”
“He should worship the Serpent.”
“The Serpent is an obsolete idol. Even women have seen through it since
Barringcourt’s lady-love peeped behind the scenes.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You understand me sufficiently well. The High Priest loves you as
deeply as you love the Master of the Marble House. You have it in
your power to be very kind to him, even though you may not marry him.
His illness is all caused by you, Marigold--you have treated him
badly--just as your illness is caused by some one else.”
“I got mine through little Patches,” she answered softly.
“And every one was very kind to Timothy when he was ill,” said he.
“And I’m left all alone.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re a Princess born to the purple--born to hardness and to
suffering. There is a man less proudly born, a mortal, weak and
hungering--he, too, is all alone.”
“I cannot help him.”
“You were kind to Patches.”
“Oh! but in a different way. I loved him.”
“Love this man. It’s very easily done--a little condescension, a little
stooping, you will cure him.”
“But I am dying.”
“But surely you intend to live to the end?”
In the strange dusky shadow that was gradually encircling them, the
room around quite dark, Marigold glanced across at him, her fine thin
face clearly silhouetted against the shadowy curtain.
“You will not pity me; how, then, can I pity myself?”
“You were born to greatness; why should I pity the great? I pity him,
but your weakness I despise as quite unworthy of you. You are taking
life too seriously. It’s nothing but a game, a plaything, at the best.”
And suddenly he moved across to her, and in listening to the strong
persuasive voice, low-pitched and softly, she forgot the little man had
disappeared, the presence near to hers but half disguised.
The fascination of that powerful presence drew her magnetically--the
strong arm round her, the shadows encircling them, giving her new life.
Marigold sat up, her white dress gleaming, her golden hair shining, her
wondrous eyes sparkling in--what was the light? Nothing on Lucifram.
And the old childish merriment and laughter came bubbling back to the
parted lips, coral and pearl of exquisite beauty.
And recklessly, not understanding, she held out her one disengaged
hand, and now both of hers were hidden in his--the strong shadowy hands
holding the white ones.
“You can afford to be kind to him, Marigold.”
No answer.
“Not only that, but there is always a certain stimulus in love-making.
It will relieve the monotony of the few months left you here on
Lucifram.”
No answer.
“And Mr Barringcourt has got so accustomed to your devotion, given so
silently, that he’ll be quite jealous.”
And suddenly Marigold drew herself out of his arms, and stood up
laughing.
“Yes, I’ll come, if you can guarantee that he won’t be mopey, and
grumpy, and talking of his ailments all the time. I’ll come to-night.
I’m tired of being good. I do get deadly tired of it every now and
then; no one knows the struggle that it is. And, after all, I must
amuse myself. Being love-sick is so monotonous.”