That evening, as was his usual custom, the High Priest went to vespers. St Armand also went, and walked through the city first, entering the Temple just as the service was beginning. The service was exquisite, though short; the singing beautiful, worthy the splendid building; yet the High Priest never heard it, for, as he sat there on his magnificent throne to the side of the golden steps inside the sacred railings, his mind was wandering again over the conversation of the morning. In the early part of the day he had almost forgotten it, but now, as the magic of evening settled, the lights in the Temple, the music, all things subdued brought back to him the utter empty coldness in his heart--the icy burden so intolerable to the Living man.
That day he had met a lady, a life-long friend of his--and half-seriously had thought on St Armand’s words, forgetting the chief stipulations. He had found her dull, heavy, flabby, though considered handsome and even clever by the world. Impatiently he snapped his fingers at his guest’s suggestion. Women! to the initiated still more uninteresting than men.
Thus, as he thought, his eyes wandered down the Temple aisles to the choirs, and in his reverie he became aware of the presence of St Armand, also some others, men and women, whom he knew; and as his wandering eye scanned the groups of worshippers, he became aware in that front pew of the little beggar girl he had seen twice lately, sitting alone. Almost unconsciously he fixed his eyes upon her, wondering idly why she, in rags, had presumed upon so prominent a seat. And at last she looked up from the book she was holding--right across the choir-stalls and attendant clergy towards the High Priest’s throne, and, seeing him looking back at her, like a child who considers pleasantness the acme of good manners, she smiled. It was a smile purely friendly, a little shy, and greatly serious; it gave a sweet and winsome expression to a face quite sweet enough before.
Alphonso, it is needless to inform you, did not smile back. He looked away for a little time, and even went so far as to examine well the ceiling; the morning’s conversation had completely died from his mind. Yet he did look back again, and from curiosity alone, when they were kneeling. Her face was buried in her hands--only the gleam of golden hair under the old straw hat, and the slope of a graceful shoulder. Once more during the anthem their eyes met again, but this time she did not smile.
“Very sensible of her,” thought the High Priest, and gave his attention to the service, for the moment only. Yet it was nothing more than a professional interest that he began to take in her. Had he not promised to try to raise her from the beggar state? and how soon had he forgotten! Had she not come to the Temple that evening, he would have remembered her no more. She was a pretty girl with a sweet face; he must see what he could do. Having some business to attend to after the service, it was rather later when he left the Temple. St Armand had gone home, and he and his Chaplain came out together alone as the dusk was settling. And suddenly a great longing for freedom came over him. Why could he not walk the streets unmolested by attendants, as St Armand did? It seemed to him, standing there on that top step looking out on to the busy, restless city, that could he once break through the trammels of his hard-set life, he might regain the power of youthful feeling--the thing he had lost, and only lately felt. He had no particular work that evening, he remembered--nothing till nine o’clock, and dinner was at eight.
“Eaglestone,” he said, as they went down the steps together, “you will drive back to the Palace alone--I am walking. There are some matters I wish to think about; I shall be home soon after you arrive.” He watched the carriage drive away, and then himself set out in the approaching darkness.
“Friar’s Court”; why not perform his own errands, instead of eternally commanding? For the first time in his life for years back, he felt a quickening pulse at his unusual action. It was easily found, and the distance very short. How homely all the little houses looked, with their drawn blinds and red lights! He felt for one moment envious of the poor. Number 5: he soon found it, and gently knocked. It was opened by Alice, peering out into the darkness, not recognising who it was who stood there. Unaccustomed to thus visiting the poor, he now felt somewhat at a standstill. His errand seemed absurd; he remembered he did not even know the name of the girl for whom he had come to enquire. Yet now it was too late to draw back, and once more he settled into the cold man of the world he really was. His tone, if anything, was more than usually proud. He remembered with irritation that unaccountably he had stepped from the dignity of his position.
“I have come to enquire about a beggar girl who is reported to be living here. I have brought her a Form of Entrance for the ‘Poor Sisters’ Home.’ You will perhaps give it to her.” So saying, he took out a book of forms he kept already signed, and handed one to Alice.
But just then Marigold’s form appeared behind the stouter woman, and her voice entered into the conversation. “Will you come in, sir? The house is quite clean and tidy inside, though it’s small.”
Again the longing to break through forms and ceremonies overcame him, just as suddenly as it had disappeared. After all, that was the voice he wanted--the voice that failed to remind him he was stooping near the ground in thus visiting the very poor.
Yet his tone was just as cold and even, as he said: “Thank you! For one moment, I will step inside. I remember I must fill in your name, which was not given me when I saw you at the Palace.” He came in, and the little door closed. He was inside a kitchen spotlessly clean and very bright. A meal was on the table, and everything looked very nice and cheerful too.
But how tall he looked in this little doll’s house, and how novel to him the situation!
Marigold ran and brought him a chair, and dusted it off with her own apron as she had seen the poor folks do, and did it all with such a charm of manner, that--well, he sat down on the chair, if only to see what it felt like doing as he was bid.
Yet never did he smile, but took the chair with the utmost condescension, sitting there condescendingly. She stood back a few steps, her hands folded, waiting demurely, but with an exquisite colour in her cheeks. “Your name?” said he, placing the paper on the table and bringing out a fountain pen.
“Marigold, please your Holiness.”
“Marigold what?”
“Nothing but Marigold, please your Holiness.”
“But,” said he, and looked at her, and somehow almost forgot what he was going to say, “you must have another name.”
“Yes, I have another name, but I’d rather not give it you. Not just now!”
“Where are your brothers and sisters?” he asked, suddenly remembering them.
“I was telling you lies; I haven’t any.”
She was looking down on the ground--the most exquisite picture of shame and contrition he had ever seen.
“And your father?”
“I haven’t one; I made that up too,” and suddenly a pair of eyes, very serious, flashed up to his--one minute, then down again.
“What possessed you to be so--so wicked?” He tried to speak severely, and succeeded except for one false note--and that the last word--the sternest one that should have been.
“I wanted to come to the Palace to see what it was like, and they said you couldn’t come unless you were poor and had a lot of children, so I made the tale up to get there--and--and--and I got.”
“What was there at the Palace to interest any one so young as you?”
“Oh! everything. It was beautiful. I dreamt about it afterwards. And I saw you, and the three gentlemen writing, and the one smoking! And the lovely room with all the big books.”
What big beautiful eyes she had, and how young and easily impressionable she seemed! What a child-like, innocent face!
“And could you dream about such trivial things as those?” said he, a tone almost envious in his voice.
“Why, yes,” she answered shyly, “because I saw you, and you’re not trivial. You are one of the greatest men in all the land, and every one respects you.”
He laughed, almost forgetting to be condescending. Then, suddenly remembering his errand, he said:
“But if you will not let me have your other name, I cannot fill you up the form.”
“I don’t want to go to the Poor Sisters’ Home, I want to stay here with my aunt, near the Temple. I love the Temple, I wasn’t born to live in a convent--I feel I wasn’t.”
There was nothing flippant in her tone, for she was very earnest; and he persisted no further, but got up to go.
“Good-night! and if you ever want help or need advice of any sort, you can always apply at the Palace for it. My Chaplain or one of my secretaries will see that you are attended to.”
And then he held out his hand--greatest of condescensions, yet from the weakness of curiosity, not quite from charity--and Marigold’s hand was as soft and pretty as she herself was charming, and all the way back to the Palace the pressure of the tiny fingers lingered in his palm.
Then, when the door was closed, Marigold and Alice sat down to supper together, and for a little while neither of them spoke. At last Alice said, wiping the perspiration from her brow:
“Who would have thought it! The great High Priest himself!”
“I wasn’t a bit surprised,” said Marigold. “Do you like him, Alice, or don’t you?”
“He was very nice to you, Princess--very fatherly and nice, I thought.”
And Marigold burst out laughing.
“Why don’t you say grandfatherly? One’s just as bad as the other, you know; and the last time I spoke to him he was even nastier to me than he was to you at the door. I think he must be falling in love with me, and I like him more than ever.”
“Oh! Princess, don’t talk so!” said Alice in grief and pain. “Remember he is a holy man, and quite outside all earthly affections. If you must fall in love, let it be with one of the golden priests whom you may marry honourably.”
“Be quiet, Alice! when you whine it gets on my nerves. Now listen! I want you to go to the Palace--my Palace, not his--and bring the patchwork quilt, the one worked in little silk sixpences by my godmother, the one that is all the colours in the universe from sunrise to sunset, with the rainbow thrown in.”
“But why?” said Alice, surprised at the sudden change in the conversation.
Marigold put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands.
“Because it’s highly respectable--tiny patches and not a single rag.”
Alice still stared, not understanding; and Marigold continued, a curious expression in her eyes:
“You know I went in to see little Patches again this afternoon, and he told me the doctor didn’t approve of my appearance. He said a decent woman wouldn’t dress in rags, and he said he was coming at half-past ten to-morrow morning, and hoped I’d take the hint. Patches repeated it all angelically, like the little cherub he will be so soon.”
“I liked the look of the doctor,” said Alice sturdily. “As I peeped through the window he made a rare picture, with the little cripple crept up so happily against his shoulder.”
The proud lips closed rather tightly. “Oh yes, I dare say he is very clever and very kind, and he didn’t look exactly like a quack, but--but he is horribly rude--rude and unkind, without occasion.”
“He didn’t approve of your dancing. No religious man would. That twirling and twisting was never meant for righteous people.”
“He never saw me dance--and it wasn’t that. He was jealous of me, Alice.”
“Jealous? A full-grown man jealous of a woman, Princess?”
“Why not? The little cripple boy loves me; before, he loved no one but him.”
Alice looked perfectly unconvinced, and Marigold continued:
“You don’t believe me, yet it’s true. But still we won’t argue it. I want you to bring me the patchwork quilt. I’m going to make a dress of it as neat as neat can be. It will please little Patches to see all the pretty colours, and as for Dr Quack--actually he told me to sweep the floor, and called my dancing antics.”
“And you mean to go in to-morrow when he is there?”
“Oh no. I’ll make the dress to-morrow, and go in the day after.”
And so not long afterwards they retired for the night.
