CHAPTER XVI

THE GOVERNOR

The morning came, and Rosalie awoke, light-hearted and ready to arise. No one came here to call her except the sun and singing birds outside the window. None else were needed. When she had dressed, she passed out on the landing and down the staircase, and seeing the door open to the dining-room where she had supped last night, went there. Its open windows opened on the ground. Breakfast was laid for two, and as none else was visible she passed out into the garden, eagerly drinking in the wondrous freshness of the morning air.

At last she saw the stranger of the night coming toward her from a gate in a high yew edge that separated the garden from whatever lay beyond. He carried a basket in his hand, and as he came nearer Rosalie saw that the basket contained small seeds. Though he wore glasses when writing in the house, he evidently did not need them here. In fact, it did not seem to her that a man with eyes so blue and piercing could ever be short-sighted at all, but still it must be so. He wore no hat. The sun shone on his silver hair, a brilliant lustre. He walked with ease and gracefulness, and again the odd resemblance in appearance to Mr. Barringcourt recurred to her.

“Good morning, Rosalie! I think a spray of flowers would greatly improve that sombre dress of yours. Gather what kind you like, and come to breakfast—it is waiting for us.”

He passed on as he spoke, and disappeared within the house.

Following his advice, she gathered a cluster of pale roses, and placed them in her belt. Truly, his words, though simple, had had a very good effect. She no longer felt she wore a uniform of black and red. The flowers had given the happiest relief.

After breakfast he invited her to his study, “for,” said he, “I wish to have some conversation with you before eight o’clock. After that I am engaged till twelve, and rarely find much spare time till evening has closed, and to-night I cannot spare you even that.”

When they were both seated there, he began the conversation by saying:

“Last night you told me you knew of no merit that could have brought you to me, but I think that, between us, we must endeavour to discover one. Perhaps, if you will repeat your story to me, I may be of use in finding it.”

So on that Rosalie recounted the story of her early life, simply and truthfully, up to that last visit to the temple. Nor did she omit her meeting with Mr. Barringcourt there, and the short conversation she had held with him. But on mentioning the last visit, after her aunt’s death, she came to a sudden stop, and seemed undecided and unknowing how to proceed.

“You say you went once more inside the sacred curtain. But why?”

“I felt I had given up so much that the Serpent must recognise how much I really loved him. Besides, I felt I wanted to get some real strength to go on living after every hope and aspiration had died away.”

“What was it made you wish so badly for a tongue?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it was me that wished; I think it was something else.”

And then she flushed, for that was the style of speech Mr. Barringcourt would have ridiculed. And she herself recognised that truth at times, to the ignorant or wilfully blind, may appear silly and foolish. But this new acquaintance made no remark immediately, only his keen eyes travelled across her face, as if reading something there.

“And that something?” he asked at length.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But it never gave me any peace, and it wasn’t myself, I am sure. Sometimes I used to reason that I couldn’t possibly receive the gift of speech, and yet the inner voice repeated, ‘Go on, go on!’ so that, apart from my own great wish, I was obliged to do as I was told.”

“And you received the gift at last?”

“Yes.”

“On that last visit to the Serpent?”

“No, I—I—I—for that I went to Mr. Barringcourt.”

“The Serpent did not heal you, then?”

“Oh, sir, could it?” Rosalie’s voice was almost a remonstrance.

“Is not the Serpent the God of Lucifram?”

“Yes, and that is what has troubled me so heavily ever since; far more than imprisonment and harshness.”

“What has troubled you?”

“Perhaps if I tell you, you will think me fanciful.”

He smiled.

“Fancies are all put to the test here,” he answered, and a certain sternness rang in the kindness of his tone that reassured Rosalie, somehow or other, when she thought it would have frightened her.

“Well, after I had resigned my will, and prayed for strength, I closed my eyes, and it seemed as if a great vision flashed before me in the darkness. The Serpent seemed to have turned round, and to show that from the back it was all hollow, and in its three tails, so black and dingy from the inside, three dwarfed jesters sat, with caps and bells, all grinning and pointing, as if to make a mock of everything. And then a fire of purest light and radiance, with a centre of unearthly brightness, more beautiful than any sight I ever saw, rolled over everything, and burnt the hollow symbol to a cinder with its all-conquering strength.”

Rosalie’s eyes were shining as they looked across into his.

“And in my mind the same thing must have happened. For somehow no longer I thought upon the Serpent. All was changed. Whatever humble love I had to give, and strength to ask, were given and claimed by some wise reasoning Being far above, whose faintest breath could shrivel into cinders this grinning mockery worshipped of man.”

“What of the cinder?”

“Oh! I remember it never burned away. It shone like a little ball of gold within the fire, and I wondered at the time why it had never disappeared.”

Then suddenly she got up and crossed the room and knelt down beside him, and clasped her hands upon the arm-chair.

“And I believe it,” she said. “I could never think of going back to the Serpent after the higher thing; I loved to see the pure white light within that glorious fire. It was so peaceful, restful, strong and light-giving. I hardly think I could have spent the week that followed, with all its brilliant lights and gloomy blackness, and everything so fresh and new, had I not had that light so pure and still to think upon. It was divinest comfort to me even when the blackness tried to quite obscure it, and set such a terrible gap betwixt me and every living thing.”

“And after this you left the temple and went to Mr. Barringcourt?”

“Yes; there was nothing more to stay for. And I think the same thing led me to him that has now led me to you—calling ‘On! on! on!’ in spite of everything.”

“And when you got there?”

“Then he healed me, by a very natural process it seemed, that had little of the miracle about it. But I felt no pain, and I remember he was very much surprised at it.”

“And the cure was perfect?”

“Yes, I think it was too perfect. My tongue became most glib and voluble. Words slipped out I often wished unsaid.”

“You had had no practice in restraining them?”

“Well, no. But I think myself Mr. Barringcourt really did oil the wheels of my tongue too freely, because I don’t think by nature I should ever be given to answering back. But when I was there that seemed the one thing in life I was capable of.”

She had risen from her knees and walked towards the fireplace.

“But what reason should he have for doing so?”

Rosalie looked at him sideways. Then suddenly she laughed.

“You’ve got to learn some day how intensely stupid and simple I am, so perhaps you had better know soon as late. Well, I think the reason why he brought my tongue to such a pitch of volubility was because he is very keen on finding out all secrets, and he thought I should save time and trouble by being made very talkative.”

“He is keen on finding out secrets?”

“Yes; it sounds silly, but it’s true. He was most peculiar. If other men are like him, I pity the women that have to deal with them, and often think how fortunate my aunt was, for uncle was most quiet and peaceable.”

“Your experience of people is not very great.”

She sighed.

“No; I could not tell whether he was like other men or not. That’s how it was I felt at such a disadvantage all the time. Anyway, he wasn’t like any of my relations, the girls and women that I knew, nor even like the doctor that attended us, nor the bread baker, nor the butcher, nor any of those. But then Everard wasn’t. None of them were, in fact.”

“What led to your discovery of his _penchant_ for secrets?”

“Mariana told me; and when she told me, I laughed to myself, it seemed so utterly ridiculous. But afterwards I came to understand it. That is why he quarrelled with me, and left me a prisoner in the upper storey.”

“In so short a time?”

“Yes. He found I had no secret worth discovering.”

“But had you not?”

“No. Sometimes I felt tempted to tell him the real facts of my last visit to the temple, but something always held me back. And after all, if I had told him I should have become a prisoner all the same.”

“Maybe. Then in the end you quarrelled with him?”

“No, he quarrelled with me. We were getting on, as I considered, very nicely, and suddenly I could say nothing that would please him. Afterwards I understood it was because he had grown tired of me, and found me unprofitable, so far as secrets were concerned.”

“And so you were consigned to shadows, and a suite of rooms in an upper storey?”

“Yes, and it was terrible. I never wish to go through such a time again. It seemed to me eternity. Even now I don’t believe it was a week. It was a year of weeks.”

“Did Mr. Barringcourt ever ask you any questions about the Serpent?”

“Yes; he often asked me questions.”

“And you never told him what you had seen then?”

“No, I couldn’t, much as I wanted to. When I got to that part I only stammered, and that used to make him angry.”

“Then how can you say he discovered you had no secret worth discovering when you distinctly had one?”

“He would have simply ridiculed it, and said there was no truth in it. So what was it worth to him?”

“You used some little reason, then, in the controlling of your tongue?”

“Perhaps it was I, but I gave the credit elsewhere.”

“Now we have to discover the merit that lit the path for you to here.”

“Will you not put on your glasses? It will be hard to find.”

“How long did you say you prayed to the Serpent for the gift of speech?”

“Over two years; and the prayer was answered in a different way from what I thought.”

“By the way, you spoke a little time ago of Mariana. Who was she?”

“A kind of waiting-maid at Marble House. I do not know what else she could be called, unless a sewing-maid. But she was beautiful, and different altogether from any sewing-maid that I had ever seen. And even in a week I grew to love her, for underneath a cold and smooth exterior she had the sweetest, kindest disposition of anyone I ever knew.”

“Did she derive much happiness from living there?”

“None, except two hours every Wednesday night. And then she played upon a violin. I never heard such music, though it was weirdly sad. But Mr. Barringcourt blinded my reason to believe there was no harmony in what she played.”

“You do not give him an enviable character.”

“That is what I said when Mariana told me of him.” And suddenly Rosalie shuddered. “How can I give him an enviable character when he was cruel, hard as marble, and vindictive. He was bad, really bad, and the worst thing is I knew it all the time, yet had he been agreeable to me, really agreeable, I would have shut my eyes to everything.”

And from a very real feeling of shame, her colour deepened, for Rosalie was not one of those people who are blind to their own shortcomings and weaknesses.

Then suddenly turning to her host, she said, changing the conversation:

“What must I call you? Everybody has a name, but yours I never heard.”

“Well,” he answered slowly, “I don’t know that for the present I have any name worth going by. Some call me the Traveller’s Friend, some the Physician, some the Task Master. You may call me what you will for the present. Hereafter we may find a better name.”

“Well, Mr. Barringcourt was called the Master. Suppose I call you the Governor, without any abbreviation to a lesser name.”

“Why that?”

“Because Mariana told me I was weak, and weak people want someone very strict with them, and I should like to have a good understanding, you know, because I’m very ignorant.”

He looked at her.

“Well, you will find me strict enough. And for the rest, it’s bound to follow.”

Then he got up, and took down a large volume from a book-shelf, and seated once more in his chair, with the book on the table, adjusted his glasses, and opening the leaves, turned them slowly, as one looking through the pages of a dictionary to discover something.

As last he found the place he needed, and for some time read in silence; then closed the book and instantly removed his glasses as he looked across at her.

“I’ve been through the list of merits, Rosalie, and have decided yours is the questionable merit of clinging on. None others have had much time to develop yet. They may be there, no doubt, but have not, as it were, yet come of age.”

“Clinging on! It’s very questionable, isn’t it?”

“Yes; but you’ll have one or two stiff examinations to pass in it before you’ve finished.”

“But—but the people who cling on are—are so insufferable.” And it must be acknowledged a very real tear of disappointment stood in her eye.

“Would you have liked some higher-sounding virtue?”

“Yes; I thought you were going to say meekness and gentleness, or some of the great gifts of the spirit. I never read that ‘clinging on’ was counted much in the Book of Divine Inspiration. Besides, who have I been clinging on to? I deserted the Serpent just—”

“Just at the right time. There is where the virtue comes. Had you been any earlier you would have shown great fickleness. Besides, after all, I don’t think you’re very heavy, Rosalie. You would not be such an insufferable load to drag along.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But anyway, I’ll trust to you.”

“Well now, whilst you stay with me there is much work to be done. But for to-day, until you become accustomed to your new surroundings, you may take holiday. To-morrow morning be up as early as to-day. After breakfast I will show you in what direction your work will lie.”

After that she went away, and saw no more of him all day. It was an ideal holiday in the sun and warmth and beauty of the outdoor life. And for the noontide meal, Billy came and sat with her, though he only drank one glass of water whilst she ate.

“Are you not hungry?” she asked.

“Well, yes. I’m getting hungry, but it isn’t my meal-time yet. You’d be astonished if you saw the amount I eat compared with you,” and he laughed in the gayest, happiest tone. After a while he said: “Have you made friends with the frog yet?”

“With whom?”

“The frog. My father’s pet frog. It is in the garden, but is rather shy of strangers, but very talkative when once you get to know it.”

“A frog? And it can talk?”

“You bet! It has a better fund of words and style of oratory than many a statesman.”

“Well, then, it should be a human being.”

Billy looked at her, and his brilliant sparkling eyes were laughing.

“Well, no, hardly that. It is quite contented to remain a frog—a very superior kind of frog.”

“Do you come every day for lessons?” asked Rosalie, uncertain what to say.

“Three times a week. And the other days I walk over in my spare time.”

“Then you have not far to come?”

“Not far, comparatively speaking. The distance lessens as one grows older, I find.”

“Then it would be less to me than you?”

Again he laughed.

“Well, no; I expect I’ve had more practice than you. Good morning!”

And he was gone, leaving Rosalie to ponder on that odd kind of powerful beauty in his face, and that exuberant merriness that made her sigh to lose him. For that was the worst of Billy. He seemed to come and go more like some brilliant spirit, a kind of Mercury, with winged heels, to bring one ray of sunshine, and then depart.