CHAPTER XXV

THE GOLDEN PRIEST

That night when she and the frog were alone together, Rosalie began the conversation by saying:

“What do you think of Mr. Barringcourt?”

“I like him,” said the frog, quite shortly.

“What has prepossessed you?”

“Nothing particularly. But I like him. I’m sorry you were so rude to him.”

Rosalie flushed. The tone was almost grave enough for a rebuke.

“I? Rude? Oh, Brightcoat, how can you say so? I always try to be polite to him, and it always ends in failure. It is he who is rude to me.”

“No,” said the frog; “you take no pains to act or to speak sensibly. And to say you detest anyone is absurd, ridiculous, to say nothing of bad manners.”

“You’ve never lived in Marble House, so you can afford to talk. Talk about vivisection! It was Mr. Barringcourt who openly deplored to me there was no such thing in our country. What do you think of that?”

“There are worse things than vivisection,” replied the frog. “If it were not for that I should never have been here, or alive now.”

“But—” said Rosalie, staring at it.

“Why don’t you cultivate a charming manner, Rosalie?”

“I expect I’m not made that way. Are my manners so uncouth?” and her expression was doleful.

“No; but I don’t see how you’re to get your six horses, chariot, and all the rest, unless you try to be more charming.”

“Well, Mr. Barringcourt will never help me that way. You should have seen the look he gave me last night, and then to-night, as if he’d never seen me before. Such folk give me quite a creepy feeling. Besides, talking about horses, his are black. Can’t you see he is the exact opposite of what I want? He would do all he could to hinder me. If it were not that once I saw him looking very tired I should detest him too. Oh, how I hate Lucifram! Somehow or other, I never feel at home here,” and she sighed.

“And you’ve got about all it can give you.”

“Then I’m like all the rest—ungrateful.”

“Rosalie, has it ever struck you you are very pretty?”

“Yes; every now and again it has. But what of that? All the women we saw to-night were pretty. It’s the commonest of all things. If I’d a big hook nose now I might appear imposing. But no; even that is common enough to-day.”

After a pause the frog said: “I heard someone say to-night you were the prettiest woman there.”

“Please, don’t! I’d so much rather you left my personal appearance alone.”

But the frog continued:

“It’s as well for people to think about these things at times. I know many a lovely woman who has been ruined by thinking too much of her beauty in one way, and too little in another. They know they are beautiful, and that knowledge is all-sufficient to them; their food and recreation, and all in all.”

“But I’m not one of those.”

“No. I think you might put yours to much more use than you do.”

“You speak in puzzles.”

“You are not so dull but that with a little consideration you will understand me.”

So Rosalie went to bed much sat on by the frog, but maybe profiting, as most of us do, from a little compression and criticism.

Next day everything was sloppy, wet, and dismal. Rain began to fall in the afternoon, and going out, no matter of pleasure on such a day, was not indulged in.

Tea had just been brought in, and Rosalie and Miss Crokerly were preparing to enjoy it alone, when visitors were announced. They were Mr. Barringcourt and the Golden Priest Alphonso.

“I came to return the umbrella, Miss Crokerly, and met the Golden Priest on my way.”

“Then you will have tea,” said she. “On a wet day you are doubly welcome. No one else has ventured out.”

“We are fortunate. Miss Paleaf, allow me to introduce my friend, Golden Priest Alphonso, to you.”

And Rosalie, having a severe and cold critic perched upon her shoulder, rose very gracefully and bowed.

“It must have been very important business that brought you out on such a day,” said she to him, as they sat down, with charming sympathy.

“Well, I was out begging, and a beggar cannot choose his weather. I was going in search of Mr. Barringcourt for a subscription for a new decorative curtain for the temple.”

“In place of the old red one?”

“Exactly. It was old and shabby, despite its richness, and we think it must be rotten. There is every indication that it may give way again, and so we are making all speed with the new one.”

“Then you are not superstitious enough to think it gave way before from anything but natural causes?”

He looked at her sharply and narrowly.

“Oh, no,” he answered. “One can find a natural cause for everything. Therein lies the greater miracle.”

“But how?” said Rosalie, subduing her tongue in deferential attention to the pillar of the Church.

He smiled, as became one of exalted intellect.

“Well, there is nothing like order—cause and effect—to work a lasting miracle. A startling thing has a short life. The rottenness of the curtain was the symbol of something still more rotten. Nothing takes place in a day.”

Rosalie’s eyes opened innocently, though they were very far from innocent. There is no doubt the frog must have been to blame for it.

“What is still more rotten? But perhaps my questions bore you. I am so inquisitive.”

Again he smiled.

“You could never be that. But what is still more rotten is the system that lets old men continue in office after they have proved themselves unfit for it.”

Rosalie’s eyes betrayed a charming depth of horror at this cold-blooded statement.

“But, sir,” said she, “who is to be the judge of their incapacity? And, again, it seems so cruel, and—and—doesn’t it make a terrible lot of enemies for you, saying things like that?”

The Golden Priest laughed. The last remark evidently was to some point.

“In the cause of common sense one has no objection to making enemies. And I cannot for the life of me see why the highest position in the land should never be filled by a man till he’s nearly in his dotage.”

“Oh! it’s more restful. Besides, a great and a good man should retain his intellect to his death, however old and feeble he may be.”

“Granted! But feebleness is no qualification for an important post. And greatness and goodness should discern its own capacity.”

“Is it true, then, that the Great High Priest is resigning?”

“Yes; in a few months.”

“He has discernment, then?”

“I think his action is a little too late for that. His plea is ill-health. None of us have heard anything further—not those nearest to him in office.”

“And then there will come the general election for his successor?”

(For in Lucifram they chose their highest priests that way. The clergy vote for them.)

“Yes; in a few weeks from now.”

“It will be a very distracting time?”

“Scarcely more so than the last year has been.”

And so the silent plot of years had worked to a fulfilment, the veil or mask at length being thrown aside. To-day was spoken openly what a month ago had been whispered and kept down.

Here the conversation was interrupted by Miss Crokerly.

“Mr. Barringcourt tells me he saw the secretary again this morning, and arranged for all the things you suggested, Rosalie.”

“Yes. He has never doubted my judgment before, but I think he must have detected a foreign influence, he looked so dubious.”

Rosalie laughed.

“Are they to have force-meat and sausages with the turkey, do you know?” she asked.

“It never occurred to me to ask.”

“And you an executor of a will! And never to inquire about the gravy and bread-sauce. It’s plain you don’t attach enough importance to a Christmas dinner. But if I were you, Mr. Barringcourt, I’d countermand all orders, and give them 3s. 6d. each, and a free day to enjoy themselves anywhere and anyhow, with a night each end, to make a complete sandwich and a delightful holiday.”

“You imagine them to be prisoners. On the contrary, those who have friends or relations who care to receive them may have leave from the Home once every month. And for the inmates, you must remember it is no prison that they live in, and they are very happy.”

“I suppose so,” said Rosalie. “But I always dread those public institutions for defects.”

“You are prejudiced,” put in the Golden Priest. “They are the greatest blessings in existence. I always regard them as branches of the temple.”

“So do I,” said Mr. Barringcourt; but the tone was questionable.

“I have the greatest longing to go through Todbrook’s Home,” said Miss Crokerly. “One hears so much about it. I should like to see the inmates at work.”

Rosalie shivered.

“Oh! would you, Miss Crokerly? I can imagine nothing more galling to them than to be watched by strangers.”

“But is it such an infliction to them?” asked that lady, turning to Mr. Barringcourt.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said he. “I hardly think so. I think myself it would be better if they had more visitors from the outside world. Lady Flamington is the only lady I have ever taken over the premises.”

“I had just left there,” said the Golden Priest, “before I met you to-day. I hear she caught a severe chill last night, and is confined to her room.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Crokerly; and Mr. Barringcourt and Rosalie looked at each other, from no apparent motive.

When tea was over the two gentlemen rose to go.

“I think,” said Mr. Barringcourt, in a lower voice, to Rosalie, as the others were speaking of a special fern which both were rearing—“I think it would not be a bad plan for you to go over the Home with Miss Crokerly. The matron will willingly take you over, and you’ll find there are worse things in the world than being deaf and dumb, or even blind.”

Then somehow or other they looked at each other, the first time really since the Saturday night. How long ago it seemed now! And each was very curious about the other evidently, for Rosalie’s eyes searched his, and his eyes hers, but what conclusion either came to it would be hard to say.

And then she shook hands with the Golden Priest, and the door closed.

“Do you think,” said Miss Crokerly, “that Mr. Barringcourt told the Golden Priest your opinion of him, and brought him here to-day in consequence?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she replied thoughtfully. “I think Mr. Barringcourt must have recognised the Golden Priest has no sense of humour, and would resent instead of forgiving opinions.”

“Your tone proves appearances are deceptive. I thought by your manner you had changed your estimate of him.”

Rosalie half shuddered, and stretched her hands to the blaze.

“I was simply carrying out a lesson in obedience. And yet my estimate of him _has_ changed. I find him so uninteresting.”

“It is the common lot of most of us to be uninteresting.”

“Oh, no, indeed. You are interesting; so is Sir John; so was—was—so have been many people I have met—Mr. Barringcourt, for instance. But this man is petrified by ambition. It is eating up his heart and head.”

“Well, I am not particularly fond of him myself, as I have told you. Still, I am surprised that with your views you should find Mr. Barringcourt interesting.”

Rosalie’s brows knitted.

“I don’t understand him. I never did understand him. Have you ever met anyone, Miss Crokerly, who at times struck you as being very, very good, and at others almost cruel? And that is how he appears to me.”

“But you know so little of him.”

“Yes, of course. I forgot. I spoke as if we were almost old acquaintances.”