CHAPTER XXIX

A CONFESSION

Time flew on till it was just two days before Christmas, or, at least, the festival which in Lucifram takes the place of Christmas in our world.

On this particular afternoon Rosalie dressed with the greatest possible care, and looked three consecutive times sideways in the glass, to see if her nose was any better disposed to turn downwards; but it wasn’t. Still, it detracted nothing from the general effect, and, indeed, might be said to help, if only on the side of morality, to keep her from growing conceited.

The frog, having come to that stage when one evidently regards oneself as quite perfect enough, felt no qualms as to its appearance, took not one doubtful glance into the glass.

Rosalie, when she was ready, put her head through the door to tell Miss Crokerly she was going to pay a call; she did not say where.

Miss Crokerly, busy with festival matters, simply nodded her head. It was just a little after three.

Rosalie left the house, and walked on quickly till she came to Greensward Avenue. Coming here, her steps slackened; but she continued walking till she came in sight of Marble House. Here she came to a dead stand, and looked blindly on the pavement. Her heart was beating so quickly that if the passers-by had not been walking along so heavily they must have stopped to inquire about it.

But from a full stop she ran lightly and hurriedly up the steps and rang the bell. There was no escape now, for within thirty seconds it had opened. There stood Everard, just the same as ever, as silent, as polite, no more surprised.

Rosalie took her courage in both hands. There was that hideous umbrella stand that a dowager-duchess had once exclaimed was the most charming novelty she’d ever seen.

“Is Mr. Barringcourt at home?” said she.

He looked as if he had never seen her before, but after a moment’s pause he said:

“Yes. Will you come this way?” And led her through the outer vestibule into the wide and gloomy hall.

There he left her, and went in the direction of the Master’s study, but soon returned.

The afternoon had quite faded now, and as he conducted her along the western corridor he turned on the lights.

Mr. Barringcourt received her almost silently. He made some remark about the weather—it was of little importance. He drew a chair for her. Rosalie sat down.

“I came to see you,” she began, clasping her hands tightly inside her muff, “because—because—”

“Because,” said he, in the most distant of voices, “you wished to see Mariana.”

“No. I’m afraid I was too selfish to think of Mariana. I was thinking only of myself.”

She did not notice the alteration in his expression, because she had not noticed the previous hardness of his voice. But she got a vague idea he was not particularly pleased to see her, yet was determined to go on.

“It has sometimes struck me,” she began hurriedly, “that it was very ill-mannered of me to run away from you. I—I—I escaped by a little door in the stable wall.”

A very curious silence followed this remark; then Rosalie continued:

“The country beyond was very beautiful—at least, I thought it was. It—it led me to a white house, with a low verandah and a pretty garden. It took me a whole day to go, and the sun was setting when I got there. In the house I met a youth—at least, I thought he was young; but afterwards he told me he was nearly as old as you. But he seemed to grow very quickly in the time that I was staying there. He took me to his father. At first I thought he was very old, because his hair was white. I had just one day’s holiday when I was there, and then I went to live in a little hut all alone, with a plantation in front of it. I sowed a basket of seeds in the ground that the Governor (that is the name I knew him by) had given me. But first I had to dig in the soil, and I didn’t like digging at all; I hated it. After that, everything went by the rule of contrary. The seeds never came up; they grew underneath, and looked to me like very beautiful jewels. But they took a great deal of digging out and freeing from the soil. I took them to the Governor, and he sent them somewhere, I think he said it was to the city, to be tested and valued. But every time they were sent back and marked as rubbish. I’ve never felt quite the same since. I used to feel young before, but ever since I’ve felt as old as old. And I do nothing but pretend all day long, in little and big things alike. I pretend least with you of anyone, and that night I ran away from you in the street (you remember it?) I felt quite surprised, and in one way just a little happy. It made me feel just a little more alive. But after a while the Governor said I had better come back again into the world. I didn’t want to, because there was nowhere to go to, and I did not want to come back to this house again. I was tired of prisons. But when he told me to come back into the world I was obedient, because I knew he was much wiser than anyone that I had ever met before. He was kind to me in some ways, although he never threw kindness away. So one morning I started on the return journey, and Brightcoat came along with me for company.

“When we were in the streets, I went along scarcely knowing what I was doing, I was so tired, and at last I sat down on a doorstep. It was Sir John Crokerly’s, and when his sister came home she took me in; and I have lived there ever since. There is nothing else to tell you. Now you know all, you need trouble yourself to be agreeable to me no longer. After all, I owed it to you to tell you. You gave me a greater gift than I thought it possible anyone on earth could ever give me. And you no doubt put it down to science, but I put it down to God. And—and about my coming here, when first I did come to you. I came from the sacred place of the temple. I had given up wishing to be cured of being dumb—at least, praying to be cured, because I thought God was not wishful to cure me. And I prayed to the Serpent just to help me to live the right way, because I knew that that was the only thing God really cared about And the Serpent seemed quite to disappear; in its place came the presence of God. Only one little ball of light and gold was left out of all that giant frame and jewelled head. And I don’t know quite how it was I came to you, any more than now I have gone to Miss Crokerly.”

With these words said, she got up and stood facing him, for he had not sat down during this monologue but stood looking at her, a thing which, after first beginning, she seemed quite unconscious of.

Her words had been simple, her sentences short and abrupt, and at times somewhat disconnected, but Rosalie’s voice was so sweet that it seemed to run like a silver bell in and out the mazes of this experience.

Now she held out her hand.

“I have detained you long enough. Perhaps you’ll forgive the school-girl style. Though I feel so old, I can find no other.”

“Come with me to the stable,” said he, “and show me the door. I don’t believe there is one.”

“You will be able to find it yourself.”

“I had much rather you came with me. It is the only way in which I can credit your story.”

So together they went through the silent house and silent grounds and silent shrubbery. The red light shone full down the middle pathway to the stable door. But Brightcoat shed a softer brilliancy round about, if not so clearly and direct. But then there was no need for it as guide to-day.

The stables shone out with a certain curious light of their own—a dusky, shadowy brightness.

At a certain touch the unseen door slipped backward, and revealed the shadowy twilight within.

And as is customary with horses, they turned their graceful heads and looked with wild eyes on the newcomers, and one in the far corner neighed. But they seemed shadowy. All were shadowy. Eyes shone like carbuncles, the only distinctive feature. And there was nothing of warmth there. Everything was cold and chilly as a vault

But Brightcoat’s light was useful here. It shone in direct rays on to that little unnoticed door that was built so unobtrusively in the wall.

“There,” said Rosalie, and she touched his arm. “I went through there.”

“Strange,” said he. “I never saw that door before. How did you open it?”

“With the key of my uncle’s safe. But that has gone. I don’t know what I did with it. I was in such a hurry to get through and close it after me.”

“And the path led you to a low white house with a verandah?”

“Yes. Let us return. It is cold here. You’ll give your horses rheumatism if you keep them in so damp a place.”

“You are not acclimatised. But we will go. Strange I never noticed that door. As for the others, I suppose if they did notice it, they imagined I had done so too.”

When they were back again in the house, which seemed cheerful after the intense cold without, Mr. Barringcourt said:

“Will you have tea before you go?”

“No, thank you. Our last tea together had not a very pleasant ending, though it began so charmingly. We’re like most people—best friends when parted.”

“Then I may not see you again till Festival night.”

“Do you still renew the invitation?”

He laughed.

“If I were not very contrary, you would make me angry. You harp so constantly upon an unreasoning subject.”

“Ah!” said she suddenly. “Let me see Mariana. Send for her.”

“Not to-night”

“Yes, to-night. I will not keep her longer than a minute. Just to see if she is just the same.”

“She has not altered. Take my word for it.”

“You said if I came here I should see her.”

“You must have misunderstood me. I never said so.”

“I—I don’t believe you ever mean me to see Mariana again,” she said.

“Indeed? What makes you think so?” and he laughed again, not at all kindly.

“Because you know quite well that I should do my very best to persuade her to come away with me.”

Rosalie bowed, and swept away toward the door, and when she got there she said to Everard, quite loud enough for Mr. Barringcourt to hear, who still stood in the hall:

“When next you see Mariana, please give her my love, and tell her I asked to see her, but was not successful.”

He bowed solemnly and let her pass, but took no further notice than if he had been made of stone.