Jewel sowers: a novel

A brilliant house again, a brilliant crowd, the eve of the New Year, the death-bed of the Old. Just three hours more to wait.

But as Rosalie drove along, it was as if depression and the highest spirits fought one another for the mastery.

“The effects of wearing fine clothing,” said she, and laughed and sighed in a breath. “There is magic in these jewels, I feel certain. Oh! if I could but wear again my own precious moonstone talisman against all heaviness, instead of all this finery, that does its best to cramp my spirits, and half succeeds.”

On entering, she was almost immediately joined by Mr. Barringcourt. Never had he looked to Rosalie as to-night, never perhaps she to him. With a scrutiny which had become habitual, they eyed each other, and at last Rosalie said:

“Do you not think I was right in being covetous of such a lovely gown?”

“And the jewels?”

“Oh, they were an extra thrown in. I’d much rather have been without them. You should be kind, not lavish, Mr. Barringcourt. After an hour’s wearing they begin to assert their individuality and weight.”

“And at first you felt them light?”

“Being alive to their beauty, I was dead to their encumbrance.” And then again, this time seriously, she said: “But in truth I must acknowledge, perhaps, their weight cannot be very great, for I have the greatest wish to dance through every dance, and look to you to find me partners. I am not really altered because I stole behind the temple curtain; for one night it might be forgotten.”

“The first dance is with me, and the last one.”

“Oh, no! I am in a mood of ingratitude to-night. I cannot for the favour of this dress, and all its valuable accessories, even say ‘Thank you.’ Find me a partner for the dance that’s just beginning. No one has come near me since I came.”

“The first dance is with me.”

“Indeed, no. I’m entering on a life of self-denial. As soon as I want to do a thing I shall cross myself and do the opposite. What chance shall I stand of heaven, do you think, at that rate?”

“You’ll never get there. Be guided by me, and be less contrary.”

“It goes very much against the grain for me to dance with you. Must I be consistent, or must I be contrary?”

“Become impersonal, and leave the decision with me.”

“You are too selfish to be altogether trusted.”

“I? Selfish?”

“Yes. I want to dance, and here you keep me talking. I want to study men and form comparisons.”

“You can’t in a place like this. On these occasions they’re all more or less alike.”

“And on all others. The similarity of humanity is nerve-destroying.”

“A very pleasant state of things. None but a fool would wish it otherwise. But if you wish to dance you shall have partners in sufficiency. I’ll say you’re quite harmless to-night.”

“Say no such thing. Mariana tells me she was once bitten by a snake, and so was I. Since then I’ve had the greatest inclination to bite everyone who comes near me. She took it badly; I, by God’s help, was enabled to take it well.”

“What particular snake was it that bit you?”

“I think it must have been the God of Lucifram.”

Then he left her and went away, and through the evening Rosalie danced, seemingly happy, on to that hour when the Old Year and the New meet and part again.

Then she sought Mr. Barringcourt, and found him, not amongst his guests, but in that now deserted drawing-room where once Mariana had played for her. He was looking out on to the gas-lit streets, and the window being open, the cold night air blew into the room. The lights in it were shining fully, yet the city without was plainly visible.

“You have left the crowd?” said she.

“Yes,” he answered. “They can amuse themselves. You look tired.”

She laughed, an apology for deeper feeling, and looked at him with eyes whose tiredness was lost in a certain appeal and pathetic beauty, that characterised them long since in the days of silence.

“I think I overrated my powers of—of endurance. I—I should be very pleased to give the last dance to you. I left it empty.”

But he shook his head.

“I have not danced all evening; I do not wish to make myself conspicuous now.”

“We could sit it out.”

“We might; but I am contrary.”

Then Rosalie went up to him and put her hand very gently in his arm, and almost whispered:

“I have a feeling of insecurity that grows with almost every hour. It may be childish, but I never professed to be much different from a child. When I stay with you it leaves me more or less, and always has done from the very first I met you. And now Brightcoat has left me, and I feel quite alone, a thing hardly enviable in any sphere. And I’ve gone through the evening as best I could, and tried to get the better of my weakness.” And then she laughed and drew her hand away, and said: “If such confessions are unusual, you only have this dress to thank for it. The jewels have magnetic power, and draw me to the owner.”

At this he turned round from the window and looked at her, and a very curious smile curved on his lips.

“That’s your solution, is it?” he said, and scratched his head thoughtfully with one finger. Then he added: “My mother said I was to thank you for the stone you sent her.”

“Was she well?”

“Yes. At the first stroke after midnight I go again to her. These guests will then have all departed.”

“I, too.”

“You say that sadly.”

“The magnetism of the stone I sent her draws me to your mother.”

Just then Everard entered the room, carrying in his hand a large sealed envelope addressed to Rosalie. At the back it was sealed with the image of the Serpent.

“You, Everard?” said Mr. Barringcourt, with some surprise.

“I heard the door bell ring, and knew it was no ordinary guest of the evening.”

She took and opened it. A summons to appear before the High Priest’s court, and on the morrow morning, this first day of the New Year.

She read it through, half mystified, the truth with some difficulty dawning upon her. Then on a sudden she handed it to Mr. Barringcourt, her face as white as the background of her dress, and he in his turn read it. Then he turned to Everard and said:

“Who brought this?”

“A priest who, with his companion, waits outside. I did not let them in.”

Master and man looked at one another, the same grim smile half visible upon each face. Then Mr. Barringcourt took out his watch and looked at it.

“It wants still twenty minutes till the dance is ended. It is barely twenty minutes after twelve. Are they impatient of delay?”

“I did not ask them.”

“We’ll go upon the supposition that they’re patient.” Then turning to Rosalie, he continued: “There was a time you told me that you scorned to run away, and never had done. Afterwards, upon much less occasion, you trusted to the fleetness of your feet. And now? Are you prepared to meet the enemy?”

“Indeed, no. Or perhaps I cannot tell. If you stood for council on my behalf I think I might enjoy it. For myself, I could never get much farther than the truth.”

“A marvellous short journey, with a sudden ending, but little reckoned upon Lucifram. What think you of lifetime imprisonment, Rosalie?”

“Ah! It is that that frightens me. I never liked the thought of prison. Must I really go?”

“What plan of escape is there?”

Her brow knitted thoughtfully; then suddenly clearing, she said:

“Take me away with you. Take me to your mother?”

And she looked so very beautiful, with something so imperious in her manner, yet so sweet, that little wonder if the Master consented.

“It’s a long journey, and a very final one, and, moreover, my horses are black.”

“I’ll trust to the rule of contrary where you’re concerned, and trust you too. Take me where you will. I have sufficient power given me of my own to guard against a vital evil.”

“You trust me to a certain point. No farther.”

She laughed.

“I trust you altogether, but wish to show it is not quite from weakness I wish to come with you.”

“Then we’ll go. My mother is hospitable, and so are others round about her. Some are better known to you, no doubt, than she. A stranger is a rarity among them. You will be welcomed.”

“Alas! But who can travel in a dress like this—at midnight, in the depth of winter? It is so conspicuous.”

“No dress could be so suitable. Safe-guarded against wind or snow, and simple in comparison of those where we are going. Heat or cold, darkness or light cannot touch it. It was sewn in the inner darkness, and shines in the inner light. Come, Rosalie, the time is up. We must away to see the sun rise on the New Year.”

Then he led her through those great empty rooms into the fuller ones, where general hilarity preceded the closing of the dance. But here they never waited. Across the palm-house to the doors of glass with the image of the toad and temple so finely and so clearly worked in them.

At one touch they both flew open, and there, flooded in a tide of light—red—red—and an accompanying silence. It travelled swiftly, yet without sound or violence into the rooms of feasting and of mirth, carrying silence and a vague alarm. And noting where it came from, the guests instinctively crowded out towards that curious garden, on which faced the real front of Marble House.

And there, below the terrace steps, upon the wide carriage drive, stood a chariot of gold, with seats of crimson velvet, and harnessed to it the six black steeds, with tossing heads and eyes of fire, strong, and sleek, and slim.

One youth alone stood at the foremost bridle. And in the midst of all this ruddy glamour shone the pure whiteness of Rosalie’s robe, with all its flimsy showers of lace and jewels. And there beside the carriage step stood Mariana, the frog upon her shoulder, and with her Everard, who had preceded them.

Then Rosalie stepped in lightly and gracefully, and sat down. Mariana bent forward, and with the grace peculiar to her arranged the spreading train about her feet. Then looking up, with mutual feeling each drew an arm round the other’s neck and kissed. Rosalie whispered:

“You will follow, Mariana, and we’ll meet again, in no land of shadows, red or black, but in the sunlight. And you’ll bring Everard. A little company along the road is most desirable. But for the present, good-bye!”

And then the Master, gathering the long reins in his hand as he sat down beside her, wrung Everard’s hand, and seeing Mariana held her hand toward him too, bent over it and kissed it, by that one act undoing all the past in which she suffered through him.

The Master shook the reins. A thousand tingling stars shook from them upon and round about the coal-black steeds. One wild bound forward all in unison, not on a straight road, but up some climbing steep.

Rosalie turned round. And laughing, half in fear and half in happiness, kissed her hand to Brightcoat.

“Good-bye—till—till we meet again!”

Then the Master turned round also, a face very unlike to hers.

His face was dark and shadowy as it ever had been. The same contemptuous curl lay on his firm lips; a mocking laughter was in his eyes. His glance fell upon Marble House, and the guests all drawn towards the terraces.

With his free hand he felt in the pocket of the long coat he wore.

“I forgot to leave my New Year’s presents, Rosalie,” said he, and brought out a large handful of precious stones, flinging them down to Lucifram. Then drawing out another, he handed these to Rosalie, and bade her throw them too.

They fell among the crowd, who gathered them and praised their beauty.

But the six black steeds with little apparent effort climbed up the steep mountain-side, or so it seemed to be. And gradually the red light disappeared, and Lucifram along with it, and darkness followed.

And now there was nothing but the wind and icy snow and loneliness—nothing but the path. Nothing was to be seen on either side.

The spirited steeds, wild as ocean foam, flew up and on the mountain track, the winds moaned after them with a song as wild, as full of sad complaint, as if they were embodied spirits of the sighs and tears of broken hearts.

But no feeling of cold came near Rosalie. The jewelled robes encased her, proof against everything. And gradually it seemed as if the darkness gave way to a glimmering of light. At first it was feeble, but grew in distinctness, steady, and still steadier.

Suddenly a ray of brilliant light—light that could never blind the eyes—shot straight across the path. Then came another, another, following thick and fast from every direction.

Swiftly the coal-black horses changed in the flooding light to purest white, visions of inexpressible and perfect beauty. Rosalie’s heart beat faster with sudden, unexpected joy. She looked up at the Master, her own face transfigured by the light, as so was his. For all the weariness, all the contempt, all the dark shadows, had vanished from his features, and left nothing but what was full of life, of vigour, and of kindliness. His eyes, still dark and deep, looked into hers, the first time on the long and perilous journey, and he said, laughing, as sometimes of old:

“Do you prefer looking at me to the magnificence of all this scenery?”

But she clasped his arm in both her hands, and leaned her forehead against his shoulder.

And suddenly he brought the horses to a check, and drawing her still closer, bent his head and kissed her cheek. Then she looked up with eyes all wet with tears, and bright with happiness, and drawing back a little, said:

“I never thought that things would come out this way. I—I never imagined that black horses could come out white—nor you become so altered.”

He laughed.

“It all depends upon the journey that I take. Sometimes I cross upon another rainbow, that leads us all down hill from Lucifram at almost break-neck speed. Then neither I nor these, my horses, alter much. But look, Rosalie, round about you. This is a scene worth seeing and remembering.”

He stood up, and giving her his hand, helped her to her feet.

And then she saw that streams of light and rainbow garlands were flung from a thousand spheres to meet this central road, itself a giant rainbow crossing from Lucifram (a tiny speck of gleaming red in the far, far distance) towards a country quite unsurpassed for loveliness. And all around, from the different worlds of light, came scenes of fairyland.

And now she saw a towered city folded in night, the change from day; and here the bright sunshine of mid-day glinting upon a noble river, with sloping, tree-clad hills, and meadows smooth and green.

Again the sun was setting behind a sea of golden glory, on whose restless surface danced three round boats inlaid with pearl. And in the boats sat three maidens of exquisite beauty, attended by the gentle wind, their servant, who wafted them towards the distant shore. And as they went they sang a song that trembled sweetly on the air and reached in the soft silence to that golden car, ringing tones of happiness and joy.

So on around: a thousand scenes, and all delightful, delicate yet clear, country and city all in perfection spread out everywhere. And each sphere was linked to each with garlands of lights, so that the nimble spirit crossed on them, a perfect path of beauty.

Rosalie looked and breathed a sigh of admiration. Then her eyes travelled to the path which they were crossing. The steep part had been passed. There now remained only a lesser portion, and that sloped gently down. This remaining part was free from danger. Pillars of light garlanded with flowers guarded the sides.

The horses, unwearied with the night’s long race, moved slowly towards this nearing country, over whose waking sky the bright dawn was spreading wings of glory, with silver flutings right east to west. The descent led to a regal city, where nothing mean or sordid, no toil and tribulation, no anxious care or killing sorrow, no oppression, no dark deeds, no foul disease, no hardened priests or creeds had ever come. But all was God, the essence of immortal greatness.

And to this city came Rosalie, led by him whom some had called on Lucifram the Master. And being all tired with the journey, Rosalie fell asleep just as they were entering the gates.

For no traveller from a darker sphere can enter there unweary. The soft air, too strong for them, wafts the frail form to tender sleep, that it undergo the great and immortal change.

The sound of laughter and welcome, Heaven’s truest music of joy, and then for us a silence.

So ends a little chapter in the life of Lucifram. A chapter that bore indirectly upon the Serpent, and helped gradually to its undoing. But that’s another tale.