Marigold

That was of Eve; now follow with your best apologies and look across the mists and moonbeams and behold a lady fair. For the Prince stood alone, looking on Lucifram with an expression hardly kind upon his face, when last you stood within the magic circle. And now you see behind him a lesser form though tall—a slightly different beauty. It is the Princess Vestné—bend your head—his wife. Not like him in sombre black, with the bright blood-stones as an only ornament—she stands there the personification of light. A diamond crescent of purest light, as far removed from earth gems as they are from glass, shines in her silken hair, that dusky rich shade, one of Heaven’s own hues—Hell’s too, for both in beauty are alike. Then for her face—you saw that of the Prince quite plainly—would you look on hers? See, that contemptuous smile of pride has deepened—you may not see so plain—for Heaven seems quite made up of the male persuasion, but that’s because the lovelier half—I mean the gentler, tenderer half—is hidden away from our coarse sight—rarest of rarest visions. Tender and gentle were the words, and yet, look through this gathering, deepening mist that blurs the picture. Your impression of that face? Oh, very cold and proud and cruel, a winsome grace, a silent fascination, that draws every chord of your spirit towards that princely watching-place.

What music fell upon the forest’s silence! A laugh that the crawling spirits never heard—hidden under the thick-roofed foliage.

The Princess laughed, and went close up to him, slipping her hand in his, as loving as a child might be, as simple.

But oh! no, no, she didn’t talk like Milton, because she wasn’t dressed in stiff brocade, nor in the naked beauty of long curls.

No; the Princess talked (she was admirably well-bred) just as they talked on Lucifram, because she looked that way, and, as she spoke, she raised her hands and clasped them lazily behind her head.

“The net wants repairing,” she said. “I stood here yesterday and looked at it—a beastly, little fly has struggled through.”

He laughed, as one just married yesterday instead of years past counting, and the humour in his eyes dimmed for a little time their hardness.

“A butterfly, you mean. I watched the turn-out. It was a radiant one—worthy our—our nephew.”

But she shook her head, and answered, with a touch of chilling hauteur:

“He’s no relation. On Lucifram he would be called a natural son—or what’s that other word?—a rather ugly one. They have so many ugly words, one really loses count of them.”

He let the light question pass unanswered, but the smile died from his eyes and lips, and, in response to his changing humour, she changed too.

“I can’t understand,” she said, with a faint intonation of passion that reached you echoing on the trembling air,—“I cannot understand the fairness or the justness of it. He should be obliged to play upon our side or on the other.”

“But he is neutral; equal for both sides upon occasion. It’s fair enough. We have him to thank for the gentleness and amiability of the great High Priest, you know.”

His tone was hard and mocking; her laugh, a subtler note, not less intense.

“Yes, he has been very docile.” She leant out on the balcony, her white arms pressed against the blackness, her face bent towards Lucifram. “He has been very docile, and he must mend the net. I cannot stand to see flies escaping. You must give him injunctions to tear off their legs and wings first. Why weren’t they made like worms?”

“They are worms, dearest—with great capabilities of wriggling upwards now and then. Who but a worm would worship the Serpent?”

“Who indeed? Many a time I sicken of them—the uninteresting swarm! Oh, why did my brother—why did Vestasian play this trick on us, of all gods—he the most trusted in, the best beloved?”

“Precisely why the heavenly Councils hit on him. Now, had it been I——”

“You? But tell me of this net—how must it be mended?”

“Exactly as every other microscopic hole has been, with a damned soul—I mean a well-seasoned one. The worst of it is they take some time preparing.”

“Are there none ready?”

“None for that particular hole. It was a rather big one, and will take something pretty strong, I find. A High Priest is the very least I could put to it—it befits his office. In time he shall guard the road to Heaven from all intruders.”

“Just in the same way as a High Priest guards the other.”

“No, Vestné. There are two put on to guard the other. It was admirably arranged there should be two.”

“And they’ve done their business disgracefully.”

“The clergy, with few exceptions, always do. I mean those we are obliged to put on to our business. They soap so, and insolently refuse to be too hard worked.”

“Alphonso has not erred in that respect.”

“No; he shall be honoured. He shall guard the gate.”

“It is no gate. It is a paltry hole.”

“Large enough for Vestasian’s son to drive through—we must remember that.”

“He is no son. Vestasian has no son. I doubt in harder moments if he has a wife.”

But he laughed and drew her to him.

“My wife talks for the sake of talking, and I listen because her voice is sweet even in these harder moments. We will guard the hole—we cannot mend it. It is one of the rules of the game.”