"You could have married," she cried. "Most gentlemen strengthen their fortunes by a wealthy match. But you—who received your attentions? I forbear to name them! And now it is too late."
"Too late for a fine match—yes," said Rose Lyndwood. "I have not time to hunt an heiress before the bailiffs are in, and——"
"You would not if you could," interrupted the Countess.
"I would rather sell the estates than myself, madam."
"Your bearing is out of joint with your fortune," she returned. "Ye speak proudly. It had been a finer pride that had prevented ye coming to tell your mother ye had disgraced your name thus!"
The Earl looked away from her into the shadows at the far end of the room.
"Prudence was not in my inheritance," he said slowly. "If you take it as a disgrace that my fortune was not equal to my position—" He broke off. "In any case, my lady, 'tis tedious and painful to discuss the matter."
"You have no thought for me!" The Countess flung reproaches at him. "Oh, none at all! Nor what this means to me, or to Marius! Did you ever consider us when you wasted your father's heritage?"
"My father?" repeated the Earl. "I have lived as he lived, only 'tis my misfortune to have faced the consequences."
Lady Lyndwood very tightly clutched the back of thechair; the wavering candle-light sought out her face and showed it wild and sad beneath the loose blonde hair.
Rose Lyndwood suddenly turned his beautiful head and looked at her.
"Have you nothing but bitterness for me, my lady?" he asked.
"I think of Marius," she answered.
The Earl's face hardened again.
"Marius has the world before him."
"You have broken his heart—you! And to-night he came back to me so joyously! Listen! He met a lady abroad; he hoped to marry her."
"At one-and-twenty?" Rose Lyndwood half smiled. "How many marry their first loves, my lady?"
The Countess sank into the chair.
"I did," she murmured in an uncontrolled voice, "and I had nothing but happiness." And she began weeping for the twelve years dead.
"Marius was my lord's heir with you," said the Earl, "and I have brought you nothing but misfortune. Do not shed tears, my lady, and shame me, for maybe I can still sell myself to buy Marius his romance."
The Countess struggled with sick sobs; half under her breath she murmured incoherent railings and feeble complaints. The Earl became paler as he listened to her.
The candle was burning to the socket; the moonlight lay on the floor between them, in a shifting, widening patch.
"I am returning to London to-night," said Rose Lyndwood at last.
My lady got to her feet and supported herself against the side of the desk, holding her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Go when you will," she answered; "nay, go soon, for I have no desire to see you in the house—let me be alone with Marius." A sudden gleam of anger shone through her weak tears. "Nay, I doubt not you have companionsin London in whose society ye can soon forget my unhappiness."
He made no answer, nor did he move, and without a look between them the Countess left the room.
As the door closed after her the candle guttered and went out in the gust of air.
For a moment or two the Earl walked up and down in the dark, crossing and recrossing the patch of moonlight.
Then he returned to the withdrawing-room.
It was empty, the window still stood open on to the terrace, and the air was full of the pungent smell of the flowers without.
Rose Lyndwood seated himself at the table where Miss Chressham had written, earlier that evening, the letter whose fragments were now being swirled down the stream into the open country.
He picked up a pen and slowly mended it, pulled out a sheet of Susannah's gilt-edged paper, and paused.
What had happened since he had left London that morning—his meeting with his cousin, the fierce disappointment and anger of Marius, the foolish, bitter reproaches of the Countess—had hardly touched his real feelings, and, personally, moved him not at all.
He had endured these scenes, disdainful of them; he knew that neither his mother nor Marius had ever attempted to avert the ruin that so overwhelmed them, and that they knew nothing of his real position.
To both he was a stranger in all things save blood, and now as he sat alone, his thoughts were where they had been on the ride from London, with the people and things of his own world, though through all was the stinging recollection of his brother's sneers and his mother's tears.
Presently he began to write, slowly but without hesitation.
"Madam,—You will remember that I acquainted you with the fact that my affairs approached a crisis, and thatI considered accepting the appointment at Venice as a retreat from a life my fortunes would no longer support. You know what other hope I dared to cherish—believe that I have ever held dear the assurances you once gave me, and that in writing this I taste fully the bitterness of poverty."I cannot go to Venice, since both my lady and Marius, my brother, find me at fault in this entanglement of my fortunes, and 'tis but decent that I should strive to repair losses that affect them, since they demand it of me."More 'tis difficult to say on paper, yet I have no fear that you will not understand since we never found it hard to comprehend one another. When last you wrote you said that you were being pressed in the matter of your betrothal to your cousin Francis—he is one to whom I should have given my esteem in other circumstances, and one whom, even as it is, I cannot hate, though his fortune is more brilliant than mine——"
"Madam,—You will remember that I acquainted you with the fact that my affairs approached a crisis, and thatI considered accepting the appointment at Venice as a retreat from a life my fortunes would no longer support. You know what other hope I dared to cherish—believe that I have ever held dear the assurances you once gave me, and that in writing this I taste fully the bitterness of poverty.
"I cannot go to Venice, since both my lady and Marius, my brother, find me at fault in this entanglement of my fortunes, and 'tis but decent that I should strive to repair losses that affect them, since they demand it of me.
"More 'tis difficult to say on paper, yet I have no fear that you will not understand since we never found it hard to comprehend one another. When last you wrote you said that you were being pressed in the matter of your betrothal to your cousin Francis—he is one to whom I should have given my esteem in other circumstances, and one whom, even as it is, I cannot hate, though his fortune is more brilliant than mine——"
The Earl broke off and stared out at the night with darkening eyes, then he signed his name and the date.
Without reading the letter through he folded and addressed it to:
Miss Selina Boyle,Bristol.
Miss Selina Boyle,Bristol.
As he finished he looked round, for he heard the door softly open.
"Susannah," he said. His intonation held welcome; he half smiled.
Miss Chressham crossed the room; within a little distance of her cousin's chair she paused; he was again gazing out at the night, and she saw only his back, the blue ribbon at his neck, and the long smooth curls that hung beneath it.
"What have they said to you?" she asked.
"That which I might have expected."
He fingered his letter, still with his face from her; she came round his chair, her scarlet dress rippled out of the shadows with colour.
"Of course they cannot forgive," she said intensely.
Now he looked round at her suddenly, and his expression startled even her strained anticipation.
"What are they doing?" he demanded.
"My lady is weeping—and Marius—raving like the boy he is."
The Earl leant back.
"They blame me, Susannah—curse me, I think, make me the thief of their happiness, and—" he checked himself. "Iamto blame, but I will repay."
"How?" she asked, and her voice was almost frightened.
Again he gave her his stormy grey eyes.
"Marius is in love," he smiled, not softly. "Principally my lady thinks of that—spendthrift, you, she says, ruining this romance—well, Marius must not be a pauper either for this love or the next, and so——"
"And so—what?" breathed Miss Chressham.
"I must mend my fortunes even as I ruined them—I must resort to an expedient not pleasant—but I keep you standing"—he rose, his glance sought the clock—"and it is late."
"I know what you mean to do," said Miss Chressham. "And if I had been one with any claim on you"—she checked herself for fear of the extravagant—"I cannot understand how they can force you," she finished.
"They do not think of me," answered Lord Lyndwood. "My lady considers Marius, and Marius himself—I have done nothing that theyshouldthink of me."
"But you take the obligation of their future upon you," cried Susannah Chressham.
He answered her in the spirit of the words he had written to Miss Boyle.
"I am the elder—it is but decent; and, after all," he turned to her with a touch of his usual lightness, "'tis the fashion to marry for money."
That glimpse of his old self unnerved her utterly.
"Oh, Rose," she protested in trembling accents, "think what you are doing—why should you sell yourself because of Marius?"
The Earl was silent; Miss Chressham looked at him a little space, then moved towards the window.
"But as you say," she said in another and heavier tone, "everyone does it, and perhaps you do not care."
As she finished her glance fell on the letter lying on the little desk between them, and she saw the name on it.
"Ah!" she added swiftly. "Do you care?"
He answered the eager look in her hazel eyes.
"Enough not to wish to speak of it," he said quietly. "Enough to ask you to forget that I have said even that——"
"This for Marius!" she cried, hardly knowing what she did or what words she spoke.
"Nay, for myself," he answered recklessly, "that I may not hear their reproaches all my days—it had to be—by Gad, we cannot hope to end our lives in fairy tales."
He picked up the letter and put it in his pocket.
"Tell my lady to rest tranquil and Marius that he shall not starve—and for yourself—thank you, my sweet cousin."
She turned her head away.
"You will stay here to-night?"
"No, I do not need to sleep to-night."
"You have been riding all day—you cannot go back—like this."
She made an effort to look at him now; he was taking his hat and gloves from the chair where he had thrown them on his entry.
"I shall walk to Brenton and get a horse there; I must be in London as soon as may be."
He put on his cloak over his bright shining dress and fastened the heavy clasps.
"You will leave them, like this?" asked Miss Chressham.
"There is no more to say," he answered.
"You will think hardly of them," said Susannah; her voice, her eyes, her pose expressed intense excitement.
Rose Lyndwood smiled.
"Nay, I am the culprit;" he hesitated a moment, then his voice fell beautifully soft, "do notyouthink hardly ofme?"
"I!" she smiled bravely; "I—I understand."
"I will write soon, to you and to my lady."
He moved towards the window, and the sweet breeze stirred the loose hair on his forehead.
Miss Chressham followed him.
"We shall see you again?" She bit her lip, and the colour rose under her eyes.
"Ah, soon." He took her hand and kissed it; she saw the white corner of the letter addressed to Miss Boyle showing from the glimmering brocade of his waistcoat, and her mouth tightened.
"My duty to my lady," said the Earl; "and—you will know what to tell them—good-night."
His tone, his smile were endearments; to her alone that evening had he shown anything of his usual manner; this his thanks for her patient sympathy.
"Good-night," she answered.
He stepped out on to the terrace; the moon was directly overhead and the trees mighty with black shadows; the white flowers looked as if carved out of silver, and the red tulips, half seen, seemed to pulse in the obscurity of the shade cast by the gleaming balustrade.
Rose Lyndwood looked up at the house; in his mother's room burnt a pale light; he glanced down again at MissChressham standing before the ruddy candle glow of the chamber he had just left; bright colour showed in her scarlet dress, in her heated cheeks and brilliant eyes; she had one hand on her bosom, and her slack fingers were soft and fair.
"Good-night," he said again, and turned away towards the shallow steps.
Miss Chressham watched him go; the stillness was, to her, rent with voices—Marius speaking in the hot bitterness of youth, Lady Lyndwood weeping complaining words, the soft tones of Selina Boyle and the sad laugh of Rose Lyndwood.
"Rose Lyndwood." She repeated the name to herself, then closed the window and drew the heavy curtain across the prospect of the stars.
Theclear, kindly morning sun lay over the straight handsome houses in Bedford Row and dazzled in the white dust of the wide street.
From the stucco porticoes of the mansions slanting shadows were cast over the doors. A woman in a blue cap crying "Chairs to mend!" moved slowly along; a few passers-by were gathered, with an air of curiosity, about an elegant green curricle that waited outside a house in no way different from the others, save that the shutters were up in every window but those on the second floor.
This equipage excited attention, not only by the manifest splendour of the white horses, the sumptuous livery of the footman, and the gold-plated harness, but by the fact that the small crest on the body of the chariot was that of the famous Lord Lyndwood, a name they all knew as that of the most brilliant personage in that brilliant but vague world of fashion that sparkled somewhere beyond their vision.
At one of the unshuttered windows stood the owner of the green chariot, observing languidly the prospect of the wide sunny street, broken by the little knot of people about the curricle, and the slow-moving figure of the chair-mender, with her slender bundle of canes under her arm.
Rose Lyndwood saw these things as a bright, expressionless picture. Even the blue sky arching the houses had no meaning; but the thick dust that stirred in the slow breezeand whitened the dry aspect of the street conveyed a quiet dreariness.
The Earl moved away from the window, and his half-veiled gaze dwelt on the details of the lofty chamber in which he waited.
Everything was very new, very magnificent. A cold, uncultured taste expressed itself in stiff, splendid furniture; in pictures selected for no reason, it seemed, but their bright colours and their massive frames, and in enormous mirrors that, rising from floor to ceiling, reflected their glories again and again after the manner of a public dancing-room.
The chairs and settees wore linen covers that concealed all but their shining gilt legs. There were no flowers in the painted vases nor any small or intimate object to disturb the stately expanses of the marble-topped tables and Japan cabinets; it appeared a room never often used and of late long shut up.
Rose Lyndwood walked softly up and down. He had his hat under his arm and his gloved hands clasped behind him; he wore an olive-green riding-coat, his hair unpowdered and plainly arranged.
He was utterly out of harmony with his surroundings. It might be that he was aware of this, for when he saw his image in the ostentatious mirrors he very slightly smiled, and not pleasantly.
The sunlight entered by the tall bare window and lay in a great square on the highly coloured carpet, dazzling in its passage on the flaunting gold of furniture and pictures.
Lord Lyndwood paced to and fro, glancing, when he reached the window, at the green chariot below, with its idle admirers, and at the empty street beyond, and when he reached the great glass the other end of the chamber at the reflection of his own superb person with that slight and sneering smile.
He was by the window when the heavy-carved door quickly opened, and a man stepped into the room.
Lord Lyndwood stood where he was.
"Good morning, Mr. Hilton," he said.
The new-comer advanced.
"I have kept you waiting, my lord," he said. "A domestic matter detained me."
He looked at the Earl gravely, yet intently, and came nearer. He was a middle-aged man, heavy in build, with a commonplace countenance imparted by ambitions satisfied and a prosperity hardly attained and keenly relished.
He was dressed in plum-coloured velvet. Across his waistcoat was a watch-chain set with rubies that he fingered with his coarse left hand, as if he could not forget it; he wore a large, old-fashioned peruke heavily powdered, that, flowing on to his shoulders, gave a touch of remote dignity to his person, belied by his shrewd, alert face.
"Your lordship must excuse the disorder of my house," he said. "We are but newly arrived in London."
"I observe no disorder," answered the Earl. His slow glance rested on the owner of the mansion. "It appears to me prodigious neat."
Mr. Hilton bowed.
"Will you be seated, my lord?"
Rose Lyndwood moved to one of the stiff, awkward-looking sofas, and seated himself there, with his back to the light.
"You received my letter?" he asked, placing his hat beside him.
"I had that honour, my lord."
Mr. Hilton placed himself in one of the covered chairs, sat erect in unconscious discomfort, and gazed at the Earl with narrowed eager eyes.
"Then there is the less for me to say," answered Rose Lyndwood.
He sat carelessly, and his voice was languid, as if it were no great matter that he discussed; but his face was pale above the black stock, and his lips had the look of disdain that came to them when against his will he forced himself to touch affairs he wished to spurn.
"If your lordship's object in this visit is what I imagine it to be," said Mr. Hilton, "there is not much for us to discuss."
Rose Lyndwood lifted his head; he did not look at the other man, but beyond him.
"A year ago, or nearly a year ago, Mr. Hilton, you and I met on a matter of business." The disdainful smile was now unmistakable. "You, as one of the gentlemen connected with my banking house, knew, and know, something of my affairs."
Mr. Hilton nodded, as if he heard what he had expected and was satisfied.
The Earl began to pull off his gloves slowly, loosening each finger first. He turned his eyes on Mr. Hilton, and they looked as dark as the velvet bat at the corner of his beautiful mouth.
"I was in difficulties then, you will remember, and you made a proposition to me that I rejected. How much of this need I recall to you?"
"I recollect it," said Mr. Hilton, "perfectly."
There was a hardly noticeable pause and a hardly noticeable effort on the part of the Earl before he spoke again.
"I am now an utterly ruined man."
Mr. Hilton nodded for the second time, as if he listened to something that he knew, and yet something that he was pleased to hear put into words.
"I shall not even be able to save Lyndwood or the property in the North. My credit is strained to the utmost, and it is only a matter of days before the brokers seize even my personal effects."
He smiled rather insolently and looked fixedly at his listener.
"Do you care to repeat what you said when last we met, Mr. Hilton?"
"The proposal I made you, my lord?"
"Yes."
Mr. Hilton clasped the arm of his chair with his right hand; his left fondled the ruby watch-chain, his lips were set firmly, and a little sparkle danced in his eyes.
"I repeat that proposal, my lord."
"You understand my position, Mr. Hilton—that I am a penniless man?"
"I understand, my lord, what a nobleman's ruin means. I will assume the worst—that your debts are immense, the Jews outrageous, the creditors flint, that you have obligations, hungry relations and the like, and still I make you the offer I made you a year ago."
Lord Lyndwood flushed faintly.
"I have come to accept it, Mr. Hilton."
The elder man rose abruptly.
"I thought," he said, in a soft tone, "that it could be only a question of time, my lord."
The Earl was now on his feet, too.
"Let us put this matter formally," he said, and his grey eyes were afire. "I request the honour of your daughter's hand in marriage. Now is it Yes?"
The colour had deepened in his face, and the knot of the black silk cravat on his breast rose and fell quickly; but for that he had the appearance of complete composure.
"It is Yes, my lord," answered Mr. Hilton. "From this moment Lavinia is your betrothed wife"—he uttered the words as if they gave him intense pleasure, and repeated them—"your betrothed wife."
The Earl stood silent, his right hand closed down on the hilt of his sword, his eyes on Mr. Hilton, who took a sharp turn about the room, then stopped before him.
"What are your debts?" he asked; and his fingers were busily caressing his watch-chain. "How much do you owe the Jews, and what is the mortgage on Lyndwood? But no matter, that is a business affair, we must see the lawyers," he smiled; "all shall be paid—every penny," his smile deepened; "it is good to have money, is it not, my lord?"
"It is necessary," said my lord, and he also smiled. "As I have found——"
Mr. Hilton moved slowly away and contemplated Rose Lyndwood out of wholly triumphant eyes.
The great chamber, the rich paintings, the gilt mirrors were his, bought with his money; this man, Rose Lyndwood, eighteenth Earl of Lyndwood, aristocrat and proud, the most famous beau in town, this man was his also, bought as surely as the gaudy furniture against which he stood. This was Mr. Hilton's crude thought, and the Earl read it.
"You are satisfied?" he asked in a tone that was an insult.
"I am satisfied, my lord; the debts within a week, the wedding within a month."
Rose Lyndwood picked up his gloves; Mr. Hilton waited for him to speak; when the words came they were unexpected.
"May I see Miss Hilton?" His voice was courteous again.
"She is in the house;" her father was instantly at the bell-rope—"yes, I should wish you to see her."
My lord pulled out his glass and dangled it by the ribbon; he had an air of complete abstraction, of aloofness from his surroundings.
"A year ago Lavinia was at school," said Mr. Hilton; "she has had the education of a noblewoman, my lord."
Rose Lyndwood was silent; he looked past the speakertowards the door; glass and ribbon swung from his fine idle hand.
The bell had been obviously a signal, for it was the lady herself who entered.
She came a little way into the room.
"Lord Lyndwood, Lavinia," muttered Mr. Hilton. He moved awkwardly from the hearth; embarrassment made him appear clumsy, even foolish; his daughter, too, stood dumb and fluttering, but the Earl was now perfectly at his ease.
He crossed to Miss Hilton and took her hand; she trembled a curtsey.
"I come as a suitor, madam," he said, as he kissed her finger tips—"would it mightily displease you to become Countess of Lyndwood?"
Then he looked at the girl; he found her fair, pale, very young; to him, at least, without charm or savour; her large eyes seemed to widen with fright, her lips quivered.
"I am honoured," she said, and glanced at her father, then down again at the floor.
"And I am grateful, Miss Hilton," smiled Lord Lyndwood, "that I have your consent—for it is a consent, is it not?"
"Yes, my lord," then she moved suddenly away from him. "Sir," she addressed her father, "will you permit me to retire?"
The eyes of the two men met for a second across her shrinking presence.
Miss Hilton had not come more than a few paces from the door; and now she retreated towards it, with lowered eyes.
"When may I wait on you, madam?" asked the Earl. "You must send me your command."
Again she looked towards her father, who was regarding her with a mixture of shame and pride extraordinary to see.
"Ask my father, sir," she answered, and showed such a piteous desire to be gone that he could not but open the door for her.
Mr. Hilton strode up and down the lengthening patch of sunlight.
"She is shy, my lord, you must forgive it; but a charming girl, for any situation, charming—and now for the lawyers; make your own appointment, my lord."
Rose Lyndwood came across the room eyeing him.
"A moment, Mr. Hilton; have you or I thought over what we are doing?"
Suspicion clouded the older man's face.
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.
The young Earl flushed and his eyes darkened.
"I think of Miss Hilton—this—bargain concerns her, does it not?"
The merchant was cautious, as one dealing with qualities strange to him.
"Still I do not understand, my lord."
Rose Lyndwood answered on a quick scornful breath.
"You know my motive in this matter, Mr. Hilton, and your own—brutal words could not make it clearer between us than it is now—but what of your daughter, is it fair to her?"
The other fumbled for the meaning behind these words.
"This is a curious thing for you to say, Lord Lyndwood."
"I speak against my own advantage, Mr. Hilton, which lies in this match," he smiled bitterly; "and Gad, I know not why Idospeak save that there is no one else to say to you—reflect."
Mr. Hilton frowned heavily.
"Do you seek to evade the contract pledged between us?"
The Earl's voice was stormy as he answered.
"This is a sordid enough business, sir; believe me I donot find it pleasant." He checked himself, then flashed out again, haughtily, "I have seen Miss Hilton, and I have seen she is reluctant to become my wife. God in Heaven! do you not understand? What can you offer her? I am not famous for the domestic virtues."
Mr. Hilton was quick now to think he saw the intention behind the words.
"I am not asking for your reformation, my lord," he answered. "I expect nothing but to see my daughter your wife."
"And I," said Rose Lyndwood, "was thinking not of you nor of myself, but of Miss Hilton; is it not possible for you to comprehend that?"
The expression of baited anger returned to Mr. Hilton's intent face.
"What does this mean?" he asked. "That ye seek to evade what ye have pledged yourself to, my lord?"
"Leave the matter, I pray you"—it was almost as if he addressed his servant—"I spoke from a passing impulse, a foolish one." He picked up his hat from the linen cover of the settee; his manner closed the subject.
Mr. Hilton, baffled but appeased, was silent, fondling his watch-chain.
"Monday will be convenient to me," said Lord Lyndwood. "I shall look to see you then, at my house, about twelve of the clock. My lawyer will be acquainted."
"And the betrothal shall be made public at once," assented Mr. Hilton.
He glanced up at Rose Lyndwood and was surprised into an exclamation.
"What is the matter?" asked the Earl quietly.
"You looked so pale, my lord; I thought you were ill."
The Earl's heavy lids almost concealed his eyes; he smiled, ignoring both the remark and the speaker.
"I shall await you on Monday; now I must no longertrespass on your time—au revoir." He bowed, not it seemed to Mr. Hilton, but to some intangible quality in the room, and turned to the door, swinging his gloves.
The older man was profuse and respectful in his leave-taking; my lord smiled beyond and above him, remote in an unnatural composure.
Mr. Hilton accompanied him down the stairs, not forgoing the moment on the doorstep when the idlers round the green chariot turned agape to see the Earl, to mark his companion and the intimate manner of their parting.
My lord was still noticeably pale when he mounted the curricle; as he gathered up the reins he shuddered.
The groom sprang to his place behind and the impatient white horses trampled the dust with joy.
My lord looked over his shoulder and saw Mr. Hilton lingering on the doorstep—he stood up and whispered to the horses.
As the chariot sped glittering down the street, one of the loiterers hailed a new-comer:
"There goes Lord Lyndwood—driving like the devil!"
Mrs. Bealestopped her chair and stepped out.
"Lord Lyndwood," she said softly, and beckoned him with her fan.
The shifting idle crowds of the Mall divided them, but if her voice was lost on the gay summer air (already so laden with whispers and laughter) he saw the gesture and came over to her.
Her languishing eyes were reproachful as he kissed her hand.
"La! I have seen so little of you! Will you walk on with me?"
"Is there need to ask, my dear?"
She tossed her head, her cheeks were suffused with colour. As they sauntered side by side under the lime trees her glance searched for rivals to witness and envy.
"I am to play Statira to-night."
"Who is Roxana?" He smiled down at her dark prettiness.
"Do you care?" she pouted.
"Not at all."
"'Tis Miss Fenton in an ugly red gown from Paris," she informed him; "a hoyden!"
Rose Lyndwood looked languidly before him. She touched his black velvet sleeve with scented fingers.
"Will you come?" she demanded, her regard full of fire and entreaty.
"To-night?"
"I am not playing to-morrow."
"Then I will come to-night."
She flounced her white skirts out of the dust.
"Only come if it please you."
"Why, it pleases me," smiled Lord Lyndwood.
They were nearing St. James's Park. Very pleasantly the evening light glimmered in the fresh leaves of the limes and chestnuts and lay in flakes of gold on the lake, where the white ducks swam. Long pale shadows trailed over the gravel walks and close grass lawns; here and there the red and pink of the hawthorns starred the green.
For a little while the actress was silent. When they reached the edge of the water she looked up at her companion; her wide straw hat cast half her face into the shade and the red strings tied at her throat showed off the whiteness of her round chin.
"You are going to be married, I am told."
"The town knows it," he replied.
"At last!" laughed Frances Beale. "Well, I wish you happiness."
He turned a glance on her that checked her laughter.
"Thank you, my dear," he said.
They had paused at the margin of the lake; the gold ripples ran like a pathway from the toe of Mrs. Beale's little shoe to the tall poplars on the opposite bank, through the dark leaves of which the sun blazed, cloudless to its setting.
"You are very fortunate," said Mrs. Beale, gazing at the water. "The wealthy Miss Hilton. La, there has been a power of men after her swinging fortune!"
"That isn't amusing," answered Rose Lyndwood. "I think, my dear, that you had better leave the subject."
"Am I bound to be amusing?" she demanded.
He lifted his hat to a passing acquaintance.
"'Tis your profession," he replied lazily.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You endeavour to put me off—you think me a fool, no doubt; but I know what every fool knows, that old Hilton has been playing for you for a year and more." Her accent was violent and slightly vulgar; she pulled tempestuously at some unhappy roses at her breast and scattered them on the ground. "That doll!" she cried. Then her tone softened. "Well, 'tis the way of the world," and she sighed.
One pale fair cloud hovered above the poplars opposite. Lord Lyndwood looked at it as he answered:
"There is no remark to be made about such a commonplace affair save this, that the lady is too good for me."
Mrs. Beale laughed.
"Toogood—yes! You aren't seen with her much."
"Miss Hilton is indisposed," he answered. "And, by Gad, Fanny, I'll not have you speak in such fashion—of her or me!"
She wilted at once beneath the hint of his anger.
"Why, I meant no harm," she breathed quickly. "Forget about it, and come to see Statira to-night. You promised."
He rewarded her submission with a smile.
"I will be there from the rise of the curtain."
They sauntered on again. Mrs. Beale found consolation for much in the glances bestowed on her companion and by the reflection that half the town must have seen whom she walked with, yet this was only a passing pleasure merely softening deep and sad feeling.
"Come and tell Statira that she was better than Roxana, afterwards," she said. "We so seldom see you in the Fields now that I think ye must go to Drury Lane."
A sudden breeze arose, ruffling the water and blowing the ends of his powdered hair on to her shoulder.
"I have been occupied of late, in truth," he answered.
"With Miss Hilton?" she could not resist saying.
"With my approaching marriage—yes." Then he laughed sweetly. "Let Statira expect me to-night after the play."
"Statira will be proud." Her eyes glowed. "La, I shall act well to-night!"
"As always."
"Ah, no!" she answered almost bitterly. "I cannot act. I can rant upon the boards, 'tis all. When most I wish to disguise my feelings, then do I find how poor an actress I am."
"Do you wish to act for my benefit, my dear?" asked Lord Lyndwood lightly.
She gave him a dark bright glance.
"Sometimes, maybe. Now the sun is setting, will you see me to my chair?"
They made slow way back through the thinning crowd.
Mrs. Beale was suddenly gay.
"What flowers will you bring me to-night? When last I played Statira, Lord Sandys sent me more yellow roses than I could wear in a month. The Fenton was furious; but you, nothing from you!"
"I was in Kent." His words were the merest excuse, but his eyes made amends. "I will redeem myself to-night."
Her lids drooped.
"Whatever you may send I will wear."
He sighed.
"What can London yield fair enough?"
"Anythingyouhave chosen," she answered in a low voice. Then abruptly she looked up at him. "Don't you know it?"
"My hopes were, maybe, so presumptuous."
They reached her chair under the limes. The golden dust of evening hovered in the chilling air; overhead the sky was a fading blue, and the fragrant leaves shivered together.
The grey eyes of Rose Lyndwood laughed into the fair face of Frances Beale, and for a moment she forgot that there were many to mark it.
"Till to-night,au revoir," she said, and her lips quivered.
He had possession of her hand for some seconds. When at last she drew up the glass and her chair was borne away down the Mall, he sauntered idly in the opposite direction.
The long walks emptied as the sky filled with deep and pure gold and the encroaching shadows merged into one darkness over the park.
Rose Lyndwood leant against the posts that bordered the grass, and drew a letter from his pocket, the latter part of which he re-read in the waning afterglow:
"...Mariusis staying withMr. Breretonnow; I had his Confidences before he left. Had You heard You had pitied! He is very much in Love. He does not, it seems, know her Name, though she has his. He is awaiting her letter in an ardourBeautifulto behold."I tell You this to put a gloss upon his Selfishness. He is franklyPleasedat your Marriage and the prospect it unfolds for him. He desires you will write to him to let him know your Commands about his attendance at the Ceremony."My Ladyhas forgiven you; indeed, I think has forgotten that she Ever reproached you. She makes complaint ofMiss Hilton'slack of Pedigree, but wishes her friendship. I think she is not Eager to go toLondonfor the Wedding, which she desires to be very Private,so as not to make a show of a necessity; but this must be as you Wish."From what you say ofMiss HiltonI think she must be Good and Sweet. Convey our duty to her; we shall be glad when you bring her toLyndwood."We are very Quiet here nowMariushas gone, and the white Roses that are Just coming to a bloom are become my best Companions.—Your dutiful cousin,"Susannah Chressham.
"...Mariusis staying withMr. Breretonnow; I had his Confidences before he left. Had You heard You had pitied! He is very much in Love. He does not, it seems, know her Name, though she has his. He is awaiting her letter in an ardourBeautifulto behold.
"I tell You this to put a gloss upon his Selfishness. He is franklyPleasedat your Marriage and the prospect it unfolds for him. He desires you will write to him to let him know your Commands about his attendance at the Ceremony.
"My Ladyhas forgiven you; indeed, I think has forgotten that she Ever reproached you. She makes complaint ofMiss Hilton'slack of Pedigree, but wishes her friendship. I think she is not Eager to go toLondonfor the Wedding, which she desires to be very Private,so as not to make a show of a necessity; but this must be as you Wish.
"From what you say ofMiss HiltonI think she must be Good and Sweet. Convey our duty to her; we shall be glad when you bring her toLyndwood.
"We are very Quiet here nowMariushas gone, and the white Roses that are Just coming to a bloom are become my best Companions.—Your dutiful cousin,
"Susannah Chressham.
"Postscriptum.—I have had no Letter for a long While fromMiss Boyle. Is she still inBristol? I heard you had met her atThe Wells. I would be Obliged if you would Tell me if she be inLondonand at what address.—S. C."
"Postscriptum.—I have had no Letter for a long While fromMiss Boyle. Is she still inBristol? I heard you had met her atThe Wells. I would be Obliged if you would Tell me if she be inLondonand at what address.—S. C."
Rose Lyndwood folded up the letter, returned it to his pocket, and walked idly through the twilight streets to his mansion near Panton Square.
His solitary and splendid dinner over, he answered his cousin's letter in this manner, writing with a steady hand but showing a face which reflected emotions not to be forever repressed:
"My Cousin,—Accept my dear thanks, and this brief answer, for your Epistle, which was pleasant to receive and to read."The marriage is for the 3rd ofJulyinSt. James's Church. Very few will be present. I shall not desire my Lady's attendance."Afterwards we go toParis, and shall return toLyndwoodthe beginning of August, when I shall desireMariusto be at home that I may Speak with him."I have seen but Little ofMiss Hilton; at present she is Indisposed and confined to her House."She sings and plays with a Charming air, but I think she hath a Melancholy disposition."Convey my Service to her Ladyship.—Your dutiful cousin,"Lyndwood.
"My Cousin,—Accept my dear thanks, and this brief answer, for your Epistle, which was pleasant to receive and to read.
"The marriage is for the 3rd ofJulyinSt. James's Church. Very few will be present. I shall not desire my Lady's attendance.
"Afterwards we go toParis, and shall return toLyndwoodthe beginning of August, when I shall desireMariusto be at home that I may Speak with him.
"I have seen but Little ofMiss Hilton; at present she is Indisposed and confined to her House.
"She sings and plays with a Charming air, but I think she hath a Melancholy disposition.
"Convey my Service to her Ladyship.—Your dutiful cousin,
"Lyndwood.
"Postscriptum.—I have not seenMiss Boylesince I was at theWells. I believe she is still atBristol.—L."
"Postscriptum.—I have not seenMiss Boylesince I was at theWells. I believe she is still atBristol.—L."
As the Earl sealed this letter he smiled with a sad disdain—not at what he had said, but at what lay unexpressed behind the bare sentences, and for a while he sat silent with dreaming eyes.
Thetheatre was crowded and the air close and heavy; a continual murmur of voices rose from the pit, laughter, snatches of song, and whispers.
Rose Lyndwood leant from his box, put up his glass and surveyed the house; behind him two young men yawned, and laughed, aimlessly, lounging against the side of the box.
The Earl was silent; they could not involve him in their jests or comments. He remained with face averted idly gazing at the faces below; nearly all turned towards him, he was commonly more stared at than the play.
"'Tis vastly warm here," complained one of his companions. "Why aren't they beginning?"
Rose Lyndwood suddenly swung about and lifted dark eyes to the speaker.
"Who is that opposite with Sandys?" he asked.
"The charmer in green?"
"Yes, do you know her?"
George Cochrane answered.
"'Tis Miss Lescelles; the dame in the huge toupee is her mother."
"She and Sandys are to be married in July," added the other.
"She is prodigious pretty," said my lord languidly, "and I never saw a countenance express more happiness."
Lord Cochrane smiled.
"She is quite enamoured of Sandys."
"Sandys! Good Gad!" yawned the other.
Rose Lyndwood gazed again at the lady opposite; rosy and smiling she was in her green gown with her swansdown cloak revealing the pearls on her white neck.
"Sandys is to be envied," he said, "in that he can make her look so happy."
George Cochrane, signalled by a group entering below, took his leave; his companion followed, and the Earl remained alone in the box.
Through the murmuring noises of the audience settling to their places sounded the light joyous laugh of Miss Lescelles, and as Rose Lyndwood glanced in her direction his eyes saddened.
At last the curtain stirred and parted; Miss Fenton stepped into the yellow artificial light and lisped the prologue.
She was gorgeous in a scarlet farthingale and a gold silk turban looped with diamonds; she ogled the boxes with good effect, and was apt in the management of her fan; the Earl approved her with a smile, and the pit was generous in applause.
She withdrew, reluctantly, from the public gaze, and the curtain was looped back before an Eastern scene.
It had been very handsomely done. Barry was playing, and Quin; the perukes were from Paris, and the management had been lavish in the matter of Turkish mail and jewelled scimitars.
When Statira appeared the house shouted welcome; she turned her eyes up at Rose Lyndwood as she curtsied.
She held his gaze through the scene that followed, and the knowledge of it made her acting splendid—Roxana was eclipsed, vanquished.
The Earl found the high emotions, the stormy expressions, the fierce gestures, the lights, the jewels suited to his mood; he was pleased as he had seldom been pleased at the play.
Statira was beautiful to look upon; she wore her purplewith a regal air, as she moved to and fro gold gleamed round her slender waist, her black curls floated beneath her green turban, red lilies, his gift, heaved on her stormy bosom, and her dark eyes flashed to the box where Rose Lyndwood sat alone.
He was held by the passion she expressed, by her movements, her changing voice; the tempestuous play, the angry jealousy, the flash of arms, the glint of daggers, the sonorous eloquence of Quin, the languishing grace of Barry combined to captivate his senses; he did not move or once take his eyes from the scene till the curtain fell on the first act.
Statira, panting and flushed beneath her paint, swept a great curtsey to the acclaiming house.
My lord unfastened one of the white roses at his cravat and flung it at her feet. She carried it to her lips as she retired into the wings, and he kissed his hand.
The audience relaxed after their silence. The beaux stood up in the pit to show off their clothes, some of the ladies readjusted their masks; the porters went round snuffing the candles. Rose Lyndwood leant back in his box smiling to himself a little.
Then he chanced to lift his eyes and saw—her.
She sat alone, directly opposite, erect and smiling at him; their gaze met across the lights, the jests and laughter, that in an instant were utterly tawdry, and he got to his feet, breathing sharply.
Miss Selina Boyle still smiled. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was wrapped in a soft grey mantle; against the shadows of the empty background her light hair showed like a wreath of faint flame about her head.
He descended into the theatre and passed through the noisy crowds, not knowing of them; he opened the door of her box.
"May I come in, madam?"
She looked at him, saying nothing, and he entered.
"I thought you were in Bristol."
"We came to London yesterday," said Miss Boyle. "Will you sit down, my lord?"
He took the chair behind her.
"Who is with you to-night, madam?"
"My father—he has gone to visit the room behind the scenes, he will not return till after this act."
"May I stay?" asked Rose Lyndwood gravely. "I wish to speak to you."
She gave him a full glance out of soft and rich eyes.
"I wondered," she said, below her breath, "if you would care to come—I have been watching you since we entered—just after the rising of the curtain, my lord."
Those past moments, wasted on Statira's noisy charms while she gazed at him, were too utterly dead, too smitten into extinction by her voice and her look to be even regretted.
"Do not think," he answered, "that I left this to chance, madam. I should have come to Bristol."
She moved half round so that she could see his face. They were both in shadow, only the yellow light from without touched his white silk cuff, and his hand resting on the back of the empty chair before him.
"I received your letter, my lord," she said. "Forgive me if I could not answer it."
"You understood?" asked Rose Lyndwood intently; "by what I said and what you have heard since, you understand?"
Her delicate and spiritual face quivered with a smile.
"Oh, yes," she replied. The folds of the grey silk wrap touched her chin, and the pale auburn curls loosely gathered on her proud head fell apart softly on her low brow. Looking at her my lord changed in voice, in mien, in expression, and a part of him that no other had ever seen was hers to gaze on.
"If my lady and your brother wished it," she added,"there was no other thing to do, and I would have desired you to act as you did, my lord."
"As I knew," he answered; "but I am selfish enough to wish you, madam, to know what it costs me"—he caught his breath and bent towards her—"no, not that, I wish to tell you——"
Miss Boyle interrupted him.
"Shall we not, for our own sakes, remember Miss Hilton? What you have not dared to say to me before you cannot say now," her tone sank to an exquisite tenderness; "this is farewell."
"And because it is farewell," said my lord in a tone low but swelling, "I must be bold enough to say some things to you—to tell you this at least, that you have given me the sweetest pain—that I would sooner have died on my own sword than do what I have to do."
"But that way is for boors," she flashed response; "gentlemen must live. Perhaps I also see no great joy ahead"—her eyes were like live gold in her shadowed face; "it has all been a pitiful matter, and I am sorry for Miss Hilton, but as for us—we may find some greatness in our way of meeting the future."
Her breath came hastily, and she lifted her fine fingers to her throat and loosened the grey wrap.
"What do you think I can do?" asked my lord, something wildly; he straightened himself and half withdrew into the shadow of the box. She heard the rattle of his sword, the shiver of his silks, and saw that he pressed his clenched hand to his brow. "Where am I to find my consolation?"
"Oh, sir!" cried Miss Boyle. "What can I say, or how judge for you? My philosophy is a woman's, and suited to a woman's needs."
Rose Lyndwood stared at her across the dusty shadows, and all that was noble in him lay bare in his gaze.
"It is not possible, madam," he said, "that you could care as I care. It is not possible!"
The spectators had returned to their seats. The curtain had risen upon the pageant of love and jealousy. These two did not heed it, save by lowering a little their already hushed voices. Miss Boyle had her back to the stage, and my lord did not notice what took place upon it. He did not know whether Roxana or Statira raved, or if Barry or Quin declaimed.
"You must not think that of me," answered Miss Boyle. "When first I had your letter I thought St. Mary's vaults the sweetest place to be—the sunshine was like a sword—but I strove to justify your—what you thought of me—by some fortitude, and then it came to me, like a bird might come to a flower, how little it mattered."
Rose Lyndwood sat motionless in the shadows of the box, only the lace round the raised hand that held his head trembling a little.
"My lord," continued Miss Boyle, in a voice mournfully sweet, "thus I reason it—that sure knowledge we both have is so great a thing that—ah, 'tis as if we had been together in some pure temple that none other knew of, and the memory of it were enough. Even if the portals are forever closed, none can steal the picture we have of what lies beyond the doors—but you will smile at me and my poor fancies."
His answer came unsteadily.
"You have lost so little—God knows how little—but I have lost—everything."
Her delicate breast heaved.
"Have I given you nothing, my lord—nothing that you may keep always?"
"You shame me," said Rose Lyndwood, "and I am too ignoble for these words you speak to me. I have been born and bred in folly, and in folly I must live and die, but I am not yet a patient fool to take this smilingly——"
The manifold colours of the stage flashed and glittered. Roxana shrieked, and Statira lost her fire staring at an empty box, but these two saw nothing.
The mantle slipped from Miss Boyle's shoulders, showing her pale, shining dress, and the tender curve of her chin and throat. The Earl spoke again:
"Because I thought of you I was false to you; because I had you always in my thoughts I put you out of my life; but this you must have known, and I but mar with words my meaning. 'Tis when we strive to interpret our silences that we misunderstand one another."
"About Marius?" breathed Miss Boyle. "Susannah wrote me somewhat——"
"Yes," answered the Earl. "Marius is my lady's heir. He hath inherited all her affection for my dead lord, and she in her grief reproached me that I had ruined him, for it seems he hath fallen in love in a fantastical sad fashion. A year ago I had laughed at it, but now it weighed greatly with me. What had I been, thought I, had I met and won her when I was twenty-one? What may it not mean to Marius to win or lose this lady? I did not dare it should be through me. 'Twas my happiness or his, and I had not the right."
"No," said Selina Boyle softly. "You had not the right; you are the elder of your house."
Leaning towards her, Rose Lyndwood answered:
"My life hath been amiss, as my lady reminded me, and Marius shall not be so shackled that his can be no better. If his romance is strong enough to save him from being the useless rake-helly fool I have been, somewhat hath been achieved; if not, at least I have tried to make amends, and he hath it in his own hands."
He paused a moment and pressed his handkerchief to his lips.
"Mine own deeds can I take on my own soul, but not the life of another man; so Marius is free."
Silence fell in the dark, narrow little box. Miss Boyle bent her head.
"You understand, madam?" asked the Earl, after a moment's agonised scrutiny of her averted face.
She gave a torn little sigh.
"My silly heart incommodes me. I strive to tell you, my lord, that you have done the best that could be—for Mr. Lyndwood and your honour."
Still she would not look at him, and he rose in his seat.
"If he is spared what I endure now," he said unsteadily, "through any act of mine, he hath cause to thank me."
Now she slowly turned her eyes on him.
"There is one we do not speak of," she whispered. "What of Miss Hilton?"
His pale face darkened.
"She knows why I seek her hand, and assents to the dictates of her ambition."
"Maybe of her father," said Miss Boyle. "She is very young."
"I cannot find it in me to pity her, madam, for this honour I do her. She will find me courteous, as I doubt not I shall find her obedient."
A sudden smile radiated Miss Boyle's ardent face.
"I do not commiserate her in that she will be your wife, my lord, but in that she hath no place in your affections. Your wife—ah, sir, the theatre grows something close, and my head throbs piteously."
The smile faded from her face, and her long lids drooped.
"Give me that flower from your lace," she whispered, "and go. You must go!"
She rested her head against the side of the box, and her lashes showed dark yet gleaming against her smooth pale cheeks.
"I cannot give you that," answered my lord, "for it hath touched one I degraded, lain next a fellow I treated carelessly."
She did not move, speak, or raise her eyes, but her whole slight body quivered and trembled with her breathing.
"This is for you," said Rose Lyndwood, under his breath, and faintly. "When I was a child I loved it; it seemed to me sacred. I—I did not understand it, and so I kept it hidden; it hath been secret all my life because of this. Will you take it?"
She looked, and her eyes were drenched with tears; it was a small white shell with a smooth pink lip that lay on my lord's palm. She did not put out her hand, and he placed it on the edge of the box.
Then she took it up.
"'Tis safe with me," she breathed, "for ever."
The act came to a tearing conclusion. These two looked at each other.
"It is better you should go now," whispered Miss Boyle.
He stooped in the darkness and took up the end of her scarf, laid it to his lips, and was gone.
A shaft of strong light fell across her face as he opened the door. As he softly closed it, and she was again concealed in soft darkness, she closed her eyes and smiled while the great tears quivered on her lashes.
Lord Lyndwood's box stood empty for the rest of the performance. Statira acted like a fury, and afterwards fell into hysterics in the green-room, to the triumph of Miss Fenton and the other ladies performing inThe Rival Queens.