"To save Marius? From whom?"
"From himself," said my lord; "from me."
Miss Chressham moved back against the wall.
"You think I have no right to speak," continued the Earl, smiling, "of anything—but, you said I was not frank with you, now I tell you openly. He plays at consoling the Countess. I shall not take that; cannot you find occasion to remind him of what he may not do?"
Miss Chressham moistened her lips.
"Marius is very young and romantical," she said in a low voice; "he is absolutely honourable, Rose."
"As honourable as the rest of us," replied my lord. "But I do not object to his morals, my dear, only let him go abroad for his amusements."
Susannah seemed to rouse herself from some shivering absorption in hastily projected visions of disaster.
"You take this heavily enough," she said. "I had liked it better if such had been your tone with regard to Miss Boyle."
He answered quickly.
"The Countess is my wife—that begins and ends it. If Marius is not a fool he will understand."
Susannah was hotly scornful.
"What did you expect of her? I do not take your view of it; better for her to coquette with Marius than to put that paragraph in theGazette—thatwas the unforgivable thing."
My lord was silent, but his half-veiled eyes were mocking.
"He has not had the chance for more than a few words with her since his return," continued Susannah. "He is simple and she is heartless, but——"
"But you speak against your own convictions," interrupted the Earl. "Youknow, as I know, Susannah, what is happening, and there must be an end of it; if Marius and I meet behind Montague House——"
"He could rouse you to that," cried Susannah incredulously, "when you were cold before Sir Francis?"
"This concerns me more," said my lord. "Miss Boyle's name is not in my keeping—ah! God knows it is all very miserable," he made a disdainful gesture with his hand, "and paltry, too, but there are some things—tell Marius not to force it to an issue between us."
Miss Chressham looked at him keenly, but his tired, composed face, with the slightly amused smile on the beautiful lips, told her as much as his words and no more.
The music began again and the Earl glanced towards the ballroom.
"It is 'La Louvre'; have you a partner?"
"I am not dancing," she answered wearily.
"I am engaged to Miss Trefusis——"
"Oh, leave me," cried Susannah. "There is nothing more for either of us to say; I am going home."
He crossed to her side and kissed her hand affectionately.
"You are a great deal too good for any of us, my dear," he said feelingly.
She turned her glance aside, withdrew her hand and stepped back from his gorgeous presence.
My lord replaced his mask and flung the pink domino over his shoulder.
"Speak to Marius," he said, and stepped carelessly into the ballroom.
Susannah sank into the chair by the little card-table; the music of "La Louvre" broke gaily on the stillness, that and the delicate steps of the couples returning to the ball-room. She put her hand before her eyes; only by a miserable effort did she keep back the tears.
Theheavy coach rolled cumbrously over the cobbled streets, and the fitful flame of the lamp that lit the handsome interior showed the wan, troubled face of Susannah Chressham, colourless between the folds of bright hair, and the clouded countenance of Captain Lyndwood who sat opposite to her, wrapped in what seemed a passionate and seething silence.
She, sitting up, and gathering her mantle together over her low blue dress with a mechanical gesture, was the first to speak.
"I regret I could not find Selina again," she said. "I was sorry to leave without speaking to her—" She broke off; Marius was not in her confidence, nor indeed much in her thoughts, and she paused, wondering what she should reveal and what keep back.
He half startled and half relieved her by his abrupt answer.
"It was concerning that paragraph in theGazetteyou wished to see Rose, was it not?"
"How did you imagine it?" she queried faintly.
"The Countess informed me."
This remark brought Miss Chressham to glance at him closely and to notice that he was flushed and frowning, obviously ill at ease and striving for control.
"The Countess informed you!" she echoed.
He beat his foot impatiently on the floor of the coach.
"She had seen it, of course. She concluded you would wish to prevent a meeting between Rose and Sir Francis." He checked himself, then added in a lower tone, "She has no doubt it is true."
Miss Chressham coloured in sheer anger.
"She dared to put it so to you!" The sad grey eyes darkened with wrathful scorn. "Did she wish to enlist you as her champion?"
"Is it surprising that she was angry?" he answered defiantly. "If it be true——"
"It is true and she knows it," broke in Miss Chressham. "She hath good cause to know it. Selina wrote to my lord, and she—this woman—stole her letter and composed, from that and what she further knew or imagined, this paragraph in theGazette."
"The Countess!" cried Marius. "The Countess—that paragraph! Susannah, I do not believe it!"
Miss Chressham answered with weary passion.
"Believe it or no, it is true, true—and it was an action of a meanness, a vulgarity——"
"I do not credit it," he interrupted vehemently. "After what she said to me."
Susannah gave him a swift look.
"She had no right to speak to you."
The dusky blood flooded his agitated, handsome face.
"Hath she no wrongs?" he asked desperately. "How have we behaved to her, any of us? And it has always been her money. Rose and Miss Boyle are in the wrong."
"I was well advised in not making you my confidant sooner, if this is how you take it," cried Miss Chressham angrily. "Oh, you understand none of it, none; but at least be silent, do not defend the Countess Lavinia to me."
"How you hate her," he answered, in a breathless way.
Susannah's fair white hand made a gesture as if she put aside the semblance of something hideous.
"I do not care to talk of her. This is the first time that my speech has meddled in my lord's affairs"—she drew herself together, as if her mental effort braced her body; "but it becomes no less than my duty now, Marius, to bid you take care."
Marius leant forward and caught hold of the red silk window blind.
"Of what?" he asked hoarsely.
His obvious unease and agitation did not reassure Susannah.
"Of the Countess Lavinia," she answered. "Do you think Rose will endure it? Whatever he is, he is not that manner of man." Her voice held an odd note of pride.
Marius moistened his lips.
"Has he said anything?"
"To me, this evening, he warned me. I think you had better leave for Paris."
"Because of the Countess Lavinia?" Marius spoke unsteadily.
Something in his troubled, distracted bearing touched her; a kinder look came into her passionate eyes.
"Oh, Marius, there was the old wretched mistake; Rose must remember it. You wooed her first, after all; well, when he sees you together—you must respect his pride."
Marius drew back against the leather cushions and unaccountably laughed.
"The Countess Lavinia," he said wildly, "I loathe her."
He clenched his hand and brought it down with vehement force on the seat beside him.
"Then you will go away?" Susannah spoke softly.
"No, I cannot do that." The lace and diamonds athis throat heaved with his unequal breathing, and his lips quivered.
"The Countess means to do us all a mischief," said Susannah, faint and shuddering with the effort of putting these things into words. "Cannot you see it, Marius, that she will find in this fashion her amusement and her revenge? Are you going to lend yourself to it? Go away."
He looked up with brilliant eyes.
"I shall stay," he answered passionately; "but not because of the Countess."
"Ah, you think yourself very strong and courageous," returned Miss Chressham wearily, "but she is, in her way, a clever woman."
"Do not talk of her," cried Marius roughly.
Susannah made no reply.
A little longer and the coach jolted to a standstill.
Miss Chressham sprang up with a nervous little exclamation; the heavy door was opened on to the dark silent street and the summer fragrance, that clung even about the Haymarket with a sweet suggestion of things stirring, growing, breathing, animals, flowers and men, beneath the rising moon.
They went into the house; the coach swung off up the street and the delicate stillness fell again.
Marius slowly closed the door, replaced the key in his pocket and flung off his domino. The wide hall was lit by one lamp that cast a pale glow and heavy shadows. Miss Chressham stood still a moment, gazing before her in an absorbed fashion.
"Can I speak to you a while?" asked Marius on a rebellious breath.
She forced herself to listen, to comprehend.
"Of course," she thrust aside her thoughts. "It must be still early—maybe my lady is up. Let us go into the withdrawing-room."
They discovered that it was not yet midnight, but the Countess Agatha was in bed, and Susannah's woman in charge. Miss Chressham ordered candles beyond the few left burning, and wine and cakes.
"I tasted nothing at the mask," she said, smiling to cover her distraction, "and I vow I am quite hungry."
Marius, struggling with some deep and tumultuous feeling, heeded nothing, but paced to and fro the gay and beautiful chamber until the servant had left them.
The window stood open on the mute city and winking stars, a beau-pot of white roses on the work-table gave forth a lingering and exquisite perfume; Miss Chressham, near as pale as they, and drooping, as if with fatigue, had seated herself on a low brocade settee; her rich and glittering hair rolled in full curls over her dark domino, rounded throat and turquoise gown; beside her lay her mask and her fan.
"What did you wish to say, Marius?" she asked.
He poured her out a glass of the delicate white wine; she thanked him with a smile and drank it. There was still that absent look in her deep eyes that showed her thoughts were not at all absorbed with Marius; but he did not notice it, being too completely engrossed in his own passions.
"You think that I have behaved unworthily," he said, moving towards the window.
Susannah roused herself with a half sigh; it was like Marius to take everything heavily. She looked at him kindly; he leant against the window frame and gazed out at the night; a persistent breeze ruffled the pomaded curls on his forehead and the lace at his throat.
"I had no right to speak to you, of anything," she answered. "Only Rose mentioned it and I ventured. Marius, the Countess is not to be trusted."
He answered in a muffled voice.
"Do you think Rose has been impeccable?"
Had he had her in view he could not have failed to mark the swift expression of anguish that passed over her face; but her settee had its back to the window, and though he had turned his head towards the room he could see only her bent neck and shining curls.
"My lord made this mad marriage for your sake," she said. "At the time you did not consider it strange or ignoble that he, as everyone, should marry money; 'twas only on discovering who the lady was——"
Marius interrupted.
"Then I cared for her no more, that was dead on the instant;" he spoke vehemently, "From then onwards the whole thing was ugly, sordid. I think we behaved all of us in a miserable fashion, I, and she and Rose."
"What other than you did could you have done?" she asked, faintly surprised that he should refer to this with so much passion.
But Marius continued unheeding.
"We turned on her that night—well, we have been living on her money ever since, Rose is again on the verge of ruin, and what has her life been? He has behaved to her as to his servant."
Susannah straightened herself.
"I fear I can look at none of it from the Countess's point of view."
"She is indifferent tome," he struck in quickly. "But I have her on my conscience."
He moved forward suddenly and stood behind the settee.
"She was so different once—what have we made of her? I have no right to scorn her as I did, and now it seems that she appeals to me. Susannah, tell me what I ought to do."
Miss Chressham was startled by the tense note in his voice; she glanced up at him over her shoulder.
"Oh, Marius! why do you come to me?" she murmured weakly.
He leant his arms on the top of her seat and rested his head in his right hand; his frowning eyes gazed before him, and he spoke in a voice that she hardly knew for his.
"I want to be better than any of it, I should like to live differently from Rose—from any of them." As he jerked out the words the colour rose and receded in his earnest young face. "I started wrong, I never really cared for her, but I did not know. And then there was always the money. I thought I should never need for that; but things have changed so, in this last year. I—I want to get out of it, I want you to help me."
He came to an end, very pale, and Susannah sat silent. She felt with a sense of shock that he was making an effort to reveal his very soul to her; she saw his emotion, and wondered dimly that it did not touch her. She was angry with herself that her only desire was to silence him, to escape from the effort of striving to understand him; she was very tired, and her inner thoughts were far from Marius.
"When I was abroad," he continued, "I—I used to think of it and could find no way; but I must escape it. I—do you believe in Heaven and Hell, Susannah?"
"'Tis what we are taught," she answered; "what makes you speak in this fashion, Marius?"
His breath came passionately, he did not look at her.
"Ah, I want to do something worth while; I do not want to be damned through ignoble foolish vices. You know, you remember, in the ballads we used to read—" He broke off, then added huskily, "Do you not understand, Susannah?"
She was frightened.
"Oh, not to-night! do not speak of this to-night," she cried. "I am very weary."
"I must speak when I can. I am appealing to you, do not you see? You are the only person I would say this to. I speak very awkwardly. I am not worth——"
"Oh, Marius!" again weakly she tried to stop him.
His speech became almost incoherent; she caught only the burden of it, "Do you not understand?"
"Some day, if I tried with this before me, I might be in an honourable position; you cared a little to write to me, did you not? It might be all honest and worth while, and splendid, Susannah."
She rose, shuddering.
"I fear you have mistaken me, Marius. I—I can be no help to you."
He gripped the top of the settee.
"Do you mean that?" he leant towards her. "I speak like a fool, I know; but I am trying to tell you."
"Marius!" she entreated, overwhelmed, surprised, in no way moved with anything save pity. "Please do not say anything more now."
Again came his desperate passionate question. "Do you not understand me? I want you—some day when I am not penniless—to be my wife."
Susannah made an effort over herself; her own emotions were in no way touched, but she was desperately sorry and a great deal startled; always she had considered him as very young.
"I have never thought of this, Marius," she said simply, pale as was he, but composed. "And I am honoured that you should care; but ah! my dear, you do not quite mean what you say."
He coloured furiously.
"By Heaven, I love you."
She looked away.
"I hope you do not mean that," she answered, "because——"
He half laughed.
"Because you do not care for me?"
"Not in that way, Marius," she said gently.
He put his hand to his brow in a dazed way.
"Then it is over, impossible?"
"Yes." Miss Chressham was still not looking at him. "And I am sorry, oh, very sorry!"
"Is there not a chance, some day?" His tone was piteously incredulous.
But Susannah, strengthened by an intense and hidden feeling, answered with a finality calm to cruelty.
"No, I could never, Marius; I beg of you not to speak of this again. If I have hurt you I am grieved; but it is impossible."
Silence followed, and now she ventured to look at him; he stood quite still, frowning, with downcast eyes; the fire and flash had died from his demeanour, which was that of a man utterly humiliated. Susannah sickened at herself for having had to repulse him, what he had offered was something she might have been proud to accept, and a sense of guilt stole into her heart.
Marius was speaking, quietly.
"Forgive me, it was all my fault, I had no right to presume."
Remorse flushed her face, since he was taking it so well.
"I would give anything it had not happened," she murmured.
"It shall not recur;" he straightened himself and moved from the settee. "I was a fool—when does a man meet such fortune as I hoped for? Forget it, and good-night."
He smiled, giving her the sudden impression of someone older, and weightier, and turned towards the door.
Impulsively she held out her hand, then, seeing his instant flush, withdrew it.
"Good-night," she murmured.
"Good-night, Susannah."
He was gone, and she gave a great sigh of exhaustion and relief; she had not thought of this from him, and he was in earnest too; well, it eased her mind with regard to the Countess. He had appealed to her, she could have done anything with him had she responded—now. Why could she not have cared for him, he was a finer man than—ah, for whose sake was she refusing him?
She sank across the settee and hid her face in her hands.
The feeling that had been the background of her life ever since she could remember, strong, intense, always, but always under control and hidden, broke all restraint and shook her from head to foot; she clasped her moist hands tightly and pressed them against her brow with a shiver. She asked herself what would become of Marius, and answered herself—nothing.
He was drifting, like my lord, and she could put out no hand to save either, or did not. It seemed that no action was to redeem these last annals of their house. Marius would do nothing. Rose would do nothing, she would do nothing; the Countess wasted her malice, there was no fire to be struck out of the Lyndwoods.
Miss Chressham had seen the Earl with Miss Trefusis on his arm. Sir Francis was appeased. Selina, most fortunate of all of them, could wrap her heart in dreams and go about smiling; she did not know him, at least not as his cousin did.
There was Marius—poor Marius; his longings, his half-stifled aspirations had passed by her like the breeze that blew in from the dark town, but she knew that they had been real; even while she could not rouse herself to understandhis mood she had hated herself that she must send him away bitter, unsatisfied.
She rose and put out the candles. The two churches, St. Martin's-in-the-Fields and St. James's, struck the chiming quarters, and then the hour—one.
Susannah, protected by the dark, made an uncontrollable movement of her locked hands to her bosom.
"Oh Rose, Rose!" she murmured; then, with a shudder crushed the name back into her heart, and went softly through the silent beautiful house to her chamber.
Thecontre-dansehad come to an end. The Earl led Miss Trefusis back to her place, kissed her hand with a half-lazy glance into her languishing eyes, and turned slowly down the ballroom.
It was after supper, and everyone was unmasked. My lord, in no mood for the unrestrained gaieties of the crowd, stepped into the garden and heard the chimes of St. James's Church that Miss Chressham listened to in her darkened drawing-room. The garden was full of may trees and limes, brightly lit with coloured lamps and filled with the melody of violins that floated from the pavilion on the lake.
Rose Lyndwood, avoiding his acquaintances and choosing the less frequented paths, wandered down to the water's edge. He had no design nor intention in his mind, no one passion dominated his heart; but he was in the mood to meet anything that might arise. There was nothing reckless in his bearing. He walked quietly, slowly, his head bent and the pink domino falling from his shoulders. He held up his rapier that it might not catch in the laurels.
As he neared the water he paused to break from its stem a pale rose that fell across his path—a flower-like faint flame that seemed as if it had been created suddenly out of the darkness. When he looked up he saw Selina Boyle, standing a few feet away from him under a rosy lamp that cast a blushing radiance over her white dress. Beyondher the bushes falling apart revealed a lattice overgrown with jasmine, and a party of ladies and gentlemen laughing over a supper-table.
The Earl slipped the rose stem through the brooch in his cravat, and laughed.
Miss Boyle moved a little away; it seemed as if she would rejoin her companions without a word to him. Her delicate head was very erect above the folds of her fine scarf.
"What chance brought me here?" said the Earl softly. "Good luck or bad?"
She hesitated, stopped and looked at him as if she wished to speak but could not.
My lord's lids drooped. He had seen Sir Francis through the lattice of the summer-house. His hitherto meaningless humour lacked now no motive to spur it. He stepped quickly to Miss Boyle's side.
"I have seen Susannah," he said.
She moved out of the lamplight.
"Then you know that—we—cannot speak together," she said under her breath and faintly.
"Why?" asked my lord on a quick note of recklessness.
"Ah, you know!" she faltered. "And we shall be seen."
She walked on, but towards the water, not the supper-table. He came behind her, treading lightly. Her long gauzy scarf floated about her like a mist. The silver borders of it gleamed across her bosom and over her powdered curls.
"That malice in the paper has frightened you," said my lord. "I think there is no need to notice it."
She paused in her slow walk and stood, an elusive shape in white, against the dark laurels.
"This is an extraordinary thing for you to say," she breathed.
"Ah, you blame me, and I have no excuses to offer!"
"Mine was the fault," she spoke so low that he must bend closer to hear. "I should never have written to you."
Her skirt had fluttered back on a bough; he stooped and loosened it.
"Walk along here with me, Selina."
"Let me return. You should not have spoken to me. I am unnerved to-night."
He laughed.
"I should like to take you on the lake—away from these people. Could we find a boat?"
"My lord, I entreat you, let me return. I—I shall not be able to hold my head up!" she answered desperately and weakly.
"Do I prevent your return?" he smiled. "I am not detaining you, Selina."
"Oh, in many ways! You agitate me beyond bearing. If Sir Francis——"
"Well?" he laughed into her trembling sentences. "Are you afraid of Sir Francis?"
She gave him a bewildered piteous look.
"Afraid! Yes, I am afraid of them all. What do you want to say to me? Ah, there is nothing to be said!"
"Everything, I think," he answered. "Give me a chance to speak."
The dim confusing and shifting light of moon and lamp, falling brokenly through the stirring branches, only half revealed to her his face, turned towards her, pale between the pomaded curls.
"I cannot hear you, my lord."
He caught her little wrist lightly.
"You are not going to betroth yourself to Sir Francis?"
"I have assured you of that," she panted. "This is cruelty, my lord. Ah, release my hand!"
He did not. The lace at his cuff trembled on her barearm. They stood very close together, she straining her head away from him so that her hair and scarf mingled floated out on the breeze and touched his breast.
"This is impossible," murmured Miss Boyle. "I must return." Suddenly she faced him. "Why are you doing this?"
He freed her hand.
"Read my actions by your own heart, Selina," he smiled. "You care for me, do you not? I cannot expect it put into words, but at least look at me."
"I think you must be heartless, or possessed, to-night, my lord."
She made a quick step back among the laurels, for as she spoke Sir Francis was upon them. He had come swiftly and silently, it seemed, down the path from the pavilion, and was within a step of them before they saw him.
"Miss Boyle—madam!" he cried, and looked from one to another in a breathless manner.
The Earl bowed with a slight air of mockery. He seemed pleased, elated, by this sudden incursion.
"Good even, Sir Francis!" he said.
Miss Boyle gathered herself together and took a step towards her cousin.
"Let us go back to the house, sir," she said.
Sir Francis flushed and hesitated. My lord observed him with narrowed eyes.
"We are engaged for this dance," said Miss Boyle desperately. "I think it hath begun." She laid her hand tremblingly on her cousin's arm, and he was turning in answer to the appeal that she breathed forth to her very finger-tips, when Rose Lyndwood spoke.
"I vow you are very fickle, Miss Boyle." His soft voice was pointedly reckless. "Had you not promised me your company upon the lake?"
There followed the pause of a second, while my lordflung his domino over his shoulder and fingered the rose under his chin.
"Is this true?" asked Sir Francis.
The Earl's eyes seemed to laugh.
"Call it a lie. Will it not equally serve?"
"My lord!" cried Miss Boyle.
"What is your meaning, Lord Lyndwood?" inquired Sir Francis softly.
"Not the same as you apprehended it last night," answered Rose Lyndwood, and laughed outright. "And, for the rest, is it ever worth while to ask my meaning?"
"Come away!" breathed Miss Boyle.
"No." Her cousin turned from her. "His lordship hath somewhat to answer to me."
"You think so," said my lord. "Well, you know where to find me, Sir Francis."
Miss Boyle broke into an agony of whispered words.
"What has happened? Take me away—for my sake, Francis—my lord!"
The Earl disregarded the entreaty of voice and eyes. He did not look at her, but at the man she stood beside.
"Yesterday you were too slow, as to-night you go too fast," cried Sir Francis, "and either humour is one not to be borne. So youshallhear from me, my lord."
"No!" exclaimed Miss Boyle, striking her hand on her bosom. "Take that back, sir. You know not what you say—what you do!" She clasped his hand, but the passion of her imploring eyes was all for Rose Lyndwood. "Grant me the right to ask this of you. Take that back."
But her cousin answered hotly.
"It is you who do not know what you ask, madam. Now let me take you to the ballroom."
She dropped his hand.
"My lord, to you—I speak to you. Will you allow this to happen?"
No change crossed my lord's pale smiling face.
"Sir Francis must act as he thinks fit, madam," he answered, and again touched the rose at his cravat. "Need it distress you?"
Francis Boyle spoke on a passionate exclamation.
"'Tis your presence distresses this lady, Lord Lyndwood. With the knowledge you have 'twas an insult that you sought to speak to her to-night, and that you stay is, my lord, insolence!"
The Earl turned at this slightly, with an air of utterly dismissing and despising the speaker. His eyes were wildly bright and daring in a face composed and colourless. He spoke directly to Miss Boyle, with no attempt to disguise the meaning in his voice.
"Will you speak for yourself, madam? Does not the gentleman pretend to overmuch? May not I see you back to the house?"
Sir Francis drew his breath sharply, but remained proudly waiting for her.
She shivered and gave a little groan. A sudden laugh sprang into my lord's beautiful eyes. He lifted the pale rose to his lips and threw back his head. Miss Boyle, all silver and white, took a step forward into the moonlight where it fell clear of the laurels.
"Sir Francis is my escort, sir," she answered, looking straightly at my lord. "My duty to the Countess, and adieu!" She curtsied, and Sir Francis made a little eager motion towards her. She laid her hand lightly on his arm.
The Earl smiled at both of them.
"Au revoir, shall we not say?" He turned away at once.
Miss Boyle stood with downcast eyes. She was so pale and quiet that Sir Francis was alarmed.
"I would I had come sooner."
She looked round now—not at him, but at the pink domino disappearing down the shadowed walk.
"You are not going to challenge him?" she asked under her breath.
"I am sorry that it should have happened in your presence, grieved that it troubles you."
She glanced at him in an absent way.
"What are you saying? Give me a moment."
"Will you not return to the house?"
"No, I could not; nor dance to-night." Her fingers quivered on his sleeve. "Besides, I must speak to you."
He flushed quickly.
"About this affair?"
"Give me a moment," repeated Miss Boyle faintly.
They walked on, neither saying a word, he waiting for her and she absorbed in some emotion that held her silent. They reached a little seat by the water's edge, and there she, leaving the support of his arm, sank down.
"Oh, heaven!" she cried suddenly. "You are not going to challenge him?"
"What else?" he answered reluctantly. "But there is no need to talk of it."
"It cannot—it must not happen!" said Miss Boyle desperately.
He glanced at her half doubtingly. The moonlight was elusive, treacherous; he could not guess what emotion it was that shook her.
"You laughed at the paragraph in the paper," she continued, "and now——"
He ended her sentence.
"I cannot laugh at his manner of taking it; that he should speak to you, in that tone—that he should dare. We could not take from any man, least of all from Lord Lyndwood."
"You have neither right nor excuse to interfere," she answered. "I do not ask you to champion me, Francis."
"The right of a member of your family, madam, the head of your family; your father would approve what I do."
"But you swore you wished to please me," she cried feverishly. "Well, please me this way."
"It is a way in which no man should please a lady," replied Sir Francis hotly. "Do not put me to the pain of a refusal, madam. My challenge goes to Lord Lyndwood."
"Ah, that is what it comes to! It is not for me you care, but for your pride."
"You will not be involved," he said quickly. "Can we not find a pretext for a quarrel?"
Miss Boyle rose, and the silver borders of her scarf rippled from her bosom to her feet.
"I am going to put myself at your mercy," she said in a quiet voice. "You must not take this quarrel upon you. You must understand."
He stood silent, staring at her oval face faintly seen between the folds of gauze.
"It is true, Francis—that statement in the paper. My lord wrote to me, and I to him, as it said. It was, I think, the Countess who found my letter and composed that paragraph." Her voice suddenly failed into a little sob.
"Is this a wile to put me off?" demanded Sir Francis passionately.
"On my honour, it is true," she answered. "It was always so between us, before his marriage, since we first met, and because of that I could not give you or any my hand."
"This to my face!" exclaimed her cousin softly.
Miss Boyle replied proudly.
"I do you some honour. You have no claim on me. I might have put you off with lies, it is not over easy to tell the truth—histruth to you."
"Would you had lied sooner than I had heard it!" he answered bitterly. "It is not, madam, pleasant news."
"You had to know. There must be no duel."
This flicked him into a passion as if it had been an insult or a blow.
"You cannot imagine, madam, that what you have told me can make any difference. By heaven, you do not dare to ask me to ignore this!"
"After what I have confessed!" she cried, bewildered, piteous.
Sir Francis gave a short laugh.
"You have confessed too much, madam. It has not increased my respect for Lord Lyndwood, nor altered my intentions."
She clasped her hands in an agony.
"I implore you, if you would not kill me, do not send that challenge."
"You are very tender of his safety," replied Sir Francis, moving back from her. "But take courage, madam; men like my lord are usually skilled with sword and pistol."
Miss Boyle shrank down on to the seat.
"You insult me, Francis—Francis!"
"What of me? Do you think me wood or stone? And what I say, I mean. Lord Lyndwood is a successful duellist."
"Can you think I wantyouhurt," she cried frantically, "and byhim?"
"You would not, I think, grieve overmuch, madam," he answered bitterly. "I have been sorry fool enough to think I might one day win your regard, and you tell me this! It is very well. I will not distress you with my presence."
But she sprang up and crossed his path as he was leaving her.
"For God's sake, Francis, listen to me. Do not refuse to listen to me now. I have tried to be honest with youfrom the first." She suddenly slipped to her knees on the path and took his sword hand. "Have some pity, Francis," and she broke into wild tears.
He gave a great exclamation to see her at his feet, and raised her sharply.
"This should be to my Lord Lyndwood," he said wildly, "but you can have no cause to kneel to me."
She crouched away from him on the seat where he placed her and buried her face in her hands.
"You do not understand," she gasped. "I would not have believed this."
"Nor I, madam," he answered. "That a man like my lord should beyourchoice!"
She raised her distorted face and struggled with sobs, pressing her hands to her eyes. Sir Francis watched her for a moment.
"Shall I see you back to the house?" he asked in a restrained voice.
Miss Boyle shuddered into a sudden calm.
"I would thank you to leave me."
"Good-night, then, madam."
She looked at him with utter reproach and despair.
"God forgive you, Francis!"
He left her without a word or a backward look towards the seat where she sat dumbly weeping.
TheCountess Lavinia sat alone by the light of a solitary candle in the great drawing-room of Lyndwood House; it was four in the morning, and she had been an hour back from the masquerade; over her chair hung the brilliant domino, and her dress, even in this light, glimmered with the sheen of a jewel.
She leant back in the heavily brocaded chair, her small hands resting on the arms, her head turned towards the open long windows where the dark silk curtains slightly stirred in the night breeze. On the gilt table beside her rested an open letter.
It was perfectly still in the high shadowed room; the sense of night, mystery, and loneliness was complete; the small heart-shaped flame of the candle revealed dimly the face and figure of my lady, the table, and the letter; for the rest shadows and fluttering glooms obscured the handsome furniture, the massive ceiling, the carved walls.
Suddenly the Countess moved her head and looked towards the door. A light footstep sounded without; she moistened her lips and her hands tightened on the chair, then, as my lord softly entered, she turned her face away again.
"I was waiting for you," she said, as he closed the door. "I could stay no longer at the masquerade. I found this letter when I reached home, and I thought I would wait up and speak to you."
The Earl wore his domino and carried his mask.
"I saw a light in here," he answered. "Why must you speak to me to-night? It is late."
There was no expression on her painted face.
"We do not see each other often, do we, my lord? And to-night I am in the mood——"
He flung cloak and vizard on to a chair.
"For what?" he asked.
She looked at him for the first time, and sat up, shrugging her shoulders.
"For anything," she said. She pulled her handkerchief out and pressed it to her brilliant lips; the roses, ribbons, and pearls in her high-piled grey curls shone in the flickering flame.
My lord drew off his gloves.
"What is the letter, madam?" He gave her a sideways look out of weary, reckless eyes.
"From my father." She took the handkerchief from her mouth and there was a stain of carmine on it. "He is just back from Holland, where he hath been to take up some monies due to him."
"I know," said the Earl. "I think this news can wait."
"It is no news, my lord; you are aware that my father's fortunes——"
"Will not bear the strain of my extravagance?" He placed his tasselled gauntlets down beside the silver candle-stick and the letter. "Well, he has said so."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You are very cool; what do you propose to do?"
The Earl gave her a slow smile.
"How often people ask that," he remarked. "I propose, madam, nothing."
"I suppose you have said that before," answered the Countess, "but you have saved yourself nevertheless; that way is closed now, however, you cannot marry an heiress again."
He crossed to the mantelshelf and rested his elbow there, taking his cheek in his hand; the little pale light was yet enough to disclose the languid reckless beauty of his face.
"Why waste your bitterness on these obvious comments, madam?" he asked. "Whatever my affairs may be, you and I cannot better them by discussion."
"Your affairs!" she echoed. "Do they not also concern me? My father crippled himself to pay your debts a year ago, and hath spent a swinging fortune since."
"Doth he think me too dear?" smiled the Earl. "Well, it was his bargain."
"I am not talking of him, but of myself."
Her husband fixed his scornful grey eyes on the contained malice of her delicate face.
"You knew you were not marrying a prudent man, madam, my reputation was easy to come at; if we made a mistake it was an irrevocable one. Till now we have at least avoided the folly of telling each other so."
She returned his glance, straightly and keenly; her fine nostrils were distended, and against the pallor of her hollow cheeks the patches of rouge looked vivid and unnatural.
"It has been very easy for you," she said. "I have not touched your life at all, I merely stand for that vulgarity—money; but money is something that cannot always be ignored, and you must face it now, it and me, my lord."
The Earl spoke in a low voice.
"What does your father say?"
"He writes like a man possessed"—her slight hand touched the open letter. "The Dutch bank has failed, the East Indian ships are lost, he thinks his liabilities will be more than he can meet, unless he can negotiate some loan; but," she lifted her thin shoulders out of the glittering gown, "I have no doubt we are ruined. He cursesme," she added, "and talks of Bedlam; he hath always dwelt on that matter of madness in our family."
Her brilliant wrathful eyes turned to the Earl's colourless face.
"What are our assets?" she asked. "Your post in the Ministry and Pelham on the verge of impeachment! Your impoverished estates, half entailed, the furniture, jewels, horses—worth a few thousands—not enough to satisfy a quarter of the creditors; what is before us?"
"You know as well as I," he answered. "And do not blame me wholly, madam; you have not lived like an anchorite."
"What you have lost on one night would furnish my needs for months; and there is your mother, your cousin."
A swift colour flew into my lord's face.
"Miss Chressham is in an independent position, madam."
"Is your brother, Captain Lyndwood?"
She tossed the name at him with an indescribable air of insolence and insult; he drew a deep breath.
"I think we will not speak of him."
"Why not? He has cost you somewhat, your marriage did him good service."
"The best service I ever rendered Marius," interrupted my lord, "was when I prevented him from making you his wife, madam."
The Countess quivered.
"That was an unconscious favour," she cried. "You married me for my money, for nothing else."
"For nothing else," he repeated, his attitude unchanged, his voice unaltered. "What other reason, madam, should I have had?"
She pressed her hands to her tight bodice.
"You glossed it with self-sacrifice, it was to save your brother, your mother, the estates—anything but for yourself, because you could not face life without money."
Again the uncontrollable colour betrayed my lord, suffusing his face painfully.
"Why are you saying this?"
"Oh, I have been longing to say it ever since we were married; I think I have my chance now"—her voice trembled with passion—"ever since you ordered me from the room. Do you remember—that night you brought me home, and your brother turned his back on me?"
"By God," cried the Earl, "this is intolerable; are we to exchange recriminations?" He moved towards her. "I have that on my mind makes you and your father and his damned money of no moment to me."
The Countess rose, sweeping the flame-coloured domino to the floor.
"Ah, Miss Boyle!" she said through her teeth. "She was at the ball to-night."
"I will not endure this from you, madam."
"That is monstrous amusing," cried the Countess, and her eyes flew wide. "Do you imagine that I do not know——"
"And I also—I know, who wrote the paragraph in theGazette."
She was obviously startled, taken with a quick utter surprise; she stared at him as if she hoped to read some explanation of his words in his pale face.
"Did you imagine," continued my lord, "that I could live a year in the same house with you and not be aware that you read my letters and set your servant to spy on me?" He smiled in a fashion that made her colour with fury. "What other was there with both the knowledge and the vulgarity to send what you sent to the paper? You deceive yourself, madam, if you think I do not know you."
The Countess Lavinia stood silent; she had no words to meet the occasion. Only once before had she spoken directly with her husband, when he had brought her hometo Lyndwood Holt, and then, as now, he had silenced her. Her dumb hatred of him rose and swelled in her heart to agony; she made a motion of her hand to her throat and then clutched at the pearls on her tight bodice.
The Earl glanced away from her as if he found her not worth his attention.
"It hath been too mean a thing to mention," he said; "but it was patent to me from the moment Sir Francis showed me theGazette. It hath not done much mischief, madam, or caused any trouble I cannot right; Miss Boyle stands too high for malice to touch. Well, there is no more to say."
She found voice enough to ask harshly:
"Is this how you take it?"
Of all things she had never expected this. The contemplation of his certain fury had made a point to her days; again and again she had said to herself, "I shall have stung him beyond bearing at last," and she had nerved herself to bear the outburst of his rage for the pleasure of seeing him brought by her means to bitter wrath; she had not supposed that he would discover of himself that she was the author of the paragraph, but she had intended at the climax, when he was on the eve of a duel with Sir Francis and Miss Boyle had fled from London, to say to him, "I did this—I!"
The Earl moved again to the mantelshelf.
"How did you imagine I would take it?" he asked quietly. "I reap what I sowed when I married Mr. Hilton's daughter."
She gave a little gasp, and the string of pearls broke and came away in her hot hand.
"A noble way you vindicate your gentle blood, my lord," she said in a voice faltering with passion. "I have been your convenience and your scorn."
"And my wife," he interrupted, "before the world, my wife; which is what you, I think, desired, madam."
"Your wife!" she echoed wildly.
He answered her coldly.
"Your life has been as you have made it."
"My life hath been Hell," answered the Countess vehemently; she cast the pearls down on the table beside the flaring unsnuffed candle. "Ever since I met you I have lived in bitter unhappiness." She looked at the Earl with dangerous eyes. "Had I married your brother I might have been a contented woman, he is an honourable man."
Rose Lyndwood laughed.
"Cannot that rouse you!" she cried. "What are you become, my lord?"
"The utter folly of our discussing these matters!" he answered, smiling. "We waste our breath, madam, and I, for one, am weary of it."
The Countess caught up her father's letter.
"What have you to say to this?" she demanded.
"Nothing." He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the mantelshelf and yawned.
"What will you do to avert this ruin?" she asked, trembling.
"Still nothing." He looked at her now, over his shoulder, and the extreme handsomeness of his face was impressed on her suddenly, like an added insult.
"And about Selina Boyle, poor shadow of sentiment, you will do nothing?" she sneered. "And you will face the laughter, the comment, and still do nothing. Ah! you have no fire nor life left in you, Lord Lyndwood, you are become a worthless rake indeed."
Still she could not move him; he yawned again and thrust his hands into the embroidered pockets of his white velvet waistcoat.
"Do you think you care for her?" cried the Countess, furious. "It is a paltry pretence; if I died to-morrow you would marry another woman with money and whistle Selina Boyle down the wind."
"The candle requires snuffing," said Rose Lyndwood; "but I do not wish to burn my fingers nor can I see the snuffers." He smiled with his pale lips and his fickle grey eyes. "Good-night, madam."
The Countess took a step forward as he moved towards the door; it seemed she would have struck him, but he made a motion with his hand as if he brushed her aside, laughed in her face and left the room.
He did not close the door. The Countess, looking after him, saw in the dimly lit hall the figure of Honoria Pryse in a dark wrapper, moving back secretively as she was surprised by my lord's sudden appearance.
"I was coming for her ladyship," she said in a tone of covert defiance.
Rose Lyndwood glanced from maid to mistress, and both winced; then he passed slowly up the dark stairs.
Honoria Pryse came into the drawing-room and closed the door; her first action was to snuff the candle and set it further on the table.
The Countess sank down upon the sofa, and with a groan hid her face in the bend of her arm.
"He knows," said the maid, thrusting the loose gold hair back under her mob.
"He has always known," the Countess raised her face, "and it doth not touch him; he brushes it from him as a fly off his sleeve. I told him of my father's letter; what did he care?" She clenched her fragile hands in the dove-coloured cushions. "My God, I am sick with hate, or love."
Honoria Pryse observed her curiously. Lady Lyndwood's passionate loathing of her lord had always been beyond her understanding; to her own nature strong feeling was impossible.
"Did you see Captain Lyndwood to-night?" she asked.
"Yes, he is a fool and a virtuous fool, but I swear I think I love him. Oh, Honoria!" her eyes gleamed withan expression akin to insanity. "Do you not think I love him?"
"No," answered the maid, "not yet at least, but I think you hate my lord, and I wonder why; if ye had not felt this frenzy against him ye had been able to better hold your own."
The Countess did not seem to hear.
"How may one touch a man like that—hath he no soul beyond his easy pleasures?" she cried vehemently. "He will not cross swords for Selina Boyle, and he thinks he loves her. I cannot move him to any fury by talk of ruin, always his face hath one expression for me, and no way can I alter it; is there nothing in the world he cares for?"
Honoria shrugged her shoulders.
"His name, his dignity, I suppose; we have never affected that. You have been very discreet, my lady, and he knows you cannot be otherwise and keep the position you paid so highly for."
A curious look passed over the Countess's face.
"His name!" she repeated; then she laughed stupidly and shivered. "Well, we are ruined; what is before me?"
"You are far enough from ruin," answered the maid calmly. "Mr. Hilton stands firm enough, and my lord's position is not so easily overturned."
The Countess rose with sudden energy.
"Get to bed, Honoria, I am tired to-night, and meant not what I said," but her passionate face and heated eyes belied her words.
"Will you not come also, my lady?"
"In a while, yes."
The maid had the policy sometimes to submit to the mistress she ruled; with the faintest of sneering smiles she left the room.
With quick steps the Countess hurried across the floor, picked up her father's letter and dashed out the candle.
Through the heavy curtains fell the first glimmer of the London dawn, but where my lady stood all was dark; she tore the letter to shreds, breathing heavily.
"His name," she muttered to herself; "my name also. An insignificant thing like me, my lord, might make you the laughing stock of the town."
She paused and peered round the dark mistrustfully. She moved unerringly to where the Earl had left his domino, found it, flung it on the ground and set her high-heeled shoe on it; then laughing and crying together hurried from the room.