"I thinkit is monstrous strange that Marius could not stay," remarked the Countess Agatha, gathering round her the swansdown and gold wrap. "There is room enough here, and I vow it is more comfortable than forlorn chambers in Westminster."
"He hath been considering this move for some time," answered Miss Chressham quietly. "He hath, I think, an idea of independence. It is a pity he will not go abroad again."
"To leave us so suddenly!" continued the Countess heedlessly. "But last night I thought he seemed to me strange when he took you to the masque."
"Perhaps, after all, it is better for him," said Susannah gently; and moved so that the candle-light did not fall over her face.
"I thought Rose might have come to-day," commented my lady, with the air of a grievance, "but I swear he has not been over-attentive of late."
Miss Chressham sighed. She could no more have confided in her aunt than in a child. My lord's troubles were not to be helped by his mother; yet one matter his cousin brought herself to mention, since it must be faced sooner or later.
"Rose is too extravagant. I think it begins to weigh with him."
The Countess Agatha was drawing on her fine silk gloves.
"Well, my dear," she smiled sweetly, "what did he marry that woman for? Not to stint himself."
"Stint himself!" Miss Chressham smiled too, but sadly. "His entertainments cost thousands, and his losses at cards—I do not care to think of them. No fortune could stand it, and Mr. Hilton, I hear, has lost money in Holland."
"And what of Selina Boyle?" asked the Countess Agatha, with her trick of changing the subject at random, as if she never listened to what was said to her. "And that odious stuff in theGazette? I hope you told her that it was too foolish to be noticed, and that I laughed at it; but, of course, I have no doubt it is true, nor that that impossible Lavinia wrote it."
"I suppose it can be lived down," answered Susannah. "But Sir Francis and Mr. Boyle are furious."
"Do you think 'twill come to a duel with Rose?" asked the Countess vaguely.
"No—oh, no." Miss Chressham was positive.
"But 'tis infatuation for her?"
"Yes."
"And she?" The Countess Agatha's soft eyes were sympathetic.
Miss Chressham gave a painful little laugh.
"I am afraid that she—is in love."
"And that wretched creature comes between them!" sighed the elder lady. "It is too provoking Selina could not have had the money. She is quite charming, and I always liked her. But are you sure of Rose?" she asked suddenly. "There have been so many!"
Miss Chressham coloured.
"What are we talking of? It is all very foolish, and I vow you will be late, Aunt Agatha."
The Countess glanced at the clock.
"You are certain you will not accompany me, Susannah?"
"Indeed, I am too tired. And now my lord is waiting."
"Marius may come this evening. There are many of his things here. Do you see him, then say I blame him for this desertion."
With that the Countess kissed her niece and left the room in a flutter of golden embroideries. She was as gay, in her delicate lady's way, as Rose, and as extravagant. Susannah sometimes wondered what the dowager Lady Lyndwood would do if the money failed, and she thought she could guess. The Countess had the light way of taking things that would allow her to marry again, and still remain true to the one passion and tragedy of her life—the love and death of the Earl.
Miss Chressham went to the window and watched the Countess, by the light of the link-boys' torches, being handed into the coach by Lord Willouby, who had been waiting for her patiently in the great empty drawing-room below.
Susannah saw them drive off, then let the curtains fall. She felt sad yet excited at a tension not to be explained. Everything had ended more quietly than she could have expected, yet she felt as if on the verge of great events.
Rose had met Sir Francis, and nothing had happened. TheGazettescandal appeared to have blown over; there had been no word from Selina Boyle since last night.
Marius had taken his answer quietly. She was sorry he had left them, frankly regretting his company, but she respected his motives, one of which she suspected to be the desire to avoid the Countess Lavinia, who could no longer, with any shadow of a decent excuse, seek him out for her amusement.
Poor Marius! Susannah thought of him with tenderness. He had behaved very well; he had finer stuff in him than had Rose, but——
Her reflections touched the state of the Earl's fortunes.She told herself that it must be this casting a gloom over her spirits.
He would say so little, and that little a sneer, or mocking. He acted on such sudden desperate impulses, as in the matter of his marriage. Never had he been frank with her, and she, sensitive to his reserve, had equally never been able to bring herself to probe into his affairs. She knew that he must be entangled in debt. She feared a sudden downfall of his fortunes, but she knew—with certainty—nothing.
She sat down at the spinet and played a little madrigal by Orlando Gibbons that was associated with her earliest childhood. When her fingers fell still her hands dropped into her lap, and she sat motionless, staring across the gorgeous chamber.
The mirror behind her reflected her slender figure in the tight lilac silk, the loops of soft brown hair falling over the muslin fichu and the faint coloured keys of the spinet.
Her reverie was disturbed by the entry of my lady's black page; she thought he came to announce Marius, and her heart fluttered.
But it was a lady who desired to be admitted. She said she came from Lyndwood House, and the page thought her the maid of the younger Countess.
Susannah paled with anger and distaste. What impertinence was this on the part of the odious Honoria Pryse?
"My lady is at Ranelagh," she said. "I suppose this person hath come to see her."
"No, madam; she asked for you."
A swift stab of premonitory disaster prevented Miss Chressham from sending the message that was at first on her lips—a curt refusal to see the Countess Lavinia's maid. Surely something desperate must have occurred beforeHonoria Pryse would seek her out; but the boy might be mistaken.
"Bring her to me," she commanded briefly.
Then in the moment that she waited a sudden sense of helplessness, of loneliness, overcame Susannah Chressham. Something was going to happen—something perhaps had happened—to Rose, and she was here alone to meet it, to decide.
But when the door again opened she stood braced to face the person she had expected—Lady Lyndwood's maid.
Honoria Pryse entered softly. She was simply attired in a shade of dull purple that set off the rich gold colour of her hair; a chip straw shaded her face, and she wore a dark cloak; her manner and bearing was absolutely composed and quiet. She dropped an indifferent curtsey, and waited until the black boy had left them, summing up the while with keen eyes Miss Chressham, who kept her place at the spinet, and spoke as soon as they were alone.
"You have come to see me?" she inquired, with a coldness in great contrast to her usual manner.
"Yes, madam."
"I cannot conceive on what subject."
Honoria smiled.
"Do you know me, Miss Chressham? I am the Countess's woman, and have been with her since she was a child."
"I remember you very well," answered Susannah. "Will you please tell me your errand?"
Honoria, still completely at her ease, came further into the room.
"I expect, madam, you will be surprised that I come to you, but I believe you will be interested in what I have to say, and I have always known that you were a sensible, cool-headed lady."
This was said gravely, without a hint of flattery. Susannah was impressed with a sense of something weighty behind the words—the image of Selina, of Rose, flashed through her mind. What had happened?
"Sit down," she said, controlling herself, "and tell me your errand."
Honoria calmly seated herself on one of the gilt chairs, and clasped her mittened hands in her lap.
"My Lady Agatha is out?" she asked.
"Yes, I am alone."
Honoria regarded her shrewdly.
"You know, madam, that my mistress came here this afternoon?"
"No," answered Susannah. "I have been abroad all day."
"Will you listen to me for a few moments? I think you will find it to your interest, madam."
Miss Chressham twisted her handkerchief in agitated fingers.
"Say what you will."
A faint smile touched the maid's thin lips.
"You were at the masque last night? My lord and my lady were there, as you know. My lady returned about three of the clock, and found a letter from Mr. Hilton with ill news in it. She waited up for my lord, and there followed a scene of some violence—on her part."
Miss Chressham interrupted.
"What do you mean by recounting to me these things? I will not hear them."
"I tell you them merely to explain what follows, madam," answered Honoria, unmoved. "My lady, who beats herself in a vain passion of hatred against my lord's scorn, comes upstairs in a fever, talking incoherently of ruin, and falls into hysterics. She faints three or four times in the night, and lies in a stupor till midday. Thismorning a friend of Sir Francis Boyle comes with, I think, a challenge for my lord, who leaves the house, with no inquiry after the Countess."
"A challenge!" interjected Miss Chressham.
"I believe so, madam; but I am speaking of my mistress. She rose this afternoon, took the coach, and came here, though she was not fit to leave the house. Soon after she returned and told me that Mr. Marius—Captain Lyndwood—had left here and taken lodging in Westminster. She said she had the address."
"They gave it to her!" cried Susannah angrily.
"She said so," repeated Honoria. "She seemed very weak, and almost beside herself; she raved against my lord and his family, and talked of Bedlam and the madness in her family, but she insisted on going out again to drink tea with Lady Fulton. It was late then, and she would neither take me nor the coach, but got into a chair. There was none with her, only a page following."
"Go on," said Susannah faintly, as Honoria paused.
"My lord came home soon after. He and my lady were due at a ball at Trefusis House; he sent up to know if she was coming, and when I said she was yet abroad, he left without comment."
"And she has not returned?" broke in Miss Chressham. "You are going to tell me that she has not returned?"
"She had not, madam, when I left the house an hour ago; but the page returned, and the chair. My lady had dismissed them both by St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, and she gave the boy a gold piece not to hang round with the chair, nor yet to attract attention by going back immediately, which commands the little wretch carried out; but I frightened the truth from him. He said my lady seemed distracted—that she told him she would return in a hackney, and that she went, on foot, towards Westminster."
Susannah put her hand before her eyes, as if a fierce light burnt them.
"And—what do you think?" she asked hoarsely.
Honoria regarded her steadily.
"I think my lady means to run away with Mr. Marius."
"Oh, my God!" murmured Susannah. She rose desperately and looked wildly about her. "My God, what shall I do?"
"She has gone to his lodgings," continued Honoria. "She is there now. I never believed that she would do anything so desperate, but it is amazing how she hates my lord."
"Captain Lyndwood will bring her back," cried Susannah, remembering last night. "I can trust him for that. He will see her insanity, and bring her back."
"Do you think so?" asked Honoria. "If she throws herself on his pity, madam?"
The flash of hope died away. How could she tell what Marius would see as his duty? He was inflamed against the Earl, rejected by herself, bitter against his world. In a manner the Countess had always been on his conscience. She had no guarantee that he would not respond to my lady's madness, and her mind rushed forward to that piteous terrible picture of flight, pursuit, and an unworthy death for one of them by fratricide.
In her bitterness she turned on Honoria.
"Why have you come to me? You—you who have ministered to all this creature's vilest qualities, you who were at the back of this in the paper, you who have ever dragged her down—why have you come here smugly to tell me of this last shame?"
Honoria Pryse rose.
"I came to ask you if you cared to help me prevent it," she said, in no way stirred. "It is not to my interestthat my mistress should hurl herself into the gutter. What do I become but a target for the vengeance of my lord? I thought that you would not care to see your house disgraced. I believed that you would give a great deal to save the Earl of Lyndwood's name from infamy."
She paused, and Susannah, very pale, lifted her eyes.
"What makes you so sure of that?" she asked
The glance of the two women met.
"Is it not true?" demanded Honoria.
Miss Chressham drew a painful breath.
"Yes, it is true," she said quietly.
"Then our interests meet, madam. My lady would not listen to me; she—or Mr. Marius—might listen to you."
"You suggest I should pursue?" cried Susannah, her whole being shrinking from the thought.
"Yes," answered Honoria. "I ask you, madam, to come with me, at once, to Captain Lyndwood's lodgings to bring my lady home before my lord discovers."
Susannah put her hand to her brow. On what distasteful adventure, with what distasteful ally, was she invited to embark?
But it did not occur to her either to mistrust or question, or to hesitate as to what she must do.
"Very well," she said quietly. "I will accompany you at once, and I must thank you for coming."
Honoria gave her a look, curious, of admiration.
"I knew you would take it in this fashion," she said. "Many ladies would not have believed me—most, I think." She laughed.
"I think we all know the truth when we hear it," answered Susannah. "Nor can we choose our allies, or our instruments. I may not now question your motivesin speaking to me. Again, I am glad of your assistance."
"If I have been of any use," said Honoria, "it is very well. Are you ready now, madam, to accompany me?"
Miss Chressham glanced at the timepiece. It was nine of the clock. The Countess Agatha would not return until perhaps two or three.
"It will be best," said Susannah, "if we avoid all observation. Will you walk to the end of the street and wait there for me? I can, I think, make some excuse to my maid."
"Very well, madam." Honoria Pryse turned quietly to the door. "Shall I call a hackney?"
Susannah observed her; she could not dislike her manner, and vulgar, mean little soul that she was, this Honoria Pryse, she seemed a person of control and resource.
Miss Chressham assented. "I shall not be delayed more than a few moments."
The Countess Lavinia's maid curtsied gravely, and left the room, as if she departed for the most ordinary errand.
For a second Susannah stood still and dazed. She had, all her life, been a spectator of, and a wise commentator on, other people's actions. Never until now had she been called upon to decide, to act, to accomplish, to put a thing through for the sake of a tremendous end. She could not reflect on what she did nor how she was going to do it. Why she did it was the one paramount fact in her mind. She put it to herself in so many words; and this strange creature who had come to her penetrated her motive.
"I think you would risk a great deal to save the Earl of Lyndwood's name from infamy."
Well, what did it matter if the whole world so thought? She set her teeth and threw back her shoulders. As long as she could save his name from this woman who bore it, she would.
The colour was in her face, and the fire in her eyes, as she went upstairs for her hat and mantle.
Whenthe Countess Lavinia saw her chair and page disappearing down the street, when she found herself standing alone, with perfect freedom before her, a sudden giddiness seized her, and she caught at one of the street posts, utterly at a loss.
This part of the town was new to her, she had traversed it only once or twice before, and then in a coach.
The resolve that had brought her so far faded before the novelty, the extraordinary novelty of her situation; she looked about her with wondering eyes, hardly able to believe that she, a prisoner all her life to someone or something, had dared so much, that she really stood there, unnoticed, unquestioned, free.
Let whatever would happen hereafter, whether she had to pay or no, whether she failed or succeeded in her desperate attempt to alter her life, the next few hours were hers absolutely, to do what she would with.
She looked up at the clock and saw that it was close on seven. There were very few people about; on the steps of the church a woman sat selling roses in a green rush basket; an empty hackney rolled over the cobbles; above the irregular roofs of the houses the sky showed a faint flushed gold stained with little torn clouds of deep pink.
The Countess, acting on no impulse save that of her sudden freedom, turned in the direction where she knew the river must lie.
Following closely built, winding streets, noticing with an eager and unaccountable interest little things—a thrush in a wicker cage, a woman knitting in a doorway, a child playing with a white rabbit, a girl leaning from a window watering a pot of wallflowers—asking a direction once in a small baker's shop, and again of a chair-mender installed at the corner of a street, the Countess Lavinia found her way to the Thames.
The great river lay in a silver sullenness beneath the clear dome of the sky; its ceaseless ripples were outlined in threads of gold; gold shimmered in the sails of the brown boats floating by, and on the roofs of the houses on the Southwark side. The Countess found it beautiful beyond anything she had imagined; an air of gay peace lay over it all, an atmosphere of pure contentment.
Where the bank sloped to the water a couple of plane trees grew, shaking their dusty summer foliage against the fading blue; the Countess crossed, stood beneath them and looked along the reaches of the river.
She thought of people who had drowned themselves in these waters, and tried to imagine the sensation of sinking beneath the sunset ripples.
A party of young apprentices came by, unmoored a boat, and went off down the river to the sound of laughter and the splash of oars, but they looked at her, and the manner of it reminded her of her appearance and the likelihood of causing comment; she wore a thin muslin dress and a red silk mantle, her hair hung in powdered curls under her wide straw hat, and she carried a useless parasol. An unusual figure for this neighbourhood at this hour, and one that could not long go unquestioned.
Becoming conscious of the observation of the few passers-by, she moved along the bank in the direction of the Abbey of Westminster.
The sun sank and the gold died swiftly from land andwater; a little wind rose and clouds began to obscure the sky. The Countess shivered in her light clothing, and the exaltation in her freedom died as swiftly as it had come; she was aware only that she was lonely, unprotected, that she had missed her way and must find it, must find Marius.
As her thoughts dwelt on him, the old sore, passions that always accompanied her unnameable feeling for my lord's brother, sprang to life—hatred of her husband, of her father, bitter desire to be avenged, to pull them all down.
She moved on quickly. For all the chilling wind she shuddered with a sense of inward heat, and giddiness now and then clouded her vision. She remembered that she had been ill last night, that she had not slept at all, and a horrible fear of sudden death possessed her; she recalled tales of people dying without warning—in the street, at the table.
She hurried on. The clouds had silently and swiftly covered the sky. As she turned into the square by the Parliament House dusk had overspread the city, and a few drops of rain began to fall. Beneath the Abbey towers she paused, bewildered.
Somewhere near here Marius lived—but where? Before her marriage she had seldom travelled further than Bedford Row, and since she had kept completely to Lyndwood House and the resorts of fashion, and never before had she been in the streets alone. This part of the town was utterly strange to her; she felt weary, too, and frightened, a new sensation. What if Marius were abroad, or refused to see her—or scorned her utterly, as these men could?
Then her resolve and daring rose, running like a flame through her veins. She stopped a solitary hackney that passed and told the man to drive to Smith's Square; alighting there she paid him quietly as if 'twere a customaryaction, and looked about her. The Square was quite empty and the rain falling heavily in the gusts of the wind.
The third house, they had said, from the south side, at the Sign of the Lamb. She found it without difficulty and paused under the little portico, to stare with shuddering eyes at the great clumsy church that occupied the centre of the Square.
The chill dusk, the steady rain, the silent dark houses that yet had an air of watchfulness as if behind their blank windows spying eyes observed her, affected her with a terror that nearly brought her to scream aloud.
She made no attempt either to ring the bell or to move away. The rain swept in under the portico, wetting her thin dress, the dark gathered about her, and her hand, resting on the iron railing of the steps, became a white blur before her eyes.
Then the door opened. She stepped back. It was Marius' man.
"Is your master at home?" the words came instinctively, more natural than silence.
"Yes, madam."
She wondered how much he could see of her, and spoke again, forestalling his curiosity.
"I am of Captain Lyndwood's family, you need not come up with me."
The man glanced round the deserted Square for her coach, chair, or servants.
"You are perhaps on your way to my lady's house for some of your master's things?" the Countess hazarded.
She could have laughed when he assented.
"Then go, there is no need to interrupt your errand," she felt the desperation in her heart must be touching her voice. "Please let me pass, it is important that I see Captain Lyndwood at once."
The servant stood aside and the Countess stepped across the threshold.
"Captain Lyndwood's chambers are on the second floor, madam;" the man still hesitated, holding the door open.
An inspiration came to the Countess to use her name—her husband's name; all she had learnt of the great dame flashed into her manner.
"I am Lady Lyndwood, and my lord is following me."
The man bowed, and she closed the door impetuously on him.
Now, what to do?
She looked about her. It was a modest hall pleasantly panelled with light wood; she heard someone singing below stairs and wondered about these others in the house.
Shivering in her damp clothes she mounted the narrow stairway with the cautious step that was natural to her; on the second landing a noise beneath attracted her attention; she leaned over the banisters and saw a girl in a flowered gown hanging a lamp in the hall.
When she had gone again and all was still, the Countess turned and opened the door opposite.
It led into an unlit chamber; the Countess entered and softly shut herself in; the room was empty, quietly furnished. On the floor were a couple of portmantles, over a chair a cloak and a sword; books, papers, and a bunch of white roses lay on the little spinet in the corner. Through the two long windows showed the cold blue of the wet summer evening and the dark shadow of a creeper blowing loose from the bricks.
The Countess noticed all these things as she shivered on the threshold; she gave a little suppressed cough and moved forward, then stood still.
An inner door opened and Marius Lyndwood came out, holding a lighted candle.
He saw her instantly.
"Lavinia!" he cried.
This was extraordinary to her, he had never used her name before. She stared at him as he stood, arrested with the glow of the candle full on his horrified face.
"You did not think to see me," she said foolishly, then she sank on to one of the stiff chairs. "I am very cold, and tired; I have walked from Saint Martin's Church."
Marius set the candle on the object nearest to his hand, the spinet.
"Is this with my lord's knowledge?" he asked.
Their eyes met.
"No," came her strained voice. "I have run away, it was no longer bearable."
Marius was quite silent; his face, as she watched it, seemed to grow older, sterner, and anguished; as she saw his lips quiver she realised the utter wrong she offered him and remorse shook her. She dropped her head into her hands.
He went to the window and looked out; when she raised her eyes again she could see only his back.
"Are you not going to speak to me?" she asked; she resolved, even against the pang of her pity, that she would not spare him—neither him nor his brother, and she shuddered with the force of this resolve.
"You expect I shall plead with you to go back, madam," he answered without looking round.
Madam! but what had he called her in his surprise? The Countess rose, unfastened her hat and flung it on to the chair.
"I am not going back," she said. "If you drive me away, turn me by force from your door. I—well, I shall not go back."
"How did you find me?" he asked, still not turning.
"Last night we spoke together, my lord and I. Well, you do not wish to hear what passed?"
"No," said Marius. "No."
"It was enough," continued the Countess. "I decided. I went this afternoon to find you. They gave me your address, and I—I saw only one thing to do, so I am here."
She trembled a little as he still did not move, and drew her mantle closer over her thin dress.
"I have been ill," she said. "How cold your room is."
"I am sorry," he turned now. "I think it hath not been inhabited for some time." He did not look at her. "Shall I light the lamp?"
"Yes," answered the Countess, shivering. "And draw the curtains."
He obeyed her in a quiet, mechanical way; the silver lamp cast a soft, pleasant glow by which she could see the details of the chamber and the splendour of his embroidered dress.
"You were going out?" she asked.
"To the ball at Trefusis House." Still he avoided her eyes.
She laughed weakly.
"I should be there; I wonder if my lord is waiting for me!" Then she wished that she had not said that, for she saw him wince.
"Who else is in the house?" she asked abruptly.
"I do not know," his voice was low and laboured. "A woman downstairs, I believe, and some others."
"I met your man, he admitted me." She shook back her hair and flung open the mantle over her soft white dress; she drew her silk gloves off and laid them across her lap.
"Speak to me, Marius."
He seated himself at the spinet so that his profile was towards her; above the gold and pink glimmer of his brocaded coat, his face showed ill and suddenly and strangely worn. She, intensely observing him, thought that never had she seen him look so like her husband, and she hated him for it. She either hated him or loved him—and after all, it came to the same.
"Will you not speak to me, Marius?"
With his eyes on the ground he answered her.
"What do you think we can do?"
"Take me away," said the Countess, breathing deeply. "Somewhere—there is the place in Genoa, you must know?" She gave a wild little laugh. "I suppose we have no money, but there is only ruin here; my lord has beggared me, my father is a ruined man; I brought some of my jewels with me; take me away, Marius."
He raised the grey eyes that were so like the Earl's.
"You cannot know what you say, for if you do, honour hath no meaning."
Her face flushed with the feverish blood his words roused to action.
"Maybe it hath a different meaning to you and me. I think so." She rose and caught hold of the back of the chair. "Perhaps you despise me, but you have no right."
She coughed, stifled it, and went on.
"You speak from your code, but I at least have this to my credit—I have been very faithful."
He got to his feet and faced her.
"To what?"
"To you," she said, and looked at him straightly.
His face blanched so it seemed he must faint; he pressed his handkerchief to his lips and leant heavily against the window frame.
"Why did you woo me?" cried the Countess, at thehigh tide of nameless passion. "What was your honour then to dare to let me think I was all in all to you? Were you absolved because I was forced into a loveless marriage? But there is no need to say all this, you know what I mean."
"You are my brother's wife," said Marius hoarsely. "You are the Countess of Lyndwood."
"Is that fact paramount with you?" she mocked. "Oh, a man's honour!"
He seemed to catch at the word.
"Honour," he repeated; "my honour!" Then, "Which way, which way?" he cried.
She thought that he would say, "You do this from hatred to our house, because we turned our backs on you, that day at Lyndwood Holt," but his next words took her by surprise.
"By what right," he asked, "do you come to me—by what right do you put me in this position?"
She found at once her answer. She knew her winning card, and instinct told her the moment for playing it, for, lie or no, this was what she had come to say.
"Because I love you," she said, and knew not if it was the truth.
In the pause that followed she saw that her speech had had all the effect, and more, that she could have hoped, or dreaded, or desired.
She saw the shock drive the blood into his face, saw him put out his hand as if to stop her—open his lips and stand dumb.
"You must have known," she said.
He could not speak. He thrust back the pomaded curls from his flushed forehead and stared on the ground; she felt herself swept into the position of conqueror, felt herself in full measure repaid.
"You wooed and won me," she breathed. "Youmademe love you, I—it cannot happen twice, words are so foolish—but you must understand that I gave myself to you, and you cannot dare reject me now, only, I am at your mercy."
"No," he answered, lifting his head. "I am at yours—what do you want with me?"
His expression frightened her, but she clung to her advantage.
"Take me away. Do I ask so much? I pleased you once."
"Lavinia," again he used her name naturally, "if you ask me this, if you so appeal to me, if you tell me I am bound to you, I will."
His tongue failed him, he put his hand over his distracted eyes; a burst of genuine feeling, passion maybe, brought her swiftly to his side.
"Say you care for me, Marius. I could have been happy with you, or having never met you been happy; but you do not tell me," she touched his sleeve, "that you are even sorry."
He turned his face from her.
"What my life has been!" she whispered, drawing closer. "Marius, you cannot think of those trees in the Luxembourg and not say you are sorry."
A groan broke from him.
"Rose is a villain!"
"Take me away," she repeated intensely.
She put her hot palm over his hand that rested on the spinet. Neither spoke nor looked at each other; both gazed at the blue night showing through the uncovered window, and the spray of creeper quivering in the rain.
"I have been wrong," he said at last; "but I can die to expiate it. I can go to my lord——"
She caught his meaning and thrilled to it. She had done something at last; the Earl, laughing now withMiss Trefusis, would know that she was not so insignificant, and—but a cloud, a sudden darkness seemed to overspread her brain, her surroundings assumed a ghostly unreality, she found herself wondering what had happened, why she was here; who this was standing motionless beside her.
"Marius!" she shrieked. "I am going mad!"
He turned fiercely and caught her by the arm.
"I will take you away," he said desperately. "I will take you away, Lavinia."
She fell to laughing.
"Why do you touch me? Do you not hate me? Will you meet your brother, because of me—me?"
Then she seemed to collect herself. She clung to his coat, his heavy lace cravat, and let the weight of her slight figure fall across his arm.
"You are not going to turn me away, Marius?" she asked in a quick breathless voice, and her powdered hair brushed his cheek.
"No," he answered wildly. "On my honour, no."
The door opened and Susannah Chressham stepped into the chamber.
Miss Chresshamclosed the door, and the Countess Lavinia was again surprised in Marius, for he did not thrust her from him nor give any sign of start or shame. His hand remained where it was, resting on the spinet behind her, but she loosened her clasp on his lace and drew herself erect.
Susannah was the most ill at ease of the three.
"What shall I say," she murmured, halting within the door—"to either of you?" she added; but her speech was directed wholly to her cousin. She ignored the Countess.
"I am sorry that you have come," he answered, not looking at her, "for here, madam, is a matter you cannot mend."
"Have you followed me?" demanded the Countess violently.
Miss Chressham brought herself to address Rose's wife.
"Your maid came to me," she said, with pallid lips, "and informed me of this visit. She is below now, waiting for you, my lady."
The Countess Lavinia laughed.
"What manner of woman do you think I am, madam?" she cried. "You do not know me."
"I did not think of you at all, madam," answered Miss Chressham quietly, "for, as you say, I do not know you;but Captain Lyndwood I do know, and to him have I come to appeal."
He stood unnaturally still, with slightly parted lips and averted eyes. The lace falling round the hand he rested on the spinet shook noticeably.
The Countess, braced by hatred of the other woman, inspired by the fury of this interference, stepped into the centre of the room, a slender, almost childish figure in the clinging white dress.
"Will you begone, madam?" she said thickly. "This is no affair of yours."
"No affair of mine, madam?" answered Miss Chressham proudly. "I, my lady, am of the house of Lyndwood."
"And I am not," cried the Countess; "but a tradesman's daughter."
"I speak of honour, madam, which belongeth not to birth," retorted Susannah.
Lady Lyndwood flung back her head.
"There was nought of honour in the bargain," she said. "Your house hath had the money and spent it, and now I think it is my turn."
"Marius!" cried Miss Chressham. "Help me—help me in what I have come to do!"
He moved forward slowly, with his head bent, and at sight of him both the women were silent, so clearly was he labouring with an almost unendurable agony of soul.
"How shall I adjust this?" he asked. "How?"
"There is nothing to adjust," said the Countess. "You have decided."
"I also," said Miss Chressham. "I have decided that you return to-night—that youshallreturn, madam, and before my lord notices your absence. Do you suppose that your insanity can be permitted to work this mad mischief?"
It was Marius who answered.
"You should not have come on this errand. It can do no good. My lady has appealed to me."
The sudden bright flash of wrath with which Susannah spoke was like the unsheathing of a sword.
"What have we fallen to that a woman alone must try to defend the honour of Lyndwood? Will you for this"—she turned her gleaming eyes on the Countess—"deliver your house to infamy?"
"I am bound," said Marius. Then he also turned to the Countess. "Speak!" he cried passionately. "Tell me again what it is you ask of me; but reflect, in the name of God, what this means. Is it going to be worth it to you?"
She moved away both from him and Miss Chressham; she sank on to the stool in front of the spinet, and her hands fell slackly into her lap.
"Abandon me if you will," she said faintly. "I have no claim I can enforce; only I am not going back. I can end it now as well as another time."
Susannah moved impulsively forward.
"Madam, I beseech you!" Her voice was softer. "You have much to forgive—I have not come to judge you—but no wrongs can be righted this way. You must come back."
The Countess looked at her bitterly.
"You use words you do not know the meaning of. What have you and I in common, madam, that you should dare to interfere with me? We have always disliked each other; do not have the hypocrisy to disclaim it."
"You are my lord's wife," interrupted Miss Chressham, withdrawn again into a cold reserve, and armed with angry pride.
"My lord's wife!" repeated the Countess Lavinia. "That to you, and no more. My lord's wife to be reclaimed like a straying dog and sent back shivering to my post!My lord's wife! But I am more, madam; I am a woman."
She rose impetuously and leant against the spinet, her muslin ruffles touching the white roses.
"What's to do?" muttered Marius. He looked from one woman to another in a desperate, helpless fashion, as if he sought some cue. In his eyes was the bewildered, appealing reproach of a wounded animal.
Miss Chressham spoke to the Countess with her glance and her gesture as well as her words.
"Do you think I can retire leaving you here? If it be useless to quote honour or shame, ye cannot ignore decency. Ye cannot, under my eyes, leave the house in the company of Captain Lyndwood; also your maid is below."
"Wretch to have betrayed me!" exclaimed the Countess. "What is her motive? She wishes to keep me in my place because it means to her so much in money, in comfort, in this and that. What is your motive? You wish to save my lord's face before the town. Neither you nor she care what becomes of me!" She shivered with scorn. "No one would—not my Lady Agatha. I might go to damnation for all of you, did it not suit your convenience or your pride to keep me honest. What would my lord care for any sin of mine, did it not touch him?"
She pressed her hands to her bosom, and took a step or two towards Miss Chressham, her whole slight body trembling.
"Away with your flimsy morality!" she said. "You speak for yourself, I for myself, and your object is no worthier than mine. My lord and the name of Lyndwood is as little to me as my happiness is to you. There is no argument that you can touch me with."
"Lavinia!" interrupted Marius, in a low and terrible voice, "I will not hear you speak in such fashion."
She turned and gave him a curious, quiet look.
"Are you going to ask me to go back?" she said.
"I would thank you on my knees," he answered, "if you could listen to my cousin; if you could find it in you to return." He paused a second; both the women looked at him intently. With a quick breath and added force, he continued: "Yet I think you speak the truth, and I know I have been wrong, and that our house hath not been so honourable in this matter, and—" He paused again, then frantically, "Oh, God!" he cried, "there are things impossible to speak of—things that sear the lips! I am a coward, and I would that I were dead!"
"Marius!" cried Miss Chressham, wan and rigid, horror in her eyes. "I cannot find you in this behaviour. Why do you hesitate? What is there to weigh with you against the fact that this woman is Rose's wife?"
The Countess gave a sudden laugh.
"He knows this woman loves him, and that fact weighs something with a man."
Marius put his hand before his face, and Susannah drew back aghast.
"You outrage all shame!" she said hoarsely. "Are you without all honour that you dare say this to my face?"
The Countess turned her back on her.
"Take me away," she held out her hands to Marius, "or kill me! This woman does not understand."
He looked at her, but shrank, and she fell suddenly to her knees. Susannah sprang forward and caught her up. There was a cry, an exclamation among them, and the door was flung open on Rose Lyndwood.
His eyes travelled from one to another. He took off his hat.
"Ah, you also, Susannah!" he said, and closed the door behind him.
He was splendidly dressed in black velvet and satin. His magnificence and superb looks put the chamber toshame. He came across the room gaily, with his head high, and Miss Chressham, at least, saw he was in a passion of wrath and scorn that uplifted him above them all.
Marius waited. Stealthily the Countess drew away from him.
"Rose," began Susannah feebly; but the bare truth was so obviously abroad among them, the facts lay so clearly before them, that all attempts to soften or excuse were futile. She could not get the foolish words across her lips.
My lord dropped the rich cloak he carried on to a chair.
"I did not go to the Trefusis ball," he said, addressing his brother, "but to my lady's house, and there I learnt enough."
"Of what you already suspected?" asked Marius, in a dreary way.
"I warned you," said my lord. He smiled, and the eyes he kept on his brother's face were black in their intensity. "Well, we are all worthless knaves and fools, but I have done with this."
"Take my lady home," broke in Susannah.
"Not yet," said Rose Lyndwood. He drew his rapier with a soft, bright sound, and laughed in Marius's face.
"Ah, that!" cried the younger man; and his eyes began to shine. "Do you force bloodshed on me, my lord?"
The Earl struck him on the breast with the flat of his sword.
"Do you want me to strike you across the face, you poor weak hypocrite?" he cried. "Cannot you answer for what you have done?"
Marius put his hand to his hilt. The Countess gave a sobbing laugh, and kept her eyes on them, gloating over my lord's fury.
She came forward.
"My lord," she said, "I am not here by chance. I love your brother, even to the same measure that I hate you."
He thrust her away from him, for in her passion she had stepped so close that her distorted face almost touched his shoulder, and Marius snatched his weapon from the scabbard.
Miss Chressham stepped between the sword-points.
"Marius," she whispered, "do not fight."
Her fingers touched his sleeve for a second, and she looked into his eyes.
"Stand back, madam!" cried my lord fiercely, but Marius answered her gaze.
"Have pity!" she murmured, and she glanced past him at the Earl.
"Oh!" muttered Marius. His rapier slipped from his fingers and rattled on the polished boards; he staggered back against the mantelshelf, staring at Susannah.
"Do not fight!" she stammered, and laid her finger on her white lips.
That was all, but Marius understood.
"Take up your sword!" commanded my lord.
He obeyed, picked up the weapon, and returned it to the sheath.
"You may do what you will, my lord," he said, in a changed voice, "but you and I cannot adjust anything in this way."
"I am not here to discuss expediency," returned the Earl, "but to cross swords with you. It has come to that. We cannot both live with honour."
Marius looked from one woman to another—the Countess urging him on with fiery eyes and passion in her very breath, Miss Chressham, still and cold, forbidding. One hated the man who stood opposed to him; the other—what of that other? And he was bound to obey her because he held her very dear.
"I do not fight, my lord," he said. He folded his arms and moved away.
"By God!" cried the Earl, transported. "Are you coward, too—in this fashion, too—that you can put a last insult on me—on your house?"
The Countess flung herself before Marius, adding her fury to that of her husband.
"Have you failed me now? Will you shame me utterly?"
He looked, beyond them, at Miss Chressham.
"I will not fight," he said. "I dare not. I think I might kill you."
"Oh, what miserable folly are we reduced to in this boy?" exclaimed the Earl. "Unfortunate have we been, and our records are wild enough, but never have we touched this shame."
Marius turned on him.
"Take the Countess home, my lord," he said, "and set your own life straight. In mine own eyes I do right. And, insult me as you please, I will not, I swear, cross swords with you. As for my lady here, blame yourself, not her. I have scarcely touched her hand since her marriage, and there have been few words between us."
"Spare me any speech!" broke in the Earl, restraining himself proudly. "I see now what I deal with." He slipped his sword back into the scabbard, and addressed his wife. "You will return with me, madam."
The Countess fixed her eyes on Marius, and gave a foolish laugh.
"Return—with you!"
"With me." He picked up his cloak, then flashed round on his brother. "As for to-morrow morning——
"Hush!" breathed Marius quickly. "Not here, not now!"
The Earl smiled.
"What do you mean? I speak of my duel with Sir Francis. I will find another second."
Miss Chressham, in the shadowed background, started convulsively, shivered and drooped.
"No, no!" struck in Marius, sharply. "I will be there."
"What is my affront from Sir Francis compared to this I take from you?" said my lord, still with glowing eyes, and that fixed, proud smile. "I do not wish to see your face again, my brother. You will not come to-morrow."
Marius stood silent, and Susannah made a little moaning sound.
"Come, my lady!" commanded the Earl. "Your confidante is waiting below. Shall we not end this miserable comedy that we have not wit nor courage to carry through?"
In a slow, mechanical way she gathered up her hat and gloves.
"I am accursed!" she said under her breath. "Well, God judge you, Marius!"
He did not move nor speak.
The Earl crossed to the door; his eyes flashed to Miss Chressham.
"Are you coming with us, madam?"
She shook her head dumbly.
My lord lifted his shoulders.
"Thenau revoir! Maybe I shall see you again."
The Countess arranged her hat and joined her husband. Her demeanour was quiet, yet resolute, as if she saw what to do and was satisfied. Susannah, even through her own agony, wondered at this sudden taming and resignation in her; she found something more deadly and horrible than open passion and despair in the way in which the Countess averted her face as she passed her husband, he holding the door open for her, and following her slightfigure with his unforgiving eyes, as she went out on to the stairs.
Still Marius did not speak.
"We are of an unfortunate house," said Rose Lyndwood, smiling at his brother. Then he followed his wife and closed the door after him.
Susannah lifted her hands to her forehead; it seemed to her that she dragged them painfully through air grown unsupportably heavy.
"What is this duel?" she asked, with stiff lips.
"With Sir Francis," he answered. "I did not want you to know. There is nothing to be done."
"You were to be his second?"
"Yes."
"And—and now?"
"You heard."
She rose. The dim lamplight felt a weight upon her eyes.
"I had no business to ask you to hold back, Marius," she said dully. "Women should not interfere."
He made no answer. His head drooped a little on his breast, his eyes were cast down.
"But I could not bear it," continued Susannah. "That must be my excuse. I could not bear"—she stressed the words passionately—"to see you draw your sword on him; but I was wrong. It was unjust to you."
"He has done with me," said Marius, without raising his head. "But when you whispered to me, when I saw—understood, I decided, and I am glad."
"I cannot thank you," answered Susannah, "nor say what I should."
He glanced up.
"No. You think of this duel to-morrow."
She pressed her hand to her quivering mouth.
"You are right to speak so to me."
"No—no, forgive me—forgive me!"
Susannah did not seem to hear.
"Where do they meet?"
"The Park—as soon as it is light." He jerked the words out awkwardly. "My lord was engaged all yesterday."
"It is on Selina's account," murmured Susannah, in a colourless voice. "Well, he is a good swordsman."
Marius looked at her quickly; the Earl had chosen pistols.
She roused herself dully.
"Will you take me home? It is getting late. We must be glad Lavinia hath returned." She fixed her distracted eyes on Marius. "Shall we tell my lady, or—suppose they brought him home as his father was brought?"
"He hath been in duels before."
"But this is no fencing bout!" A sudden horror sprang into her voice. "Marius, this is not with pistols?"
He could not lie to her; his silence was answer and confirmation.
She did not speak.
"I could do no more!" he cried, goaded by her face. "I let him strike me because of you. His blood is not on my sword, nor mine on his. As for this, it is not for his honour to interfere."
Susannah moved blindly across the room.
"She hath done it—she, with her lies."
A sharp silence fell. They could hear the rain beating without; the creeper was tapping against the window, and presently the Abbey clock chimed ten.
"Somehow we must put the hours through," murmured Susannah, "until——"
Her voice died away.
"I will take you home," said Marius hoarsely.
"Home!" she repeated; her eyes filled with tears, and sought his. What was between them could not be expressed by any words, but that one look expressed it all.
She rose.
"Yes," she said. "We will go home."