Honoria Pryselay in bed and listened to the rain. All night long it had poured steadily, and now, when the June day had dawned, there was no sign of its cessation. Honoria was always pleased to hear that comfortless beat of the rain when she lay warm and dry herself, just as it pleased her to think over what had happened yesterday and what would in all likelihood happen to-day. She herself had acted prudently to her own advantage, and yet in a way that no one could blame; even the proud Miss Chressham had been glad of her help, and the Earl owed, if he had not given, her thanks.
Marius Lyndwood had reason to be grateful to her, and if my lady loathed her for her interference it was not a matter to trouble about. The Countess was too dependent on her maid for Honoria to fear her wrath.
It was curious that the Countess had returned so quietly. Honoria could recall neither protest nor complaint, and the burst of passionate invective that she had been waiting to receive the moment they were relieved from the restraint of my lord's cold presence had never come.
Honoria was surprised, puzzled also by the curiosity my lady suddenly showed in the matter of the Earl's duel with Sir Francis. It was not to be marvelled at that she was interested in the fact itself, one that might mean a great deal to her, but her questions as to time, place, and weapons seemed to Honoria unusual and purposeless.
Sitting up in bed and shaking the yellow curls out ofher eyes, she smiled to herself at all of it—at my lady, lying in a sick sleep in the next room; at Miss Chressham, awake certainly and praying for my lord; at the Earl and Sir Francis, meeting under the trees in Hyde Park—and for the sake of a few lines in the paper composed by her in this very room; at Miss Boyle, in a fainting agony, praying also for my lord. Honoria laughed aloud, yawned, and got out of bed.
As she dressed she wondered, with a sense of amusement, and perhaps a little anxiety, what would happen next. If they brought my lord home, shot through the heart; if Mr. Hilton failed; if they were sold up in a downfall that would be the talk of London—what would become of my lady and herself? Her mouth and eyes hardened as she stared at herself in the mirror. Well, suppose my lord shot Sir Francis?
She shrugged her shoulders, opened the shutters and looked out over London. The grey clouds were beginning to break, a light that was between gold and silver glimmered over the wet roofs. The rain was ceasing.
It was about eight; the duel must be over now. The Countess would surely be awake. Honoria was surprised that she had not been roused by her in the night—that she should still be sleeping on such a morning as this. After all, my lord's life or death meant something to her.
Honoria adjusted her muslin mob, her pink ribbons, her buckle shoes—she was always neat, though she served a slovenly mistress—and opened the door that led into the Countess's bedchamber.
As she stepped into the close dun light of the shrouded room she came to a stop with a great start. The heavy-curtained bed was empty. The clothes were flung back and the spaniel slept on the coverlet; an open novel lay on the pillow; garments, dead flowers, masks, fans, boxes, books and prints lay scattered over the chairs and floor. The Countess was not in the chamber.
"My lady," cried Honoria softly, "my lady!"
She crossed the room quickly and entered the apartment beyond it, her mistress's private withdrawing-room. The blue brocaded satin curtains were drawn close and the white rose-wreathed walls showed cold and luminous in the confined light.
"My lady!" cried Honoria again.
At a little Chinese cabinet in the corner, set open and covered with a confusion of papers and rich articles of gold and jewels, sat the Countess, resting her head in her hands. She wore again the muslin dress, red mantle, and straw hat of last night. Her clothes were wet, clinging to her, and stained with mud. Her hair hung uncurled and unpowdered on to her shoulders; her face was drawn and of an unhealthy pallid colour. At her elbow stood a lit candle, and on the carpet by the chair was a little pile of burnt paper.
She did not move at her maid's entry, and Honoria spoke again.
"Have you been out, my lady?"
The Countess Lavinia turned her head.
"Did you think I was asleep?" she asked in a weary voice.
Honoria crossed to her side.
"You are wet to the skin. Do you wish to kill yourself?"
"I do not feel it," answered the Countess, but she was shivering. "I have been to the Park, Honoria." She put the candle out and leant back in her chair.
"To the duel?"
"Yes." Her voice had a vague far-off sound. "I crept downstairs last night after you had left me, and unloaded his pistols, thinking he would have to fight without a second."
"You did that!" quivered Honoria.
The Countess turned wide glazed eyes on her. She did not seem to know to whom she spoke.
"And then I followed to see him shot." She coughed, laughed, and sat up.
"My God!" said Honoria, staring at her mistress.
The Countess thrust her fingers through her damp hair.
"Marius was there, that is why I am speaking of it. You can tell them afterwards."
"I do not understand," cried the maid. "Are you sane, my lady?"
"I want to say this," smiled the Countess, holding her head. "It becomes so difficult to say anything. Sir Francis fired into the air. Why are men such fools? I went to seehimshot!"
"You accuse yourself of murder," said Honoria.
"When my lord's pistol clicked uselessly," continued my lady, "they thought it was Marius's doing—at least, my lord did. No one saw me. I was standing at the top of a little rise among the bushes. How it had rained! Now was my revenge, I thought. But useless, useless! And they must know."
"Ye are mad!" muttered Honoria.
The Countess caught up some of the letters lying before her and began to tear them across; but her fingers failed her, the pieces dropped from her grasp and her hands sank into her lap.
"There is no need for me to speak any more," she said, and her head fell against the satin and gilt chair-back.
"You are ill!" cried Honoria. "Get up, my lady, and take off these wet clothes."
The Countess made no movement, and her maid, who could not see well in this dim light, sprang to the window and pulled back the blinds. The rain of the night was over, the drops gleamed beautifully on the panes and a pale bar of sunlight fell across the chamber and struck the upturned face of the Countess Lavinia.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Honoria. "Come to bed, my lady."
"I walked home," said the Countess. "How strange the city is at night! I beheld the dawn break behind St. James's Church."
"No one saw you?" asked the maid.
My lady shook her head.
"But you must tell them I was there."
"Ye talk madly! Why should I speak? It hath ended well; my lord lives."
"Marius hath the blame," said the Countess in an exhausted voice. "Honoria, I could have loved him."
"What matter for that? He can go abroad. Ye are safe. Come to bed." She caught her mistress by the arm and strove to raise her from the chair. "Will you not come to bed? What if any find you in this trim?"
The Countess raised herself languidly.
"I should put these papers to rights," she said feebly.
Honoria noticed with a little pang of horror that the letters scattered about were old, childish epistles dating from my lady's girlhood at the boarding-school, and long put away.
"What are you doing with these?" she asked.
"I do not know." The Countess dropped the keys of the desk from her limp hand and caught Honoria's shoulder. "Help me to bed. I am very cold."
"You risked your life in this wet!" cried the maid, terrified at her face. "You are certainly ill. Shall I fetch the doctor?"
"No—no doctor," answered the Countess. "I am very well."
Honoria helped her to the bedchamber and undressed her, huddling away the wet clothes with their treacherous stains of mud. The Countess flung a blue wrap over her tumbled petticoats and sank into a chair at the foot of her bed.
"Will you have your chocolate?" asked Honoria, kneeling before her and taking off her damp shoes.
The Countess nodded.
"It is early yet," continued the maid. "Will you not get to bed?"
The Countess Lavinia raised herself in her chair and looked round the room—rich, yet dishevelled and dreary with its confusion of articles of frivolity and vanity.
"No," she said vacantly. "Go make the chocolate."
Honoria gave her a pair of glittering slippers and went lightly into the next chamber, where, on an elegant table of kingswood, stood the silver chocolate service. Before preparing this she crept to the door, opened it, and went out upon the landing to peer over the lordly stairs. Everything was silent. But the Earl must have returned.
Honoria went back and cast a wondering glance on the pile of torn letters. There was insanity in my lady's family, and Honoria remembered it—recalled violent scenes between father and daughter—threats of Bedlam. The maid was convinced that the scene of yesterday had upset her mistress's brain. What was it but an act of madness, this wild attempt to cause my lord's death, this lonely adventure? And then this return to a desperate sorting and tearing up of old worthless letters?
She drew the rich heavy curtains back and let in the early sunlight, that shone gaily over the elegant, extravagant appointments of the chamber. When the chocolate was ready, frothed and milled, she poured out a cup and took it in to my lady.
The Countess sat where she had left her. The vivid colour of her wrap accentuated the curious pallor of her face; her tangled hair fell on her shoulders and her head was leaning back.
"Madam," said Honoria sharply, "you are indeed ill, and I shall send for the apothecary."
"No," replied my lady languidly. "Come here."
The maid placed the cup on a side table covered with pots of pomade and bottles of Hungary water.
"Come here," repeated the Countess, and held out her hand.
Honoria caught the cold fingers.
"What is the matter?" she demanded anxiously.
The Countess slowly raised her handkerchief with her free hand and wiped her lips.
"You must tell them," she murmured. "I leave it very incomplete. I—yesterday I felt a fear of sudden death."
"God help us! Ye are not dying?" cried Honoria.
My lady shuddered, and closed her eyes. The maid caught her by the shoulder almost roughly.
"What is the matter? Are you dying?"
"I am not afraid," muttered the Countess without opening her eyes, "now—but tell the Earl."
"I will fetch him!" exclaimed Honoria.
The Countess made no answer but a faint moan, and as she stared at her Honoria saw the truth.
"You have taken poison," she said.
There was no answer from my lady. Her eyes fluttered open and stared blankly before her.
"So this is the turn it has taken!" said Honoria, very pale. "You are a fool, madam, and a wicked fool. I will go fetch a doctor."
"No, no!" wailed the Countess. "Do not leave me, I am dying."
But Honoria Pryse ran out of the room.
At that the Countess dragged herself into a sitting posture and gazed about her. The shrouded windows, the close light, the unmade bed, the untidy chamber, the profusion of useless, extravagant things scattered about, formed a dreary picture. There was luxury but no comfort; to my lady's hazing eyes it appeared a cheerless place.
The little dog awoke, roused himself, jumped off the bed and came round to his mistress. She held out a shaking hand to him, and he leapt on to her lap.
"Honoria!" she said faintly, and looked towards the other room, where the sunshine lay strong and gold. Her fingers wandered over the spaniel's soft coat; she gave a little cough and passed her hand patiently to and from her brow. She was not thinking of anything at all; she felt that for the moment everything was suspended, but that presently she would be able to adjust it all in her own mind—think it out and put it straight.
When Honoria returned she had not moved. The maid was not alone; my lord, in his black ball dress, stained and tumbled with the rain and mud and the powder shaken out of his bright hair, followed her.
The Countess roused herself as she saw him.
"What is this?" he asked wildly.
"The end, my lord," she answered, coughing.
"Have you no remedies?" cried the Earl, turning on Honoria. "Have you done nothing for her?"
"One hath gone for the apothecary."
My lady's glazed eyes rested on her husband's face.
"It is no use. I have taken poison," she shuddered. "I bought it this morning. There is no need for me to say anything more."
"Why have you done this?" cried the Earl wretchedly.
She was getting fast beyond all questions or reproaches, getting beyond knowing or caring who spoke to her.
"Oh, I am in pain!" she said faintly. "This is a horrible way to die! Honoria will tell you." She made a writhing movement that caused the dog to jump from her knee.
Rose Lyndwood dropped to one knee beside her and caught her wrist.
"Why does not the doctor come?" he cried distractedly. "Speak to me, my lady, speak to me!"
"Give me some water," she murmured.
Honoria moved away to fetch it. The Countess shuddered and groaned.
"Shall I send for a clergyman—for your father?" asked my lord.
"Send for no one," she gasped. "What are any of them to me?"
Honoria brought the water, and as the Countess raised her head to take it she fixed her vacant eyes on my lord.
"You wait for me to ask your forgiveness," she said with sudden strength; "but honour was—never in—the bargain. I told Susannah Chressham so."
She took the glass and held it a moment, staring at her husband; then it slipped through her fingers and broke on the gilt arm of the chair; the water was spilt over her blue wrapper and the floor.
"Oh," she murmured, and sank backwards, "save me from this!"
My lord sprang up and supported her frail body. She choked, struggled, and her eyes rolled in her head, her forehead grew damp and her face distorted.
There was a tap on the door of the outer room. The doctor, my lady's black page, a maidservant and the hairdresser entered, filling the chamber with the agitation of low talk. Honoria followed the physician to my lady's side.
"What can you do for her?" demanded my lord impatiently, and the maid's sharp face was keen as she waited for the verdict.
There was hesitation, talk, delay. Half the household gathered in the outer room; the Countess lay breathing heavily in a half-swoon. It was decided to bleed her.
"Make haste!" cried the Earl.
My lady opened her heavy eyes.
"Leave me alone," she whispered. "It is over."
The doctor took her arm and rolled back the loose blue sleeve. Honoria, watchful, quiet, held the basin and the linen.
"She is dying!" cried my lord hoarsely. For the first time he used her name. "Lavinia!"
She gave a great heaving breath, coughed, and sank sideways off the chair, her lips parted and her eyes turned up. The Earl caught her with an exclamation of horror. The Countess struggled a moment for breath, gave a sound like a laugh, and fell against my lord's breast.
"She is dead!" said the Earl.
Confusion and bewilderment fell on my lady's chambers; only Honoria Pryse was cool and unmoved. She gave one look at the face of the Countess as they carried her to the bed, then slipped away, picked up my lady's red cloak of last night, in the pocket of which still remained the casket of jewels she had provided for her flight, and quietly left the apartment.
"There is no hope," said the old doctor in a frightened voice. "She is dead or dying."
"Lavinia!" cried the Earl again. He bent over the bed on which they had laid her slight figure, and his tumbled hair touched her hollow cheek. The Countess did not speak.
In the outer chamber was sudden commotion.
"'Tis my lady's father, nor will he be stopped."
Through the gaping crowds of servants a man's figure thrust forward. The Earl moved to the door of the inner chamber. Mr. Hilton, motioning aside those who sought to speak to or impede him, caught sight of my lord.
"Where is Lavinia?" he cried at a pitch of passion that was regardless of all about him. "I will speak to her, and to you, Lord Lyndwood."
"You cannot see your daughter, sir," said the Earl.
"Is the idle jade still abed? No matter, I must speak to her." He forced past the Earl into the bedchamber.
"Stand back!" cried my lord, and caught his arm. "Can you not see?"
Mr. Hilton turned on him fiercely.
"I am ruined, you rake-helly fop! Do you hear me? Ruined!"
"We are not alone!" exclaimed my lord, glancing with horrified eyes on the older man.
"Where is Lavinia?" shrieked Mr. Hilton. "Lavinia, you have ruined me! I am a beggar! Do you hear? God curse you, my lady!"
A shudder ran through the room. The Earl stepped to where the Countess lay, and raised the heavy curtain so that the light fell over the bed.
"My lady does not care," he said wildly, and pointed to her face.
CHAPTER I
THE CONFESSION OF ROSE LYNDWOOD
"Youare so much engaged you are quite a stranger to me," said Miss Chressham. "Forgive me for having requested your company."
My lord answered smilingly.
"My time is yours; you must remember that it is you, not I, who have been from town."
Susannah raised rather weary eyes.
"Compliments apart, have you half an hour to give me, Rose?"
He glanced at the silver timepiece.
"I am due at Carlisle House at ten; there is a new singer——"
"And Miss Trefusis will be there."
The Earl raised his eyebrows.
"Perhaps—till then at least I am free."
Miss Chressham leant back in her chair. Though it was early spring a fire burnt between the brass and irons, and cast a red glow over the shining folds of her grey dress.
The Earl, in gold and scarlet riding dress, sat easily on the brocade settee and looked, rather curiously, at his cousin.
"I have to speak of painful things," said Miss Chressham; "but I can be silent no longer. I have been waiting——"
"For me?" asked my lord.
"For you!" Susannah picked up a drawn-silk hand-screen and held it between her face and the fire; incidentally it concealed her from the Earl's observation.
"Rose," she said very gravely, "you have been free nine months, and everything goes on exactly the same."
His handsome face was expressionless.
"Why not, my dear?" he asked.
"Do you not understand me?" she returned. "But no, it is I who do not understand and you who must explain."
"You are wondering," said my lord, swinging his glass, "about the money."
"There shows no difference in the style of your living, of my Lady Agatha's living, since the—the ruin of Mr. Hilton."
"He is in Bedlam," said the Earl irrelevantly. "Did you know?"
Miss Chressham shuddered.
"Yes, I heard—it is very terrible; was he utterly ruined?"
"Faith, 'tis only I who keep him from the paupers."
"I am glad you do so much."
"I could do no less, she was my wife."
"We will not speak of it," said Susannah in a low voice, "but of the future." She dropped the hand-screen and faced her cousin. "Rose, what are we all living on?"
"Debts, maybe," smiled my lord.
Susannah frowned in a troubled way.
"You have never been sincere with me, and I think I have deserved some frankness; you were entangled before you flung up your post under Pelham."
My lord interrupted with an air of sudden weariness.
"There are always the Jews, and in one way and another one may float. I have been lucky of late at play."
"As you will," answered Miss Chressham quietly."My lady is content, but I cannot help—Ah! well, I have no right to play the monitor."
"You are the guardian angel of our house," smiled my lord, and gave her a soft, half-amused look. "Have you heard lately from Marius?"
Her face clouded.
"I do not care to hear you speak of him."
"Why not?"
"You well know why. You believe that of him I never can nor will believe."
The Earl shrugged his shoulders.
"A woman's generous blindness, my dear."
"A woman's clearer vision," she retorted hotly. "Youare blind, Rose, to have known Marius all his life and still imagine he could miserably intrigue for your death; he appeared at the meeting, after your insult, out of pure honour."
"He appeared as my second, against my will, and my pistol had been drawn," returned the Earl dryly. "Also he had refused to fight me."
"Because I asked it of him, and for that I can never forgive myself," said Miss Chressham bitterly.
My lord laughed.
"I think he was fond of you."
Miss Chressham looked into the fire.
"I have not seen him since he threw up his commission," she said thoughtfully; "nor may I see him again, but I shall believe in him always."
"He is still in Holland?" asked the Earl lightly.
"Yes"—Susannah roused herself—"but it is not of him I wish to speak."
She fixed her eyes searchingly on the easy rich figure of Rose Lyndwood and went faintly pale.
"You have heard that Sir Francis Boyle is married?"
"Yes"—he was still smiling—"to Miss Brett, a beauty and a fortune."
Susannah leant forward, resting her cheek in her hand, her elbow on the arm of the chair; her brow was anxious, and her gaze rested with painful attention on the Earl's calm countenance.
"When are you going to marry Selina Boyle?" she asked.
He gave her a quick look; she read nothing but surprise in his fair, fickle eyes.
"Of all things I had not expected this," he said, and laughed a little.
"You think I have no right to speak, but I am her friend, and I must ask how long will you keep her waiting?"
My lord slightly flushed.
"I am not betrothed to Miss Boyle."
"Oh, Rose," cried Miss Chressham, drawing a deep breath, "will you use forever this formality to me? She, Selina, told me herself, and I—have I not been a faithful confidante?" She paused, collected herself and continued, "I heard to-day from Bristol; she does not mention you; but she must be wondering, and why are you delaying? Rose, you have been free nearly a year."
"By Gad, you put me in an awkward position," said the Earl. "On my honour I do not know what to say to you."
He rose and leant against the top of the settee, looking at her curiously.
"Why delay?" Miss Chressham spoke earnestly, almost passionately. "Announce it, go down to Bristol; neither decency nor honour demand any further tribute to the memory of that unhappy lady."
"Susannah," he interrupted. "You speak under the influence of an error."
"An error?" she echoed.
"Yes, I do not intend to marry Miss Boyle."
"Rose!" the exclamation seemed wrung from her by sheer bitter surprise. She stared at him incredulously.
He coloured, deeply now, to his powdered side-curls.
"I do not know what impossible romance you have been building, Susannah, but this you speak of I have never even contemplated."
"You—you do not intend to marry Selina?"
"You imagined I did? My dear, it would be the simplest folly."
Susannah rose and rested her hand against the mantelshelf.
"Please put this clearly," she said; "why would it be folly?"
He smiled.
"You yourself, my dear, have remarked the state of my fortunes—Miss Boyle is not wealthy."
"Money—again money!" cried Miss Chressham in horrified accents. "Do you dare to consider money—after all that has passed?"
"It is a necessary evil," said the Earl.
"But you love her!" broke from Susannah.
A pause followed. My lord took a half-turn across the room followed by his cousin's bewildered, appealing eyes, then he turned and faced her. His demeanour was changed, his voice when he spoke was low and grave.
"You have mistaken me," and he put his hand to his heart in some agitation. "I think you can never have known me; but it moves me that you should take this trouble in my affairs, and I can do no less than confess."
"Confess, and to me!" cried Susannah.
"To no one else could I speak," said the Earl; "what is the use, even to you? But it is strange that you should have so misunderstood me."
"I thought I knew you very well," breathed Susannah.
"Not so well, my dear," he returned half sadly. "I—I never loved this lady, it was a fair pretence, but no more;how could there be love when there was no knowledge? She was to me a faint, sweet figure who"—he shrugged his shoulders—"and I—why, she knew nothing of me but what I chose to show her. It was pleasant, a delicate episode; but to marry her!"
"You forget some incidents of this story," said Miss Chressham with lowered eyes; "you let her think you cared—if Marius and my lady had been willing, you averred, you would have married her—what of that?"
My lord laughed faintly.
"I could never have done it."
"Then your marriage was not for Marius, for your mother, it was for yourself."
"As this is my confession, I suppose you are right, Susannah. I could never have done other than I did—am I the man for an idyll? It happened to be charming to imagine it."
Miss Chressham raised her grave, dark eyes.
"And afterwards, when you dared to ask Selina to refuse Sir Francis?"
"That was a matter of vanity," confessed my lord, "and perhaps curiosity; I wanted to know. Ah, well, I had a number of motives."
Miss Chressham put her hand to her head.
"I think I understand, at last; indeed I see it very clearly. But there is somethingyoudo not see clearly—the position of Selina Boyle."
The Earl toyed with his glass.
"Can I flatter myself that she would recall an incident that touched her so little? The whole thing was but a matter of sighs and smiles."
Susannah interrupted.
"I do not credit you with believing what you say; even if you do," her voice strengthened, "I know that it is false. If you were well on the earth all the time, shewas nevertheless in the clouds; if you found it a flattering diversion, she found it more."
My lord made a restraining gesture.
"Oh, but you must hear me!" continued Susannah. "She was sincere; if you did not consider her so you must know it now."
"You cannot answer for her," said the Earl, and again his natural pallor disappeared under a slow blush.
"Iknow," answered his cousin. "You spoke and she believed; she accepted you on her own level, and you must act up to it, Rose."
The Earl glanced at her under lowered lids.
"It would be no great honour to Miss Boyle," he said gravely, "to make her my second wife. Believe me, I respect and admire that lady too much to ever act with her the comedy my marriage must be."
Susannah clenched her hand impatiently on the mantelshelf.
"Oh, you talk, talk!" she cried, "and meanwhile Selina waits; do you suppose these sophistries occur to her, or if they do that they can comfort her in face of the fact that you do not write, you do not come, and she hears your name coupled with that of other women?"
"Still you speak under a misconception," said my lord. "I could never marry for love."
"You would marry again for money?" she flashed.
"I have confessed," he answered; "your sincerity has forced it from me. I do what comes naturally to me to do, that which everyone does—why not?"
"In other words you drift!" cried Miss Chressham, "as all the Lyndwoods have drifted, to destruction; you find nothing good but idleness and paltry pleasure."
"I have some conscience left," interrupted the Earl, "and in the matter of Miss Boyle."
"This talk is but to cloak your own convenience," replied Susannah. "What are you going to do?"
"The obvious thing," said my lord.
Miss Chressham flushed.
"Serena Trefusis has money; they are ambitious people; do you mean that?"
Rose Lyndwood laughed.
"You are a sweet moralist, my dear, and, by Gad! I don't deserve your interest."
She broke in, pushing back the heavy fair hair from her face.
"I am not talking of myself," she bit her lip in agitation, "but of Selina Boyle. I think you are going to behave dishonourably, Rose."
The Earl was silent. The glow of the fire, showing more strongly in the darkening room, struck vividly on his red dress, and cast a warm colour over his half-averted face.
"She hath been very faithful to you," said Susannah in a low voice. "Even had you not asked it of her she would never have married, for your sake, and she is a noble nature. Ah, you should be proud; there are not many such as she."
Still my lord did not speak, but his beautiful mouth trembled a little.
"And she thinks you care," continued Miss Chressham. "And if you do not, what has she for her devotion? She was the belle of two years ago. Sir Francis married the belle of this—all the town knew that he and you met because of her—all the town read that paragraph in theGazette, and none of this is anything to her, if you care; if not—" she moved from the mantelshelf, and sudden passion touched her voice, "it is hard for women who wait."
The Earl raised his head.
"She does not know me," he said softly. "What can I do?"
"She must never know you," returned Susannah quickly.
"What am I to do?" repeated the Earl.
"Go to Bristol," said Miss Chressham. "See her, speak to her—by Heaven, you cannot find it difficult to love her, or to feign love to any woman; you do not need me to tell you what to do. I have told you she is waiting, that is enough."
My lord slightly smiled.
"Money, of course, you scorn, my dear; but it is a thing not so easily ignored. I am entangled in debt."
"You can do—you can do what Marius does."
"A fair prospect to offer Miss Boyle."
"That is between you and her. Go to her at least; put it to her, do not overlook her, pass her by——"
"You are a curious lady," said my lord with a half-amused, half-wistful glance. "And now I have confessed myself a shallow, empty person I fear I have your scorn, but these things—position, money, and other fooleries—are facts."
"It is also a fact that she is waiting," flashed Susannah.
"And one that perchance outweighs those others." The Earl spoke in a softer voice. "On my soul I have not thought of it in such a fashion."
"You are too fickle."
"I have told you what I am, like the rest or any other."
Miss Chressham turned her eyes away.
"Not quite like any other, Rose, in so far that you will go to Bristol."
"Ah, my dear, this is not the age of chivalry."
"Still, you will go to Bristol?"
She put out her hand, caught hold of the mantelshelf, and turning, faced him.
"These are not things to speak of, it is getting late; I have to dress."
Their eyes met across the twilit room; as a background to each was the glimmer of rich furniture, the handsome painted walls, the shifting shadows cast by the candle-light.
"Are you going?" she asked.
Rose Lyndwoodpaused a moment with his hand on the gate, and looked smilingly up at the sky, which was covered with dappled clouds, tinged with the gold pink of sunset.
The scent from the box hedges was freshly pungent in the clear air, and the roses climbing over the front of the old red brick house had their perfume too, that came in breaths faintly as the breeze stirred.
This was the home of Selina Boyle—where she had waited for him, Susannah said. My lord was not displeased with the thought; he persuaded himself that the affair had been sweetly romantic from the first. He almost persuaded himself that he had really cared for Miss Boyle. Certainly that night at the theatre——
He laughed a little; it could not but amuse him that he found himself there at all. His cousin's words had roused some emotion, exactly what he could not tell, but one strong enough to bring him here.
It might have been vanity. He himself thought it curiosity. He had not met her since that night at the masque, when Sir Francis had come between; he had not even thought about her much, yet she had been waiting until he chose to remember.
Certainly the reflection was pleasing. He had not the vaguest idea of what he should do or say. It was utterly against his nature to form plans on any subject, but the contemplation of her faithfulness softened him into a loverlike mood.
He entered the beautiful garden, and wondered was she at home. He had left London on an impulse, and had not announced to her his coming. To meet her unexpectedly was more in keeping with the idyll; and that it was, and always had been, a very perfect idyll my lord was now convinced.
As he neared the house, walking slowly between the box borders and the beds of pinks and roses, he saw her coming down an alley overarched by a trellis covered in sweet-brier. She wore a white dress and a wide straw hat that shaded half her face. On her arm was a flat basket filled with sprays of green.
The Earl took off his hat and waited. His elegant, rich appearance seemed out of place in the simple garden, just as the heavy perfume of his clothes mingled curiously with the odours of the flowers.
She came towards him, the lovely moving shadows of thorns and leaves cast over her muslin gown, and as she stepped out into the pure faint sunlight she saw him.
"Ah, you!" she cried, without restraint or confusion. "You!"
She held out her hands, and her face expressed nothing but radiant joy.
My lord was moved and thrilled. He kissed the hands that trembled at his touch, and smiled into her eager eyes.
"Were you expecting me—Selina?"
"To-day?" She was quivering, blushing. The same sweet face, the same low voice, unchanged. "Ah, how could I tell it would be to-day?"
"I never wrote," he said, probing her.
"I did not expect it. As if there was any need of letters, my lord!"
He swung his cane by the gilt tassels, wondering how he should feel his way to her mood.
"My father is in the house," she said, "but you have come to see me."
"Naturally—to see you!" He gave his half excited, wholly charming laugh.
"We will remain out here. Come, I will take you to a place I love."
There was no embarrassment nor agitation in her manner; she was calm, unaffected in her welcome. Evidently she had been very sure of his coming.
My lord thought of Miss Chressham as he followed her friend down the rose-covered alley.
"I am glad that you did not write." Selina Boyle spoke suddenly. He saw her eyes, dark and soft, in the trembling shadow of her hat as they turned to him.
She was grave now, and pale, but her expression was that of pure happiness.
"I should not have known what to say," answered my lord, also with some gravity, and truth.
"I understand it all, without any word from you," she smiled. "Of course, you knew that I should——"
They came out on to a square of grass, in the centre of which stood a stone fountain clasped by heavy crimson roses. Beyond was a grove of beech-trees; through the boughs the sunset light fell in a glory; facing the fountain was a garden wall, overgrown with moss and tufts of grass; beneath this a row of straw beehives; the other side was the rose garden, not yet in full bloom, but a revelry of green.
There was no water in the fountain. In the basin grew white, sweet-smelling pinks, and on the edge of it Miss Boyle seated herself and clasped her hands in her lap.
"Do you not find it sweet here?" she asked. "You have never seen my home before."
She might have added with truth that he had never known her before. There was something in her rapt face that he was afraid of. He felt an alien in the garden, a stranger by her side; yet his fickle taste found this sweet after the noisy life of town, and Miss Boyle, seated beforeher beehives, even more winning than Miss Boyle, the beauty of the Wells.
For a while they were both silent, looking at the clear space of sky above the beech-trees.
She was the first to speak.
"There is so much to say, and yet so little."
The Earl looked at her; her white dress touched the white flowers growing in the stone basin; her auburn hair hung lightly on to her slender neck, and her eyes rested on him intently.
"I should have come before," he said.
"Why?" she smiled, and he wondered why it was a sad smile. "Now we are both ready. At first it was bitter, but now——"
So it seemed she had never questioned he was bound to her, never questioned, either, his love. There was no mistaking the sincerity of her look, her voice. Miss Chressham was amazingly right.
The church-bells came up from the town of Bristol. It was Sunday, though till now my lord had forgotten it. He took a step or two across the grass, and the sun, growing stronger at the last, gleamed on his grey satin coat, and glittered in the brilliants at his throat.
"It was difficult for me," he said. "At first——"
"What of your brother?" she asked. "Susannah tells me that he has gone into business in Holland."
"He does well there." My lord's voice was disinterested.
"That was one of the things I wished to say to you. You do not believe the—the story they whispered of the duel?"
"Marius is better abroad," said the Earl evasively.
"But you do not believe it?" pleaded Miss Boyle. "No, you could not!"
He smiled down at her.
"Very well, as you wish. I will not believe it; but it was not to speak of Marius that I came to Bristol."
Inwardly he asked himself what had brought him—asked himself between tears and laughter. What he must do now he was here he could read in Miss Boyle's eyes.
"You have heard of me from Susannah?"
"A few words—sometimes," she answered.
"I should have written."
"No, it was sweet to wait."
"Then you are not displeased with me?"
She laughed softly.
"How couldIbe displeased withyou?"
The Earl blushed slowly.
"Ye abash me, Selina. Ye should be saying this to a better man."
Again Miss Boyle laughed.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!"
She put her hand quickly to her heart, to her lips, and rose, turning from him.
"I have something to show you—something still to say to you."
"I think it is I who have to speak," said my lord, and marvelled that she should be so sure of this perfect understanding between them, when in reality (and this was strange and piteous) she did not comprehend his motive in being here, nor in the least grasp his feelings towards her. He looked at her keenly, decided she was not foolish, but exalted, and wondered still more in a kind of shame.
Miss Boyle stood still. In a quite unconscious way she seemed to be listening to the sweet sound of the bells. Her bearing held no confusion nor agitation; she did not appear to be waiting for either confession or caresses. My lord found himself at a loss; his thoughts flew to Miss Chressham. He smiled to himself and watched the pure profile of Selina Boyle.
Presently she glanced round at him and gave a little sigh, as if she awoke reluctantly from a reverie.
"Will you tell me how she died?"
The Earl was startled beyond concealment.
"How she died? Who?"
Miss Boyle answered softly.
"The Countess."
His face darkened.
"You must know. It was talked of enough."
"She died suddenly. I heard no more."
"Let it go at that," said my lord.
Miss Boyle observed him intently.
"I mean the manner of her death—did she speak of me?"
"Of you? No."
"And you—how did she leave you?"
"There was little enough passed!" replied my lord gloomily. "The Countess fell ill and died before she could be even bled. Why do we speak of it? It is not one of my most pleasant recollections."
"Forgive me," said Miss Boyle tenderly; "only sometimes it has weighed on me that she might have died bitterly reviling us—and, also, I am sorry for her. It is so terrible a thing, my lord, to die suddenly."
He gave her a sideways look. It was curious that she had not at once, like Susannah Chressham and most other people, guessed the meaning of my lady's tragic end, yet there could be no doubt that she was sincere.
He was silent, and Miss Boyle spoke again, moving slowly over the long grass.
"Do you put flowers sometimes on her tomb?"
The Earl smiled. Her words did not jar; he could be sentimental himself. The garden and her company were both fitted to make him fall in with her delicate moods.
She did not give him time to compose an answer.
"I have some roses here I want you to take back with you—for that—her tomb."
She pointed out a tree on the edge of the rose-garden laden with heavy white blooms, then sank to one knee beside it, and, taking a pair of scissors from her basketsevered the thick and thorny stems. As the roses fell one by one upon the grass, my lord felt the tears sting his eyes. He bent over her impulsively.
"Selina," he said, in an unsteady voice, "Selina, will you not lay flowers there yourself?"
She raised her face and looked at him.
"I am not likely to be in London," she answered.
He recollected that London, after the crash their marriage must involve, would not indeed be their home.
"I' faith we can go there—" he began, but her expression gave him pause.
"Why do you think I have come, Selina?" he asked, in an altered voice.
She rose, two flowers in her hand; her eyes had a startled look.
"To bid me good-bye," she answered calmly.
My lord was too bewildered and startled to answer. He stared curiously at her sweet gravity.
"What other reason could have brought you?" she continued, with a faint colour in her face.
"Can you conceive no other?" he replied. "I came to claim you, Selina—at last." He smiled in an agitated manner.
The blush deepened in her cheeks.
"You did not think, my lord, that I could ever be your wife?"
"I had that presumption." He was goaded by this unexpected attitude of hers to speak bitterly, to commit himself beyond the truth. "There is no obstacle now, Selina."
"I never thought of this," said Miss Boyle, under her breath. "I do not know if you are serious; but, surely it is needless for me to tell you, my lord, that it is impossible. Everything is impossible between you and me—save farewell."
"Why do you say so?" he demanded. "Have you not been waiting for this moment?"
"To bring—farewell. Yes, I believed you would come for that—to see me once more, to bid good-bye; but—ah, the idyll was broken so long ago." She turned her head away sharply. "We shall care always, shall we not? I—I do not dare express to you what I feel."
"We will not part, Selina!" he cried.
She faced him courageously.
"Nothing can move me, not even your sincerity. I am resolved; and you know in your heart that I am right."
The words held him silent with a shame she took for grief.
"What does it matter," she said, with a soft passion in her voice, "since we——"
"Since we have loved one another," finished my lord, lifting his grey eyes.
"Yes," breathed Miss Boyle.
A silence followed and the bells ceased; the sun had set, and all colour faded from the sky. Miss Boyle stooped and picked up the few roses still upon the grass.
"You understand?" she asked.
"I understand," answered the Earl.
"You must go."
"I would not," he said softly, "dare to stay."
She smiled in an absorbed manner, and turned down the rose alley. As they walked together they spoke a little, in low voices, of common things, words with no meaning, but of sweet sound, and a great regret touched my lord's fickle heart.
She came with him to the gate.
"Do you still bid me go?"
"Farewell!" she said.
He lingered, divided in himself, moved and sad. She put her hand to her bosom and drew from her fichu a white ribbon on which hung a little shell. She showed it to him and smiled.
"Must I—shall I go?" he said, asking himself.
Her hat had slipped from her golden head, and as she looked up at him the fine curls were displayed on her brow and shoulders.
She opened the gate. The Earl stepped slowly out on to the road. She took the roses from her basket and gave them to him.
"Farewell!" she repeated.
He bent and kissed the fingers among the rose-leaves.
"Farewell!" he said, on a half-sigh, yet smiling.
She moved away from the gate, back among the boughs of fragrant box. For the first time suddenly she used his name.
"Rose! Rose!"
The Earl stood, looking at her; then she turned towards the house, and he down the road, wondering at her, at himself, and staring at the great mass of white roses that he was carrying, he knew not why.
Thecurtain fell on the last act ofZaîre.
"I do not like Monsieur Voltaire," said Susannah Chressham. She and her companion, Miss Westbrook, moved on the outskirts of the crowd that filled the music-room in Villiers Street.
"Shall we go?" asked Miss Westbrook, unfurling her fan.
"Why, not yet. Where is my lady?"
"I saw her but now with my mother." They turned into the card-rooms that opened from the large hall.
"That tedious tragedy has given me a headache," remarked Miss Chressham, seating herself on one of the gilt chairs. A number of violins were playing, and the air was pleasantly heavy with the scent of hot-house roses and syringa.
"La, look at that beauty there!" cried Miss Westbrook.
Susannah glanced round; she coloured.
"Do you not know her? 'Tis Miss Trefusis."
"Ah, then a swinging fortune, too!" said Helen Westbrook.
Susannah understood her tone, but her answer closed the subject.
"There is Captain Lestrange coming for you, my dear; you promised to be of his party at a game of faro. If you see my lady tell her that I am waiting here."
Miss Westbrook laughed and moved away into thecrowd. Susannah rested her elbow on the table and put her hand over her eyes. The glitter of the chandeliers, the gleaming of the gilt and satin walls, the bright colours of the dresses hurt her eyes.
She sat so for a while, indifferent to the crowd that passed and repassed, aware of the music, but listening to the insistent clamour of her own agitated thoughts. When she at last looked up it was to see my lord, splendidly dressed in white and silver and conspicuously attended by those eager to be in the fashion, entering the room.
Her vacant look was replaced by one of eagerness. She made a motion with her black fan. He saw it at once, left those who crowded round him and crossed over to her.
"So you are back—so soon," she greeted him a little breathlessly.
"I made post haste—I travelled all night." He was smiling, his manner as always of an indifferent gaiety; but to Susannah's keen observation his beautiful eyes looked shadowed and weary.
"You did not stay long in Bristol?"
"A few moments only."
"Ah!" She rose. "Let us walk about a little; you cannot say much here."
"It is very crowded to-night," he remarked, looking about him with distaste. "I hate the place."
"Then why have you come?" she challenged him.
"To see you. I was at my Lord Carlisle's for dinner; afterwards, in the Haymarket, I learnt you were here."
"Ah, forgive me, it is good of you, Rose," she answered gently; "indeed, I am very glad to see you. I want to speak to you—and on a second matter now."
They turned into the almost empty hall, where the play had been given. The dark curtain over the stage and the scattered few lights gave the place a mournful air. From the distance came the thin melody of the violins.
"I must tell you," said Susannah, "though this is not the place. Still, a few words are best, and we need never refer to it again."
Her powdered hair and bronze-coloured silk gown accentuated the pallor of her fair face. She looked tired, anxious, and her voice, for all her obvious effort at control, trembled on her words.
"I have heard from Honoria Pryse."
The Earl glanced at her sharply.
"Why does she write to you?"
"She writes concerning Marius"—Miss Chressham pressed her handkerchief to her lips. "Having fled with my lady's jewels, she kept silence at the time, nor does she now disclose her whereabouts; but she has had on her mind my lady's—the Countess Lavinia's—dying wish, and she writes to me. But I do not care to show you her letter, Rose."
"Tell me what she says."
"Yes, since it is by her—the Countess Lavinia's—desire that anyone speaks at all," answered Susannah. "I—I will strive to be brief and gentle." She took breath a moment. "It seems she followed you that night to Hyde Park," continued Susannah hurriedly; "she was there at the duel. God forgive her! She had previously drawn your pistol, finding occasion that evening when you left it set out in the library. I have not the details, but the bare facts suffice. She wished your death. I think perhaps she cared for—I would say she did not wish that Marius, your second, should bear the weight of her sin; so after she had made certain of her end she laid it on Honoria to confess to you. But the girl fled, thinking only of herself. Still, conscience has worked, and she sends to me this late avowal."
The Earl had kept silence, was silent now. Susannah could read nothing from his pale profile.
"I have to tell you, because it was her wish, and outof justice to Marius," she said, "not to blame the dead."
"I might have known," replied my lord, and he half smiled. "I will write to Marius."
"I always believed in him," breathed Susannah, "so did my lady. Do not let us speak of it any more. I must be leaving soon; but first"—she raised her eyes—"Selina?"
The violins were playing a gavotte. My lord's long fingers beat time to the measure on the hilt of his rapier.
"She hath refused me," he answered. "Is it farce or tragedy we play? I know not. She is a creature of gossamer, of sentiment. What has passed makes our marriage as impossible to her as sordid matters would have made it impossible to me."
"However, she believes you care," breathed Susannah, divining suddenly Selina's view.
The Earl bent his head.
"And hath taken farewell of me. Her affection is not of the earth. Better for her that she should never know the quality of mine."
"She is happy?"
"I do think so," said my lord.
Susannah faced him suddenly.
"And you—what are you going to do?"
He laughed sadly.
"For once I can answer you. I shall marry Miss Trefusis."
They stood facing each other under a silver sconce, the pale light of its candles over their faces. Susannah leant against the panelled walls and lowered her eyes.
"For the money?" she said in a repressed voice.
"Miss Trefusis is one of the most charming ladies in London," answered the Earl; "but to you I can say it. Yes."
"For the second time!" Susannah spoke in the same tone. "I wonder you can dare."
"Oh, my dear!"—there was sadness in my lord's sweet weary voice—"you are a lady of sense, not so simple. How have I been living but on the prospects of a marriage such as this? With Miss Boyle I should have had to face God knows what—the Fleet maybe, or a post with the Prince at Bois-le-duc. As it is——"
"Say no more!" broke in Susannah. "You will break her heart, that is all."
"Do you speak of Selina Boyle?"
"Of whom else? Miss Trefusis is aware of what she does. What do I care for her? I regard Selina——"
"She hath said farewell. She would say no other word."
Susannah broke out passionately.
"Oh, cannot you understand? She cares for you beyond anything in the world; she thinks that so do you care for her, and if you marry—Ah, but I can say no more!"
"There is no more to be said," answered my lord. "These ideas are sweet, but over-romantical. I shall ask for the hand of Miss Trefusis to-morrow, as I am a very ordinary gentleman and cannot go to ruin for a whim."
Miss Chressham pressed her brow wearily.
"My head aches, and we cannot converse on such things in the crowd, amid the light and music, neither can I recollect all I would say."
"You despise me," smiled the Earl. He laughed lightly.
Slowly they turned into the gay card-room, where the orchestra played to the gamesters and an Italian singer's voice rose above the murmur of talk.
My lord spoke again, with utter weariness in his voice.
"As you say, we cannot converse here. To-morrow I will wait on you and on my lady; perhaps I can a little justify myself."
She would not look at him.
"Ah, Rose, what do you care about justifying yourself to me? As for my lady, I think she will be pleased."
"I have confessed to you," he answered. "I have told you I do what comes, being in no way heroic or noble." He paused.
"You are going now," she said. "I cannot bear to listen to you here."
"Yes, I will get away from these people. I came only to meet you; I feel fatigued."
She saw Miss Westbrook approaching, and gave Lyndwood her hand. "To-morrow then we meet, and you will write to Marius?"
"In the morning—yes. I will bring you the letter"—he kissed her hand. "My duty to my lady."
"Good-night, Rose."
He smiled at her, half appealingly.
"Good-night." So, in this hasty manner, in the midst of a crowd, they parted.
She moved away with Miss Westbrook, already rehearsing in her mind what she should say to him to-morrow when her head did not ache, when they were alone. There was so much to say and they had only had the fewest words together. She must write to Selina, too. What could she say there? Should she get him to write? And Miss Trefusis—he was fixed on that match. Ah, an ordinary gentleman, indeed! But her heart was crying out after him as she framed the sentences she would use to-morrow—to-morrow.
My lord left the music-room and the building, avoiding the crowds desirous of his company, and walked up the street towards the river where he had left his chair. Reaching it, from the white satin seat he took a bunch of white roses faded and drooping. Then he dismissed the men, bidding them go home.
Since his arrival in town that morning he had been playing with the idea of fulfilling Selina Boyle's strangerequest; he had meant to carry it out before the flowers should be utterly dead, and this that Susannah had told him of his wife's confession affected his wilful mood, moved him and made him whimsically desirous to lay Selina's roses on her tomb.
There was a cynical piquancy in the situation that pleased him. His relations with my lady had been so devoid of romance or sentiment, so devoid of anything save a final tragic horror, that this touch between mockery and bitterness appealed to my lord's fantastical mind.
She had tried to be the instrument of his death; she had taken her own life in despair at the ill-success of her desperate act; she had lain for nine months in her grave, and no one had dropped a flower on her tomb nor given her one regret. And now he, having learnt the truth, and on the eve of his second marriage, came to offer her memory roses from the garden of Selina Boyle!
My lord smiled, and drew his mantle closer round him, for the May night was chill, though clear and fair; the stars were few and faint and the moon high overhead. My lord sang a little to himself. As he passed St. Martin's-in-the-Fields the clock struck one. He glanced up at the steeple in surprise; he had not thought it so late. He quickened his pace. He must write to Marius to-night. Curious that Honoria Pryse should find a conscience, and how foolish of him not to guess the truth before! It seemed so obvious now that my lady—He glanced down at the roses in his hand, and laughed.