"Be discreet," continued the little maid, "and who knows what you may put between my lord and his brother, and between these two proud ladies of his? There isalways Mr. Hilton behind you with the money, and he will love you if you go on smoothly with my lord, and become a great lady of fashion."
She moved closer and gently touched her mistress's arm.
"Ye took comfort always in Mr. Marius. Well, ye may have him back, and all discreetly, only we must be cunning. It is fine manners, my lady, will avail you now. Do you not suppose that my lord would be pleased to see you in the sulks that he might shut you away here under his mother's espionage? Be wary, my lady, and gay and pleasant, and go with him to London. Hold your own."
"There is sense in what you say," answered the Countess, in a deep breath. "But Marius Lyndwood is going away."
"He will come back; and there are others."
The two women looked at one another.
"Oh, a great lady may do much!" cried Honoria, "and still be a great lady. My lord is the most famous rake in town. His wife will be allowed a fair margin."
The Countess Lavinia was familiar with tales of her husband—servants' tales. She had discussed them with Honoria every day since her marriage, taking a pleasure in anything that was to his discredit, as some set-off to his scorn of her. Much of what she heard was false, but she knew more of the truth about things than any save her maid guessed. Marius had thought her soft, simple, divine. Her father believed her ignorant of all save what the boarding-school had taught. My lord held her raw, knowing nothing of the world; and they were all of them deceived.
She was silent now, pondering, and her dark eyes were fixed blankly on the distant argent glimmer of the lake.
"I wonder if I care about him still?" she said suddenly. "I wonder? I would like to do him a hurt. Then I should know—yes, when I had done him a mischief, Ishould know what my feeling for him is. And as for my lord—" She paused, then added, passionately, "I think I should like vengeance on my lord."
"You may have that and all other things," answered Honoria. "But take your part now, and carry it through. Let him see he has not married a puppet. But be easy, courteous."
"Is there anyone he cares for?" demanded the Countess broodingly. "Something might be done that way. Which of them do you think of, Honoria? He fought a duel for Mrs. Armstrong last year——"
"I know not," answered Honoria. "But one might discover. He was spoken of with Miss Boyle at the Wells. You remember I found the paragraphs in the papers last season, and I think, as I have always told you, my lady, that he has a great regard for her."
"I know—I know," answered the Countess wearily. "He must be a fine lover, my lord! Well, we will see!" She shivered. "They have had everything from me, but maybe I can make them pay!"
"It is clouding over," said Honoria, "and we had best return. Now school yourself, my lady."
"I can act well enough," replied the Countess fiercely, "an I be so minded."
Her passion had not spent itself, but gathered cruelly in her heart, expelling peace and ease. She was calm because her body was weary, but surging malice rioted in her soul.
"There must be letters, meetings," said the Countess Lavinia, below her catching breath. "It were ill if you and I could not compass some knowledge which we could turn into weapons as sharp as those with which he to-night struck me—ay, and Marius Lyndwood, too—there must be means. Marius Lyndwood!" She repeated the name with a curious accent, as if, despite herself, she dwelt upon the words.
She put her fingers to her hot mouth and stared at the night clouds behind the house.
"We must hasten home, Honoria!" she cried, catching the girl by the arm. "Home!"
"'Twill all be well, my lady," whispered the maid. "They have had their turn. Yours comes."
As they reached the steps a soft warm rain began to fall, and the moon was entirely obscured.
"Who is this?" asked the Countess, stopping.
The door opened; a glow of intimate yellow light was diffused over the jasmine and roses, and a woman's figure showed.
"Miss Chressham!" breathed Honoria, and slipped behind her mistress.
The Countess gave a quick catch of her breath and clenched her hands.
"Is that you, my lady?" The voice of Susannah Chressham came cold and pure.
"It is I," answered Mr. Hilton's daughter, "and I am coming home."
The last word was stressed with an accent of insult. The speaker came rapidly up the steps, and faced Miss Chressham in the light of the hall lamp.
"Come in," said Susannah, with pallid lips; "I think it is raining. I was going to look for you."
The Countess Lavinia passed into the house, after her the maid, discreetly.
"Go upstairs," commanded her mistress. "I shall not be long, Honoria."
Miss Chressham closed the door. The girl dropped a quick curtsey, and ran swiftly up the great stairway.
When she had gone Rose's wife, a slight, wild figure in her dark plain dress, turned sharply on the other woman.
"Has he been speaking of me to you?" she demanded.
Miss Chressham drew back against the door.
"My lord told me," she said, and her wide eyes dilated.
"I wonder what he told you," replied the Countess. "I wonder what name you gave to me, among yourselves?"
"None I would not use to your face," answered Susannah Chressham, breathing hard. "But why this tone to me, madam? What has happened must be borne by all of us."
"What do you thinkhehas to bear?" asked the Countess.
Miss Chressham straightened herself.
"Do you speak of my lord and cousin, madam?"
"I speak of the Earl of Lyndwood, madam, my husband." She turned her large fierce eyes on Susannah, and passion sprang up in them like a flame. "My husband, and may God curse him and his house as I curse him and his!"
The blood rushed to Miss Chressham's face.
"You are mad!" she said furiously.
"Take it so, if you will." The Countess's voice wavered and sank. "But remember it, we are not like to speak on this matter again."
She moved towards the stairs, Susannah staring after her with a full glance of horror. At the newel post she paused and looked over her shoulder.
"Mad? Strange you should use that word," she said huskily, "but I am very sane, madam."
Slowly she went up the wide stairs of Lyndwood Holt, and Rose's cousin watched her until the childish violet-clad figure disappeared in the shadows.
CHAPTER I
THE SECOND HOME-COMING OF MARIUS LYNDWOOD
TheCountess Agatha laid down her novel and looked across the beautiful room at her niece, who was drawing the white and gold curtains over the twilight prospect of the Haymarket.
"When is Marius going to wait on Rose?" asked the elder lady. "He has been home now two days."
Susannah Chressham turned quickly.
"Rose is so occupied—since he hath gone into the Ministry, he is seldom at home."
"It isn't always service in the Ministry keeps him abroad," remarked his mother lightly.
"Marius has been to his reception, you know," said Miss Chressham, "and will call privately to-morrow."
She came slowly down the centre of the room.
"It is nearly a year since Marius came home before," she said; she seated herself near the Countess and her pink striped dress rustled against the other lady's lavender muslins; the room was all white and pale colours, flowers were painted on the walls and Cupids smiled from the ceiling; the furniture was Aubusson, finely carved and of melting hues; the candles were scented and set in crystal sconces; in one corner stood an elegant spinet, and close by Susannah's gold harp; on a tulip-wood table rested a beau-pot of forget-me-nots, the most vivid thing in the chamber.
"A year ago," repeated the Countess vaguely; "yes, just before Rose married."
"I was thinking of Lavinia," said Miss Chressham quietly; "he has not seen her since."
The Countess Agatha laughed.
"I expect he has forgotten her, my dear, certainly she has forgotten him."
"I suppose so; but, just at first, it might be painful for them, and can one forget, like that?"
Miss Chressham took her musing face in her two fair hands and gazed absently at her own lovely reflection in the oval mirror opposite.
"Oh! my dear, you get too deep for me," the Countess smiled prettily; "it was vastly sad at the time, but now everything moves along quite properly, and Lavinia has behaved very well."
"She has acquired a manner," responded Miss Chressham, "and she has been discreet."
"Which is quite sufficient; but then you never liked her."
"How could I? No, I dislike her, and her maid."
"It is quite a pity," answered the Countess, "for really I can discern no fault in her; of course she was wild at first, and difficult; and, of course, she is only middle-class at heart now, but she is not in any way openly discreditable; indeed, she passes very well for a lady of fashion."
"That is not what I mean," said Miss Chressham. "I think there is mischief in her, and mischief in that Honoria Pryse; and I think it may be difficult, with Marius."
The Countess laughed; a habit with her that did not in the least imply that she was amused.
"I am sure you are wrong, Susannah," she replied languidly. "Lavinia is merely bent on enjoying herself."
"Well, I trust her not; she hath a quick sly way of questioning; the last time I saw her she was trying to discover from me what I knew of Selina Boyle."
"Can you blame her if she is sometimes jealous?" asked the Countess.
Miss Chressham's foot beat the delicate-hued carpet.
"But Rose has not seen Selina save in public since he married, and 'tis understood that it is to be a match between her and Sir Francis," she answered impatiently. "And I know not how she can be jealous of one whom she doth not even pretend a regard for."
"Well, you always thought Rose's marriage a mistake," remarked the elder lady placidly; she could not say she did, there was the money, and she had enjoyed it, was enjoying it, vastly.
Miss Chressham suddenly swerved from the subject.
"Selina and her father are coming to town; they have taken a house in Golden Square for the season. Sir Francis is delighted; I suppose they will be married this year."
The Countess raised her delicate head and looked at the silver-gilt clock.
"Where has Marius gone, my dear; isn't he late?"
Susannah was well used to reminding her aunt of things that lady knew perfectly well.
"He has gone to attend my Lord Willouby," she smiled. "And I think he will be back very soon."
"I recall it," said the Countess Agatha. "Do you think he will be ordered abroad again?"
"Not to Madrid, I hope; he seems wearied of it to the death, doth he not?"
"Yes," sighed his mother. "And I want to keep him at home; he spoke of an appointment in Paris, in the suite of my Lord Northcote; I trust he will not go."
Miss Chressham rose.
"The mantua-maker is coming at six, shall we not go upstairs?"
"Oh, la!" cried my lady, shaking her laces into place; "it should be very modish, should it not, that watered tabby—which minds me that all the best heads haveribbon in the lapels—I wish to order some of a precise red."
Susannah Chressham smiled, for the Countess Agatha spoke with more animation and decision than she had used when discussing her sons and their affairs.
The two ladies left the room; a few moments after their departure the timepiece struck six, and before the clear chimes had ceased Marius entered—Captain the Honourable Marius Lyndwood of the 2nd Buffs now, of a slightly weightier presence, a slightly quieter manner, otherwise not changed at all by his year in the train of the English ambassador in Spain.
He wore his buff and blue uniform, and his hair was powdered and rolled into stiff military side-curls; he moved with an air of precision that made him look older than he was. Finding the room empty he walked up and down idly a while, then stopped before the spinet and began turning over Susannah's fragrant music-sheets. One took his fancy, he had been fond of music and not unskilled; this was a piece of Scarlatti, showy, foreign.
He sat down before the keyboard, making a clatter with his sword, and began to play; he laughed to himself at his own mistakes, and commenced whistling the air.
The white door opened and Miss Chressham entered; Marius rose, flushing a little, and both smiled.
"I thought you must have returned," said Susannah, coming across the room. "Well, what of the Paris appointment?"
"The post has been offered me," he answered rather gravely. "But my lord says it is as I wish; it can easily be arranged that I stay in London."
"Are you going?" asked Miss Chressham.
He fixed his eyes on the keys.
"I think so."
She moved away to the table that held the forget-me-nots and bent over them; then he looked at her, at thelong fair curls flowing between her shoulders over her gleaming pink gown, and the slender hand hanging by her side.
"I want to do something worth while, Susannah," he said quietly "to make a position for myself—this has all been Rose, Rose's money."
"I think you had better go," she answered slowly, "though we miss you very much, Marius."
He went suddenly pale.
"I want to thank you for writing to me so often," he said abruptly. "If I go away will you still write to me?"
She faced him, smiling.
"Of course, Marius."
He sat silent; she noticed his pallor and his serious mouth, and faintly wondered; he had been rather moody since his return.
"Well," she said, "my lady sent me to see if you were here, that was all; we have the mantua-maker upstairs; but expect us at dinner!" she laughed.
"Can you not stay?" he demanded.
"Not now," a touch of surprise was in her tone; "indeed I must go."
Again he made no reply, and she smiled at him and left him.
Marius returned again to Scarlatti, swaying a little to the music, the long lace at his wrists sweeping the ivory keys; and again he was interrupted.
The servant opened the door.
"The Countess of Lyndwood."
His brother's wife stepped into the chamber and stood facing him; for a moment he did not know her; he received the impression of a slight dark lady, of a vivid personality, gorgeously dressed.
She wore black velvet, a large hat with black plumes, and a silver scarf; at her breast was a cluster of pink geranium;she appeared utterly out of harmony with the delicate taste of the chamber.
"Good evening, Captain Lyndwood," she said.
He had not seen her since the Earl had turned her from the library at Lyndwood Holt, nearly a year ago; he opened his lips, but nothing came, and she laughed, pointing his silence.
"Are my lady and Miss Chressham out?" she asked, coming forward.
"They are upstairs, madam," he answered, remaining standing by the spinet.
"Well, I can wait." She moved slowly, trailing her heavy dress and revealing the fragile grace of her figure effectively and obviously; her hat was well tilted off her face, in her powdered hair was a knot of pink ribbon, and on her left cheek a black patch.
"Am I much changed?" she asked, and her eyes were slightly insolent.
"Yes," said Marius in a troubled way. "I think you have changed, madam."
She sank lightly into the gold chair by Susannah's little work-table.
"Think! You know!" she cried; "but you are very much the same, Captain Lyndwood."
He coloured furiously, and looked sternly at the page of music lying before him on the spinet.
"You must excuse me, madam," he said formally, "that I have not yet waited on you. I am intending to visit Lyndwood House to-morrow."
The Countess smiled.
"I heard of your return, from theGazette; why did you not write to me?"
"My lord knew of my home-coming, madam," he answered coldly.
"Do you imagine that I am in my lord's confidence? I say I learnt it from theGazette."
There was no reply possible to her astonishing directness; her lately acquired manner of ease and presence but emphasised her graceless ignoring of the screen of words used by people of breed.
Marius looked at her; she was painted and powdered, beneath her gown showed her violet velvet shoe sparkling with a great diamond buckle; she leant forward a little, and gazed at him with eyes that were desperately unhappy; again she laughed.
"What were you playing?" she asked. "La! but I did not know that you were a player."
"'Twas Scarlatti, madam," he answered.
Their eyes met and she rose.
"I will play you something," she said, and pulled off her grey gloves. "I am credited with some skill, Captain Lyndwood."
He moved away from the spinet, mistrusting her, uneasy, the colour still in his fair face; he kept his eyes on her, noting how different she was, admitting her slender elegance and flaunting grace.
She played a little prelude, not looking at the notes but at him; then she glanced down at her slim hands and began to sing:
"I hung a bird in a wicker cageTo catch the morning sun,And saw below the people rageAnd press, and shout, and run,To see her walk, her guards between,With her face to the Maytime sun."
"I hung a bird in a wicker cageTo catch the morning sun,And saw below the people rageAnd press, and shout, and run,To see her walk, her guards between,With her face to the Maytime sun."
Marius fingered his sword and walked up and down, but he was listening and she knew it.
"I was a clerk at a window, with learnèd books to write,She was a Mary Martyr and sin in the Church's sight."
"I was a clerk at a window, with learnèd books to write,She was a Mary Martyr and sin in the Church's sight."
The Countess did not raise her eyes; she sang softly,and the words of the laboured incongruous song struck to the heart of her listener.
"The bird sang in his prisonTo a captive daffodil,That with the spring had risen,In the pot on my window sill.The sky was bright as a jewelThrough the trees on Tower Hill.As her stainèd feet crept onward, I saw the people turn—And I looked at the Mary Martyr whose body and soul must burn."Young was she and slender,Lo! but a wondrous thing.Her face was as full of splendourAs the primrose woods in spring,When God bends through the branches,To hear the mavis sing.She was but a Mary Martyr, cursed for her heresy,But her eyes were clear as water and troubled the heart in me."
"The bird sang in his prisonTo a captive daffodil,That with the spring had risen,In the pot on my window sill.The sky was bright as a jewelThrough the trees on Tower Hill.As her stainèd feet crept onward, I saw the people turn—And I looked at the Mary Martyr whose body and soul must burn.
"Young was she and slender,Lo! but a wondrous thing.Her face was as full of splendourAs the primrose woods in spring,When God bends through the branches,To hear the mavis sing.She was but a Mary Martyr, cursed for her heresy,But her eyes were clear as water and troubled the heart in me."
The Countess rose swiftly.
"Are you glad to be in London?" she said; she came towards him, swinging her gloves; he was aware of the perfume of her garments, of the heavy soft sound of her moving velvet.
"I think I am leaving again for Paris, madam," he looked at her straightly. "Shall I not fetch Miss Chressham?"
"No," answered Lady Lyndwood. "I came to see you. I learned from the mantua-maker she would be here at this hour. I chanced finding you alone."
He thought her speech outrageous; his nostrils distended a little and his eyes darkened.
"You flatter me," he said shortly.
She smiled.
"And now I have seen you, and you have nothing to say."
"What should we have to say to one another, my lady?" His mouth set, and he frowned.
"Do not do that," said the Countess suddenly. "You look like your brother."
She moved to the work-table and picked up her gloves; he bit his lip and was silent.
The Countess spoke again.
"This is a beautiful room, is it not? This house cost my lord a vast sum—you Lyndwoods are very extravagant," she drew her gauntlets on slowly. "I doubt if even a wealthy match can save you—the fortune of a merchant's daughter has its limits—if the marriage were to last only as long as the money I were soon free."
Marius turned to gaze at her.
"Do you mean to insult us?" he said in a goaded way.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"What do you think I mean?" her dark eyes held an unfathomable expression, one that could not fail to stir his blood with excitement, with wonder and confusion; she held her head very high and her complexion flushed beneath the rouge; "when we are all damned together each shall know perhaps what the other meant, not before."
With an air of bright and deep passion she moved towards the door; it seemed that she would leave without another word, nor did he offer to detain her, though his curious gaze was eagerly on her; but abruptly she stopped and looked back.
"Are you not grown up yet, Marius?" she said wildly and softly.
He stood perfectly still and she held out her hand.
"Good-bye, Captain Lyndwood," she said quietly. "I will not ask you to see me to my carriage."
He began some hot reply, but was interrupted; Susannah Chressham entered.
"You, madam!" she said, sincerely surprised.
The Countess gave her a veiled glance.
"I am taking my departure, madam. I had a fancy to come in, but it is too late to stay."
She lifted the heavy skirt off the twinkling paste on her shoes; certainly the most composed of the three.
"I sang to Captain Lyndwood!" actually she laughed; "and he never commended it! What are our gallants coming to? Good-night, madam;au revoir, sir."
She curtsied and was gone.
Miss Chressham stared at her cousin.
"What is this, Marius? she has not been here for months; and the hour and the manner of her leaving!"
"I do not know anything of it," said Marius shortly.
Miss Chressham crossed to the spinet.
"How dare she play my instrument!" the fair countenance was angry. "And come here in this manner to my lady's house?"
"I do not know," said Marius again, staring at the floor.
Susannah looked up at him sharply.
"I think you had better go to Paris," she said slowly.
TheCountess Lavinia sat by the heavily curtained window, her hands idle in her lap; she wore a loose, slightly soiled white mob; her hair in front was twisted into paper curlers and hung straightly down her back behind, her bare feet were thrust into low blue slippers, and a fat little dog lay asleep on the edge of her striped petticoat.
It was nearly midday, and the glaring sunshine without beat on the yellow blind and cast a close dun light into the large dark chamber, which was handsomely furnished and luxuriously untidy; on the inlaid dressing-table beside the Countess a cup of cold chocolate and a plate of Naples cakes stood among curling-irons, pots of rouge, and bottles of Hungary water; a bunch of dead flowers lay on the floor and a broken fan; over the back of a painted chair hung silk and velvet garments, and a black mask dangled from them by its fall of lace.
The Countess yawned; her youthfulness had vanished before the life of a lady of fashion, she looked ten years older than her age, sallow without her powder and undistinguished without her splendid attire; her eyes were shadowed and wretched, her mouth dragged; she might be a beauty by candle-light, she was no longer a beauty in her own chamber.
She caught up a worn book in a paper cover and wearily fluttered the pages, but the stale romance could not hold her; she looked up eagerly when the door opened, and even faintly smiled as her maid entered.
Honoria Pryse crossed the room in her quick, delicate way; her shrewd, clear-cut face was slightly flushed.
"You have been a long time," said her mistress. "What have you been doing?"
Honoria put her hand to the muslin fichu crossed over her bosom.
"I have something to tell you, my lady."
The Countess sat up, jerking the dog off her dress.
"What?" she pitched the book across the room; it hit the leg of a chair, and fell on the floor, an untidy mass of twisted pages; the spaniel whined peevishly.
"Last night, when you were out, my lady, I went downstairs to hear what they were talking of."
"My lord, you mean?" asked the Countess sharply. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Have a little patience, my lady. Sir Thomas was here and Mr. Steyning; they came on from the Palace about twelve o'clock; they talked of politics in my lord's study; he seemed to be suggesting a position for Sir Francis Boyle, but I couldn't hear much when they shut the door; but afterwards when the gentlemen left my lord stayed on below, and I came down again to see what he was about. I went into the library, which was in darkness, and from the open folding doors saw my lord writing; there was a letter lying by his elbow, on a lady's paper, in a lady's hand."
The Countess made a little impatient movement.
"Be quick," she said.
Honoria was in no way put out.
"I thought of Miss Boyle; my lord's manner had been of a restrained desperation, and his speaking of Sir Francis——"
"Ye have been thinking of Selina Boyle for a year past," interrupted her mistress, "and it has come to nought."
"It has come to a great deal," replied Honoria Pryse. "I saw my lord looking at this letter as if he consulted itin what he wrote—a reply, then he folded it and placed it in the top drawer of the cabinet and turned suddenly towards the library—he passed me, so close, but I slipped behind the door, then into the study, opened the drawer and got the letter."
"Got the letter!" cried the Countess.
"I left by the other door into the passage—my lord had gone for his keys. I peeped through the crack and saw him lock the drawer, then he left the house. Fenton says he returned about four this morning."
The Countess held out her hand.
"Give me the letter—who is it from?—why did you not tell me before of this?"
"You were home so late, my lady, and slept so late," she took a package from the fichu of her gown; "here is the letter, and it is from Selina Boyle."
The Countess snatched it and stared eagerly at the fair Italian hand.
"Read it," said Honoria Pryse; "it was worth the pains."
Her mistress glanced down the epistle rapidly, then read it aloud as if she feared to lose even the sound of those words written in a sad sweet agony by a very different lady in a very different chamber.
"Golden Square,June 25, 1749."My Lord,—I have your letter—you mind me that you have Only written to me once before, and that then I did Not Answer. I would I might refrain now from a Reply. In a Manner you have Broken the Bond of the sweet Reserve there was between us and unlocked a Heart of which you Only have the key. I am more Unhappy than this Time a year Ago ... the thought of your Discomfort and Passion Stirs in me a tumultuous discontent that I cannot easily overcome and of which it wouldbe Weak to Write. As for what You ask of Me—be Assured that I shall never Marry—my CousinFrancisovervalues my poor Affections and seeks continuously to Persuade me—myFatheralso desires to see me Settled—but Nothing will Alter my Resolution. I would Rather have rested inBristol, but in this matter had to follow myFather'swish."Let me know that You are content with me—but no more—I Fear it is Folly to exchange Regrets and Dangerous to dwell on a Forbidden Fondness, therefore be not Surprised if you Hear no more from"Selina Boyle.
"Golden Square,June 25, 1749.
"My Lord,—I have your letter—you mind me that you have Only written to me once before, and that then I did Not Answer. I would I might refrain now from a Reply. In a Manner you have Broken the Bond of the sweet Reserve there was between us and unlocked a Heart of which you Only have the key. I am more Unhappy than this Time a year Ago ... the thought of your Discomfort and Passion Stirs in me a tumultuous discontent that I cannot easily overcome and of which it wouldbe Weak to Write. As for what You ask of Me—be Assured that I shall never Marry—my CousinFrancisovervalues my poor Affections and seeks continuously to Persuade me—myFatheralso desires to see me Settled—but Nothing will Alter my Resolution. I would Rather have rested inBristol, but in this matter had to follow myFather'swish.
"Let me know that You are content with me—but no more—I Fear it is Folly to exchange Regrets and Dangerous to dwell on a Forbidden Fondness, therefore be not Surprised if you Hear no more from
"Selina Boyle.
"Postscriptum.—I saw the Countess at a Masquerade Last Week and Thought her a Lady a Noble might find himself Honoured to Own."S. B."
"Postscriptum.—I saw the Countess at a Masquerade Last Week and Thought her a Lady a Noble might find himself Honoured to Own.
"S. B."
When the Countess finished the letter there was a silence; the maid watched her mistress quietly and made no further sign of interest nor any comment.
The Countess frowned, pushed the spaniel away from her with the toe of her shoe and put down the letter on her dressing-table.
"What is this to me?" she said sullenly. "Do I care to know that they are in love with each other? As well Miss Boyle as any other woman."
"Well, my lady, I thought you wished to show my lord you were no fool; how has he treated you?"
"Some day I am going to be avenged on them, Honoria," she said breathlessly.
"Why not now, my lady? here are the materials."
Lady Lyndwood waved her slight hand impatiently.
"I cannot deal with that woman—he never sees her—it is all in the clouds."
"You can bring it to earth," said Honoria Pryse.
"What of her father—what of Sir Francis. Just now there is nothing in it, you can make everything of it."
"Could I rouse my lord in that way?" demanded the Countess with a sudden gleam in her tired eyes.
"In what better," Honoria answered; "what does this letter mean?" she lightly touched it. "He must have written to her saying he could not bear to see her married, and she says, 'for your sake I remain unwed,' what more?"
The Countess Lavinia rose impatiently.
"My life is Hell, Honoria, and some way I must alter it." She paced up and down, the loose gown flowing about her, an expression if utter wretchedness on her sallow face. "I saw Marius Lyndwood yesterday, the same as always—why was I never young like that? The regret of it, Honoria—the early spring last year in Paris; my God, why have I lost it all?" She spoke in a stifled voice and walked to and fro as if driven into movement by inward pain. "I would rather die to-morrow in the ruin of his house, than live like this;I cannot do it, Honoria."
"Ye have your wild moods, my lady," answered the maid calmly, "but life is well worth living and you have fairer prospects than others. What is there before my lord? He has changed since I have watched him."
"Never in his contempt of me."
"You have always Mr. Hilton and the money," continued Honoria unmoved, "but the Earl is slipping easily to ruin."
"He has been to my father for money," cried the Countess. "Again tomyfather, who has told me the Treasury could not supply the life we led; well, I shall be ruined also, and not, God knows, through pleasure; however, we talk wildly; if there is nought but the pistol or the Fleet for him, what is there but the river or Bedlam for me?"
Honoria Pryse sorted out the curling-irons.
"Before then ye can make some stir, both with Miss Boyle and with Captain Lyndwood."
"I hate his mother and his cousin," said the Countess abruptly. "Is not this girl a friend of theirs? I would do something to sting them."
The maid looked over her shoulder.
"A notice in theGazette—were like fire to straw——"
The Countess glanced at her.
"I will put it in; what is that she says of me? A sneer, I doubt not; they think I am a fool or indifferent; her refined love letters! She is like the others for all her quiet face; what is there in my lord for a little saint to adore?" She laughed bitterly. "I swear Sir Francis is the better man."
"He will prove himself so, or endeavour to," answered Honoria; "if we once bring them together over the matter of Selina Boyle."
"Ye think theGazettethe thing?"
"Yes, something carefully worded."
"Would they put it in?"
"Would they not, my lady!"
The Countess took a turn about the room.
"Bring me a paper, we will compose it," she said slowly. She paused a moment, then added, in a curious tone, "Marius Lyndwood is coming here to-day; I think had I married him we should have been very fond of each other, Honoria—fetch something to write on." She sank wearily into a chair.
"You write," said the Countess, frowning. "And afterwards we shall copy it out and disguise the hand—and what of Miss Boyle's letter?"
"We can never get it back," answered Honoria, balancing the writing-case on her knee. "We had best burn it."
A tap at the door interrupted her; she laid the case overMiss Boyle's letter, and went to answer it; there was a quick exchange of words at the door and she came back.
"Mr. Hilton, my lady."
The Countess lifted her shoulders sullenly.
"What now? let him come in, Honoria. I would it had been another hour."
She did not turn when her father entered nor give him any sign of welcome.
"This is a foolish time for you to choose," she said.
"'Tis a foolish time for you to still be in your chamber," he retorted sharply.
My lady jerked her shoulders peevishly.
"What are you here to say?"
Mr. Hilton glanced round the dishevelled room with an air of disgust; his shrewd, expressionless face hardened.
"You may call this living like a great lady, but I call it living like a slut," he remarked.
"I am neither one nor the other, but—your daughter," she answered insolently, "and if this is to prove a tirade on virtue——"
Mr. Hilton folded his hands behind him.
"It is to be a few words about money," he said briefly. "I came unexpectedly because that way I have a greater chance of finding you."
The Countess straightened herself.
"The subject is stale," she replied; "and is one to be taken to my lord. I know nothing of the money."
"You know something of the spending of it, Lavinia."
"My husband knows more."
"I have to speak of your husband, too."
"You ask me of the two things of which I know the least—my husband and my money."
"You must come to know more of both. I am not the rich man I was since the bank at Amsterdam failed, and your husband has had more money of me than would sound credible."
"More than we have had value for, eh?" asked the Countess. "This grand marriage of mine was a poor bargain, my father."
"Where is your effort to make it a good one?" he retorted. "We are of no more account than we ever were—you spend, spend, spend, and what do you get for it? Your husband is the talk of the town; he has entered the Ministry with our money, his mother lives like a princess, he is courted, flattered, and sought after; but who turns his head for you?"
"I have lived with my lord for a year without a scandal," she answered; "and that is something to my credit."
"I am not speaking of your credit," cried Mr. Hilton angrily. "You know what I mean well enough—did I spend a fortune on your upbringing for you to drop like a stone into this set I put you among—like a stone, to sink at once? You lose money at cards, no one remarks you; you hold no levees, you have no genteel friends—you have nothing of the great lady save the vices."
"Because I am a tradesman's daughter," said the Countess, "yet I ape the woman of rank very well, yet—also I do not choose to alter my life, so spare your words."
Mr. Hilton flushed.
"Sometimes I think you really are mad," he answered violently. "But it has to cease——"
She interrupted quickly.
"What has to cease?"
"This wild and useless expenditure, this idle indifference on your part."
She made a weary gesture with her hands.
"Do you think I care if you sell us up to-morrow?"
"You speak like a fool," he answered furiously; "is there no way to bring you to sense?"
She flashed bitterly out of her passive disgust.
"This marriage, was it of my seeking? Did I not entreat you not to force me? I had my own plans then—thenI might have been happy, but you were possessed with your pride—you bought me a husband who laughs at both of us; who were you or I to manage a noble, he fooled us both;" she rose suddenly—"do not come to me now with reproaches, you flung me among people who despised me, tied me to a man I never had even a passing liking for.Iam not going to endeavour to prevent him from spending your money. It was your bargain, you and he can settle it, my father."
With that she gave him a look of wild unhappy hatred that cowed his rising fury.
"Ye are certainly mad," he muttered.
"Perhaps I am," answered the Countess. "Look then I do not commit madness; I suppose ye would sooner have me indifferent, than desperate."
"What cause have ye to be desperate?" he demanded.
She smiled scornfully.
"I am unhappier than you have it in you to realise," she said; "but I am sick of this talk."
Mr. Hilton looked at her keenly.
"Where is the Earl?"
"I do not know." She sank into the chair before the dressing-table.
Honoria Pryse crept in timidly from the inner door.
"The hairdresser, my lady."
Mr. Hilton looked from one woman to another, set his lips, and left them in silence.
Mistress and maid exchanged a quick glance; the Countess snatched up the letter from Selina Boyle and concealed it in her bosom as the hairdresser bowed himself into the chamber.
Witha curious sense of uneasiness, Marius Lyndwood, entering his brother's drawing-room, saw the Countess there, alone.
It was about five of the clock and the gorgeous chamber was full of sunshine. The Countess sat by the window teasing a crimson and green macaw that swung in an ebony ring; she wore a black and white striped dress and a muslin fichu edged with glittering silver ribbon.
She did not rise to greet him.
"Good afternoon, Captain Lyndwood," she said, and continued to busy herself with the parrot; he hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to kiss her hand, still she did not look at him.
"My lord is abroad?" he asked.
The Countess lifted her shoulders.
"I suppose so."
Then she regarded him, covertly.
"You go to Paris, Captain Lyndwood?"
"I have not yet taken my resolution, madam."
She smiled and rose.
"You came to see my husband?"
"Yes, madam."
The Countess moved towards the mantelpiece.
"Do you love your brother, sir?" she asked abruptly, and fixed her powerful dark eyes on him.
Marius Lyndwood made an effort to meet her on her own ground.
"What is your meaning in that question, madam?"
"This meaning," she answered, "that I do not think you know him——"
"My lord has ever done his duty by me," said Marius.
"There is the point," cried the Countess. "You do not guess how he has behaved to me."
"I cannot listen to this, madam," he interrupted in an agitated voice, but she would not be stopped.
"It is not long ago that you were kissing my shadow, Marius—are we now such strangers that I must conceal from you that my life is utter misery?"
"Indeed it can be no matter of mine," he answered, very pale.
The Countess clasped the edge of the chimney-piece.
"It is very much a matter of yours. My lord, ye say, does his duty by you; but what of me? Do you dare to have no pity? The money that gave you your career was the price of my degradation——"
"Enough of that," he exclaimed. "I have had very little from the Earl, and mean now to be free of him altogether."
"But I," she said, "can never be free."
She was silent a second, then added with a quiet force:
"Did you know him as I have to know him you would hate him"—her voice sank—"even as I do."
Marius Lyndwood shuddered.
"I must not hear this."
"You shall hear this. His bargain with my father cannot save him, my fortune has gone like sand through his fingers, and your noble House will come very surely to utter ruin."
"You speak as if I were to blame," said Marius sombrely. "I am not my lord's monitor; what would you have me do? I have not been over contented or very much at ease this last year."
He was angry with his brother though he would notadmit so much, even to himself; he half disdained the Countess, but felt that truth and justice were on her side—he was attracted by her and repelled and troubled by her presence beyond the power of speech.
"Well," she spoke more quietly. "You will go abroad again, and I am sorry, for it will leave me more utterly lonely; well, well."
Marius moved silently to the window with a heavy step and looked out on the flat houses, the dusty sunshine, the barren blue sky.
He turned again at a slight exclamation from the Countess.
Rose Lyndwood had entered; he wore riding boots, and was wrapped in a pale pink mantle; he carried his white gauntlets and a short whip; he looked at his brother and an indescribable chill fell between them.
Marius bowed formally.
"Good even," said the Earl, and glanced at his wife; "it is unusual to find you at home at this hour, madam; Marius was fortunate."
"I met him yesterday in your mother's house, my lord, and heard of his intent to come here to-day; therefore I am at home."
With that she swept a curtsey and left them alone, save for that nameless discontent and coldness breathing like another presence between them.
"The Countess is seldom at my mother's house," said Rose, as the door closed on her; "strange you should have met there."
Marius did not answer; the level beams of the sun just sinking behind the houses on the other side of the square struck brilliantly on his bright uniform and flushed face.
"You have decided to go to Paris?" asked my lord.
"No," answered Marius in a constrained way, "I have decided to remain in London, sir."
"I think you are wrong," said the Earl. "There arefew chances in London; but it is for you to choose your own way."
He seated himself on the couch, and Marius looked at him earnestly; my lord glanced up and their eyes met.
"Do you wish an appointment about the Court?" asked the Earl; his handsome eyes were weary and his face pallid in contrast with his bright unpowdered hair. Marius could not understand what had happened to make them such strangers, nor how in a year they could have drifted so far apart; a sensation of utter depression came over him.
"What is the matter with you, Marius?" asked Rose Lyndwood with a slight note of challenge in his voice.
His brother gazed out into the grey street from which the sun had disappeared.
"I do not wish to hang about the Court, my lord."
The Earl observed him sharply.
"What do you propose to do?"
Marius kept his face averted.
"I wish to go somewhere, to be quartered in some country town, where I can live on my pay," he answered reservedly.
"By Gad!" said my lord softly. "What whim is this?"
Marius turned swiftly.
"Isn't it an honest wish, my lord? Isn't it an honest wish to desire to take no more money from you?"
"Are we discussing honesty?" smiled the Earl. "You are in a strange mood, Marius."
The young soldier coloured, gloom overcame him again.
"Your lordship and I will never understand each other," he said hopelessly.
"Why not?" asked his brother kindly.
"I do not know." Marius spoke in a constrained way. "I suppose that we are in such different positions—of such different natures."
My lord gave his charming laugh.
"You go too deep for me, Marius; say what you wish and I will endeavour to comprehend it."
But Marius Lyndwood was silent.
"What is this between you and me?" continued the Earl lightly. "You have a look of judgment as one who would say, 'Faith, I am ashamed of this brother of mine.'"
"I do not like this life," answered Marius gloomily. "Nothing is as I thought it would be—matters seem very worthless."
Rose Lyndwood laughed.
"Your malady is plain, my dear: you are too young and too serious; a season in London will cure you."
Marius moved from the window.
"I might have known that you would sneer at me," he said, holding his head haughtily, "but scoff as you will, my lord, I have no zest for these follies that please you."
My lord laughed again; there was no change in his handsome face; under his air of lightness a melancholy indifference seemed habitual.
"My follies are my own affair, are they not?" he asked carelessly.
"I do not know," answered Marius, "but it seems to me 'tis an ignoble business, as you have handled it."
"As I have handled it?" questioned the Earl.
"You will reprove me for my impertinence if I speak further," said Marius, "and you are the head of the house; yet perhaps those few years between us do not rob me of the right to say that your courses go far to dishonour us."
"Oh, Marius!" cried his brother, smiling, "thou art become a sad virtuous fellow; concern not thyself with me, thine own good qualities will save the name of Lyndwood."
"'Tis a thing not wholly in my keeping," replied Marius, kindling at the other's manner. "You are the elder—well, no more, but I will none of your money, my lord, and none of your influence to push me into some idle place at Court."
Rose Lyndwood loosened the pink mantle from his throat.
"You are a pragmatical fellow," he said calmly; "and must even do as you please. I shall expect to see you again when you are tired of virtue on a hundred a year."
"I do not put such a high value upon money," answered Marius hotly.
"Maybe," said my lord lazily; "but you have not yet tried to do without it." He rose suddenly. "I' God's name, Marius, let us have done with this prating; we each mean the same thing, I doubt not; why should we be discontented with one another? Stay in London and make the best of it; do what others do, 'tis the surest wisdom."
"What others do!" repeated his brother with quickened breath; "marry an heiress and gamble myself and her to ruin, take some woman for her fortune and make her life unendurable with my disdain while I spend her money on sordid pleasures; buy myself into a corrupt Ministry and fatten on the proceeds of Court intrigues. I have not the temper for these things, my lord."
The Earl laid his gloves and whip on the couch from which he had risen; he looked steadily at Marius.
"I shall begin to think that you came here to insult me," he said. "Now why, I wonder."
"I tell you that my way is not your way, my lord."
"You tell me more than that," answered Rose Lyndwood. "And I discern who has been prompting you."
At this allusion to the Countess, Marius flushed.
"I need no promptings to perceive the way you live, my lord, nor can I shut my ears to what I hear of your senseless extravagance."
The Earl interrupted.
"Oh, she gave me a rake-helly reputation, I doubt not—spare the repetition, and understand I'll have no more of it."
"No more of what, sir?"
Lord Lyndwood moved towards him.
"No more of these discussions with my lady—either in my house or out of it—she needs no champions."
"I cannot speak of this with you," answered Marius hotly. "All has gone amiss."
"Have done with this philosophy," interrupted my lord with darkening eyes, "and do not seek to play the monitor with my affairs—I'll not take it, Marius."
"There are things I will not take, my lord. I am at liberty to see what all the town sees, and to say what all the town says."
"Not to my face," said the Earl, "nor yet to my wife."
"Leave the Countess out of it, my lord—even if she should show her unhappiness; she has given no bond to be dumb as well as patient."
My lord unclasped his cloak and flung it over a chair.
"You are a fool, Marius," he said haughtily; "but you must keep your folly to yourself, nor become my lady's puppet defender; her unhappiness, and her patience, and her dumbness are not matters of yours."
"In a manner they are matters of mine," answered the other with a kind of fierce heaviness. "I have been to blame—we, both of us, have wronged her."
"This is intolerable!" cried my lord. "By Gad, you will anger me."
"And yet I only speak the truth."
"You speak dangerous foolishness."
"My lord, I speak the truth, and ye know it."
"Truth or no," said the Earl, "'tis what I will not listen to."
"On that we part, my lord."
Rose Lyndwood smiled and raised his shoulders scornfully.
"I' faith we cannot argue, Marius."
"Then, as I say, we part."
"Why, you must go your way."
Marius stepped aside and looked away, the room began to be full of creeping shadows; it was not easy for either, even with close scrutiny, to catch the changing expression of the other's face.
"It is curious," said the Earl, "that we should have parted understanding each other on this matter, and now we meet with this discontent between us. I perceive that what is on your mind refers to the same—the question, my lady's money—it is not one we can discuss."
Marius interrupted.
"I think I know what you would say, my lord: that for my sake, and for the sake of my lady mother, you made this match."
"Nay, you would never hear that from me," rejoined Rose Lyndwood.
"But it crossed your mind—it is in Susannah's mind," said Marius gloomily and fiercely; "and it is not true; at first I thought it so, but it was not. Mr. Hilton's money was not bought for us but for yourself, to save yourself from ruin; you married his daughter for no noble consideration but to give you the means to continue this life of a man of fashion; as she said, you wanted the money."
"Do you speak to provoke me?" asked my lord breathlessly.
"I think I speak to make it all clear to myself," answered Marius slowly. "It sounds so mean put into words and so clear—there was no other way out for you save this marriage—it was not in you even to desire other than this life you led, and so you married your lady; she was forced into it and you allowed her to be forced."
Rose Lyndwood laughed, suddenly and unrestrainedly.
"My lady has made a rare convert!" he cried. "It is amusing to see you learning virtue at the Countess Lavinia's feet. I wonder what else she will teach you besides hate of me."
He picked up his cloak; there was a gleam of the pale pink colour as he flung it about him in the shadows.
"I am due at the St. James's coffee-house," he said. "Will you accompany me?"
"Is that how you dismiss it?" asked Marius unsteadily.
The Earl made a light gesture with his fine hand.
"What is there to dismiss? Are you coming with me?"
"No." Marius paused a moment, then added, "I take my leave; good-night, my lord."
They could no longer distinguish the other's face.
"Good even," said the Earl, and turned his back to gather up his gloves.
Marius, miserable, angry, hot at heart, turned from the room and closed the door fiercely after him.
There was a dim light in the hall and she was there, crouching against the panelling.
Even as he saw her the knowledge that she had been listening stabbed into his blood.
"Madam!" he said below his breath.
"Well?" she whispered defiantly. She had her teeth in her handkerchief, and was tearing it to rags; her thincheeks were flushed carmine, her eyes excitedly bright. "I heard what passed; what do you think of him now?"
"I am sorry for you," he answered in a shamed voice, "that you—should—do this."
The Countess laid her hand on his sleeve.
"Ah! you spoke for me!" she said exultingly. "And I could kiss your feet for it; but, hush!—--"
"He comes," interrupted Marius in an agony. "Shall he find us whispering behind his doors?"
She drew back.
"Come to Grafton's mask," she replied. "I will send you a note of my dress."
She turned swiftly and in a light noiselessness sped up the wide quiet stairs.
Marius stood still beneath the gentle glow of the silver lamp; so she took him for her champion—she bound him to her service—it had come to notes and appointments.
He grasped the handle of the door that concealed his brother; it was in his mind to return to him.
And say—what?
The red mounted to his cheeks, his brow; it was not so long ago since he had adored her, and she had been unfairly treated. Rose had laughed; what would Rose care?
He took up his hat and left the house. As he turned into the street he felt the evening air cold on his face, and looking up beheld a solitary star above the dark houses of Panton Square.
He thought of the Countess with pain and misgiving, and his young face was stormy, but she did not wholly occupy his mind; like a pleasant odour pervading everything was the remembrance of Susannah Chressham waiting his return in the soft-hued room in the Haymarket; he dwelt on the image of her and found it the image of gentleness and joy, soothing to consider.
He hastened his steps homewards, nor did it occur to him to look back at his brother's house, where the Countess leant from an upper window with the keen wind dishevelling her hair and watched him eagerly out of sight.