CHAPTER I

THE RAKE'S PROGRESS

THE

RAKE'S PROGRESS

BY

MARJORIE BOWEN

AUTHOR OF "THE VIPER OF MILAN," ETC. ETC.

LONDON

WILLIAM RIDER & SON, LIMITED

1912

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.

At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAP. PAGE

I MISS SUSANNAH CHRESSHAM OBSERVES 1

II ROSE LYNDWOOD 17

III THE SECOND LETTER TO MISS SELINA BOYLE 27

IV THE BARGAIN 41

V THE TRUE LOVE 51

VI THE FAREWELL 58

VII "ASPASIA" 67

VIII LAVINIA 78

IX MY LORD'S ADJUSTMENT 88

X A LADY SCORNED 98

PART II

I THE SECOND HOME-COMING OF MARIUS LYNDWOOD 107

II BEDCHAMBER PLOTS 117

III THE BROTHERS 126

IV THE PARAGRAPH IN THE "GAZETTE" 137

V SIR FRANCIS INTERVENES 147

VI MARIUS ENTANGLED 156

VII MY LORD SPEAKS 166

VIII MARIUS APPEALS 176

IX MY LORD ACTS 187

X THE COUNTESS AT BAY 197

XI HONORIA INTERVENES 207

XII MARIUS ENSNARED 218

XIII MARIUS DECIDES 229

XIV THE DUEL 241

PART III

I THE CONFESSION OF ROSE LYNDWOOD 252

II SELINA BOYLE 261

III A MAY NIGHT 270

IV SUSANNAH CHRESSHAM 281

V THE VISIT TO MY LORD 290

THE RAKE'S PROGRESS

PART I

CHAPTER I

MISS SUSANNAH CHRESSHAM OBSERVES

"You ask me about Rose--what can I say? Alas, that my talents should

not be equal to your curiosity! My letters at best are feeble

productions, and when I have a deliberate request to answer I swear my

pen refuses its duty. 'Tell me about Rose,' you say. 'Our one meeting,

two years ago, remains in my mind.' And you would know more of the most

charming person you ever met--so I finish the sentence for you!

"And rightly, I am sure. But, again, what can I say? I know too much,

and not enough.

"I have chosen a wet day to write to you and the afternoon hours when

my duties are done, so that nothing interferes between us but my

faltering pen. Aunt Agatha sits in the next room making knots. You see

how I avoid the subject! And now how I valiantly strive faithfully to

answer you.

"You say you have heard 'whispers and more than whispers in London.'

You imply about Rose, and I cannot pretend not to understand.

"I, too, have been made aware (in what extraordinary fashion, more

subtle than words, is scandal communicated!) of various rumours.

Remember that I have not seen Rose since I was last in town, six months

ago, and then only amid the distractions of a gay season. Laughter

passed between us, little else. You will recall the charming laughter

of Rose. My prayer is that its gaiety may never be quenched, as--ah!--I

fear it may be. I must repeat--(here give me credit for a pause of

earnest thought)--that I know nothing.

"If youth, beauty, race, talents, a fine name, the most winning

manners, the sweetest temper, the lightest spirits are to be ruined

by the common lures of the world, if ordinary vices are to tarnish a

character so bright----

"But--no, I will not think it, nor must you. Remember Rose as all

nobility, virtue, and discretion, the sweetest gentleman in England.

"Marius comes home to-night. His letters read full of a sparkling

pleasure in the incidents of the tour. I fear he has not spared money;

I dread the moment when he must be made aware how perilously near the

limit of our fortunes we all live. Hideous subject! Even to you I

shrink from putting the word on paper, but I anticipate that this lack

of money will mean trouble for both Rose and Marius. The Lyndwoods

were ever thriftless. I remember my sweet mother losing £300 at faro;

the silk dress she wore, unpaid for, and my father having to sell the

silver plate to pay her page and her carriage. I recall other scenes,

but all taken with a smile on my mother's part--like Rose!

"Aunt Agatha says (as you must have heard her) that my mother's death

alone saved my father from ruin, which seems to me a dreadful thing.

Reflecting on it, I think of these two cousins of mine. Imagine Rose or

Marius without money--impossible, is it not? Yet I know of mortgages,

of encumbered estates.

"Still, I must not play the pedant; I am not the monitor of the

Lyndwoods nor any wiser than they. And Marius comes home to-night. We

had hoped Rose would be here to meet him; but, no. He comes to-morrow,

full of eagerness, his note reads, to see us all again. Yet I fear they

will both find Lyndwood dull, and it will be but a while before their

poor cousin is waving them farewell again.

"I must tell you (perceive that this epistle alters with the current of

my thoughts) that Marius visited Genoa and saw the Lyndwood property,

which is of but little value, he writes, since the whole town has

fallen into neglect and decay.

"I notice that Aunt Agatha is rising, and I must follow her to see

that Marius's chamber is ready and the table set with flowers. So

_au revoir_, my friend, and remember I await your letters with

impatience.--Ever your faithful

"SUSANNAH CHRESSHAM.

"LYNDWOOD HOLT,

LYNDWOOD IN THE COUNTY OF KENT,

_June 17, 1748_."

* * * * *

The clear and gentle evening sunlight fell through the long open

windows on the bright hair and face of the writer as she rose, slowly

folding her letter. Mellow shadows rested in the spacious beautiful

chamber; smooth dark walls, painted ceiling and polished floor, rich

sombre paintings of fruit made a glowing background for the rounded

figure of Miss Chressham as she stood looking thoughtfully at the

exquisite vista of parkland that spread beyond the stone terrace on to

which the windows gave.

Where the distant golden green elms quivered in the steady breeze a few

faint white clouds rested in the pale blue sky; the glade formed by the

nearer trees was crossed with bars of sunshine where slow sheep moved.

Along the terrace grew late spring flowers--tulips, striped, purple,

and red; hyacinths, deep blue, and soft clusters of fragrant stocks. A

swallow flew by, a great sound of birds came from the trees about the

house. Miss Chressham turned from the window to open folding doors that

revealed an inner room.

"Aunt Agatha," she said.

A lady emerged from the gloom of the other chamber. She held a number

of knotted skeins of coloured silk.

"I thought I heard you moving," smiled Miss Chressham, "so I finished

my letter and am now at your service." Her smile deepened prettily.

"How charming it will be to see Marius again," she added.

Lady Lyndwood smoothed her silks out with delicate fingers.

"I wish Rose could have been here," she answered.

Miss Chressham was ready.

"Marius has been so uncertain as to the date of his arrival, and

Rose wrote he was under an engagement for to-night that he could not

contrive to avoid. He is coming to-morrow."

The elder lady replied with a certain languid impatience attractively

in keeping with her slender dignified grace.

"Ah, my dear, I hope he _will_ come to-morrow; not only because of

Marius--for other reasons! And now you had better call for candles."

Miss Chressham pulled the bell.

"For other reasons?" she repeated.

Lady Lyndwood's answer came wearily through the twilight.

"The estate, you know," she complained. "I vow it worries me. Since

Mr. Langham left us we have had no steward. I wrote to Rose he must

come and see after it; he is aware from Mr. Langham when he gave up his

accounts that the value of the land is decreasing, or whatever the term

may be."

"And what does Rose say?"

"Rose laughed, of course, and Mr. Langham----"

"Oh--he," cried the girl impatiently, "I know that he sold Brenton Farm

at half its value, and the crops, too, always!"

"Perhaps so," Lady Lyndwood laughed vaguely, "but one must have

someone. Rose should come himself and put a person he can trust into

the place, for really I cannot be worried."

"We understand so little about it," said Miss Chressham sadly, "and

Rose tells us nothing."

"My dear!" the Countess protested. "Rose has managed his own affairs

since he was eighteen. His fortune is his own concern, and it would be

mightily ill-bred of him to trouble the ladies of his family with the

buying and selling of horses and dogs."

The servant entered with a long taper and began to light the candles.

Miss Chressham answered with restraint.

"You have no head for business, Aunt Agatha."

The Countess of Lyndwood was standing by the mantelshelf. As the

sconces either side were lit her delicate shoulders and pale lovely

face were reflected in the dark depths of the mirror.

"No," she admitted; "after all, one can manage without it. I could

never see it as a reproach, Susannah," she added.

Miss Chressham looked at her.

"Not if one is as pretty as you are," she answered, and smiled half

sadly.

"Oh, fie, my dear! You must not flatter an old woman."

The Countess sank easily into a brocaded chair and her pearl-coloured

satin dress gleamed in the candle-light. The lace over her faint blonde

hair and over her shoulder seemed pearl-coloured too. She folded her

silks away into a blue and silver bead-bag and when the servant had

left the room she spoke again.

"You are so sensible, Susannah," she remarked in a tone of gentle

helplessness; "such a comfort to me, my dear." She sighed, and

rested her cheek on her long white fingers. "Rose is heedless, and I

really know so little of what he does in London. Of course, I hear

things"--she paused, and added placidly--"which, of course, are also

no business of mine. But I do wish"--she gave Susannah an appealing

look--"that he would come down and look after the place, and I wish he

would marry."

"I dare swear he will do both," answered Miss Chressham cheerfully;

"nay, it would be vastly strange if he did not."

The room was very pleasantly full of candle-light; it sparkled in the

folds of Miss Chressham's red silk gown as she moved close to the

Countess's chair; through the still open window terrace, trees and sky

showed luminous and purple.

"I have heard the names of several ladies," remarked the Countess,

"mentioned by Rose and other people, but not one he could or would

marry."

"Why, when he meets her he will not speak of it," smiled Susannah.

Lady Lyndwood sighed.

"Well, I wish he would come. Marius will want to see him about his

fortune."

"Is it in Rose's hands?" asked Miss Chressham, a faint look of surprise

on her fair face.

"Ah--yes," the Countess spoke vaguely, "all the money went to Rose; but

Marius has something when he comes of age, which was last October. I am

sorry he should have been abroad, and now, I suppose, he will want to

leave us again."

"I suppose so," assented Susannah absently.

"Nothing else is to be expected," returned Lady Lyndwood. "Rose cannot

ask Marius to look after the estate, and really it is very dull here. I

think we must all go to town this season."

Susannah was silent.

The Countess continued her gentle disconnected talk.

"Two years ago--how different Marius will be! I hope he will get on

with Rose. And--la, my dear, 'tis near seven of the clock!" She rose,

her grey eyes agitated and a flush in her cheeks. "Seven he is to be

here!"

"Let us walk to the front and watch for him," said Miss Chressham.

The elder lady took her arm, and they went into the quiet hall,

looked into the dining-room where early moss roses showed between the

glass and silver on the table and the candles in their sconces sent

flickerings on the portraits of fair gay Lyndwoods, past to the open

door, and so on to the wide, shallow steps.

It was a most beautiful evening, a new moon floated in gauzy vapour

above the soft dark lines of the trees; mysterious and beckoning the

white road gleamed away into the twilight; the stone vases at the

bottom of the steps were dimly visible; a faint sweetness rose from the

early pinks they carried.

Jasmine and roses covered the front of Lyndwood Holt, and their

tendrils, lightly stirring now and then, touched the dresses of the two

ladies waiting in the dusk.

The village clock sounded faintly, then from the stable came the chimes

of seven.

"He will be very tired," said the Countess.

Miss Chressham laughed.

"He will only have ridden from Maidstone, dear."

"Of course," answered Lady Lyndwood's sweet vague voice. "I always

think of him as coming from Paris--as if he had come straight from

there"--she laughed aimlessly. "I wish Rose had been here," she added.

"I swear I feel quite nervous."

"Rose comes to-morrow," repeated the younger lady.

A little pause, then the Countess spoke again.

"The place looks very well, does it not? though perhaps after the

gaieties of the Continent----"

"Here he is," interrupted Miss Chressham.

Down the dusky glimmer of road came the sound of a hurrying horse.

The Countess advanced impulsively down the steps. A rider galloped up

through the twilight--a slender young man in a travelling cloak was

kissing Lady Lyndwood, laughing and breathless, before Miss Chressham

had freed her skirt from a long rose bough.

"Susannah!" He held out his hand as she joined them. "May I still kiss

her?" he asked his mother.

"Yes, Marius," smiled Miss Chressham; "to-night, at least."

He saluted her cheek and her hands. The three came towards the house

together.

"And you are well and safe? And your portmantles? And where is Mr.

Hardinge? And--oh, Marius--I fear it will seem so dull!" cried the

Countess in a breath.

Marius Lyndwood laughed an answer.

"Indeed, I am well, and the man is following with the trunks. I left

Mr. Hardinge at Dover. And, now my turn. Where is Rose?"

"He is coming to-morrow," answered both the ladies, as they passed into

the hall.

"Why, he wrote to me he would be here to-night," said Marius Lyndwood.

"He could not," replied Miss Chressham hastily. "His engagements."

The young man flung off his cloak and hat with a pleasant laugh.

"Rose is the fashion--a town rake. His brother must not hope to see

him. Well, I cannot care to-night----"

He turned into the dining-room, looking about him. The ladies followed,

and there, in the strong fair light of the candles, the three cast

eager eyes on each other.

After the gay warmth and joy of their meeting this pause came almost

like embarrassment, as if they found themselves, after all, strangers.

His mother was quick to see the change in the new arrival. At first she

did not think this Marius as handsome as the boy who had left her two

years ago. The next second she told herself that his powdered hair, his

elegant clothes, his graceful bearing, had vastly improved him, and

that he was very like his father.

He came round the table, took her hand and kissed it.

"How beautiful you are, mother," he said.

The Countess coloured. That, too, was like his father. Across this

scene of the handsome room, with its pleasant appointments, with the

figures of young man and woman, rose the picture of a tablet in the

parish church. She felt suddenly very lonely.

"Susannah will show you your room," she said faintly, "and then we will

have dinner."

"The same room?" smiled Marius.

"Oh, yes!" nodded Susannah.

"Then I can find it. I have not been away a hundred years, my lady, and

I hear them with the portmantles. You must not move for me."

Laughing, he left the room. They heard his greetings to the servants in

the hall, and the agreeable bustle of arrival filled the quiet house.

The Countess sat down at the head of the table; one of her fair hands

lay among the glasses on the shining white cloth. The other drooped in

her lap; she looked up at Susannah, and her eyes were wistful.

"Do you think he has changed?" she asked.

"Into a man--yes."

Lady Lyndwood sighed.

"He has the air--he was never as handsome as Rose."

Miss Chressham laughed shortly.

"He is handsome enough." She moved a silver bowl of roses further on

to the table. "Rose, of course, is--" She suddenly broke off, and her

manner had an air of distance. "You must be very proud of them, Aunt

Agatha."

The Countess shook her delicate head.

"I feel a helpless old woman, my dear, and quite a stranger to both."

The window stood open on the June evening, a most exquisite perfume

lingered round the chamber, a perfume of roses, violets, and

indefinable things of the night; an almost imperceptible breeze caused

the candle flames to tremble against their shining silver sconces and

filled the room with a sense of life and movement.

In each of the glasses on the table a gem of light quivered, and the

little gold labels hung round the necks of the dark wine bottles gave

forth long shuddering rays. The white china was painted in pink, the

hue of the half-opened moss roses; in the centre of the table two

harts in ivory, each wearing a collar of turquoise, bore between their

antlers a crystal dish filled with pale lilies.

Miss Chressham slipped to her seat, her brown hair and eyes, her rich

complexion and bright dress made her catch the light in rivalry even of

the sparkling crystal and silver. As she moved something fell from her

dress. "My letter to Selina!" she laughed, picking it up, "and I have

never addressed it--that was Marius."

"Selina Boyle?" questioned the Countess, listening for her son's step.

"Yes, my dearest friend, you know, though I so seldom see her; she is

in Bristol with her family now," smiled Miss Chressham.

Lady Lyndwood turned her sweet face to the door.

"Of course, I remember her, my dear; she was here two seasons back--how

long Marius is!"

"She sends her greeting to you," said Susannah, "and asks after Rose;

she has heard so much of him, even in Bristol. I meant to tell you

before."

She glanced at the Countess with a feeling almost of guilt, and two

lines from Selina Boyle's letter--"tell me, I pray you, of your cousin

the Earl, who I hear has all the graces and all the vices--the saddest

rake in London!"--seemed to weigh on her as if her own.

But Lady Lyndwood smiled absently.

"Marius must be so fatigued--he is rather pale, do you not think? And I

wish he had brought Mr. Hardinge."

Miss Chressham reminded her gently.

"Mr. Hardinge had to accompany Mr. Brereton's son to London, and I

expect Marius would not have cared to travel through England with a

tutor."

She was grateful her mention of Selina Boyle's letter (that she had

been nerving herself to for three days past) had passed without comment.

To attain this end she had chosen a moment of abstraction; Lady

Lyndwood, weary with leisure, would most probably have desired to see

the letter.

And Miss Chressham did not wish to show it to her.

Now Marius re-entered, fresh and elegant in grey satin, his eyes

wonderfully dark under his powdered hair, a knot of thick lace at his

throat and a fine pink cameo clasping it--a more animated Marius, a

more charming Marius than the slightly ungainly lad from college who

had, on occasion, flouted his mother and teased his cousin two years

ago.

"Mr. Hardinge has done wonders, I swear," sighed the Countess, still

striving with that sense of loss.

And Marius, too young to admit he had ever been different from what he

was, blushed, and for a moment was awkward.

"'Tis only two years," he said; then he caught his mother's yearning

gaze and became conscious of his modish side curls and all the little

fopperies of his dress so delightfully new, and the fresh colour

deepened in his smooth cheeks.

"'Twill seem very quiet here," remarked Susannah, coming delicately to

the rescue, as he took his place opposite her; "look at the moon"--she

pointed towards the violet night.

"She appears so different in Venice," cried Marius; "are you sure she

is the same, Susannah?"

"Not at all," she answered. "And did you like Venice?"

"All of it--so much, but this is sweet, the sweetest of all, my lady,"

he bowed towards his mother.

"Ah, Marius," said the Countess wistfully, "I do not look to keep you

long."

"Rose and I must talk of that," he answered youthfully, and joyously

important. "I shall take you and Susannah to London, my lady. I have

been thinking you must be over quiet here."

"We go to stay with Rose in the season," answered Lady Lyndwood; then

she became rather abruptly silent, since what she had been about to add

could not be said before the servants.

Miss Chressham, sensitive to the reason of the pause, covered it. She

spoke of little home affairs, and drew out Marius to relate again those

incidents of his travels that had so entertained them in his letters.

He talked with animation, with gaiety, his listeners were interested

and loving; but whenever he touched on the future, on his bright plans,

on his young unconscious hopes for it, Susannah Chressham winced.

After dinner they went into the great withdrawing-room that looked on

to the hidden fragrance of the terrace and the park, and Marius sat

beside the Countess on the long Spanish leather couch; his laughing

voice made the old room ring with youth, and his mother's face flushed

as she looked at him.

Miss Chressham moved to the writing-table and observed both of them;

she felt curiously averse to speech to-night; in her heart she was

sorry--sorry for all of them, and--afraid. Idly she picked a quill and

stared at Marius.

His young English face, fair and bright, with rounded features, grey

eyes, and rebellious brown hair under the powder, wore a proud air

of distinction given by the beautiful mouth and arrogant cleft chin,

common to the Lyndwoods; when he smiled, which was not seldom, he

showed a charming dimple.

As Miss Chressham gazed at him, in a half-troubled manner, he looked

round, and she glanced away and began addressing the letter she held in

her hand.

Marius Lyndwood rose and crossed to her.

"How quiet you are, Susannah!"

She kept her face turned from him as she answered; lightly and

hurriedly her quill glided over the smooth paper.

"I am finishing my letter to Selina--interrupted because of your

return, Marius! You would not remember her, 'twas after you left that

she was here."

He scrutinised her clear writing.

"Miss Selina Boyle!" he said. "Is she a friend of yours?"

Susannah's glittering brown hair was blown across her brow by the

little breeze from the terrace as she turned to glance up at him.

"We were at school together--yes, a dear friend of mine; you do not

know her?"

"I heard of her but now at Dover--Miss Selina Boyle----"

"Heard of her?"

Marius laughed.

"Mr. Hardinge met a friend who was lately from the Wells," he

explained, "and Rose was mentioned; this gentleman had seen him at the

Wells; he had a rake-helly reputation, he declared...."

"Marius!" protested the Countess, rising delicately; "that is not fair

to Rose."

"But about Selina?" cried Miss Chressham, and her white brow was

wrinkled.

"Oh, la, Susannah, I only heard that she was at the Wells, and what

a name she had for a belle, and how Rose was paying her a deal of

attention--you must know that!"

Miss Chressham was completely off her guard.

"No!" she cried; "and I cannot understand Selina--she writes from

Bristol, and Rose is in London."

"Why, this was a month or so ago, maybe," answered Marius.

"Still, it is rather curious," remarked the Countess. "Rose never spoke

of her--and their names coupled! my dear, it would be an impossible

match."

Susannah Chressham put her letter into her pocket.

"After all, they met here, Aunt Agatha." She spoke slowly, looking the

while at the moonlit park, "And why should Rose mention it? and as for

the gossip, people will always gossip about anyone like Rose."

Lady Lyndwood fluttered open a delicate ivory fan.

"Last time it was Mrs. Fanshawe--and one always hears it so

indirectly," she complained.

Marius glanced from her to his cousin.

"It seems I have thrown the apple of discord, my lady; I was foolish to

repeat it, but I thought you would know!"

Susannah laughed, clearly and suddenly.

"How vastly foolish that we are all fallen grave over this! Now I am

going down to the lodge to leave my letters for the night coach, it

will be passing soon. Do you remember how we used to wait for it? Nay,

you must not come with me; I shall be only a moment, a few moments."

She stepped out on to the terrace, her red gown showed a moment against

the dark, then disappeared.

Marius Lyndwood was following her, when the Countess called him.

"Come and talk to me, Marius; Susannah is quite well alone."

He was beside her instantly; a slender eager figure he looked leaning

against the wide mantelshelf with the golden candle-light over him.

Lady Lyndwood kept silent, but her eyes were busy with him; the

lace had fallen from her blonde curls and lay shimmering about her

shoulders, she moved her fan to and fro as if she did not know she had

it there.

"Dear heart," she said softly, "you are wearing a miniature round your

neck; may I see it?"

Marius became slowly pale and did not answer, but he loosened from his

stock the black ribbon his mother had noticed, and held out the gold

case.

The Countess opened it, gazed at the timid placid face of a girl it

contained, and sighed and smiled.

"Where did you meet her, Marius?" she asked.

He answered, looking away.

"In Vienna--in Paris;" then he added, "she is coming to London this

autumn, and then I may see her again."

Lady Lyndwood returned the locket.

"Is she very sweet?"

"Yes," said Marius Lyndwood stiffly; "I do not know her people--we met

by chance--but I found her--sweet."

The Countess fell into silence again; she thought of Rose, who had

never mentioned to her the name of any woman in this manner, and she

looked at the ardent, innocent face of her younger son.

She spoke at last, under her breath.

"Thank you, Marius, and I hope you will present her to me--in the

autumn. Now will you not show me what you brought me from Venice?"

Marius kissed her hand; he would have liked to have kissed her feet.

CHAPTER II

ROSE LYNDWOOD

Susannah Chressham had walked steadily half-way to the lodge before she

stopped and reminded herself that she had no object in going there, and

that the letter she carried would never be sent.

However, she could not at once return; if only to give colour to the

feint that had got her from the house, she must remain a few moments in

the garden.

It was a warm evening, but she had nothing over her silk dress, and as

she paused in the shade of the chestnut avenue she shivered.

Through the broad leaves of the trees showed the night sky, pale with

moonlight and the sparkle of the stars.

Miss Chressham tore the letter addressed to Selina Boyle into fragments

and suddenly hurried on, the scraps of paper crushed in her hand.

She turned from the drive and mounted some shallow stone steps to a

temple set on a hillock; a little Grecian temple shaded by the tops of

the trees that lined the road and grown about with violets; behind the

bank sloped away to a stream crossed by a moss-covered bridge.

The moonlight was brilliant over it all, save where the chestnut leaves

cast a moving shade on the white pillars.

Susannah Chressham stepped on to the bridge and listened for a while to

the endless ripple of the water falling over the stones below; then she

again tore the letter across and across, and cast the fragments down

into the stream.

Lifting her eyes she could see the yellow lights in the windows of

Lyndwood House, and for the second time she shivered.

Slowly she retraced her way past the temple and reached the head of the

steps.

Beneath her the moonlight fell in bars across the road, fell between

the chestnut trunks and glimmered on the hard white drive.

Susannah Chressham stood motionless. A man's figure stepped out of the

shadows into one of the patches of moonlight; he wore a long cloak

flung over one shoulder and walked towards the house; the little clang

of his sword against his spurs was distinct in the great stillness.

Susannah uttered an exclamation; at that he stopped at the foot of the

steps and looked up.

"Rose," she said; "Rose--is that you?"

"It is I," he answered; and at the tone of his voice she winced, as if,

in a moment, all her unreasonable dreads faced her in tangible form.

She did not speak.

Her cousin came slowly up the steps to her.

"It is late, why are you here, Susannah?"

"And you--you return unexpectedly, Rose."

He stood hat in hand, the moonlight on his shoulders and shining on the

heavy hilt of his sword.

"Marius is here?"

"He came to-night--we thought you would follow to-morrow;" she spoke

hurriedly half under her breath to get the better of the unsteadiness

of her voice.

Rose Lyndwood glanced at the lights of the house sparkling through the

trees.

"My lady is with Marius?"

"Yes."

"Then we will not disturb them yet, my dear--the meeting can well wait."

His cousin let go of her red silk skirt, and it rustled about her on

the steps.

"Why do you speak in such fashion, Rose?" she cried.

He laughed.

"I do not bring the best of news--for Marius."

"It is as if I had known you were going to say that," answered Miss

Chressham, shivering; "come into the temple."

He followed her under the Doric portico into the cool pillared

interior; through the doorway the moonshine streamed, and the light

perfume of violets seemed to emanate from the smooth polished columns.

The Earl crossed to one of the square windows and stared across his

park; his bearing showed a man weary, indifferent, and reckless.

A marble seat ran round the wall; Susannah Chressham leant against it

and turned her eyes on her cousin; but, owing to the thick shadows, she

could only see the outline of his figure.

"Won't you tell me what this means, Rose?" she asked. "You used always

to confide in me."

"Vastly unfair on you," he answered lightly, but without gaiety; "give

me credit for outgrowing my selfishness--or some of it."

She seated herself and clasped her hands.

"Do not evade me--I might help you."

He turned to face her; now, with the moonlight behind him, she could

not see his features at all.

"You cannot, my dear." His very pleasant soft voice was grave.

"It affects Marius?" asked Susannah.

"Yes."

"It is about money?"

"You were always a sensible lady," answered the Earl; "it is about

money"--he gave the last word a curious little intonation of disdain.

"I have been waiting for this," said Susannah quietly.

"I give you credit for your observation, my cousin."

He moved slowly across the marble floor, and as his cloak fell back

straining at the clasps, she saw the gleam of his blue and silver dress

beneath.

"Tell me what has happened," she entreated.

He paused, then swung round and paced to the window again.

"Since you are not involved, Susannah, in my unfortunate affairs, I

have the less reluctance."

Still she could not see his face, the moonlight dazzled her straining

eyes.

"Not involved!" she murmured.

Lord Lyndwood pulled his gloves off slowly.

"I have come home to tell my lady and Marius that I am ruined."

She did not move nor speak.

"The estate hardly meets its own mortgage, and the land has been so

neglected as to be almost valueless." He quoted his last steward's

report, though she did not know it. "My lady does not realise this?" he

questioned.

"She realises nothing--how should she? you have kept us in ignorance."

"By Gad, I only knew myself a few days ago," said the Earl. "When I was

forced to look into the cursed business."

"But Marius has _his_ money?" cried Susannah.

"Marius has not a penny! It will be pleasant telling him so, will it

not?"

Susannah rose.

"I do not understand."

"Marius never had any money, my lord dying so suddenly without a

will--Brereton was our guardian, and a careless one."

"Careless!" interrupted Susannah Chressham. "There has been fine

carelessness here----"

"Damned carelessness," answered the Earl with a short laugh. "And when

Brereton died and I took over my own affairs--I'm afraid I didn't

improve on it. But Marius has not been stinted."

"No, and now you are going to tell him he is a pauper," said Susannah.

"Now, when he is full of plans, of hopes--oh, Rose, Rose!"

A little silence fell; very strong was the perfume of the violets, very

delicate too, insistent. Susannah spoke again.

"The lawyers must have warned you."

"I left their warnings behind me two years ago, when I first went to

the Jews, my dear."

"Then--you are--in debt?"

She felt that he smiled.

"A good deal in debt."

"And my lady?"

"My lady has some money of her own, not much--the estate must go."

"Oh, Rose!" she gave a little gasp; "is there no way out--nothing to be

done?"

The Earl appeared amused.

"Nothing, my dear. I have, naturally, tried--now we will go to the

house."

She did not move.

"There must be something we can do?"

The misery of her voice touched him.

"It is good of you to care so, cousin--I might have expected

reproaches."

"Since I am in no way involved," she quoted his sentence--"is that

what you want to say, Rose?--but my whole life is involved," she added

almost dreamily. "Lyndwood to go--you ruined, you and I to tell Marius

and my lady so to-night?"

She looked over the quiet park and saw the peaceful lights in Lyndwood

House, and she could not believe her own words.

"Ruin!" she repeated.

The Earl came towards her.

"Are you thinking of Marius?"

"No," said Susannah, "of you."

"I am the least to be considered," he answered.

"The most!" she cried. "Could you help what was in your blood?--I knew

this must happen, though now I hardly credit it--I knew this must

happen."

Rose Lyndwood sighed lightly.

"Let us go on to the house."

But she stood in the doorway.

"Tell me what you mean to do?"

"I do not know--it will be according to how they take it--my lady and

Marius."

He fingered the ends of his long tie.

"For myself," he lifted his shoulders, "I could get the appointment at

Venice, easily, and the place in Ireland would pay some of them; I do

not know what Marius will expect."

"Poor Marius!" she echoed softly. "Remember he is only a boy, Rose."

She stepped into the open now; he following.

"A Lyndwood, too--there is the army, or I would give him the estate in

Genoa."

"He says it is worth nothing," cried Miss Chressham, trembling--"and in

Italy!"

Lord Lyndwood had no reply to that; he wrapped his cloak about him, and

his cousin preceded him down the steps.

For a little while they went along the avenue in silence, she holding

up her dress, he swinging his gloves.

"Will you tell them to-night?" she asked.

"I must get back to London as soon as may be;" he glanced up at the

great chestnut leaves that hid the stars--"to-night? Gad, I suppose so."

After a moment he added:

"Neither my lady nor Marius will understand, and I cannot explain, so

it is very quickly over--one word, after all."

"Ruin," said Susannah Chressham.

"It has been the Lyndwood way, has it not? It is twelve years to-morrow

since they brought my father home--do you remember?"

"Yes," she answered.

"He tried to speak to me," said the Earl softly. "I knew what he

meant--be generous to Marius. That occurred to me last night when I

faced it, and that it would also be the easiest way for me--a duel in

Hyde Park."

He laughed.

And Susannah Chressham was silent.

They turned the bend of the avenue and saw before them the straight

front of Lyndwood House.

When they came to the foot of the steps Susannah held out her hand.

"Good-night, Rose; you will find them in the withdrawing-room--you do

not want me--I shall go upstairs. Good-night."

He kissed her fingers.

"In the withdrawing-room? I will go round by the garden; good-night."

They parted; she to enter the house, he to make his way through the

roses and laurels to the terrace at the back.

The long windows still stood open as Susannah had left them; the gleam

of candle-light fell over the stone balustrade and the flowers, the

hyacinths, pinks, and tulips.

Rose Lyndwood heard voices, light, laughing voices, and the rustle of

silk; he stepped into the light and saw the Countess standing on the

hearth.

In her fair hands she held a fine lace scarf that fell over her

gleaming dress, and she was looking at Marius, who showed her an ivory

framed mirror, wonderfully carved.

The Earl pushed the window a little wider open and entered the room.

"Rose!" cried his mother in a frightened voice.

Marius laid down the mirror and flushed; two years of change in each of

them had sufficed to make his brother a stranger to him.

Lord Lyndwood swept off his hat and crossed the room to kiss his

mother's hands.

She flushed and fluttered into her usual sweet aimless talk.

"La! you startled me, Rose; we expected you to-morrow--and have you

walked?--and I protest you have not noticed Marius!"

"My horse fell lame and I left him at the lodge." The Earl turned to

his brother--"Good evening, Marius."

They looked at each other, and the younger man was overawed and

abashed; then he laughed awkwardly.

"I scarcely know you, my lord."

Rose Lyndwood smiled.

"Two years, Marius--you also have altered."

He unclasped his cloak and flung it over a chair.

The Countess glanced at him.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked suddenly.

"Can you see so much?" He was still smiling. "Yes, but I will not

trouble you with it yet, my lady."

He crossed to the table.

"I must speak to Marius."

An expression of annoyance clouded Lady Lyndwood's fair face.

"This is a poor home-coming, Rose. I have not seen you for months--and

'tis the first evening I have had Marius."

The Earl seated himself at the table.

"I am sorry," he said.

At his elbow lay the ivory framed mirror his brother had put down; it

reflected the glimmer of his blue sleeve.

"I am sorry," he repeated; "I had, however, better acquaint Marius--at

once."

He leant back in his chair and glanced from one to the other; his long

grey eyes were half closed, and his disdainful, cold expression chilled

and annoyed my lady.

"Won't you acquaint me also, Rose?" she asked weakly. "I had better

know."

She was vaguely aware that with any personal misfortune he would never

have troubled them; this, therefore, must be something overwhelming.

The Earl looked at his brother, and Marius spoke.

"Give me leave, my lady; let me hear what Rose has to say."

His young face was serious and pale; the Countess clasped her hands and

began to tremble.

"It is about the estates. Susannah always said Mr. Langham mismanaged

everything----"

"Come into the library, Marius. We shall be back in half an hour."

Lady Lyndwood sank on the leather settee.

"There are no candles there, Rose, shall I ring?" Her anxious eyes

appealed to him.

"No," he answered, "this will suffice."

He took one of the candles from the table and led the way from the

room; Marius followed, very grave.

The Countess heard them enter the next room and the door close after

them.

She glanced about her, at the scarf Marius had brought her, lying where

she had let it slip, upon the hearth, at his mirror on the table, and

beside it Rose's grey gloves and riding stock.

The chamber grew unnaturally quiet; she was afraid to move; cruel

memories that came to her always in the silences made her blood go

cold; a look of age and suffering settled in her delicate face, she

fixed her eyes on the portrait of her husband over the mantelshelf and

clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

CHAPTER III

THE SECOND LETTER TO MISS SELINA BOYLE

The Earl set the candle on the mantelshelf, and its feeble rays dimly

revealed the massive handsome chamber, the rows of books on carved

shelves, the dark pictures, the heavy furniture.

Marius fingered his cravat, and was silent; he felt constrained and

ill at ease--troubled, not so much by the threatened revelation of

misfortune as by the presence of his magnificent brother, who was a

more splendid gentleman than any he had seen.

"I wished to tell you first and alone," said Rose Lyndwood, "for I dare

swear my lady will make a scene."

He leant against the wall by the fireplace, the candle-light full over

him. His light brown hair was unpowdered and tied with a turquoise

ribbon in his neck; he wore no jewels; the silk flowers, pink and red,

on his waistcoat sparkled with threads of gold. His complexion was

naturally pale; at the corner of his full lower lip a patch of black

velvet cunningly cut into the shape of a bat showed in contrast with

it. His delicate fair brows were slightly frowning, and his languid

lids almost concealed his eyes. He did not seem to see Marius, shyly

observing him.

"I have been looking into my affairs," he said. This remark meant

nothing to Marius, and his brother saw it. "It's a damned unpleasant

thing to say," he added, with a half-insolent smile, "but--it's ruin."

Marius stared.

"What do you mean?" he cried.

Rose Lyndwood opened his eyes wide now and gave his brother a full

glance.

"I mean I am as far in debt as I can go--that my credit is no longer

good for--anything. That Lyndwood must go to pay its mortgage, that is

what I mean."

"I don't understand," answered Marius stupidly.

"Have you never heard of a man being ruined before?" asked the Earl.

"Gad, it is not so rare!"

"But in such a fashion--so suddenly."

Rose Lyndwood shrugged his shoulders.

"Not so suddenly, only we ignored everything until now. The crash--who

cared as long as the money came from somewhere? Neither I nor you, nor

my lady."

Marius took a step towards his brother.

"And my fortune?" he said.

Lord Lyndwood gave him a kindly glance.

"For that I am sorry," he answered, "and blame myself that ye have ever

been led to believe there was anything solely yours, for now that I can

no longer pay your allowance ye stand there as poor as I."

Marius sat down by the desk against the wall.

"Nothing?" he muttered. "Nothing at all?" and his lips trembled.

"When they have sold me up," replied my lord slowly, "here and in

London, I do not see that there will be a groat between us."

"I cannot credit it!" muttered Marius.

"Believe me, you may. I have told you the truth in the fewest words."

Marius took his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the desk.

"And I am a pauper!" he said--"a pauper!"

Lord Lyndwood crossed and stood beside him.

"What can I say, Marius? When my lord died he left all in confusion,

and in confusion all has remained. While the money sufficed we shared

it. I could never have done differently to what I did, not being by

nature thrifty."

Marius was silent.

"My lady has a few hundreds of her own," continued the Earl.

"Susannah's money, too, is safe, of course"--he glanced at his brother,

whose face was concealed from him--"but as for us----"

Marius looked up now. His cheeks were red, his eyes suffused.

"Well, what for us?" he asked hoarsely.

Lord Lyndwood answered the abrupt question with another.

"Do you blame me, Marius?"

The younger man rose.

"Blame you--yes, I do blame you!" he cried. "You had no right, by God,

you had no right!"

"So this is how you take it," remarked the Earl quietly. "Well, it will

help neither of us."

He crossed to the fireplace, and his brother's fierce eyes followed him.

"_You_ take it very easily, my lord, but I cannot be so patient. You

have told me that I am penniless--penniless!"

Lord Lyndwood looked at him steadily.

"Yes," he said.

"Then," answered Marius, very pale, "I tell you that you have behaved

bitterly to me, and that I can never forgive you!"

The Earl fingered the silver braid on his sleeve.

"Why, you are very fierce," he said.

His languid manner maddened Marius.

"Reflect on what you have done, my lord. You have brought me up as a

gentleman to think nothing of money--to imagine it was there for me

when I was a man. I have seen it spent on all sides, and now you dare

face me with this tale of ruin."

"By Gad, it is not very pleasant for me," answered the Earl.

"You!" cried Marius, goaded. "A spendthrift, a prodigal! Oh, I have

heard of your reputation! If you chose to squander a fortune on your

pleasures you had no right, I say, no right to involve me in paying the

price."

He sank into the chair beside the desk again. He was trembling from

head to foot, clutching and unclutching his hands in the fine lace at

his cuffs.

The Earl looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Have you done?" he demanded.

"What is the use of speech?" cried Marius bitterly.

Rose Lyndwood faintly smiled.

"Railing easeth rage," he said. "Hear me a little longer, and I have

done. There is the entailed property in Genoa; I will make that over to

you----"

"Nay," interrupted Marius hotly, "that is poor charity, my lord. I will

not be exiled in a dead city."

The Earl slightly flushed.

"I could get you a captaincy in the Guards."

"To starve on my pay!"

"Beyond that I can do nothing."

Marius pressed his hand to his forehead.

"You have wronged me bitterly," he said in a rough voice.

The Earl set his beautiful mouth sternly.

"These reproaches," he said, "do nought but display your ill-manners!"

Marius gave an ugly laugh.

"I am not a town rake, so I pray you excuse my behaviour. I have not

yet learnt to disguise my vices and my passions."

"Enough of that!" said Lord Lyndwood shortly.

"Oh, I have heard things of you!" cried Marius, with gleaming eyes.

"This fortune was not lost soberly."

"Ye speak like a boy," said Rose Lyndwood, "and there is no answer to

what you say. What I have done, I have done, and to no one, Marius,

will I justify myself."

"There is no justification of what you have done," answered his

brother, gazing at him. "A pauper, a beggar! I think I hate you, my

lord!"

The Earl moved slightly towards him.

"As you will," he said quickly; "but remember ye held no bond of mine

for the fortune you imagined. All you had I gave you."

Marius rose; his face was pale and passionate. Since they had entered

the room his expression had changed utterly.

"So ye would remind me that I have been living on your charity!" he

cried. "That ye have educated me----"

Lord Lyndwood interrupted.

"I had not thought you would take it so hardly, Marius. I did the only

thing there was to do--what my father would have desired me to do.

While the money was there we spent it." He looked into his brother's

angry eyes and his face hardened. "I can say no more."

Marius struck his hand on the lace at his breast.

"There will be much more to be said, much more," he answered. "You have

spoilt my life for me"--he suddenly laughed--"and I suppose I take it

damned ungracefully. Good night, my lord."

He went out of the room and closed the heavy door after him with a

force that caused the candle flame to flicker and the window to shake.

Rose Lyndwood looked in front of him with an aimless gaze into the

shadows; his drooping lids and his pallor gave him an expression of

weariness.

The carved clock in the corner struck ten; as the last note quivered to

stillness, my lady entered the library.

"Oh, Rose, Rose!" she said before she had closed the door. "Marius

tells me, in one sentence, this--that we are ruined!"

"Yes," answered the Earl.

Lady Lyndwood dropped into the chair Marius had pulled out of place and

clasped her shaking hands on the desk.

"Marius also?" she whispered.

"Yes," said my lord again. "He blames me----"

"Do you wonder?" cried the Countess bitterly. "Do you wonder, Rose?"

"It seems you too find me at fault," he answered. The candle-light only

faintly revealed her, sitting by the massive desk, but fell bright over

his tall restrained presence, over his grave tired face.

"What did you expect of me?" asked Lady Lyndwood; then added, with a

kind of feeble energy, "Rose, it cannot happen--it _must_ not, however

entangled you are. It must not come to--to that--to selling the place."

"Not _selling_ it," he corrected.

"I don't understand any of it," she answered, "but it is impossible for

us to leave Lyndwood."

"It is impossible for us to keep it. Believe me, my lady, I have

considered it all. If I had seen any means to help myself I should not

be here to-night."

"But Marius!" cried the Countess miserably. "Marius to come home to

this--Marius penniless!"

The Earl's lids flickered a little.

"There are chances for Marius."

The Countess rose with a movement of impatience.

"It is bitterly unfair on him. He has been brought up to wealth; he was

as ignorant as I that the money you squandered was all we had."

Rose Lyndwood flushed.

"We have all been thriftless and careless, my lady," he said. "I the

most of any, and if I could have done anything to avert this----"

"Oh, you talk!" she interrupted with a quivering voice. "And that is

easy; but you have no right to stand there and tell me you are ruined.

How is it with others? You had as fair chances as any."

"By Gad--no!" said the Earl softly. "I had no chance to do

anything--but what I did."

My lady's anger could find no direct expression; she wavered from one

charge to another.

"You could have married," she cried. "Most gentlemen strengthen their

fortunes by a wealthy match. But you--who received your attentions? I

forbear to name them! And now it is too late."

"Too late for a fine match--yes," said Rose Lyndwood. "I have not time

to hunt an heiress before the bailiffs are in, and----"

"You would not if you could," interrupted the Countess.

"I would rather sell the estates than myself, madam."

"Your bearing is out of joint with your fortune," she returned. "Ye

speak proudly. It had been a finer pride that had prevented ye coming

to tell your mother ye had disgraced your name thus!"

The Earl looked away from her into the shadows at the far end of the

room.

"Prudence was not in my inheritance," he said slowly. "If you take it

as a disgrace that my fortune was not equal to my position--" He broke

off. "In any case, my lady, 'tis tedious and painful to discuss the

matter."

"You have no thought for me!" The Countess flung reproaches at him.

"Oh, none at all! Nor what this means to me, or to Marius! Did you ever

consider us when you wasted your father's heritage?"

"My father?" repeated the Earl. "I have lived as he lived, only 'tis my

misfortune to have faced the consequences."

Lady Lyndwood very tightly clutched the back of the chair; the

wavering candle-light sought out her face and showed it wild and sad

beneath the loose blonde hair.

Rose Lyndwood suddenly turned his beautiful head and looked at her.

"Have you nothing but bitterness for me, my lady?" he asked.

"I think of Marius," she answered.

The Earl's face hardened again.

"Marius has the world before him."

"You have broken his heart--you! And to-night he came back to me so

joyously! Listen! He met a lady abroad; he hoped to marry her."

"At one-and-twenty?" Rose Lyndwood half smiled. "How many marry their

first loves, my lady?"

The Countess sank into the chair.

"I did," she murmured in an uncontrolled voice, "and I had nothing but

happiness." And she began weeping for the twelve years dead.

"Marius was my lord's heir with you," said the Earl, "and I have

brought you nothing but misfortune. Do not shed tears, my lady, and

shame me, for maybe I can still sell myself to buy Marius his romance."

The Countess struggled with sick sobs; half under her breath she

murmured incoherent railings and feeble complaints. The Earl became

paler as he listened to her.

The candle was burning to the socket; the moonlight lay on the floor

between them, in a shifting, widening patch.

"I am returning to London to-night," said Rose Lyndwood at last.

My lady got to her feet and supported herself against the side of the

desk, holding her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Go when you will," she answered; "nay, go soon, for I have no desire

to see you in the house--let me be alone with Marius." A sudden

gleam of anger shone through her weak tears. "Nay, I doubt not you

have companions in London in whose society ye can soon forget my

unhappiness."

He made no answer, nor did he move, and without a look between them the

Countess left the room.

As the door closed after her the candle guttered and went out in the

gust of air.

For a moment or two the Earl walked up and down in the dark, crossing

and recrossing the patch of moonlight.

Then he returned to the withdrawing-room.

It was empty, the window still stood open on to the terrace, and the

air was full of the pungent smell of the flowers without.

Rose Lyndwood seated himself at the table where Miss Chressham had

written, earlier that evening, the letter whose fragments were now

being swirled down the stream into the open country.

He picked up a pen and slowly mended it, pulled out a sheet of

Susannah's gilt-edged paper, and paused.

What had happened since he had left London that morning--his meeting

with his cousin, the fierce disappointment and anger of Marius, the

foolish, bitter reproaches of the Countess--had hardly touched his real

feelings, and, personally, moved him not at all.

He had endured these scenes, disdainful of them; he knew that neither

his mother nor Marius had ever attempted to avert the ruin that so

overwhelmed them, and that they knew nothing of his real position.

To both he was a stranger in all things save blood, and now as he sat

alone, his thoughts were where they had been on the ride from London,

with the people and things of his own world, though through all was the

stinging recollection of his brother's sneers and his mother's tears.

Presently he began to write, slowly but without hesitation.

"MADAM,--You will remember that I acquainted you with the fact that

my affairs approached a crisis, and that I considered accepting the

appointment at Venice as a retreat from a life my fortunes would no

longer support. You know what other hope I dared to cherish--believe

that I have ever held dear the assurances you once gave me, and that

in writing this I taste fully the bitterness of poverty.

"I cannot go to Venice, since both my lady and Marius, my brother,

find me at fault in this entanglement of my fortunes, and 'tis but

decent that I should strive to repair losses that affect them, since

they demand it of me.

"More 'tis difficult to say on paper, yet I have no fear that you will

not understand since we never found it hard to comprehend one another.

When last you wrote you said that you were being pressed in the matter

of your betrothal to your cousin Francis--he is one to whom I should

have given my esteem in other circumstances, and one whom, even as it

is, I cannot hate, though his fortune is more brilliant than mine----"

The Earl broke off and stared out at the night with darkening eyes,

then he signed his name and the date.

Without reading the letter through he folded and addressed it to:

MISS SELINA BOYLE,

Bristol.

As he finished he looked round, for he heard the door softly open.

"Susannah," he said. His intonation held welcome; he half smiled.

Miss Chressham crossed the room; within a little distance of her

cousin's chair she paused; he was again gazing out at the night, and

she saw only his back, the blue ribbon at his neck, and the long smooth

curls that hung beneath it.

"What have they said to you?" she asked.

"That which I might have expected."

He fingered his letter, still with his face from her; she came round

his chair, her scarlet dress rippled out of the shadows with colour.

"Of course they cannot forgive," she said intensely.

Now he looked round at her suddenly, and his expression startled even

her strained anticipation.

"What are they doing?" he demanded.

"My lady is weeping--and Marius--raving like the boy he is."

The Earl leant back.

"They blame me, Susannah--curse me, I think, make me the thief of their

happiness, and--" he checked himself. "I _am_ to blame, but I will

repay."

"How?" she asked, and her voice was almost frightened.

Again he gave her his stormy grey eyes.

"Marius is in love," he smiled, not softly. "Principally my lady thinks

of that--spendthrift, you, she says, ruining this romance--well, Marius

must not be a pauper either for this love or the next, and so----"

"And so--what?" breathed Miss Chressham.

"I must mend my fortunes even as I ruined them--I must resort to an

expedient not pleasant--but I keep you standing"--he rose, his glance

sought the clock--"and it is late."

"I know what you mean to do," said Miss Chressham. "And if I had

been one with any claim on you"--she checked herself for fear of the

extravagant--"I cannot understand how they can force you," she finished.

"They do not think of me," answered Lord Lyndwood. "My lady considers

Marius, and Marius himself--I have done nothing that they _should_

think of me."

"But you take the obligation of their future upon you," cried Susannah

Chressham.

He answered her in the spirit of the words he had written to Miss

Boyle.

"I am the elder--it is but decent; and, after all," he turned to her

with a touch of his usual lightness, "'tis the fashion to marry for

money."

That glimpse of his old self unnerved her utterly.

"Oh, Rose," she protested in trembling accents, "think what you are

doing--why should you sell yourself because of Marius?"

The Earl was silent; Miss Chressham looked at him a little space, then

moved towards the window.

"But as you say," she said in another and heavier tone, "everyone does

it, and perhaps you do not care."

As she finished her glance fell on the letter lying on the little desk

between them, and she saw the name on it.

"Ah!" she added swiftly. "Do you care?"

He answered the eager look in her hazel eyes.

"Enough not to wish to speak of it," he said quietly. "Enough to ask

you to forget that I have said even that----"

"This for Marius!" she cried, hardly knowing what she did or what words

she spoke.

"Nay, for myself," he answered recklessly, "that I may not hear their

reproaches all my days--it had to be--by Gad, we cannot hope to end our

lives in fairy tales."

He picked up the letter and put it in his pocket.

"Tell my lady to rest tranquil and Marius that he shall not starve--and

for yourself--thank you, my sweet cousin."

She turned her head away.

"You will stay here to-night?"

"No, I do not need to sleep to-night."

"You have been riding all day--you cannot go back--like this."

She made an effort to look at him now; he was taking his hat and gloves

from the chair where he had thrown them on his entry.

"I shall walk to Brenton and get a horse there; I must be in London as

soon as may be."

He put on his cloak over his bright shining dress and fastened the

heavy clasps.

"You will leave them, like this?" asked Miss Chressham.

"There is no more to say," he answered.

"You will think hardly of them," said Susannah; her voice, her eyes,

her pose expressed intense excitement.

Rose Lyndwood smiled.

"Nay, I am the culprit;" he hesitated a moment, then his voice fell

beautifully soft, "do not _you_ think hardly of _me_?"

"I!" she smiled bravely; "I--I understand."

"I will write soon, to you and to my lady."

He moved towards the window, and the sweet breeze stirred the loose

hair on his forehead.

Miss Chressham followed him.

"We shall see you again?" She bit her lip, and the colour rose under

her eyes.

"Ah, soon." He took her hand and kissed it; she saw the white corner of

the letter addressed to Miss Boyle showing from the glimmering brocade

of his waistcoat, and her mouth tightened.

"My duty to my lady," said the Earl; "and--you will know what to tell

them--good-night."

His tone, his smile were endearments; to her alone that evening had he

shown anything of his usual manner; this his thanks for her patient

sympathy.

"Good-night," she answered.

He stepped out on to the terrace; the moon was directly overhead and

the trees mighty with black shadows; the white flowers looked as if

carved out of silver, and the red tulips, half seen, seemed to pulse in

the obscurity of the shade cast by the gleaming balustrade.

Rose Lyndwood looked up at the house; in his mother's room burnt a pale

light; he glanced down again at Miss Chressham standing before the

ruddy candle glow of the chamber he had just left; bright colour showed

in her scarlet dress, in her heated cheeks and brilliant eyes; she had

one hand on her bosom, and her slack fingers were soft and fair.

"Good-night," he said again, and turned away towards the shallow steps.

Miss Chressham watched him go; the stillness was, to her, rent with

voices--Marius speaking in the hot bitterness of youth, Lady Lyndwood

weeping complaining words, the soft tones of Selina Boyle and the sad

laugh of Rose Lyndwood.

"Rose Lyndwood." She repeated the name to herself, then closed the

window and drew the heavy curtain across the prospect of the stars.

CHAPTER IV

THE BARGAIN

The clear, kindly morning sun lay over the straight handsome houses in

Bedford Row and dazzled in the white dust of the wide street.

From the stucco porticoes of the mansions slanting shadows were cast

over the doors. A woman in a blue cap crying "Chairs to mend!" moved

slowly along; a few passers-by were gathered, with an air of curiosity,

about an elegant green curricle that waited outside a house in no way

different from the others, save that the shutters were up in every

window but those on the second floor.

This equipage excited attention, not only by the manifest splendour

of the white horses, the sumptuous livery of the footman, and the

gold-plated harness, but by the fact that the small crest on the body

of the chariot was that of the famous Lord Lyndwood, a name they all

knew as that of the most brilliant personage in that brilliant but

vague world of fashion that sparkled somewhere beyond their vision.

At one of the unshuttered windows stood the owner of the green chariot,

observing languidly the prospect of the wide sunny street, broken by

the little knot of people about the curricle, and the slow-moving

figure of the chair-mender, with her slender bundle of canes under her

arm.

Rose Lyndwood saw these things as a bright, expressionless picture.

Even the blue sky arching the houses had no meaning; but the thick dust

that stirred in the slow breeze and whitened the dry aspect of the

street conveyed a quiet dreariness.

The Earl moved away from the window, and his half-veiled gaze dwelt on

the details of the lofty chamber in which he waited.

Everything was very new, very magnificent. A cold, uncultured taste

expressed itself in stiff, splendid furniture; in pictures selected

for no reason, it seemed, but their bright colours and their massive

frames, and in enormous mirrors that, rising from floor to ceiling,

reflected their glories again and again after the manner of a public

dancing-room.

The chairs and settees wore linen covers that concealed all but their

shining gilt legs. There were no flowers in the painted vases nor

any small or intimate object to disturb the stately expanses of the

marble-topped tables and Japan cabinets; it appeared a room never often

used and of late long shut up.

Rose Lyndwood walked softly up and down. He had his hat under his

arm and his gloved hands clasped behind him; he wore an olive-green

riding-coat, his hair unpowdered and plainly arranged.

He was utterly out of harmony with his surroundings. It might be that

he was aware of this, for when he saw his image in the ostentatious

mirrors he very slightly smiled, and not pleasantly.

The sunlight entered by the tall bare window and lay in a great square

on the highly coloured carpet, dazzling in its passage on the flaunting

gold of furniture and pictures.

Lord Lyndwood paced to and fro, glancing, when he reached the window,

at the green chariot below, with its idle admirers, and at the empty

street beyond, and when he reached the great glass the other end of the

chamber at the reflection of his own superb person with that slight and

sneering smile.

He was by the window when the heavy-carved door quickly opened, and a

man stepped into the room.

Lord Lyndwood stood where he was.

"Good morning, Mr. Hilton," he said.

The new-comer advanced.

"I have kept you waiting, my lord," he said. "A domestic matter

detained me."

He looked at the Earl gravely, yet intently, and came nearer. He was

a middle-aged man, heavy in build, with a commonplace countenance

imparted by ambitions satisfied and a prosperity hardly attained and

keenly relished.

He was dressed in plum-coloured velvet. Across his waistcoat was a

watch-chain set with rubies that he fingered with his coarse left hand,

as if he could not forget it; he wore a large, old-fashioned peruke

heavily powdered, that, flowing on to his shoulders, gave a touch of

remote dignity to his person, belied by his shrewd, alert face.

"Your lordship must excuse the disorder of my house," he said. "We are

but newly arrived in London."

"I observe no disorder," answered the Earl. His slow glance rested on

the owner of the mansion. "It appears to me prodigious neat."

Mr. Hilton bowed.

"Will you be seated, my lord?"

Rose Lyndwood moved to one of the stiff, awkward-looking sofas, and

seated himself there, with his back to the light.

"You received my letter?" he asked, placing his hat beside him.

"I had that honour, my lord."

Mr. Hilton placed himself in one of the covered chairs, sat erect in

unconscious discomfort, and gazed at the Earl with narrowed eager eyes.

"Then there is the less for me to say," answered Rose Lyndwood.

He sat carelessly, and his voice was languid, as if it were no great

matter that he discussed; but his face was pale above the black stock,

and his lips had the look of disdain that came to them when against his

will he forced himself to touch affairs he wished to spurn.

"If your lordship's object in this visit is what I imagine it to be,"

said Mr. Hilton, "there is not much for us to discuss."

Rose Lyndwood lifted his head; he did not look at the other man, but

beyond him.

"A year ago, or nearly a year ago, Mr. Hilton, you and I met on a

matter of business." The disdainful smile was now unmistakable. "You,

as one of the gentlemen connected with my banking house, knew, and

know, something of my affairs."

Mr. Hilton nodded, as if he heard what he had expected and was

satisfied.

The Earl began to pull off his gloves slowly, loosening each finger

first. He turned his eyes on Mr. Hilton, and they looked as dark as the

velvet bat at the corner of his beautiful mouth.

"I was in difficulties then, you will remember, and you made a

proposition to me that I rejected. How much of this need I recall to

you?"

"I recollect it," said Mr. Hilton, "perfectly."

There was a hardly noticeable pause and a hardly noticeable effort on

the part of the Earl before he spoke again.

"I am now an utterly ruined man."

Mr. Hilton nodded for the second time, as if he listened to something

that he knew, and yet something that he was pleased to hear put into

words.

"I shall not even be able to save Lyndwood or the property in the

North. My credit is strained to the utmost, and it is only a matter of

days before the brokers seize even my personal effects."

He smiled rather insolently and looked fixedly at his listener.

"Do you care to repeat what you said when last we met, Mr. Hilton?"

"The proposal I made you, my lord?"

"Yes."

Mr. Hilton clasped the arm of his chair with his right hand; his left

fondled the ruby watch-chain, his lips were set firmly, and a little

sparkle danced in his eyes.

"I repeat that proposal, my lord."

"You understand my position, Mr. Hilton--that I am a penniless man?"

"I understand, my lord, what a nobleman's ruin means. I will assume the

worst--that your debts are immense, the Jews outrageous, the creditors

flint, that you have obligations, hungry relations and the like, and

still I make you the offer I made you a year ago."

Lord Lyndwood flushed faintly.

"I have come to accept it, Mr. Hilton."

The elder man rose abruptly.

"I thought," he said, in a soft tone, "that it could be only a question

of time, my lord."

The Earl was now on his feet, too.

"Let us put this matter formally," he said, and his grey eyes were

afire. "I request the honour of your daughter's hand in marriage. Now

is it Yes?"

The colour had deepened in his face, and the knot of the black silk

cravat on his breast rose and fell quickly; but for that he had the

appearance of complete composure.

"It is Yes, my lord," answered Mr. Hilton. "From this moment Lavinia is

your betrothed wife"--he uttered the words as if they gave him intense

pleasure, and repeated them--"your betrothed wife."

The Earl stood silent, his right hand closed down on the hilt of his

sword, his eyes on Mr. Hilton, who took a sharp turn about the room,

then stopped before him.

"What are your debts?" he asked; and his fingers were busily caressing

his watch-chain. "How much do you owe the Jews, and what is the

mortgage on Lyndwood? But no matter, that is a business affair, we must

see the lawyers," he smiled; "all shall be paid--every penny," his

smile deepened; "it is good to have money, is it not, my lord?"

"It is necessary," said my lord, and he also smiled. "As I have

found----"

Mr. Hilton moved slowly away and contemplated Rose Lyndwood out of

wholly triumphant eyes.

The great chamber, the rich paintings, the gilt mirrors were his,

bought with his money; this man, Rose Lyndwood, eighteenth Earl of

Lyndwood, aristocrat and proud, the most famous beau in town, this man

was his also, bought as surely as the gaudy furniture against which he

stood. This was Mr. Hilton's crude thought, and the Earl read it.

"You are satisfied?" he asked in a tone that was an insult.

"I am satisfied, my lord; the debts within a week, the wedding within a

month."

Rose Lyndwood picked up his gloves; Mr. Hilton waited for him to speak;

when the words came they were unexpected.

"May I see Miss Hilton?" His voice was courteous again.

"She is in the house;" her father was instantly at the bell-rope--"yes,

I should wish you to see her."

My lord pulled out his glass and dangled it by the ribbon; he had an

air of complete abstraction, of aloofness from his surroundings.

"A year ago Lavinia was at school," said Mr. Hilton; "she has had the

education of a noblewoman, my lord."

Rose Lyndwood was silent; he looked past the speaker towards the door;

glass and ribbon swung from his fine idle hand.

The bell had been obviously a signal, for it was the lady herself who

entered.

She came a little way into the room.

"Lord Lyndwood, Lavinia," muttered Mr. Hilton. He moved awkwardly

from the hearth; embarrassment made him appear clumsy, even foolish;

his daughter, too, stood dumb and fluttering, but the Earl was now

perfectly at his ease.

He crossed to Miss Hilton and took her hand; she trembled a curtsey.

"I come as a suitor, madam," he said, as he kissed her finger

tips--"would it mightily displease you to become Countess of Lyndwood?"

Then he looked at the girl; he found her fair, pale, very young; to

him, at least, without charm or savour; her large eyes seemed to widen

with fright, her lips quivered.

"I am honoured," she said, and glanced at her father, then down again

at the floor.

"And I am grateful, Miss Hilton," smiled Lord Lyndwood, "that I have

your consent--for it is a consent, is it not?"

"Yes, my lord," then she moved suddenly away from him. "Sir," she

addressed her father, "will you permit me to retire?"

The eyes of the two men met for a second across her shrinking presence.

Miss Hilton had not come more than a few paces from the door; and now

she retreated towards it, with lowered eyes.

"When may I wait on you, madam?" asked the Earl. "You must send me your

command."

Again she looked towards her father, who was regarding her with a

mixture of shame and pride extraordinary to see.

"Ask my father, sir," she answered, and showed such a piteous desire to

be gone that he could not but open the door for her.

Mr. Hilton strode up and down the lengthening patch of sunlight.

"She is shy, my lord, you must forgive it; but a charming girl, for

any situation, charming--and now for the lawyers; make your own

appointment, my lord."

Rose Lyndwood came across the room eyeing him.

"A moment, Mr. Hilton; have you or I thought over what we are doing?"

Suspicion clouded the older man's face.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

The young Earl flushed and his eyes darkened.

"I think of Miss Hilton--this--bargain concerns her, does it not?"

The merchant was cautious, as one dealing with qualities strange to him.

"Still I do not understand, my lord."

Rose Lyndwood answered on a quick scornful breath.

"You know my motive in this matter, Mr. Hilton, and your own--brutal

words could not make it clearer between us than it is now--but what of

your daughter, is it fair to her?"

The other fumbled for the meaning behind these words.

"This is a curious thing for you to say, Lord Lyndwood."

"I speak against my own advantage, Mr. Hilton, which lies in this

match," he smiled bitterly; "and Gad, I know not why I _do_ speak save

that there is no one else to say to you--reflect."

Mr. Hilton frowned heavily.

"Do you seek to evade the contract pledged between us?"

The Earl's voice was stormy as he answered.

"This is a sordid enough business, sir; believe me I do not find it

pleasant." He checked himself, then flashed out again, haughtily, "I

have seen Miss Hilton, and I have seen she is reluctant to become my

wife. God in Heaven! do you not understand? What can you offer her? I

am not famous for the domestic virtues."

Mr. Hilton was quick now to think he saw the intention behind the words.

"I am not asking for your reformation, my lord," he answered. "I expect

nothing but to see my daughter your wife."

"And I," said Rose Lyndwood, "was thinking not of you nor of myself,

but of Miss Hilton; is it not possible for you to comprehend that?"

The expression of baited anger returned to Mr. Hilton's intent face.

"What does this mean?" he asked. "That ye seek to evade what ye have

pledged yourself to, my lord?"

"Leave the matter, I pray you"--it was almost as if he addressed his

servant--"I spoke from a passing impulse, a foolish one." He picked

up his hat from the linen cover of the settee; his manner closed the

subject.

Mr. Hilton, baffled but appeased, was silent, fondling his watch-chain.

"Monday will be convenient to me," said Lord Lyndwood. "I shall look to

see you then, at my house, about twelve of the clock. My lawyer will be

acquainted."

"And the betrothal shall be made public at once," assented Mr. Hilton.

He glanced up at Rose Lyndwood and was surprised into an exclamation.

"What is the matter?" asked the Earl quietly.

"You looked so pale, my lord; I thought you were ill."

The Earl's heavy lids almost concealed his eyes; he smiled, ignoring

both the remark and the speaker.

"I shall await you on Monday; now I must no longer trespass on your

time--_au revoir_." He bowed, not it seemed to Mr. Hilton, but to some

intangible quality in the room, and turned to the door, swinging his

gloves.

The older man was profuse and respectful in his leave-taking; my lord

smiled beyond and above him, remote in an unnatural composure.

Mr. Hilton accompanied him down the stairs, not forgoing the moment on

the doorstep when the idlers round the green chariot turned agape to

see the Earl, to mark his companion and the intimate manner of their

parting.

My lord was still noticeably pale when he mounted the curricle; as he

gathered up the reins he shuddered.

The groom sprang to his place behind and the impatient white horses

trampled the dust with joy.

My lord looked over his shoulder and saw Mr. Hilton lingering on the

doorstep--he stood up and whispered to the horses.

As the chariot sped glittering down the street, one of the loiterers

hailed a new-comer:

"There goes Lord Lyndwood--driving like the devil!"

CHAPTER V

THE TRUE LOVE

Mrs. Beale stopped her chair and stepped out.

"Lord Lyndwood," she said softly, and beckoned him with her fan.

The shifting idle crowds of the Mall divided them, but if her voice

was lost on the gay summer air (already so laden with whispers and

laughter) he saw the gesture and came over to her.

Her languishing eyes were reproachful as he kissed her hand.

"La! I have seen so little of you! Will you walk on with me?"

"Is there need to ask, my dear?"

She tossed her head, her cheeks were suffused with colour. As they

sauntered side by side under the lime trees her glance searched for

rivals to witness and envy.

"I am to play Statira to-night."

"Who is Roxana?" He smiled down at her dark prettiness.

"Do you care?" she pouted.

"Not at all."

"'Tis Miss Fenton in an ugly red gown from Paris," she informed him; "a

hoyden!"

Rose Lyndwood looked languidly before him. She touched his black velvet

sleeve with scented fingers.

"Will you come?" she demanded, her regard full of fire and entreaty.

"To-night?"

"I am not playing to-morrow."

"Then I will come to-night."

She flounced her white skirts out of the dust.

"Only come if it please you."

"Why, it pleases me," smiled Lord Lyndwood.

They were nearing St. James's Park. Very pleasantly the evening light

glimmered in the fresh leaves of the limes and chestnuts and lay in

flakes of gold on the lake, where the white ducks swam. Long pale

shadows trailed over the gravel walks and close grass lawns; here and

there the red and pink of the hawthorns starred the green.

For a little while the actress was silent. When they reached the edge

of the water she looked up at her companion; her wide straw hat cast

half her face into the shade and the red strings tied at her throat

showed off the whiteness of her round chin.

"You are going to be married, I am told."

"The town knows it," he replied.

"At last!" laughed Frances Beale. "Well, I wish you happiness."

He turned a glance on her that checked her laughter.

"Thank you, my dear," he said.

They had paused at the margin of the lake; the gold ripples ran like a

pathway from the toe of Mrs. Beale's little shoe to the tall poplars

on the opposite bank, through the dark leaves of which the sun blazed,

cloudless to its setting.

"You are very fortunate," said Mrs. Beale, gazing at the water. "The

wealthy Miss Hilton. La, there has been a power of men after her

swinging fortune!"

"That isn't amusing," answered Rose Lyndwood. "I think, my dear, that

you had better leave the subject."

"Am I bound to be amusing?" she demanded.

He lifted his hat to a passing acquaintance.

"'Tis your profession," he replied lazily.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You endeavour to put me off--you think me a fool, no doubt; but I know

what every fool knows, that old Hilton has been playing for you for a

year and more." Her accent was violent and slightly vulgar; she pulled

tempestuously at some unhappy roses at her breast and scattered them on

the ground. "That doll!" she cried. Then her tone softened. "Well, 'tis

the way of the world," and she sighed.

One pale fair cloud hovered above the poplars opposite. Lord Lyndwood

looked at it as he answered:

"There is no remark to be made about such a commonplace affair save

this, that the lady is too good for me."

Mrs. Beale laughed.

"Too _good_--yes! You aren't seen with her much."

"Miss Hilton is indisposed," he answered. "And, by Gad, Fanny, I'll not

have you speak in such fashion--of her or me!"

She wilted at once beneath the hint of his anger.

"Why, I meant no harm," she breathed quickly. "Forget about it, and

come to see Statira to-night. You promised."

He rewarded her submission with a smile.

"I will be there from the rise of the curtain."

They sauntered on again. Mrs. Beale found consolation for much in the

glances bestowed on her companion and by the reflection that half the

town must have seen whom she walked with, yet this was only a passing

pleasure merely softening deep and sad feeling.

"Come and tell Statira that she was better than Roxana, afterwards,"

she said. "We so seldom see you in the Fields now that I think ye must

go to Drury Lane."

A sudden breeze arose, ruffling the water and blowing the ends of his

powdered hair on to her shoulder.

"I have been occupied of late, in truth," he answered.

"With Miss Hilton?" she could not resist saying.

"With my approaching marriage--yes." Then he laughed sweetly. "Let

Statira expect me to-night after the play."

"Statira will be proud." Her eyes glowed. "La, I shall act well

to-night!"

"As always."

"Ah, no!" she answered almost bitterly. "I cannot act. I can rant upon

the boards, 'tis all. When most I wish to disguise my feelings, then do

I find how poor an actress I am."

"Do you wish to act for my benefit, my dear?" asked Lord Lyndwood

lightly.

She gave him a dark bright glance.

"Sometimes, maybe. Now the sun is setting, will you see me to my chair?"

They made slow way back through the thinning crowd.

Mrs. Beale was suddenly gay.

"What flowers will you bring me to-night? When last I played Statira,

Lord Sandys sent me more yellow roses than I could wear in a month. The

Fenton was furious; but you, nothing from you!"

"I was in Kent." His words were the merest excuse, but his eyes made

amends. "I will redeem myself to-night."

Her lids drooped.

"Whatever you may send I will wear."

He sighed.

"What can London yield fair enough?"

"Anything _you_ have chosen," she answered in a low voice. Then

abruptly she looked up at him. "Don't you know it?"

"My hopes were, maybe, so presumptuous."

They reached her chair under the limes. The golden dust of evening

hovered in the chilling air; overhead the sky was a fading blue, and

the fragrant leaves shivered together.

The grey eyes of Rose Lyndwood laughed into the fair face of Frances

Beale, and for a moment she forgot that there were many to mark it.

"Till to-night, _au revoir_," she said, and her lips quivered.

He had possession of her hand for some seconds. When at last she drew

up the glass and her chair was borne away down the Mall, he sauntered

idly in the opposite direction.

The long walks emptied as the sky filled with deep and pure gold and

the encroaching shadows merged into one darkness over the park.

Rose Lyndwood leant against the posts that bordered the grass, and drew

a letter from his pocket, the latter part of which he re-read in the

waning afterglow:

"... _Marius_ is staying with _Mr. Brereton_ now; I had his

Confidences before he left. Had You heard You had pitied! He is very

much in Love. He does not, it seems, know her Name, though she has

his. He is awaiting her letter in an ardour _Beautiful_ to behold.

"I tell You this to put a gloss upon his Selfishness. He is frankly

_Pleased_ at your Marriage and the prospect it unfolds for him. He

desires you will write to him to let him know your Commands about his

attendance at the Ceremony.

"_My Lady_ has forgiven you; indeed, I think has forgotten that she

Ever reproached you. She makes complaint of _Miss Hilton's_ lack of

Pedigree, but wishes her friendship. I think she is not Eager to go to

_London_ for the Wedding, which she desires to be very Private, so as

not to make a show of a necessity; but this must be as you Wish.

"From what you say of _Miss Hilton_ I think she must be Good and

Sweet. Convey our duty to her; we shall be glad when you bring her to

_Lyndwood_.

"We are very Quiet here now _Marius_ has gone, and the white Roses

that are Just coming to a bloom are become my best Companions.--Your

dutiful cousin,

"SUSANNAH CHRESSHAM.

"POSTSCRIPTUM.--I have had no Letter for a long While from _Miss

Boyle_. Is she still in _Bristol_? I heard you had met her at _The

Wells_. I would be Obliged if you would Tell me if she be in _London_

and at what address.--S. C."

Rose Lyndwood folded up the letter, returned it to his pocket, and

walked idly through the twilight streets to his mansion near Panton

Square.

His solitary and splendid dinner over, he answered his cousin's letter

in this manner, writing with a steady hand but showing a face which

reflected emotions not to be forever repressed:

"MY COUSIN,--Accept my dear thanks, and this brief answer, for your

Epistle, which was pleasant to receive and to read.

"The marriage is for the 3rd of _July_ in _St. James's Church_. Very

few will be present. I shall not desire my Lady's attendance.

"Afterwards we go to _Paris_, and shall return to _Lyndwood_ the

beginning of August, when I shall desire _Marius_ to be at home that I

may Speak with him.

"I have seen but Little of _Miss Hilton_; at present she is Indisposed

and confined to her House.

"She sings and plays with a Charming air, but I think she hath a

Melancholy disposition.

"Convey my Service to her Ladyship.--Your dutiful cousin,

"LYNDWOOD.

"POSTSCRIPTUM.--I have not seen _Miss Boyle_ since I was at the

_Wells_. I believe she is still at _Bristol_.--L."

As the Earl sealed this letter he smiled with a sad disdain--not

at what he had said, but at what lay unexpressed behind the bare

sentences, and for a while he sat silent with dreaming eyes.

CHAPTER VI

THE FAREWELL

The theatre was crowded and the air close and heavy; a continual murmur

of voices rose from the pit, laughter, snatches of song, and whispers.

Rose Lyndwood leant from his box, put up his glass and surveyed the

house; behind him two young men yawned, and laughed, aimlessly,

lounging against the side of the box.

The Earl was silent; they could not involve him in their jests or

comments. He remained with face averted idly gazing at the faces below;

nearly all turned towards him, he was commonly more stared at than the

play.

"'Tis vastly warm here," complained one of his companions. "Why aren't

they beginning?"

Rose Lyndwood suddenly swung about and lifted dark eyes to the speaker.

"Who is that opposite with Sandys?" he asked.

"The charmer in green?"

"Yes, do you know her?"

George Cochrane answered.

"'Tis Miss Lescelles; the dame in the huge toupee is her mother."

"She and Sandys are to be married in July," added the other.

"She is prodigious pretty," said my lord languidly, "and I never saw a

countenance express more happiness."

Lord Cochrane smiled.

"She is quite enamoured of Sandys."

"Sandys! Good Gad!" yawned the other.

Rose Lyndwood gazed again at the lady opposite; rosy and smiling she

was in her green gown with her swansdown cloak revealing the pearls on

her white neck.

"Sandys is to be envied," he said, "in that he can make her look so

happy."

George Cochrane, signalled by a group entering below, took his leave;

his companion followed, and the Earl remained alone in the box.

Through the murmuring noises of the audience settling to their places

sounded the light joyous laugh of Miss Lescelles, and as Rose Lyndwood

glanced in her direction his eyes saddened.

At last the curtain stirred and parted; Miss Fenton stepped into the

yellow artificial light and lisped the prologue.

She was gorgeous in a scarlet farthingale and a gold silk turban looped

with diamonds; she ogled the boxes with good effect, and was apt in the

management of her fan; the Earl approved her with a smile, and the pit

was generous in applause.

She withdrew, reluctantly, from the public gaze, and the curtain was

looped back before an Eastern scene.

It had been very handsomely done. Barry was playing, and Quin; the

perukes were from Paris, and the management had been lavish in the

matter of Turkish mail and jewelled scimitars.

When Statira appeared the house shouted welcome; she turned her eyes up

at Rose Lyndwood as she curtsied.

She held his gaze through the scene that followed, and the knowledge of

it made her acting splendid--Roxana was eclipsed, vanquished.

The Earl found the high emotions, the stormy expressions, the fierce

gestures, the lights, the jewels suited to his mood; he was pleased as

he had seldom been pleased at the play.

Statira was beautiful to look upon; she wore her purple with a regal

air, as she moved to and fro gold gleamed round her slender waist, her

black curls floated beneath her green turban, red lilies, his gift,

heaved on her stormy bosom, and her dark eyes flashed to the box where

Rose Lyndwood sat alone.

He was held by the passion she expressed, by her movements, her

changing voice; the tempestuous play, the angry jealousy, the flash

of arms, the glint of daggers, the sonorous eloquence of Quin, the

languishing grace of Barry combined to captivate his senses; he did not

move or once take his eyes from the scene till the curtain fell on the

first act.

Statira, panting and flushed beneath her paint, swept a great curtsey

to the acclaiming house.

My lord unfastened one of the white roses at his cravat and flung it at

her feet. She carried it to her lips as she retired into the wings, and

he kissed his hand.

The audience relaxed after their silence. The beaux stood up in the pit

to show off their clothes, some of the ladies readjusted their masks;

the porters went round snuffing the candles. Rose Lyndwood leant back

in his box smiling to himself a little.

Then he chanced to lift his eyes and saw--her.

She sat alone, directly opposite, erect and smiling at him; their gaze

met across the lights, the jests and laughter, that in an instant were

utterly tawdry, and he got to his feet, breathing sharply.

Miss Selina Boyle still smiled. Her hands were folded in her lap, and

she was wrapped in a soft grey mantle; against the shadows of the empty

background her light hair showed like a wreath of faint flame about her

head.

He descended into the theatre and passed through the noisy crowds, not

knowing of them; he opened the door of her box.

"May I come in, madam?"

She looked at him, saying nothing, and he entered.

"I thought you were in Bristol."

"We came to London yesterday," said Miss Boyle. "Will you sit down, my

lord?"

He took the chair behind her.

"Who is with you to-night, madam?"

"My father--he has gone to visit the room behind the scenes, he will

not return till after this act."

"May I stay?" asked Rose Lyndwood gravely. "I wish to speak to you."

She gave him a full glance out of soft and rich eyes.

"I wondered," she said, below her breath, "if you would care to come--I

have been watching you since we entered--just after the rising of the

curtain, my lord."

Those past moments, wasted on Statira's noisy charms while she gazed at

him, were too utterly dead, too smitten into extinction by her voice

and her look to be even regretted.

"Do not think," he answered, "that I left this to chance, madam. I

should have come to Bristol."

She moved half round so that she could see his face. They were both in

shadow, only the yellow light from without touched his white silk cuff,

and his hand resting on the back of the empty chair before him.

"I received your letter, my lord," she said. "Forgive me if I could not

answer it."

"You understood?" asked Rose Lyndwood intently; "by what I said and

what you have heard since, you understand?"

Her delicate and spiritual face quivered with a smile.

"Oh, yes," she replied. The folds of the grey silk wrap touched her

chin, and the pale auburn curls loosely gathered on her proud head fell

apart softly on her low brow. Looking at her my lord changed in voice,

in mien, in expression, and a part of him that no other had ever seen

was hers to gaze on.

"If my lady and your brother wished it," she added, "there was no

other thing to do, and I would have desired you to act as you did, my

lord."

"As I knew," he answered; "but I am selfish enough to wish you, madam,

to know what it costs me"--he caught his breath and bent towards

her--"no, not that, I wish to tell you----"

Miss Boyle interrupted him.

"Shall we not, for our own sakes, remember Miss Hilton? What you have

not dared to say to me before you cannot say now," her tone sank to an

exquisite tenderness; "this is farewell."

"And because it is farewell," said my lord in a tone low but swelling,

"I must be bold enough to say some things to you--to tell you this at

least, that you have given me the sweetest pain--that I would sooner

have died on my own sword than do what I have to do."

"But that way is for boors," she flashed response; "gentlemen must

live. Perhaps I also see no great joy ahead"--her eyes were like live

gold in her shadowed face; "it has all been a pitiful matter, and I am

sorry for Miss Hilton, but as for us--we may find some greatness in our

way of meeting the future."

Her breath came hastily, and she lifted her fine fingers to her throat

and loosened the grey wrap.

"What do you think I can do?" asked my lord, something wildly; he

straightened himself and half withdrew into the shadow of the box.

She heard the rattle of his sword, the shiver of his silks, and saw

that he pressed his clenched hand to his brow. "Where am I to find my

consolation?"

"Oh, sir!" cried Miss Boyle. "What can I say, or how judge for you? My

philosophy is a woman's, and suited to a woman's needs."

Rose Lyndwood stared at her across the dusty shadows, and all that was

noble in him lay bare in his gaze.

"It is not possible, madam," he said, "that you could care as I care.

It is not possible!"

The spectators had returned to their seats. The curtain had risen upon

the pageant of love and jealousy. These two did not heed it, save by

lowering a little their already hushed voices. Miss Boyle had her back

to the stage, and my lord did not notice what took place upon it. He

did not know whether Roxana or Statira raved, or if Barry or Quin

declaimed.

"You must not think that of me," answered Miss Boyle. "When first I had

your letter I thought St. Mary's vaults the sweetest place to be--the

sunshine was like a sword--but I strove to justify your--what you

thought of me--by some fortitude, and then it came to me, like a bird

might come to a flower, how little it mattered."

Rose Lyndwood sat motionless in the shadows of the box, only the lace

round the raised hand that held his head trembling a little.

"My lord," continued Miss Boyle, in a voice mournfully sweet, "thus

I reason it--that sure knowledge we both have is so great a thing

that--ah, 'tis as if we had been together in some pure temple that none

other knew of, and the memory of it were enough. Even if the portals

are forever closed, none can steal the picture we have of what lies

beyond the doors--but you will smile at me and my poor fancies."

His answer came unsteadily.

"You have lost so little--God knows how little--but I have

lost--everything."

Her delicate breast heaved.

"Have I given you nothing, my lord--nothing that you may keep always?"

"You shame me," said Rose Lyndwood, "and I am too ignoble for these

words you speak to me. I have been born and bred in folly, and in folly

I must live and die, but I am not yet a patient fool to take this

smilingly----"

The manifold colours of the stage flashed and glittered. Roxana

shrieked, and Statira lost her fire staring at an empty box, but these

two saw nothing.

The mantle slipped from Miss Boyle's shoulders, showing her pale,

shining dress, and the tender curve of her chin and throat. The Earl

spoke again:

"Because I thought of you I was false to you; because I had you always

in my thoughts I put you out of my life; but this you must have known,

and I but mar with words my meaning. 'Tis when we strive to interpret

our silences that we misunderstand one another."

"About Marius?" breathed Miss Boyle. "Susannah wrote me somewhat----"

"Yes," answered the Earl. "Marius is my lady's heir. He hath inherited

all her affection for my dead lord, and she in her grief reproached

me that I had ruined him, for it seems he hath fallen in love in a

fantastical sad fashion. A year ago I had laughed at it, but now it

weighed greatly with me. What had I been, thought I, had I met and

won her when I was twenty-one? What may it not mean to Marius to win

or lose this lady? I did not dare it should be through me. 'Twas my

happiness or his, and I had not the right."

"No," said Selina Boyle softly. "You had not the right; you are the

elder of your house."

Leaning towards her, Rose Lyndwood answered:

"My life hath been amiss, as my lady reminded me, and Marius shall not

be so shackled that his can be no better. If his romance is strong

enough to save him from being the useless rake-helly fool I have been,

somewhat hath been achieved; if not, at least I have tried to make

amends, and he hath it in his own hands."

He paused a moment and pressed his handkerchief to his lips.

"Mine own deeds can I take on my own soul, but not the life of another

man; so Marius is free."

Silence fell in the dark, narrow little box. Miss Boyle bent her head.

"You understand, madam?" asked the Earl, after a moment's agonised

scrutiny of her averted face.

She gave a torn little sigh.

"My silly heart incommodes me. I strive to tell you, my lord, that you

have done the best that could be--for Mr. Lyndwood and your honour."

Still she would not look at him, and he rose in his seat.

"If he is spared what I endure now," he said unsteadily, "through any

act of mine, he hath cause to thank me."

Now she slowly turned her eyes on him.

"There is one we do not speak of," she whispered. "What of Miss Hilton?"

His pale face darkened.

"She knows why I seek her hand, and assents to the dictates of her

ambition."

"Maybe of her father," said Miss Boyle. "She is very young."

"I cannot find it in me to pity her, madam, for this honour I do her.

She will find me courteous, as I doubt not I shall find her obedient."

A sudden smile radiated Miss Boyle's ardent face.

"I do not commiserate her in that she will be your wife, my lord, but

in that she hath no place in your affections. Your wife--ah, sir, the

theatre grows something close, and my head throbs piteously."

The smile faded from her face, and her long lids drooped.

"Give me that flower from your lace," she whispered, "and go. You must

go!"

She rested her head against the side of the box, and her lashes showed

dark yet gleaming against her smooth pale cheeks.

"I cannot give you that," answered my lord, "for it hath touched one I

degraded, lain next a fellow I treated carelessly."

She did not move, speak, or raise her eyes, but her whole slight body

quivered and trembled with her breathing.

"This is for you," said Rose Lyndwood, under his breath, and faintly.

"When I was a child I loved it; it seemed to me sacred. I--I did not

understand it, and so I kept it hidden; it hath been secret all my life

because of this. Will you take it?"

She looked, and her eyes were drenched with tears; it was a small white

shell with a smooth pink lip that lay on my lord's palm. She did not

put out her hand, and he placed it on the edge of the box.

Then she took it up.

"'Tis safe with me," she breathed, "for ever."

The act came to a tearing conclusion. These two looked at each other.

"It is better you should go now," whispered Miss Boyle.

He stooped in the darkness and took up the end of her scarf, laid it to

his lips, and was gone.

A shaft of strong light fell across her face as he opened the door. As

he softly closed it, and she was again concealed in soft darkness, she

closed her eyes and smiled while the great tears quivered on her lashes.

Lord Lyndwood's box stood empty for the rest of the performance.

Statira acted like a fury, and afterwards fell into hysterics in

the green-room, to the triumph of Miss Fenton and the other ladies

performing in _The Rival Queens_.

CHAPTER VII

"ASPASIA"

"I wish you would go and meet them at the lodge," said Susannah

Chressham.

"'Tis near an hour before they are due," smiled Marius, looking at his

watch. "How impatient you are!"

"To see her, yes." Miss Chressham unfurled her pink parasol. "I am

quite agitated."

"Shall we return to the house?"

"No, it is very pleasant here; let us go to my rose garden, it will

pass the time, and really some of the blooms are beautiful."

They took a path that led towards the lake across the cedar-shaded

lawn; the sun was strong before its setting and cast a soft glow

through the rosy silk of Miss Chressham's parasol on to her bare brown

head and white dress; Marius Lyndwood was very exquisitely arrayed in

dove-coloured satins; as he walked beside his cousin he played with the

red tassels on his ivory-headed cane.

"Has Rose written to you of late?" asked Miss Chressham suddenly.

"I received a letter from him two days ago, as I was leaving

Brereton's," answered Marius half shyly. "I spoke of it to my lady, but

she did not encourage me to show it to her."

He switched at the thick daisies with his cane.

"Rose wrote from Calais--charmingly--he enclosed bills to a large

amount, and said he had arranged a captaincy for me in the Blues--'twas

all very sweetly worded."

"Rose has a chivalrous soul," said Miss Chressham.

Marius flushed.

"You, with him, make me out a selfish boor, maybe," and the crimson

deepened in his cheeks. "I was passionate with my lord, but he hath

given me no chance to put it aright."

They were now skirting the borders of the lake, and their bright

dresses were reflected like painted shadows in the still water.

Susannah spoke firmly.

"What Rose has done he did because he was the head of the house and

because you and my lady made it clear that you expected his duty of

him--it was natural that you should----"

"Ye make me uneasy with this talk of his sacrifice," cried Marius.

"I said duty, not sacrifice," returned Miss Chressham; "this marriage

hath saved the estates, the name, my lady and you."

It was at the irises growing at the water's edge that Marius struck now

with his impetuous cane.

"But," he said as if in self-justification, "a man in my lord's

position must marry, and 'tis usually an heiress; the thing is done

every day; many might have expected Rose to do it sooner, before it

came to openly making a bargain of it."

Susannah Chressham tilted her parasol and turned keen eyes on his

half-ashamed face.

"Would you have cared to marry a stranger, Marius, because she had a

hundred thousand pounds to her dowry, and her father had paid your

debts?"

"I am not the Earl," said he, wincing.

"But had you been----"

He interrupted.

"Had I been, Susannah, maybe I had not so wasted my fortunes that I

had need to mend them in this way; take it as you will, my lord is a

rake and a prodigal; why, Beau Lyndwood is the most conspicuous name in

town."

"My lord," she answered warmly, "hath lived as his father before him,

and ye have no cause to speak; your romance lies open to you--my lord

has paid, and with the price he gets you can save yourself from my

lord's sins."

Marius answered in a soft troubled voice.

"Do not blame me, cousin, 'tis not entirely for me that he does

this----"

"Very largely for you, that you may have the chance to win this lady

who may be all in all to you."

"I am grateful," said Marius simply. "For indeed I want little else but

that same lady--we shall not trouble Rose."

They had turned away from the lake into a little grove of Eastern

shrubs, myrtles, laurels and oleanders; Susannah's skirt trailing over

the fallen fragrant leaves made a pleasant sound; she softly closed the

parasol.

"Has she written to you, Marius?"

"No," he looked away, "but she said she would not be returning to

London till September, and, of course, it does not matter whether she

writes or no."

"You are so sure of her?" breathed Susannah.

"So sure," he smiled.

"Not even knowing her name!"

He lifted a bough of myrtles from the path.

"I called her in my fancy 'Aspasia' from Mr. Fletcher's play, 'twas

enough; I only spoke to her twice; the first time we said so little!

the second time I gave her my name and she gave me her picture. 'I will

write to you,' she said--and so--and so----"

"You are very fortunate," answered Miss Chressham in a hushed way, "it

must make you more tender with my lord."

She passed under the trellis arch that led into the garden, he

followed, and they stood among the heavy roses looking at each other.

"What do you mean, cousin?" asked Marius.

She put her hand among the thorns and leaves and shook a huge crimson

bloom free from wet.

"This--do not be over-righteous, Marius--when you have found her, and

won her, and are as happy as you dreamed, remember my lord's unlovely

marriage, and be a little sorry for him."

Her voice broke; she turned away, pressing against the rose bushes;

Marius lifted her hand and kissed it in silence.

"I grow sentimental," she cried. "Come, which of these flowers do you

think the new Countess would give the preference to?"

She shifted her parasol and her fingers fondled the ribbon on the

handle.

"We must pick her some of my roses," she added. "I want to like her,

Marius--my lady will be cold with fear, but she might have been sour or

vain or common; Rose has always spoken of her as gentle and sweet."

"Her birth is well enough," answered Marius uneasily. "Her people have

never been less than gentlefolk."

He did not care to think his brother had mated too utterly beneath him,

and it seemed that Susannah was making too much of it--as the matter

really only interested him obliquely he would have had it taken for

granted and put aside; he would have preferred to relate how he first

met Aspasia in the Luxembourg gardens in Paris; Susannah could be, when

she chose, a perfect listener.

But she would not suffer the subject to change. "It must be difficult

for her--at first," she said. "I am very curious to see her. Lavinia

hath quite a pretty sound, hath it not? I wonder if she likes riding."

"Ye seem very desirous to please her," smiled Marius.

Susannah paused before an opulent bush bearing roses red almost to a

purple tinge.

"I want her to like me," she repeated.

Marius looked at his cousin; certainly she was making too much of it;

he could not find Rose's wife of such importance.

"Why?" he asked. "Why do you want her to like you?"

Miss Chressham answered with an ardent gravity.

"Because I am afraid of hating her," she said; "I wish to like her

before I am lured into loathing her."

She pulled two roses from the stem, never heeding the thorns, and gazed

intently at them.

"I think you take it over heavily," replied Marius with a judicial air.

"Rose was bound to marry and to marry a fortune--he would scarcely have

made a love match." Marius was boyishly pompous. "We hear the lady has

qualities, is as desirable as another lady with a hundred thousand

pounds, and I cannot think Rose would ever let his wife interfere with

him."

Susannah's eyes flashed over the gorgeous blooms she held to her lips.

"And you will supply sentiment for two; well, no doubt I am foolishly

romantical."

But the words were a mere dismissal of a subject she disdained to

discuss with one who would not understand.

"I think we might go now," she added; "surely it is time?"

"The moments have been vastly swift!" He glanced at his watch. "Yes,

they are due--shall I go straight to the lodge?"

"Had you not better? My lady awaits them in the withdrawing-room. She

thinks of her own home-coming, I know--a triumphal arch, villagers

lining the road with flowers--and regrets this for Rose; but his

commands were stern."

Miss Chressham spoke rapidly. Her restless eyes and fluttering lashes

showed agitation. As Marius parted from her by the lake she laughed

nervously, and waved her hand to the careless youthful figure hurrying

through the shrubbery.

She was very glad Marius was happy; it was as pleasant to watch his

eager joy in life as to survey the content of a loving dog; and as sad

to see him miserable as to behold an animal in distress.

Susannah had much the same faith in his Aspasia as he himself

possessed. She considered him likely enough to come across his fate

early--likely enough to love, to be loved, to satisfy, and be satisfied.

He was simple, she thought--no makings of a rake in him. Honest and

brave he was, but no more to be compared with Rose.

She kept her thoughts from the Earl, and fell to, somewhat desperately,

considering his wife. Miss Lavinia Hilton, daughter of merchant, child

of a parvenu, Countess of Lyndwood now--the wife of Rose!

The thing was so monstrous that it must be taken without exclaim,

naturally, or it became a horror unendurable, a wonder all credulity

strained at. He, so fastidious, asking for wit as well as beauty,

breed as well as grace, polish as well as youth--mated to a melancholy

schoolgirl whose father had spent his life in the countinghouse!

To Susannah this was a picture to be ignored, not even glanced at--to

contemplate it was to behold the cruel elements of tragedy.

Susannah dropped her skirt, closed her parasol, and looked at the two

long-stemmed roses she carried, holding them up against the fading blue

sky.

A little further and she came into view of the house; its brick front

was warmed by the universal glow of the setting sun. On the terrace in

front bloomed peonies and Turks' caps, the stone vases held trailing

masses of geraniums, scarlet amid their bright leaves. All was

peaceful, stately, and beautiful. "What a home for her to come to!"

thought Susannah.

She went slowly to the front where the magnificent lawn, broken with

one dark cedar-tree, reached to the fountains and the lake where the

white swans glittered, and as she neared the wide steps, a coach and

six, swinging on its leathers, came up the chestnut drive.

It drew up with a scramble of the horses' hoofs on the gravel. The

first thing to strike Miss Chressham was that this equipage was not

belonging to the new Countess. She had seen it last year in London. Her

second thought was that he could never have kept it but for the Hilton

money.

The postillions and footmen jumped down, but, quicker than they, Rose

Lyndwood opened the door and sprang out.

"Ah, Susannah!" he said. His voice had a note of relief; he pulled off

his glove and offered her his hand.

Miss Chressham glanced at his face, and her heart gave a sick swerve.

"Where is my lady?" asked the Earl.

Susannah forced herself.

"In the house. I sent Marius to the gate; he must have missed you."

Her eyes travelled anxiously to the coach door. My lord held it open

and assisted a lady to alight.

"This is Lavinia," he said.

Susannah's first impression was that she was extremely young and quite

pretty; her second that she did not know how to dress.

"My cousin Susannah!" said the Earl.

The Countess swept a nervous curtsey, and stared at Miss Chressham.

Her plain purple coat and wide Leghorn hat, with black ribbons, had

the effect not of elegance, but of insignificance. Susannah thought it

ostentatious, too.

"I am rejoiced to see you," said Miss Chressham; "but 'tis difficult

to say so without a set speech, and I expect you are tired--may I call

you Lavinia?"

A pair of brown eyes were gravely fixed on her from under the shade of

the Leghorn hat.

"If you will, please," answered Lady Lyndwood, with never the flicker

of a smile.

Another coach had arrived with the servants and the baggage. Rose was

half-way up the steps. He did not look at his wife, nor she at him.

Susannah, under cover of the confusion of arrival, took the Countess's

arm.

"You look rather fatigued," she ventured, "the roads are rough."

"I am very fatigued."

They ascended the steps together. In the doorway stood the dowager

Countess, radiant in lace and gold silk.

If Rose's wife had been of her own choice, she could not have been more

gracious.

"My dear!" she took the new Countess prettily by the hands. "You are as

sweet as Rose described you, and I cannot say more." She kissed her.

"Forgive my lord's mother the impertinence of welcoming you to your own

house."

Lavinia disengaged herself.

"I thank you, madam," she said.

"Where is Marius?" asked my lord.

"He went, as I said, to meet you," replied Susannah. "He must be back

any moment."

Now Lady Lyndwood looked at her husband, only for a second; her baited

glance turned with an expression of relief to Miss Chressham.

"Please, I am very tired--sick with the jolting of the coach; might I

go to my room?"

Before Susannah had time to answer the elder Countess had swept her up

the shining oak stairs, in a cloud of graceful speeches.

Rose did not look after them. He turned into the library and his

cousin followed him. She still held the two red roses, and as he seated

himself at the table she drew their stems through the lace at her

breast.

The Earl rested his cheek on his hand and his elbow on the table.

He had not removed his dark-green travelling coat. It set off the

grace and fineness of his figure as the high black stock relieved the

weary pallor of his face. At the corner of his lip was the familiar

bat-shaped patch, and under the paste buckle in his hair the turquoise

ribbon he affected.

Susannah looked at him. Her cousin, Rose Lyndwood, home again, in his

old place!

And upstairs, his wife!

"I am sorry Marius missed you," she said.

He turned his grey eyes on her.

"'Tis no matter," he said, in a lifeless manner.

Then Miss Chressham threw aside restraint.

"Oh, Rose," she cried, coming up to the table. "What have you done?

What is she like?"

"What makes you say that?" he demanded, raising his head.

"Your face--her face!" she answered. "Don't you suppose I can see what

this is going to be?"

He made a movement with his hand on the table, as if his nerves were

strained almost beyond bearing.

"It is well enough," he said, looking away. "What did I expect? I

suppose my lady is pleased?"

"She takes it for granted. She never realised it."

The Earl rose and crossed to the fireplace.

"And Marius?"

"Marius is happy; you have that satisfaction."

Susannah's eyes were anxious and tender as she gazed at her cousin.

"That is, as you say, some satisfaction," said my lord. "Otherwise it

was not worth it--by God, not worth it!"

His tone, his expression, startled her.

"Why did you do it?" she cried. "You were madly reckless."

He took his pipe from his pocket and filled it with a trembling hand.

"To have sold myself!" he muttered.

Again her heart gave the lurch it had done when she first saw his

expression; but before she could speak he had made an effort with

himself.

"But I do not know why I speak like this. You are too sympathetic, my

dear"--he smiled--"and I suppose I am a little tired, too, of sitting

still in a coach. Is Marius pleased with his commission under Willouby?"

"Marius is very well content," replied Susannah, but her mind was not

on what she said.

The Countess Agatha entered.

"Rose! I have not spoken to you! What manner of journey had you?

Lavinia seems exhausted. I have sent her woman to her, and she wishes

to be excused coming down, poor thing! I fear she hath a sad headache."

It might have been her own daughter she spoke of, so naturally and

gracefully did she refer to Rose's wife.

The Earl turned to the door.

"I will go find Marius," he said shortly, and left them.

"Rose is out of humour," remarked his mother.

"Yes," said Susannah abruptly.

The Countess looked absently at the reflection of her frail charming

person in the mirror by the bookcase.

"And no wonder, my dear, all day shut up in a coach with that girl! And

Rose of all men!" She laughed, half under her breath.

Miss Chressham glanced at her in a kind of shock.

"What do you think of her?" she asked.

"She is impossible!" answered the Countess at once. "_Gauche_,

vapourish, no style, a little sullen, I think. Of course, quite pretty

behind a bourgeois tea-table, but no manners! La, poor Rose! She seems

afraid of him, too."

Susannah was silent. It was startling to find the shallow judgment of

the Countess pronounce thus.

"But," added that lady sweetly, "what does it matter? Rose will get

used to her."

"And there is the money," finished Miss Chressham bitterly.

"Of course, there is the money." The Countess raised her brows; she

thought the remark not quite genteel.

"And Marius can have his romance unspoiled, his commission, and his

happy future," continued Miss Chressham. "But what is before Rose?"

"Oh, my dear, I am no prophetess! I suppose Rose can manage his own

affairs. He can certainly manage his own wife; he is so different from

Marius." Then she gave the younger woman a sudden pleading look. "Do

you think I am vastly selfish in being glad of Rose's marriage, and

what it has meant to Marius?"

Susannah stooped and kissed her. She could not say anything, nor was it

necessary. The Countess brightened at once under the caress.

"Did you see her dress?" cried Lady Lyndwood mischievously, with the

pleasure even a good-natured coquette feels in seeing another woman

make the least of herself. "La! She will never start a fashion! Which

reminds me, I wonder if Rose brought those satins I asked of him!"

Miss Chressham roused herself from depths of different thoughts.

"Let us go after him, Aunt Agatha. I think he will be in the

withdrawing-room."

CHAPTER VIII

LAVINIA

The curious perfume of the lilies in the tall red pots was so strong

that my lord opened the long windows on to the night.

"The moon is just rising," he said, and lingered a little, looking out.

He was alone with Marius in the beautiful room overlooking the terrace.

Through the folding door standing open into the next chamber might be

seen Miss Chressham seated at her harp and the dowager Lady Lyndwood

lying back gracefully with an open book on her knee.

It was difficult for any of them to realise there was a new mistress of

the house, a new Countess of Lyndwood under the very same roof. These

four were so much the same as they had always been. The lazy luxury of

Lyndwood Holt was unchanged; yet but for this stranger they would have

been scattered, and others in their places here.

The candle-light showed the rich fittings, the splendid furniture. The

elegant melody of the harp sounded delicately in keeping with the fine

chambers. Marius, listening to it, sighed, in sentimental mood.

My lord had spoken to him. Frankly and charmingly, Marius had asked

his pardon and expressed his gratitude. They felt themselves, perhaps,

better friends than they had been since they were boys. Rose was

pleased that he had made his brother happy, secretly flattered and

touched by being able to play the bountiful, and Marius was honestly

grateful.

Presently my lord returned from the window. He was splendidly attired.

The cloud that darkened his face on his arrival had lifted; he was

a little flushed, and his eyes were dark, as if with excitement,

otherwise he was composed and pleasant.

The Countess Lavinia had not appeared since she entered the house,

nor had Rose mentioned her. Susannah and Marius had been silent about

her, too, but my lady was able to bring her name naturally into their

conversation.

The Earl leant against the mantelpiece; the pale-pink silk he wore

caught the light and glimmered, the brightest thing in the room.

Marius, sitting at his ease in one of the great leather chairs, studied

my lord's face, and wondered at it for its attraction and charm. He had

never thought about his brother's looks, though a certain magnificence

of bearing about the Earl had always held him in awe; but to-night, as

he gazed up at the proud expressive countenance of Rose, he was almost

startled by the extreme handsomeness of the blunt-featured, composed,

slightly defiant face with the nostrils a little distended, the lips

firmly set, and the large eyes very brilliant under the long lashes.

They call him Beau Lyndwood, thought the young man with a slight sense

of distaste. Contemplation of his brother's splendour gave him an alien

feeling. He turned away his eyes and stared across to the dark expanse

of the window.

My lord spoke.

"When do you think of going to London?"

"That is as you please, sir."

"I told Willouby you would be coming to take up your commission soon.

You had better write to him."

"I will, to-night."

Rose Lyndwood smiled.

"And the lady?" he said sweetly.

Marius coloured.

"She is coming to London in September," he answered manfully. Of all

things he loathed speaking of this to his brother. "She has not written

to me, but I hardly expected it." He pulled himself up short. "This

seems sorry foolery to you, sir."

The Earl's charming smile deepened.

"What did you call her?"

"Aspasia," said Marius, staring in front of him.

"Aspasia! It hath melancholy associations! Well, September is not so

far. You must commend me to her when you meet."

Marius rose.

"I will write that letter in the library." He hesitated, then said

awkwardly: "Give my duty to my lady your wife. I hope to meet her

to-morrow."

My lord still smiled in a manner that seemed to put a measureless

distance between them, and as Marius turned to leave the room he walked

over to the two ladies in the inner chamber.

"A likeness to something--to someone," the Countess Agatha was saying.

"I cannot think where."

"What gossip do ye broach?" asked the Earl.

Susannah bent over her harp, but his mother answered at once.

"We were speaking of your Lavinia," she said. "I could swear I had seen

her face before."

"Her type," replied Rose Lyndwood, "is not uncommon. And now will you

sing to me, Susannah?"

Marius had lights brought into the library, and seated himself at the

great desk between the bookshelves, where my lady had sat that evening

when her son had told her of his ruin.

After arranging his paper and sharpening a quill, Marius leant back in

the comfortable chair and fell into a happy musing. The future was good

to dwell on. The colour crept into his cheeks, and the fire into his

eyes, and his boyishly handsome face softened into a dreamy expression.

The candles burning either side the desk showed a pleasant picture of

him, elegant, young, wide-browed and fair, with fresh, untaught lips,

one hand slackly holding the quill, the other hanging by his side,

grey silk and soft lace adorning his slim figure, and his bright hair

brushing the dark background of the carved seat.

Suddenly the door opened and shut.

Marius dropped the quill with a start.

"Is that you, my lord? I have not even begun the letter."

He looked over his shoulder and remained in that attitude, clasping the

arm of the chair.

The Countess Lavinia stood inside the door. Her close purple gown was

undone at the throat. Her complexion a ghastly colour; she wore no

ornaments.

"Aspasia!" said Marius.

"Hush!" she answered. "Hush!"

He rose now, still staring at her.

"Aspasia!" he repeated, and blenched as if he beheld a spirit.

She came nearer.

"I am no ghost," she said, in a voice full of horror; "but your

brother's wife." She put her hand to her forehead, and pushed back the

damp dark hair. "I have been watching for this chance. I crept down; I

saw you come in here. His cousin is singing to him."

Marius shuddered and straightened himself.

"Wait!" he said. "_You_ are Aspasia--_and_ Rose's wife?"

"It is new to you," she returned wildly, "but I have thought of nothing

else for two months. _I_ knew he was your brother. What did it avail? I

wrote to you--to your hotel in Paris."

She stopped, gazing at him, and twisting her fingers together. He

began to understand what she was saying, what her presence here, in his

brother's house, meant, what this was that had happened to them.

"I never had your letter," he said stupidly. "You pledged yourself to

me."

She answered in a feverish haste.

"I know. Had I refused my father he would have killed me--yes, killed

me! He said he would send me to Bedlam." She dropped into the chair

that stood stiffly against the opposite wall. "It seemed, too, that you

must know--that you did not care."

Marius stumbled towards her, stooped and took her bare cold hands in

his, as he had once held them, gloved and warm, under the spring trees

in the garden of the Luxembourg.

"So you were Miss Lavinia Hilton, and now are Rose's wife?" he said, in

a hollow voice. "I understand."

She turned up her face to his, and her slim bosom panted desperately

under the dark gown.

"My father sent for me very soon after we parted. He was terrible--and

now it is done." A look of hopelessness came over her countenance. She

rose to her feet, their hands still clinging together.

"How I have dreaded this meeting! I feared it must be before them all.

Oh, Marius! Marius!" She ended in a broken wail and drew her hands away

and hid her face.

"You are different," said Marius in a foolish wonder. She seemed so

much older, so much whiter and haggard, too. In a confused way he

marvelled at it.

"Different," she echoed; then she laughed. "I am your brother's wife!"

Marius stepped back.

"My God!" he said in his throat, and mechanically laid hold of his

sword hilt. "My God! What are we going to do?"

The Countess Lavinia cowered against the wall.

"You must go away. I followed you to ask you to leave the house at

once--to go away. With you here I cannot bear it: do you hear me?"

The foolish quiescence into which the shock had at first stunned him

began to give way to a rising passion that thawed his heart.

"His wife!" The blood rose to his face, his eyes. "How dared you become

his wife--huckstered for your money----"

"Yes, for the money," she interrupted frantically. "He wanted the

money, as my father wanted the title, and so he must take me, hating

me as I hate him--and your brother!" She stood to her full height,

pressing her hands on her bosom. "I think my soul was sold, too, for

what is this but sin?"

"Where is Rose?" cried Marius thickly, and made for the door. But she

was very quickly in his way.

"What are you doing?" she asked desperately. "He must not know--this

must be between us--always. You must go, before anyone discovers."

She lowered her voice and glanced furtively as if knowing herself in

the house of strangers and enemies. "If you leave now," she continued

hurriedly, "to-night, at once, we need not meet in public."

Marius did not gather the sense of what she said. This was not Aspasia

of the Luxembourg gardens, with romantic eyes and shy of speech.

"I must find Rose," he repeated thickly.

The Countess leant across the door, grasping the handle. Her senses

were on the alert. She knew Rose was only a few yards away, he and his

two kinswomen; she divined it could only be a matter of moments before

someone entered the library.

"What do you want to find him for?" she demanded. It was noticeable

that she gave her husband neither his name nor his title. She beat the

fingers of her left hand up and down on her breast. "Why do you stare

like that? How slow you are!"

His eyes rested on her wedding-ring, the only ornament she wore.

"All is so changed," he said drearily. He sat down at the table.

"How foolish we were." He could not avoid uttering what was his one

thought--how foolish they had been. He had imagined that he had

loved Aspasia, and it had been beautiful; now this woman said, "I am

Aspasia," and the delicate fabric of the romance was shattered. Soft

words with a fair stranger beneath the fluttering leaves was another

matter to this scene with Rose's wife in Rose's house. The whole thing

grew distasteful, almost ugly. He stared at the Countess, and it beat

in his brain that she was a stranger to him; he did not know her in the

least--only her face, her voice----

She, on her side, was sharply observing him.

"Perhaps you _didn't_ care," she said, "after all. Well, you gave me

reason to think so. We were to have been married in the autumn."

"I kept faith!" he cried. "But you--what have you made of it all?"

A frightened look settled in her intent eyes.

"I do not know; I feel I have done something terrible. It was not to be

avoided--in any way escaped. _I_ also kept faith in my heart. What had

I for him but hate?"

It jarred on Marius that she put this into words.

"We must not blame Rose," he said, with pale lips. "He did not know.

Had you told him----"

"I had no chance. Was he likely to have listened? He wanted the money."

That stung the Earl's brother.

"My lord wanted the money that he might help me. He heard of--our

meeting. Oh, Heaven, he meant we should not be hampered for lack of

this money! For himself I think he would have done otherwise; indeed,

I believe there was another----"

Then, as the whole miserable confusion and tangle showed itself more

clearly to his startled soul, he was dumb.

The Countess Lavinia caught up his broken sentence.

"Another! Ye do not need to tell me that. I am not so young nor such a

fool, though maybe they thought so. But do not tell me it was not for

himself. He was a ruined man."

"Do not fling that in my face!" cried Marius.

"In _your_ face?"

"'Tis my brother," he answered with a great flush, "and the head of my

house."

Her feverish eyes expressed scorn.

"I do not understand you. He hath the money, hath he not?"

"Curse the money!" exclaimed Marius. "I say it was for me and my

visionary love affair he did this. Had ye told him!"

"Visionary love affair!" echoed the Countess hysterically. "Is that how

ye phrase it? Well, it was more to me."

It had been more to him, and the knowledge of it--of how much it had

been and how the last few moments had changed everything on heaven and

earth, held him in a white silence.

"What are you going to do?" asked the Countess. There was a goading

note in her voice that touched the unbearable. "Why do you not go?"

"I must see my lord," he answered hoarsely.

"You will not tell him?"

"I must," he muttered. "What else?"

"Cannot you keep silence? Cannot you leave us our secret? Will you not

go away, as I have asked you?"

He raised his despairing young face.

"What of my lord's position?"

"Why do you consider--him?" She suddenly left the door and came lightly

to the other side of the table. "Marius," she said eagerly, "think

of _me_ a little. What did you say to me once--ah, what did you say,

Marius?"

She had not known his name when last they met; he did not care to hear

her use it now.

"What do you want of me?" he said in a shamed voice.

"I have said go to London--away, anywhere. I cannot have you here, I

am not schooled enough--yet." She paused a second, and he looked away

from her, supporting his sick brow in his hand--"These women have sharp

eyes, too," she added faintly.

Now he glanced at her. "These women!" So that was how she spoke of

his mother and his cousin--she, a stranger in the house, Mr. Hilton's

daughter; Aspasia should have loved my lady and Susannah.

"You may write to me," she went on quickly, "under cover of my father's

house."

She had thought of that, then. It brought him to his feet.

"But you are the Countess of Lyndwood," he said.

Her slight frame trembled painfully, her large shadowed eyes widened.

"Does it make any difference to what you and I feel for each other?"

she asked faintly.

"It makes a difference in the expression of that feeling," he answered

fearfully. "It means that you are no longer Aspasia."

She held out a shaking hand towards him.

"Does it mean you no longer care?"

He made a movement as if he turned on her.

"Do you want me to say I do?"

"Perhaps so," she answered huskily. "Perhaps I find nothing else worth

living for. Do you think it has been pleasant for me since I saw you

last in the Luxembourg?"

Her words made no impression on him. He was thinking of those three a

few yards away--of Susannah at her harp, of my lady with the open book

on her knee, of my lord listening to the music, as they had so often

done before. There were only two doors and a length of corridor between

them.

"Why do you look at me so strangely?" asked the Countess. "Cannot you

say good-bye and go?"

Every word she said expressed this desire--to have it all secret,

hidden away, concealed, to deceive Rose and "these women."

Marius straightened himself.

"I will go, madam."

She was not satisfied.

"Like that?" she cried.

"In what manner?" he asked wildly. "In what manner should I take leave

of you?"

She took an impatient turn about the room.

"Do you desire to madden me? Am I to tell you all you are to do? It did

not use to be so."

"Why will you dwell on the past. You, not I, have made it different."

"You, not I," she retorted bitterly, "_find_ it so different. Would to

God ye had told me then it was a mere Maytime's amusement! It might

have saved a broken heart!"

He came a desperate step towards her.

"Aspasia!"

She turned swiftly at that.

"Oh, my dear," she cried in a shaking voice, "I am so lonely and so

tired!"

He stood, neither advancing nor retreating, staring at her appealing

presence with distracted eyes.

Before either spoke, Rose Lyndwood entered the room.

CHAPTER IX

MY LORD'S ADJUSTMENT

"Ye are a long time writing this letter," said the Earl, closing the

door; then he saw his wife as she stood in the shadows of the bookcase,

huddled together.

For a second there was complete silence; then my lord spoke.

"Why did you not come into the withdrawing-room, madam? I thought you

upstairs."

She answered quickly.

"So I was--till this moment. I came to select a book to distract me,

not knowing I was disturbing Mr. Lyndwood."

Her lie came too glibly, and the readiness of it made Marius wince.

The Earl crossed the room. He looked from his brother to his wife, and

then down at the blank sheet of paper and the newly sharpened unstained

quill upon the desk.

"What is the matter, Marius?" he asked, with a slight smile.

"Matter, sir?"

The Countess was rigid in her own defence, but Marius interrupted.

"Hush!" he said, almost sternly; then he turned to his brother.

"The Countess Lavinia was my Aspasia," he said manfully and simply.

"You will remember, my lord--she hath come down here to ask me to leave

her house. Old memories are ofttimes painful. I will go to London with

the dawn."

The Countess sank heavily into the chair against the wall.

"You are a fool! Oh!" she cried stormily, twisting her fingers. "Oh,

fool!"

My lord pressed his handkerchief to his beautiful mouth. He was silent,

gazing with dark eyes on Marius, ignoring his wife.

The younger man forced himself into speech again.

"There is no one to blame, sir, is there?" He now smiled, and it

maddened the Countess. She could have understood anything but that.

Her husband had never been remotely within her reach, and now Marius

stepped beyond it. That they should smile!

"I had an intuition of what had happened when I entered the room," said

my lord. "Tragedy on the heels of the ludicrous! Certainly it is no

one's fault, Marius."

The Countess rose with the fierce intent of dragging their emotions on

to a level that she could understand, but for the second time Marius

hushed her with a glance and a movement of his hand.

"I met my lady when she was Miss Hilton," he said firmly, looking

at his brother, "and between us was some folly that might have been

everything and was nothing--too small a matter to have been mentioned,

my lord, had not--we--I--been surprised by this meeting."

The Earl's gaze was grave, but curiously tender too. He leant rather

heavily against the mantelshelf, and there was a very faint smile on

his lips.

"Do not suppose that I do not understand," he said, and his beautiful

voice was soft.

It seemed to the Countess that they both ignored her, that they spoke a

language she could not comprehend; that she stood an alien before them.

"_Do_ you understand?" she directly addressed her husband. "Do you

understand _my_ position?"

She pushed back the dark hair from her face, and her long brown eyes

were bright.

My lord gave her one glance.

"Yes, you are my wife," he said.

"Since a month ago"--a painful colour beat in her cheeks--"what of my

_feelings_?"

Ardently, yet almost unconsciously, she desired to bring things to

an issue, to force these two into action, to make a scene, to have a

chance of expressing her own inarticulate passion; so had she wished to

bring Marius to a pitch of she knew not what emotion when she came down

to the library, knowing him there alone and unprepared.

"What of me?" she cried again.

"I' faith I know not," answered my lord. "What of you? 'Tis in your own

hands."

She felt he slighted her as a creature of another world, and the quick

red deepened beneath her eyes.

"Nothing to you, this!" She spoke with raised voice, as if she

denounced him. "What do you care where my affections lie? What is it to

you the name I hold in my heart?"

"My lady!" cried Marius. Then he turned to his brother. "Ye must a

little longer listen to me, my lord. It cannot be left to seem that I

go to London on the instant because once my lady thought too highly of

me." He held his head proudly, though his lips trembled. "The Countess

came to tell me how utterly she had forgotten one Miss Hilton once

honoured with some slight acquaintance."

Lady Lyndwood listened, baffled, incredulous; the delicate gallantry of

the speech had for her no meaning. She swept aside the fine words he

used for her defence.

"I came to you to say I had _not_ forgotten," she said passionately.

Still she did not get within the guard of either.

"'Tis hardly so long ago, madam," answered the Earl, "and I dare swear

that you remember very well. It makes no difference to what Marius has

said, and to what I can for myself see and understand."

The Countess came round the table.

"I think ye seek to put me off," she cried.

Rose Lyndwood straightened himself against the mantelshelf.

"And you, madam," he demanded, "what do you seek to make of this

matter? You speak too late. This should have come some months ago, then

you had not found me deaf." And he smiled bitterly.

The Countess twisted her hands together and pressed them on her bosom.

She felt that she had been cheated of everything--of her youth, her

freedom, her lover, her husband, even of the right to complain.

"You can say that now," she answered hoarsely. "Now it is too late, as

you say, too late." She loosened her hands and grasped the edge of the

table. "But I think I had stood a poor chance. You wanted the money."

The Earl made a little movement, and the candle-light on his pink silk

shimmered.

She spoke again, in a tone of rage and deliberate insult.

"'Tis easy now for you to ignore me, to preach at me, for you _have_

the money--my father's money--your price."

Even as the words left her lips, she knew they were what he would

never forgive, and through her wrath she felt a touch of fear.

Half-shrinking, she glanced at Marius.

He uttered a sound under his breath, and turned his back on her, moving

towards the window.

"Your father's money," said Lord Lyndwood quietly, looking at her with

dangerous eyes, "bought what your father most desired, and what I

thought you also desired, since ye did not protest. It is a thing done

with."

"It is a thing but begun," she answered fiercely. "Bought! Do ye care

to use that word?"

The Earl's breath came hurriedly. The passion she had longed to evoke

was bared now in his face and voice.

"Mr. Hilton's daughter had not received my name as a gift," he said.

"What should we wed for with you save our convenience?"

At the scorn in his gaze she shrank.

"We sink low enough when we barter with traders," continued my lord,

"and when we mate with them. But it is not a degradation you can

estimate, nor, by God, is there any obligation--even if your father's

money had been ten times as much. You are my wife."

She hated him. But she could not answer. Her lips were dry, and her

limbs trembled as she caught herself back against the bookcase.

Rose Lyndwood came forward, dominating the room.

"This is the last time, madam, we bandy words upon this or any other

subject. I do not love dissension in my house. You will remember this.

I am usually obeyed."

She looked at Marius. As she read it, here was his chance. He could

turn on his brother now. Surely he would dignify her by a champion,

redeem the scene by a challenge, a duel.

But he remained with his back to her, looking out into the darkness.

"Mr. Lyndwood!" she said unsteadily.

There was no answer. My lord crossed to the door and opened it.

"Will you leave us the chamber, madam? I desire to speak with my

brother."

Slowly she took her gaze from Marius. She knew that she hated him

also--ah, bitterly!--and that her heart sickened for vengeance on both

of them.

But she was conquered. She dared no more open defiance.

"I have no wish to stay," she said, in a shaking voice.

The Earl moved away from the door, and she passed him and went out.

He did not speak to her, nor look at her as she left the room. As he

closed the heavy door he gave a half-shudder, and the colour faded from

his cheeks.

"Marius!" he said, and his voice had changed again to softness.

The younger man turned sharply round.

"Forgive me, my lord," he said wildly. "Forgive me!"

"What have I to forgive?" answered the Earl sadly. "I am sorry for it,

Marius. God knows that I am sorry for it--for you, I mean."

"But it could never have been," continued my lord. "She--it is not

there, Marius."

He crossed wearily to the desk and seated himself before the blank

sheet of paper and the new quill.

"I perceive it," whispered Marius.

The Earl moved the candle on the desk further away from him, as if the

light troubled his eyes.

"You must not altogether blame me, Marius; I think in no case would

your idyll have survived."

His back was towards his brother, who did not look in his direction but

straightly out at the darkness beyond the window; they had never been

intimate, nor had either often been in the other's thoughts, but now

the kinship told, there was a sense of perfect understanding between

them that required no words to make plain.

"You had better go to London as you proposed," said my lord. "There is

nothing for you to do here, and Lord Willouby will be expecting to see

you."

Marius came up to the desk.

"Yes, I will go, sir--only, this----"

He stopped; the Earl pushed back his chair and looked up.

Marius was flushed, his lips taut and his forehead strained to a frown;

he appeared piteously young to have such an expression of gravity on

his fair face.

"What would you say?" asked his brother gently.

"The money," said Marius huskily and bluntly. "I could not--Mr.

Hilton's money--_her_ money;" he seemed to choke over the word, then

added desperately, "she taunted us with it."

"For the last time," answered my lord quietly, gazing with resolute

grey eyes at the younger man's troubled countenance, "and she shamed

herself, not us--what is she but a boarding-school Miss? and the money

is mine, Marius, no gift, but something earned, by God, earned."

"I would it had not happened," answered Marius unsteadily. "I do not

love to know things are like this--'tis as if I saw a mirror for the

first time and saw myself there--a fool."

Rose Lyndwood was silent; he picked up the quill in his fine slack hand

and toyed with it.

"My lord," continued Marius, breathing heavily, "it was not she--I

never--I mean Aspasia."

The Earl lifted his gaze from the idle pen and gave one of his sweet,

swift smiles.

"You will find Aspasia yet, my dear."

The painful colour deepened in his brother's face.

"That is not what I mean to say--last summer--you may have thought,

might think, but she was never more than gracious--we only met by

chance, that time. I--I never more than took her hand."

He turned away abruptly, and the Earl saw his shoulders heave.

"My lady was nothing but honoured by homage such as thine, Marius."

A little silence fell, the bronze clock struck nine, and the unsnuffed

candles cast a strong fluttering light over the two quiet figures and

sent faint curls of smoke towards the high dark ceiling.

Marius faced his brother again, containing himself by an extreme effort

of his fierce young pride.

"Is there anything I can do?" he said gallantly. "Anything I ought to

say?"

"Oh, Marius!" said my lord in his charming low voice, "'tis all as

clear as glass!"

"'Tis all miserable and horrible!" burst out Marius. "I would not have

it so," his eyes were passionate and his voice rough, with tears maybe.

Rose Lyndwood very faintly smiled, his lids had a weary droop, but

under them his glance was keenly on his brother, who had begun to

fumble in the ruffles at his breast.

"You must take this now," he said more quietly, and pulled out a locket

on a blue ribbon, "her picture"--he unfastened the ribbon and laid the

miniature on the desk; "not like her, though--but like enough."

"If you would care to keep it," said my lord, never lowering his eyes

from the other's face.

"I do not care," answered Marius, "that vision is over," he made an

obvious attempt to speak quietly; "will you tell them that I have gone

to London--I do not wish to see our lady mother about it, no, nor yet

Susannah."

The Earl rose.

"I will tell them, but say good-bye to my lady or I shall be sorely

blamed."

He hesitated a moment, then with that modest, half-shy air with which

he ever approached things, and which showed so pleasingly on his

splendour, he half held out his hand.

"You will always come to me--for anything, Marius?" he said. "I have

done no good to you or to any, God knows; but since there are only two

of us in the world--well, all this will be forgotten a year hence, but

do not forget I am always there."

He paled a little as he spoke, and a look of vast unhappiness troubled

his deep eyes. Marius caught his hand and kissed it.

"My lord, believe me, though I cannot speak," he choked and turned away.

Rose Lyndwood leant against the back of the chair from which he had

risen.

"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night, my lord; I shall not see you in the morning--there is no

more to be said?"

"Nothing."

"Good-night," this from the door.

"I shall see you in London, soon; till then fare ye well, Marius."

"Farewell, my lord."

The massive door opened and closed; the Earl was alone in the stately

silent room with the ticking of the patient clock, the only sound

beside his own movements to disturb the summer stillness.

He went to the window, opened it on the sweet mysterious dark and stood

erect, looking out; he considered his wife, she had behaved as he had

expected--it afforded him some bitter amusement to contrast her with

Selina Boyle. How would she have acted in this wretched scene they had

just brought to an end?--she, elusive, spiritual, delicate in manners,

softest and proudest of women.

And it might as well have been, they might as well have left it

altogether and found amid the dreamy luxury of Venice stately happiness.

My lord came back to the desk and picked up the miniature Marius had

worn so many weeks next his heart.

The pure and steady breeze, entering like a welcome visitant through

the open window, turned the candles into smoky torches and stirred the

pomaded curls of Rose Lyndwood on his shoulders as he bent over the

picture of his wife.

For a moment he was quite still and the emotion that took him was

beyond thoughts as thoughts are beyond words; he made a quick movement

of his hand to his heart, and any desperate thing seemed possible.

One of the candles blew out.

My lord gave a start and looked round; a sigh escaped him, then he

bitterly smiled and quietly laid the picture down.

It was none of it great or heroic; as Marius had said, there was

nothing to do but to go on. Meanwhile the Countess Agatha must be told.

He extinguished the other light and went in search of Susannah

Chressham.

CHAPTER X

A LADY SCORNED

When the Countess Lavinia left the library she went instantly and

stealthily to the foot of the great stairway.

"Honoria!" she called in a hushed yet insistent voice. "Honoria!"

A slight figure in a light dress and mob cap appeared on the first wide

landing.

"Come down," said the Countess, glancing furtively behind her, and the

maid noiselessly and carefully descended.

"What has happened, my lady?" she asked, peering into her mistress's

face, her own sharp fair countenance alert and eager; she had an air of

secret malice and quick, unpleasant eyes.

The Countess clutched her arm.

"Come into the garden, not another moment under his roof, not another

moment!" she whispered feverishly.

The maid expressed no astonishment, nor did her mistress seem to expect

it; they had the manner of adepts in quick confidences and whispered

exchanges of dangerous talk.

With a light step that seemed that of taught secrecy, Honoria preceded

her mistress down the passage, and softly opened the door.

The two came out on to the wide steps where the moonlight lay still and

pure.

"Shut the door," whispered the Countess, and the maid obeyed, asking

under her breath:

"What are you going to do, my lady?"

The Countess with a wild gesture tore her purple gown wider open at the

throat.

"I don't know--I will leave the place, I cannot endure it--why should I

endure it?"

"Hush! Hush!" whispered the maid.

Her mistress stifled a little hysterical sound and again caught her

companion's arm.

Swift and noiseless they descended the steps and passed under the

shadows of the high rustling trees; then Honoria stopped, holding back

her mistress.

"You can't run away now," she said with an air of resolution, "whatever

has happened, my lady; why, you have neither mantle, nor hat, nor

money--and who is to shelter you till the coach goes, here in a strange

place?"

The Countess pressed her open hand to her forehead.

"I will not stay to be scorned--I will not," she cried frantically. "I

am going back to my father if I have to walk; he can but murder me, and

that were to be preferred to life with these!"

And she tried to press on through the low sweet shrubs.

"You are in a frenzy," said Honoria quietly, not loosening her hold.

"Return home! it is madness, my lady. Consider a little."

The Countess shuddered.

"What is there to consider? I am sick with hate!"

"What did they do?" questioned Honoria shrewdly. "They did not fight?"

"Would to God they had!" answered Rose's wife furiously. "But I am of

too little account to bring gentlemen's swords to the crossing! 'What

do we marry you for if not for our convenience?' he said, and sent me

from the room. And Marius turned his back on me!"

She flung herself on the maid's bosom, clinging round her neck, choking

with bitter weeping in her throat. In the darkness cast by the peaceful

trees, alone in the free air with her one confidante, she let herself

go utterly, the nameless passion that possessed her broke forth,

tearing speech to tatters.

"How I have loved him! Bear witness how I have hated him, Honoria!

Every time he looked at me 'twas as if he saw a smirch on his

escutcheon. He never troubled to speak to me of any matter of his

world, taking it for granted I could not understand; my people were

not genteel; I should be waiting in my father's shop. But there was

always Marius. Did he not follow me in Paris? Did he not wait beneath

my window? Did he not colour when I spoke to him, as if I had been a

princess, Honoria? Did he not?"

She freed herself from the maid's support, and leant heavily against

the straight trunk behind her.

"My God! My God!" she cried violently. "He spoke to me after his

brother's fashion, and I was scorned of both of them!"

Honoria looked at her curiously.

"I should not have thought it of Mr. Marius," she said; "but these

great gentlemen are strange. But they are men," she added quickly, "and

you are a woman, my lady. He was in love with you once, and might be

again, I'll swear to it!"

The Countess Lavinia was silent, wearily struggling with tumultuous

sobs that hurt her breast. She clasped her hands over her heart and

looked on the ground.

The maid leant forward. A stray ray of moonlight pierced the gently

waving foliage, and showed her delicate, sharp face and the curling

locks of bright gold hair that escaped from under her white muslin cap.

"Think a little, my lady, of the position you have and the power it

gives you over both of them. What good would you do by running away?"

"Disgrace him, at least," came heavily from the Countess Lavinia.

"And yourself more, my lady. What would they say--'who was she but a

perked-up Miss that lost her head?' Great ladies do not run away. And

how would Mr. Hilton receive you?"

"But for him I had never married this man," broke out the Countess

desperately. "No, I vow it! But did he not threaten to shut me up in

Bedlam? _You_ heard him tell me my grandmother had died mad, and so his

daughter should if she were not Lady Lyndwood!"

"And ye were resigned," returned the maid quickly.

"I was cowed, but I would have married Marius. Yes, last spring I would

have married him, so great a fool was I, and let the money go. The

money! What use is it to me? What pleasure have I in seeing it go to

pay _his_ debts, to procure luxuries for _his_ mother, to keep up the

estate he mocks me with, to minister to his extravagance? My money, my

father's money! And my amusement must be to see it spent on foreign

Delilahs and gipsy actresses who laugh at me!"

She stopped, gasping for breath. The maid eyed her keenly, and offered

no reply.

"Let us walk on!" cried the Countess. "I cannot stand still."

She moved forward through the trees, and Honoria followed.

For a while there was no speech between them, and the snapping of

branches and crushing back of leaves was distinctly heard. The Countess

pushed back the damp dark curls from her brow and burst into words

again.

"Am I not a good woman?" she exclaimed. "Am I not as fair and as witty

as that cousin of his? Why should they turn their backs on me? I wot

that among the women he has courted were some not so well born as I."

"But he did not marry one of them," returned Honoria in her quiet,

insinuating voice, "and that is your strength, my lady. You do not

hold him by the bonds of fancy, or the bonds of liking, or bonds of

fashion, but by the bonds of the law, and that is the most lasting

thing, my lady."

They had come out on to a fair lawn that sloped to a lake, and the

sky showed vast above them. Through the dark trees ran the constant

tripping murmur of the wind, and the long grass bent towards the water

when the breeze strengthened. The moon was almost overhead and floated

in a faint golden haze.

The Countess turned and looked back at the house, impassive and fine in

the veiled silver light.

"Could we not have bought such a place?" she said. "Ay, and finer,

Honoria! Could we not have paid for them with pieces across the counter

in our tradesmen's way, sooner than have made this bargain of scorn for

hate, sooner than have given our all for this unendurable position?"

The misty moonshine fell over her close dark hair and slender figure.

Her face was in shadow, and she supported herself by resting one frail

white hand against the cold cedar trunk behind her.

"Listen to me." The maid spoke with gathered energy. "You are the

Countess of Lyndwood, and that means you may do what you will, with all

of them, my lady. Consider that."

"I have no power," answered her mistress, "to do anything."

"If a man's wife hath not the power to ruin him, one way or another, I

know not who hath, my lady. They make nothing of you now, but in a year

hence, in two years hence you might have your foot on all of them."

The Countess Lavinia slowly turned her head and fixed her distended

eyes on the speaker.

"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 is always 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, I should 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 think _he_ has 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.

PART II

CHAPTER I

THE SECOND HOME-COMING OF MARIUS LYNDWOOD

The Countess 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 have ribbon 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 the long 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 the _Gazette_; 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 the _Gazette_."

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 cage

To catch the morning sun,

And saw below the people rage

And 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."

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 prison

To a captive daffodil,

That with the spring had risen,

In the pot on my window sill.

The sky was bright as a jewel

Through 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 splendour

As 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.