CHAPTER XIV

THE DUEL

Honoria Pryse lay in bed and listened to the rain. All night long it

had poured steadily, and now, when the June day had dawned, there was

no sign of its cessation. Honoria was always pleased to hear that

comfortless beat of the rain when she lay warm and dry herself, just as

it pleased her to think over what had happened yesterday and what would

in all likelihood happen to-day. She herself had acted prudently to her

own advantage, and yet in a way that no one could blame; even the proud

Miss Chressham had been glad of her help, and the Earl owed, if he had

not given, her thanks.

Marius Lyndwood had reason to be grateful to her, and if my lady

loathed her for her interference it was not a matter to trouble about.

The Countess was too dependent on her maid for Honoria to fear her

wrath.

It was curious that the Countess had returned so quietly. Honoria could

recall neither protest nor complaint, and the burst of passionate

invective that she had been waiting to receive the moment they were

relieved from the restraint of my lord's cold presence had never come.

Honoria was surprised, puzzled also by the curiosity my lady suddenly

showed in the matter of the Earl's duel with Sir Francis. It was not to

be marvelled at that she was interested in the fact itself, one that

might mean a great deal to her, but her questions as to time, place,

and weapons seemed to Honoria unusual and purposeless.

Sitting up in bed and shaking the yellow curls out of her eyes, she

smiled to herself at all of it--at my lady, lying in a sick sleep in

the next room; at Miss Chressham, awake certainly and praying for my

lord; at the Earl and Sir Francis, meeting under the trees in Hyde

Park--and for the sake of a few lines in the paper composed by her in

this very room; at Miss Boyle, in a fainting agony, praying also for my

lord. Honoria laughed aloud, yawned, and got out of bed.

As she dressed she wondered, with a sense of amusement, and perhaps a

little anxiety, what would happen next. If they brought my lord home,

shot through the heart; if Mr. Hilton failed; if they were sold up in a

downfall that would be the talk of London--what would become of my lady

and herself? Her mouth and eyes hardened as she stared at herself in

the mirror. Well, suppose my lord shot Sir Francis?

She shrugged her shoulders, opened the shutters and looked out over

London. The grey clouds were beginning to break, a light that was

between gold and silver glimmered over the wet roofs. The rain was

ceasing.

It was about eight; the duel must be over now. The Countess would

surely be awake. Honoria was surprised that she had not been roused by

her in the night--that she should still be sleeping on such a morning

as this. After all, my lord's life or death meant something to her.

Honoria adjusted her muslin mob, her pink ribbons, her buckle

shoes--she was always neat, though she served a slovenly mistress--and

opened the door that led into the Countess's bedchamber.

As she stepped into the close dun light of the shrouded room she came

to a stop with a great start. The heavy-curtained bed was empty. The

clothes were flung back and the spaniel slept on the coverlet; an open

novel lay on the pillow; garments, dead flowers, masks, fans, boxes,

books and prints lay scattered over the chairs and floor. The Countess

was not in the chamber.

"My lady," cried Honoria softly, "my lady!"

She crossed the room quickly and entered the apartment beyond it, her

mistress's private withdrawing-room. The blue brocaded satin curtains

were drawn close and the white rose-wreathed walls showed cold and

luminous in the confined light.

"My lady!" cried Honoria again.

At a little Chinese cabinet in the corner, set open and covered with

a confusion of papers and rich articles of gold and jewels, sat the

Countess, resting her head in her hands. She wore again the muslin

dress, red mantle, and straw hat of last night. Her clothes were wet,

clinging to her, and stained with mud. Her hair hung uncurled and

unpowdered on to her shoulders; her face was drawn and of an unhealthy

pallid colour. At her elbow stood a lit candle, and on the carpet by

the chair was a little pile of burnt paper.

She did not move at her maid's entry, and Honoria spoke again.

"Have you been out, my lady?"

The Countess Lavinia turned her head.

"Did you think I was asleep?" she asked in a weary voice.

Honoria crossed to her side.

"You are wet to the skin. Do you wish to kill yourself?"

"I do not feel it," answered the Countess, but she was shivering. "I

have been to the Park, Honoria." She put the candle out and leant back

in her chair.

"To the duel?"

"Yes." Her voice had a vague far-off sound. "I crept downstairs last

night after you had left me, and unloaded his pistols, thinking he

would have to fight without a second."

"You did that!" quivered Honoria.

The Countess turned wide glazed eyes on her. She did not seem to know

to whom she spoke.

"And then I followed to see him shot." She coughed, laughed, and sat up.

"My God!" said Honoria, staring at her mistress.

The Countess thrust her fingers through her damp hair.

"Marius was there, that is why I am speaking of it. You can tell them

afterwards."

"I do not understand," cried the maid. "Are you sane, my lady?"

"I want to say this," smiled the Countess, holding her head. "It

becomes so difficult to say anything. Sir Francis fired into the air.

Why are men such fools? I went to see _him_ shot!"

"You accuse yourself of murder," said Honoria.

"When my lord's pistol clicked uselessly," continued my lady, "they

thought it was Marius's doing--at least, my lord did. No one saw me. I

was standing at the top of a little rise among the bushes. How it had

rained! Now was my revenge, I thought. But useless, useless! And they

must know."

"Ye are mad!" muttered Honoria.

The Countess caught up some of the letters lying before her and began

to tear them across; but her fingers failed her, the pieces dropped

from her grasp and her hands sank into her lap.

"There is no need for me to speak any more," she said, and her head

fell against the satin and gilt chair-back.

"You are ill!" cried Honoria. "Get up, my lady, and take off these wet

clothes."

The Countess made no movement, and her maid, who could not see well

in this dim light, sprang to the window and pulled back the blinds.

The rain of the night was over, the drops gleamed beautifully on the

panes and a pale bar of sunlight fell across the chamber and struck the

upturned face of the Countess Lavinia.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed Honoria. "Come to bed, my lady."

"I walked home," said the Countess. "How strange the city is at night!

I beheld the dawn break behind St. James's Church."

"No one saw you?" asked the maid.

My lady shook her head.

"But you must tell them I was there."

"Ye talk madly! Why should I speak? It hath ended well; my lord lives."

"Marius hath the blame," said the Countess in an exhausted voice.

"Honoria, I could have loved him."

"What matter for that? He can go abroad. Ye are safe. Come to bed." She

caught her mistress by the arm and strove to raise her from the chair.

"Will you not come to bed? What if any find you in this trim?"

The Countess raised herself languidly.

"I should put these papers to rights," she said feebly.

Honoria noticed with a little pang of horror that the letters scattered

about were old, childish epistles dating from my lady's girlhood at the

boarding-school, and long put away.

"What are you doing with these?" she asked.

"I do not know." The Countess dropped the keys of the desk from her

limp hand and caught Honoria's shoulder. "Help me to bed. I am very

cold."

"You risked your life in this wet!" cried the maid, terrified at her

face. "You are certainly ill. Shall I fetch the doctor?"

"No--no doctor," answered the Countess. "I am very well."

Honoria helped her to the bedchamber and undressed her, huddling away

the wet clothes with their treacherous stains of mud. The Countess

flung a blue wrap over her tumbled petticoats and sank into a chair at

the foot of her bed.

"Will you have your chocolate?" asked Honoria, kneeling before her and

taking off her damp shoes.

The Countess nodded.

"It is early yet," continued the maid. "Will you not get to bed?"

The Countess Lavinia raised herself in her chair and looked round the

room--rich, yet dishevelled and dreary with its confusion of articles

of frivolity and vanity.

"No," she said vacantly. "Go make the chocolate."

Honoria gave her a pair of glittering slippers and went lightly into

the next chamber, where, on an elegant table of kingswood, stood the

silver chocolate service. Before preparing this she crept to the door,

opened it, and went out upon the landing to peer over the lordly

stairs. Everything was silent. But the Earl must have returned.

Honoria went back and cast a wondering glance on the pile of torn

letters. There was insanity in my lady's family, and Honoria remembered

it--recalled violent scenes between father and daughter--threats of

Bedlam. The maid was convinced that the scene of yesterday had upset

her mistress's brain. What was it but an act of madness, this wild

attempt to cause my lord's death, this lonely adventure? And then this

return to a desperate sorting and tearing up of old worthless letters?

She drew the rich heavy curtains back and let in the early sunlight,

that shone gaily over the elegant, extravagant appointments of the

chamber. When the chocolate was ready, frothed and milled, she poured

out a cup and took it in to my lady.

The Countess sat where she had left her. The vivid colour of her wrap

accentuated the curious pallor of her face; her tangled hair fell on

her shoulders and her head was leaning back.

"Madam," said Honoria sharply, "you are indeed ill, and I shall send

for the apothecary."

"No," replied my lady languidly. "Come here."

The maid placed the cup on a side table covered with pots of pomade and

bottles of Hungary water.

"Come here," repeated the Countess, and held out her hand.

Honoria caught the cold fingers.

"What is the matter?" she demanded anxiously.

The Countess slowly raised her handkerchief with her free hand and

wiped her lips.

"You must tell them," she murmured. "I leave it very incomplete.

I--yesterday I felt a fear of sudden death."

"God help us! Ye are not dying?" cried Honoria.

My lady shuddered, and closed her eyes. The maid caught her by the

shoulder almost roughly.

"What is the matter? Are you dying?"

"I am not afraid," muttered the Countess without opening her eyes,

"now--but tell the Earl."

"I will fetch him!" exclaimed Honoria.

The Countess made no answer but a faint moan, and as she stared at her

Honoria saw the truth.

"You have taken poison," she said.

There was no answer from my lady. Her eyes fluttered open and stared

blankly before her.

"So this is the turn it has taken!" said Honoria, very pale. "You are a

fool, madam, and a wicked fool. I will go fetch a doctor."

"No, no!" wailed the Countess. "Do not leave me, I am dying."

But Honoria Pryse ran out of the room.

At that the Countess dragged herself into a sitting posture and gazed

about her. The shrouded windows, the close light, the unmade bed, the

untidy chamber, the profusion of useless, extravagant things scattered

about, formed a dreary picture. There was luxury but no comfort; to my

lady's hazing eyes it appeared a cheerless place.

The little dog awoke, roused himself, jumped off the bed and came round

to his mistress. She held out a shaking hand to him, and he leapt on to

her lap.

"Honoria!" she said faintly, and looked towards the other room,

where the sunshine lay strong and gold. Her fingers wandered over

the spaniel's soft coat; she gave a little cough and passed her hand

patiently to and from her brow. She was not thinking of anything at

all; she felt that for the moment everything was suspended, but that

presently she would be able to adjust it all in her own mind--think it

out and put it straight.

When Honoria returned she had not moved. The maid was not alone; my

lord, in his black ball dress, stained and tumbled with the rain and

mud and the powder shaken out of his bright hair, followed her.

The Countess roused herself as she saw him.

"What is this?" he asked wildly.

"The end, my lord," she answered, coughing.

"Have you no remedies?" cried the Earl, turning on Honoria. "Have you

done nothing for her?"

"One hath gone for the apothecary."

My lady's glazed eyes rested on her husband's face.

"It is no use. I have taken poison," she shuddered. "I bought it this

morning. There is no need for me to say anything more."

"Why have you done this?" cried the Earl wretchedly.

She was getting fast beyond all questions or reproaches, getting beyond

knowing or caring who spoke to her.

"Oh, I am in pain!" she said faintly. "This is a horrible way to die!

Honoria will tell you." She made a writhing movement that caused the

dog to jump from her knee.

Rose Lyndwood dropped to one knee beside her and caught her wrist.

"Why does not the doctor come?" he cried distractedly. "Speak to me, my

lady, speak to me!"

"Give me some water," she murmured.

Honoria moved away to fetch it. The Countess shuddered and groaned.

"Shall I send for a clergyman--for your father?" asked my lord.

"Send for no one," she gasped. "What are any of them to me?"

Honoria brought the water, and as the Countess raised her head to take

it she fixed her vacant eyes on my lord.

"You wait for me to ask your forgiveness," she said with sudden

strength; "but honour was--never in--the bargain. I told Susannah

Chressham so."

She took the glass and held it a moment, staring at her husband; then

it slipped through her fingers and broke on the gilt arm of the chair;

the water was spilt over her blue wrapper and the floor.

"Oh," she murmured, and sank backwards, "save me from this!"

My lord sprang up and supported her frail body. She choked, struggled,

and her eyes rolled in her head, her forehead grew damp and her face

distorted.

There was a tap on the door of the outer room. The doctor, my lady's

black page, a maidservant and the hairdresser entered, filling the

chamber with the agitation of low talk. Honoria followed the physician

to my lady's side.

"What can you do for her?" demanded my lord impatiently, and the maid's

sharp face was keen as she waited for the verdict.

There was hesitation, talk, delay. Half the household gathered in the

outer room; the Countess lay breathing heavily in a half-swoon. It was

decided to bleed her.

"Make haste!" cried the Earl.

My lady opened her heavy eyes.

"Leave me alone," she whispered. "It is over."

The doctor took her arm and rolled back the loose blue sleeve. Honoria,

watchful, quiet, held the basin and the linen.

"She is dying!" cried my lord hoarsely. For the first time he used her

name. "Lavinia!"

She gave a great heaving breath, coughed, and sank sideways off the

chair, her lips parted and her eyes turned up. The Earl caught her with

an exclamation of horror. The Countess struggled a moment for breath,

gave a sound like a laugh, and fell against my lord's breast.

"She is dead!" said the Earl.

Confusion and bewilderment fell on my lady's chambers; only Honoria

Pryse was cool and unmoved. She gave one look at the face of the

Countess as they carried her to the bed, then slipped away, picked

up my lady's red cloak of last night, in the pocket of which still

remained the casket of jewels she had provided for her flight, and

quietly left the apartment.

"There is no hope," said the old doctor in a frightened voice. "She is

dead or dying."

"Lavinia!" cried the Earl again. He bent over the bed on which they had

laid her slight figure, and his tumbled hair touched her hollow cheek.

The Countess did not speak.

In the outer chamber was sudden commotion.

"'Tis my lady's father, nor will he be stopped."

Through the gaping crowds of servants a man's figure thrust forward.

The Earl moved to the door of the inner chamber. Mr. Hilton, motioning

aside those who sought to speak to or impede him, caught sight of my

lord.

"Where is Lavinia?" he cried at a pitch of passion that was regardless

of all about him. "I will speak to her, and to you, Lord Lyndwood."

"You cannot see your daughter, sir," said the Earl.

"Is the idle jade still abed? No matter, I must speak to her." He

forced past the Earl into the bedchamber.

"Stand back!" cried my lord, and caught his arm. "Can you not see?"

Mr. Hilton turned on him fiercely.

"I am ruined, you rake-helly fop! Do you hear me? Ruined!"

"We are not alone!" exclaimed my lord, glancing with horrified eyes on

the older man.

"Where is Lavinia?" shrieked Mr. Hilton. "Lavinia, you have ruined me!

I am a beggar! Do you hear? God curse you, my lady!"

A shudder ran through the room. The Earl stepped to where the Countess

lay, and raised the heavy curtain so that the light fell over the bed.

"My lady does not care," he said wildly, and pointed to her face.

PART III

CHAPTER I

THE CONFESSION OF ROSE LYNDWOOD

"You are so much engaged you are quite a stranger to me," said Miss

Chressham. "Forgive me for having requested your company."

My lord answered smilingly.

"My time is yours; you must remember that it is you, not I, who have

been from town."

Susannah raised rather weary eyes.

"Compliments apart, have you half an hour to give me, Rose?"

He glanced at the silver timepiece.

"I am due at Carlisle House at ten; there is a new singer----"

"And Miss Trefusis will be there."

The Earl raised his eyebrows.

"Perhaps--till then at least I am free."

Miss Chressham leant back in her chair. Though it was early spring a

fire burnt between the brass and irons, and cast a red glow over the

shining folds of her grey dress.

The Earl, in gold and scarlet riding dress, sat easily on the brocade

settee and looked, rather curiously, at his cousin.

"I have to speak of painful things," said Miss Chressham; "but I can be

silent no longer. I have been waiting----"

"For me?" asked my lord.

"For you!" Susannah picked up a drawn-silk hand-screen and held it

between her face and the fire; incidentally it concealed her from the

Earl's observation.

"Rose," she said very gravely, "you have been free nine months, and

everything goes on exactly the same."

His handsome face was expressionless.

"Why not, my dear?" he asked.

"Do you not understand me?" she returned. "But no, it is I who do not

understand and you who must explain."

"You are wondering," said my lord, swinging his glass, "about the

money."

"There shows no difference in the style of your living, of my Lady

Agatha's living, since the--the ruin of Mr. Hilton."

"He is in Bedlam," said the Earl irrelevantly. "Did you know?"

Miss Chressham shuddered.

"Yes, I heard--it is very terrible; was he utterly ruined?"

"Faith, 'tis only I who keep him from the paupers."

"I am glad you do so much."

"I could do no less, she was my wife."

"We will not speak of it," said Susannah in a low voice, "but of the

future." She dropped the hand-screen and faced her cousin. "Rose, what

are we all living on?"

"Debts, maybe," smiled my lord.

Susannah frowned in a troubled way.

"You have never been sincere with me, and I think I have deserved some

frankness; you were entangled before you flung up your post under

Pelham."

My lord interrupted with an air of sudden weariness.

"There are always the Jews, and in one way and another one may float. I

have been lucky of late at play."

"As you will," answered Miss Chressham quietly. "My lady is content,

but I cannot help--Ah! well, I have no right to play the monitor."

"You are the guardian angel of our house," smiled my lord, and gave her

a soft, half-amused look. "Have you heard lately from Marius?"

Her face clouded.

"I do not care to hear you speak of him."

"Why not?"

"You well know why. You believe that of him I never can nor will

believe."

The Earl shrugged his shoulders.

"A woman's generous blindness, my dear."

"A woman's clearer vision," she retorted hotly. "_You_ are blind, Rose,

to have known Marius all his life and still imagine he could miserably

intrigue for your death; he appeared at the meeting, after your insult,

out of pure honour."

"He appeared as my second, against my will, and my pistol had been

drawn," returned the Earl dryly. "Also he had refused to fight me."

"Because I asked it of him, and for that I can never forgive myself,"

said Miss Chressham bitterly.

My lord laughed.

"I think he was fond of you."

Miss Chressham looked into the fire.

"I have not seen him since he threw up his commission," she said

thoughtfully; "nor may I see him again, but I shall believe in him

always."

"He is still in Holland?" asked the Earl lightly.

"Yes"--Susannah roused herself--"but it is not of him I wish to speak."

She fixed her eyes searchingly on the easy rich figure of Rose Lyndwood

and went faintly pale.

"You have heard that Sir Francis Boyle is married?"

"Yes"--he was still smiling--"to Miss Brett, a beauty and a fortune."

Susannah leant forward, resting her cheek in her hand, her elbow on

the arm of the chair; her brow was anxious, and her gaze rested with

painful attention on the Earl's calm countenance.

"When are you going to marry Selina Boyle?" she asked.

He gave her a quick look; she read nothing but surprise in his fair,

fickle eyes.

"Of all things I had not expected this," he said, and laughed a little.

"You think I have no right to speak, but I am her friend, and I must

ask how long will you keep her waiting?"

My lord slightly flushed.

"I am not betrothed to Miss Boyle."

"Oh, Rose," cried Miss Chressham, drawing a deep breath, "will you use

forever this formality to me? She, Selina, told me herself, and I--have

I not been a faithful confidante?" She paused, collected herself and

continued, "I heard to-day from Bristol; she does not mention you; but

she must be wondering, and why are you delaying? Rose, you have been

free nearly a year."

"By Gad, you put me in an awkward position," said the Earl. "On my

honour I do not know what to say to you."

He rose and leant against the top of the settee, looking at her

curiously.

"Why delay?" Miss Chressham spoke earnestly, almost passionately.

"Announce it, go down to Bristol; neither decency nor honour demand any

further tribute to the memory of that unhappy lady."

"Susannah," he interrupted. "You speak under the influence of an error."

"An error?" she echoed.

"Yes, I do not intend to marry Miss Boyle."

"Rose!" the exclamation seemed wrung from her by sheer bitter surprise.

She stared at him incredulously.

He coloured, deeply now, to his powdered side-curls.

"I do not know what impossible romance you have been building,

Susannah, but this you speak of I have never even contemplated."

"You--you do not intend to marry Selina?"

"You imagined I did? My dear, it would be the simplest folly."

Susannah rose and rested her hand against the mantelshelf.

"Please put this clearly," she said; "why would it be folly?"

He smiled.

"You yourself, my dear, have remarked the state of my fortunes--Miss

Boyle is not wealthy."

"Money--again money!" cried Miss Chressham in horrified accents. "Do

you dare to consider money--after all that has passed?"

"It is a necessary evil," said the Earl.

"But you love her!" broke from Susannah.

A pause followed. My lord took a half-turn across the room followed by

his cousin's bewildered, appealing eyes, then he turned and faced her.

His demeanour was changed, his voice when he spoke was low and grave.

"You have mistaken me," and he put his hand to his heart in some

agitation. "I think you can never have known me; but it moves me that

you should take this trouble in my affairs, and I can do no less than

confess."

"Confess, and to me!" cried Susannah.

"To no one else could I speak," said the Earl; "what is the use, even

to you? But it is strange that you should have so misunderstood me."

"I thought I knew you very well," breathed Susannah.

"Not so well, my dear," he returned half sadly. "I--I never loved

this lady, it was a fair pretence, but no more; how could there be

love when there was no knowledge? She was to me a faint, sweet figure

who"--he shrugged his shoulders--"and I--why, she knew nothing of me

but what I chose to show her. It was pleasant, a delicate episode; but

to marry her!"

"You forget some incidents of this story," said Miss Chressham with

lowered eyes; "you let her think you cared--if Marius and my lady had

been willing, you averred, you would have married her--what of that?"

My lord laughed faintly.

"I could never have done it."

"Then your marriage was not for Marius, for your mother, it was for

yourself."

"As this is my confession, I suppose you are right, Susannah. I could

never have done other than I did--am I the man for an idyll? It

happened to be charming to imagine it."

Miss Chressham raised her grave, dark eyes.

"And afterwards, when you dared to ask Selina to refuse Sir Francis?"

"That was a matter of vanity," confessed my lord, "and perhaps

curiosity; I wanted to know. Ah, well, I had a number of motives."

Miss Chressham put her hand to her head.

"I think I understand, at last; indeed I see it very clearly. But there

is something _you_ do not see clearly--the position of Selina Boyle."

The Earl toyed with his glass.

"Can I flatter myself that she would recall an incident that touched

her so little? The whole thing was but a matter of sighs and smiles."

Susannah interrupted.

"I do not credit you with believing what you say; even if you do," her

voice strengthened, "I know that it is false. If you were well on the

earth all the time, she was nevertheless in the clouds; if you found

it a flattering diversion, she found it more."

My lord made a restraining gesture.

"Oh, but you must hear me!" continued Susannah. "She was sincere; if

you did not consider her so you must know it now."

"You cannot answer for her," said the Earl, and again his natural

pallor disappeared under a slow blush.

"I _know_," answered his cousin. "You spoke and she believed; she

accepted you on her own level, and you must act up to it, Rose."

The Earl glanced at her under lowered lids.

"It would be no great honour to Miss Boyle," he said gravely, "to make

her my second wife. Believe me, I respect and admire that lady too much

to ever act with her the comedy my marriage must be."

Susannah clenched her hand impatiently on the mantelshelf.

"Oh, you talk, talk!" she cried, "and meanwhile Selina waits; do you

suppose these sophistries occur to her, or if they do that they can

comfort her in face of the fact that you do not write, you do not come,

and she hears your name coupled with that of other women?"

"Still you speak under a misconception," said my lord. "I could never

marry for love."

"You would marry again for money?" she flashed.

"I have confessed," he answered; "your sincerity has forced it from me.

I do what comes naturally to me to do, that which everyone does--why

not?"

"In other words you drift!" cried Miss Chressham, "as all the Lyndwoods

have drifted, to destruction; you find nothing good but idleness and

paltry pleasure."

"I have some conscience left," interrupted the Earl, "and in the matter

of Miss Boyle."

"This talk is but to cloak your own convenience," replied Susannah.

"What are you going to do?"

"The obvious thing," said my lord.

Miss Chressham flushed.

"Serena Trefusis has money; they are ambitious people; do you mean

that?"

Rose Lyndwood laughed.

"You are a sweet moralist, my dear, and, by Gad! I don't deserve your

interest."

She broke in, pushing back the heavy fair hair from her face.

"I am not talking of myself," she bit her lip in agitation, "but of

Selina Boyle. I think you are going to behave dishonourably, Rose."

The Earl was silent. The glow of the fire, showing more strongly in the

darkening room, struck vividly on his red dress, and cast a warm colour

over his half-averted face.

"She hath been very faithful to you," said Susannah in a low voice.

"Even had you not asked it of her she would never have married, for

your sake, and she is a noble nature. Ah, you should be proud; there

are not many such as she."

Still my lord did not speak, but his beautiful mouth trembled a little.

"And she thinks you care," continued Miss Chressham. "And if you do

not, what has she for her devotion? She was the belle of two years

ago. Sir Francis married the belle of this--all the town knew that he

and you met because of her--all the town read that paragraph in the

_Gazette_, and none of this is anything to her, if you care; if not--"

she moved from the mantelshelf, and sudden passion touched her voice,

"it is hard for women who wait."

The Earl raised his head.

"She does not know me," he said softly. "What can I do?"

"She must never know you," returned Susannah quickly.

"What am I to do?" repeated the Earl.

"Go to Bristol," said Miss Chressham. "See her, speak to her--by

Heaven, you cannot find it difficult to love her, or to feign love to

any woman; you do not need me to tell you what to do. I have told you

she is waiting, that is enough."

My lord slightly smiled.

"Money, of course, you scorn, my dear; but it is a thing not so easily

ignored. I am entangled in debt."

"You can do--you can do what Marius does."

"A fair prospect to offer Miss Boyle."

"That is between you and her. Go to her at least; put it to her, do not

overlook her, pass her by----"

"You are a curious lady," said my lord with a half-amused, half-wistful

glance. "And now I have confessed myself a shallow, empty person I

fear I have your scorn, but these things--position, money, and other

fooleries--are facts."

"It is also a fact that she is waiting," flashed Susannah.

"And one that perchance outweighs those others." The Earl spoke in a

softer voice. "On my soul I have not thought of it in such a fashion."

"You are too fickle."

"I have told you what I am, like the rest or any other."

Miss Chressham turned her eyes away.

"Not quite like any other, Rose, in so far that you will go to Bristol."

"Ah, my dear, this is not the age of chivalry."

"Still, you will go to Bristol?"

She put out her hand, caught hold of the mantelshelf, and turning,

faced him.

"These are not things to speak of, it is getting late; I have to dress."

Their eyes met across the twilit room; as a background to each was the

glimmer of rich furniture, the handsome painted walls, the shifting

shadows cast by the candle-light.

"Are you going?" she asked.

CHAPTER II

SELINA BOYLE

Rose Lyndwood paused a moment with his hand on the gate, and looked

smilingly up at the sky, which was covered with dappled clouds, tinged

with the gold pink of sunset.

The scent from the box hedges was freshly pungent in the clear air, and

the roses climbing over the front of the old red brick house had their

perfume too, that came in breaths faintly as the breeze stirred.

This was the home of Selina Boyle--where she had waited for him,

Susannah said. My lord was not displeased with the thought; he

persuaded himself that the affair had been sweetly romantic from the

first. He almost persuaded himself that he had really cared for Miss

Boyle. Certainly that night at the theatre----

He laughed a little; it could not but amuse him that he found himself

there at all. His cousin's words had roused some emotion, exactly what

he could not tell, but one strong enough to bring him here.

It might have been vanity. He himself thought it curiosity. He had

not met her since that night at the masque, when Sir Francis had come

between; he had not even thought about her much, yet she had been

waiting until he chose to remember.

Certainly the reflection was pleasing. He had not the vaguest idea

of what he should do or say. It was utterly against his nature to

form plans on any subject, but the contemplation of her faithfulness

softened him into a loverlike mood.

He entered the beautiful garden, and wondered was she at home. He had

left London on an impulse, and had not announced to her his coming.

To meet her unexpectedly was more in keeping with the idyll; and that

it was, and always had been, a very perfect idyll my lord was now

convinced.

As he neared the house, walking slowly between the box borders and the

beds of pinks and roses, he saw her coming down an alley overarched by

a trellis covered in sweet-brier. She wore a white dress and a wide

straw hat that shaded half her face. On her arm was a flat basket

filled with sprays of green.

The Earl took off his hat and waited. His elegant, rich appearance

seemed out of place in the simple garden, just as the heavy perfume of

his clothes mingled curiously with the odours of the flowers.

She came towards him, the lovely moving shadows of thorns and leaves

cast over her muslin gown, and as she stepped out into the pure faint

sunlight she saw him.

"Ah, you!" she cried, without restraint or confusion. "You!"

She held out her hands, and her face expressed nothing but radiant joy.

My lord was moved and thrilled. He kissed the hands that trembled at

his touch, and smiled into her eager eyes.

"Were you expecting me--Selina?"

"To-day?" She was quivering, blushing. The same sweet face, the same

low voice, unchanged. "Ah, how could I tell it would be to-day?"

"I never wrote," he said, probing her.

"I did not expect it. As if there was any need of letters, my lord!"

He swung his cane by the gilt tassels, wondering how he should feel his

way to her mood.

"My father is in the house," she said, "but you have come to see me."

"Naturally--to see you!" He gave his half excited, wholly charming

laugh.

"We will remain out here. Come, I will take you to a place I love."

There was no embarrassment nor agitation in her manner; she was calm,

unaffected in her welcome. Evidently she had been very sure of his

coming.

My lord thought of Miss Chressham as he followed her friend down the

rose-covered alley.

"I am glad that you did not write." Selina Boyle spoke suddenly. He saw

her eyes, dark and soft, in the trembling shadow of her hat as they

turned to him.

She was grave now, and pale, but her expression was that of pure

happiness.

"I should not have known what to say," answered my lord, also with some

gravity, and truth.

"I understand it all, without any word from you," she smiled. "Of

course, you knew that I should----"

They came out on to a square of grass, in the centre of which stood

a stone fountain clasped by heavy crimson roses. Beyond was a grove

of beech-trees; through the boughs the sunset light fell in a glory;

facing the fountain was a garden wall, overgrown with moss and tufts

of grass; beneath this a row of straw beehives; the other side was the

rose garden, not yet in full bloom, but a revelry of green.

There was no water in the fountain. In the basin grew white,

sweet-smelling pinks, and on the edge of it Miss Boyle seated herself

and clasped her hands in her lap.

"Do you not find it sweet here?" she asked. "You have never seen my

home before."

She might have added with truth that he had never known her before.

There was something in her rapt face that he was afraid of. He felt an

alien in the garden, a stranger by her side; yet his fickle taste found

this sweet after the noisy life of town, and Miss Boyle, seated before

her beehives, even more winning than Miss Boyle, the beauty of the

Wells.

For a while they were both silent, looking at the clear space of sky

above the beech-trees.

She was the first to speak.

"There is so much to say, and yet so little."

The Earl looked at her; her white dress touched the white flowers

growing in the stone basin; her auburn hair hung lightly on to her

slender neck, and her eyes rested on him intently.

"I should have come before," he said.

"Why?" she smiled, and he wondered why it was a sad smile. "Now we are

both ready. At first it was bitter, but now----"

So it seemed she had never questioned he was bound to her, never

questioned, either, his love. There was no mistaking the sincerity of

her look, her voice. Miss Chressham was amazingly right.

The church-bells came up from the town of Bristol. It was Sunday,

though till now my lord had forgotten it. He took a step or two across

the grass, and the sun, growing stronger at the last, gleamed on his

grey satin coat, and glittered in the brilliants at his throat.

"It was difficult for me," he said. "At first----"

"What of your brother?" she asked. "Susannah tells me that he has gone

into business in Holland."

"He does well there." My lord's voice was disinterested.

"That was one of the things I wished to say to you. You do not believe

the--the story they whispered of the duel?"

"Marius is better abroad," said the Earl evasively.

"But you do not believe it?" pleaded Miss Boyle. "No, you could not!"

He smiled down at her.

"Very well, as you wish. I will not believe it; but it was not to speak

of Marius that I came to Bristol."

Inwardly he asked himself what had brought him--asked himself between

tears and laughter. What he must do now he was here he could read in

Miss Boyle's eyes.

"You have heard of me from Susannah?"

"A few words--sometimes," she answered.

"I should have written."

"No, it was sweet to wait."

"Then you are not displeased with me?"

She laughed softly.

"How could _I_ be displeased with _you_?"

The Earl blushed slowly.

"Ye abash me, Selina. Ye should be saying this to a better man."

Again Miss Boyle laughed.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!"

She put her hand quickly to her heart, to her lips, and rose, turning

from him.

"I have something to show you--something still to say to you."

"I think it is I who have to speak," said my lord, and marvelled that

she should be so sure of this perfect understanding between them, when

in reality (and this was strange and piteous) she did not comprehend

his motive in being here, nor in the least grasp his feelings towards

her. He looked at her keenly, decided she was not foolish, but exalted,

and wondered still more in a kind of shame.

Miss Boyle stood still. In a quite unconscious way she seemed to

be listening to the sweet sound of the bells. Her bearing held no

confusion nor agitation; she did not appear to be waiting for either

confession or caresses. My lord found himself at a loss; his thoughts

flew to Miss Chressham. He smiled to himself and watched the pure

profile of Selina Boyle.

Presently she glanced round at him and gave a little sigh, as if she

awoke reluctantly from a reverie.

"Will you tell me how she died?"

The Earl was startled beyond concealment.

"How she died? Who?"

Miss Boyle answered softly.

"The Countess."

His face darkened.

"You must know. It was talked of enough."

"She died suddenly. I heard no more."

"Let it go at that," said my lord.

Miss Boyle observed him intently.

"I mean the manner of her death--did she speak of me?"

"Of you? No."

"And you--how did she leave you?"

"There was little enough passed!" replied my lord gloomily. "The

Countess fell ill and died before she could be even bled. Why do we

speak of it? It is not one of my most pleasant recollections."

"Forgive me," said Miss Boyle tenderly; "only sometimes it has weighed

on me that she might have died bitterly reviling us--and, also, I am

sorry for her. It is so terrible a thing, my lord, to die suddenly."

He gave her a sideways look. It was curious that she had not at once,

like Susannah Chressham and most other people, guessed the meaning of

my lady's tragic end, yet there could be no doubt that she was sincere.

He was silent, and Miss Boyle spoke again, moving slowly over the long

grass.

"Do you put flowers sometimes on her tomb?"

The Earl smiled. Her words did not jar; he could be sentimental

himself. The garden and her company were both fitted to make him fall

in with her delicate moods.

She did not give him time to compose an answer.

"I have some roses here I want you to take back with you--for that--her

tomb."

She pointed out a tree on the edge of the rose-garden laden with heavy

white blooms, then sank to one knee beside it, and, taking a pair of

scissors from her basket severed the thick and thorny stems. As the

roses fell one by one upon the grass, my lord felt the tears sting his

eyes. He bent over her impulsively.

"Selina," he said, in an unsteady voice, "Selina, will you not lay

flowers there yourself?"

She raised her face and looked at him.

"I am not likely to be in London," she answered.

He recollected that London, after the crash their marriage must

involve, would not indeed be their home.

"I' faith we can go there--" he began, but her expression gave him pause.

"Why do you think I have come, Selina?" he asked, in an altered voice.

She rose, two flowers in her hand; her eyes had a startled look.

"To bid me good-bye," she answered calmly.

My lord was too bewildered and startled to answer. He stared curiously

at her sweet gravity.

"What other reason could have brought you?" she continued, with a faint

colour in her face.

"Can you conceive no other?" he replied. "I came to claim you,

Selina--at last." He smiled in an agitated manner.

The blush deepened in her cheeks.

"You did not think, my lord, that I could ever be your wife?"

"I had that presumption." He was goaded by this unexpected attitude of

hers to speak bitterly, to commit himself beyond the truth. "There is

no obstacle now, Selina."

"I never thought of this," said Miss Boyle, under her breath. "I do not

know if you are serious; but, surely it is needless for me to tell you,

my lord, that it is impossible. Everything is impossible between you

and me--save farewell."

"Why do you say so?" he demanded. "Have you not been waiting for this

moment?"

"To bring--farewell. Yes, I believed you would come for that--to see me

once more, to bid good-bye; but--ah, the idyll was broken so long ago."

She turned her head away sharply. "We shall care always, shall we not?

I--I do not dare express to you what I feel."

"We will not part, Selina!" he cried.

She faced him courageously.

"Nothing can move me, not even your sincerity. I am resolved; and you

know in your heart that I am right."

The words held him silent with a shame she took for grief.

"What does it matter," she said, with a soft passion in her voice,

"since we----"

"Since we have loved one another," finished my lord, lifting his grey

eyes.

"Yes," breathed Miss Boyle.

A silence followed and the bells ceased; the sun had set, and all

colour faded from the sky. Miss Boyle stooped and picked up the few

roses still upon the grass.

"You understand?" she asked.

"I understand," answered the Earl.

"You must go."

"I would not," he said softly, "dare to stay."

She smiled in an absorbed manner, and turned down the rose alley. As

they walked together they spoke a little, in low voices, of common

things, words with no meaning, but of sweet sound, and a great regret

touched my lord's fickle heart.

She came with him to the gate.

"Do you still bid me go?"

"Farewell!" she said.

He lingered, divided in himself, moved and sad. She put her hand to her

bosom and drew from her fichu a white ribbon on which hung a little

shell. She showed it to him and smiled.

"Must I--shall I go?" he said, asking himself.

Her hat had slipped from her golden head, and as she looked up at him

the fine curls were displayed on her brow and shoulders.

She opened the gate. The Earl stepped slowly out on to the road. She

took the roses from her basket and gave them to him.

"Farewell!" she repeated.

He bent and kissed the fingers among the rose-leaves.

"Farewell!" he said, on a half-sigh, yet smiling.

She moved away from the gate, back among the boughs of fragrant box.

For the first time suddenly she used his name.

"Rose! Rose!"

The Earl stood, looking at her; then she turned towards the house, and

he down the road, wondering at her, at himself, and staring at the

great mass of white roses that he was carrying, he knew not why.

CHAPTER III

A MAY NIGHT

The curtain fell on the last act of _Zaîre_.

"I do not like Monsieur Voltaire," said Susannah Chressham. She and her

companion, Miss Westbrook, moved on the outskirts of the crowd that

filled the music-room in Villiers Street.

"Shall we go?" asked Miss Westbrook, unfurling her fan.

"Why, not yet. Where is my lady?"

"I saw her but now with my mother." They turned into the card-rooms

that opened from the large hall.

"That tedious tragedy has given me a headache," remarked Miss

Chressham, seating herself on one of the gilt chairs. A number of

violins were playing, and the air was pleasantly heavy with the scent

of hot-house roses and syringa.

"La, look at that beauty there!" cried Miss Westbrook.

Susannah glanced round; she coloured.

"Do you not know her? 'Tis Miss Trefusis."

"Ah, then a swinging fortune, too!" said Helen Westbrook.

Susannah understood her tone, but her answer closed the subject.

"There is Captain Lestrange coming for you, my dear; you promised to be

of his party at a game of faro. If you see my lady tell her that I am

waiting here."

Miss Westbrook laughed and moved away into the crowd. Susannah rested

her elbow on the table and put her hand over her eyes. The glitter of

the chandeliers, the gleaming of the gilt and satin walls, the bright

colours of the dresses hurt her eyes.

She sat so for a while, indifferent to the crowd that passed and

repassed, aware of the music, but listening to the insistent clamour of

her own agitated thoughts. When she at last looked up it was to see my

lord, splendidly dressed in white and silver and conspicuously attended

by those eager to be in the fashion, entering the room.

Her vacant look was replaced by one of eagerness. She made a motion

with her black fan. He saw it at once, left those who crowded round him

and crossed over to her.

"So you are back--so soon," she greeted him a little breathlessly.

"I made post haste--I travelled all night." He was smiling, his manner

as always of an indifferent gaiety; but to Susannah's keen observation

his beautiful eyes looked shadowed and weary.

"You did not stay long in Bristol?"

"A few moments only."

"Ah!" She rose. "Let us walk about a little; you cannot say much here."

"It is very crowded to-night," he remarked, looking about him with

distaste. "I hate the place."

"Then why have you come?" she challenged him.

"To see you. I was at my Lord Carlisle's for dinner; afterwards, in the

Haymarket, I learnt you were here."

"Ah, forgive me, it is good of you, Rose," she answered gently;

"indeed, I am very glad to see you. I want to speak to you--and on a

second matter now."

They turned into the almost empty hall, where the play had been given.

The dark curtain over the stage and the scattered few lights gave the

place a mournful air. From the distance came the thin melody of the

violins.

"I must tell you," said Susannah, "though this is not the place. Still,

a few words are best, and we need never refer to it again."

Her powdered hair and bronze-coloured silk gown accentuated the pallor

of her fair face. She looked tired, anxious, and her voice, for all her

obvious effort at control, trembled on her words.

"I have heard from Honoria Pryse."

The Earl glanced at her sharply.

"Why does she write to you?"

"She writes concerning Marius"--Miss Chressham pressed her handkerchief

to her lips. "Having fled with my lady's jewels, she kept silence at

the time, nor does she now disclose her whereabouts; but she has had on

her mind my lady's--the Countess Lavinia's--dying wish, and she writes

to me. But I do not care to show you her letter, Rose."

"Tell me what she says."

"Yes, since it is by her--the Countess Lavinia's--desire that anyone

speaks at all," answered Susannah. "I--I will strive to be brief and

gentle." She took breath a moment. "It seems she followed you that

night to Hyde Park," continued Susannah hurriedly; "she was there

at the duel. God forgive her! She had previously drawn your pistol,

finding occasion that evening when you left it set out in the library.

I have not the details, but the bare facts suffice. She wished your

death. I think perhaps she cared for--I would say she did not wish that

Marius, your second, should bear the weight of her sin; so after she

had made certain of her end she laid it on Honoria to confess to you.

But the girl fled, thinking only of herself. Still, conscience has

worked, and she sends to me this late avowal."

The Earl had kept silence, was silent now. Susannah could read nothing

from his pale profile.

"I have to tell you, because it was her wish, and out of justice to

Marius," she said, "not to blame the dead."

"I might have known," replied my lord, and he half smiled. "I will

write to Marius."

"I always believed in him," breathed Susannah, "so did my lady. Do not

let us speak of it any more. I must be leaving soon; but first"--she

raised her eyes--"Selina?"

The violins were playing a gavotte. My lord's long fingers beat time to

the measure on the hilt of his rapier.

"She hath refused me," he answered. "Is it farce or tragedy we play? I

know not. She is a creature of gossamer, of sentiment. What has passed

makes our marriage as impossible to her as sordid matters would have

made it impossible to me."

"However, she believes you care," breathed Susannah, divining suddenly

Selina's view.

The Earl bent his head.

"And hath taken farewell of me. Her affection is not of the earth.

Better for her that she should never know the quality of mine."

"She is happy?"

"I do think so," said my lord.

Susannah faced him suddenly.

"And you--what are you going to do?"

He laughed sadly.

"For once I can answer you. I shall marry Miss Trefusis."

They stood facing each other under a silver sconce, the pale light of

its candles over their faces. Susannah leant against the panelled walls

and lowered her eyes.

"For the money?" she said in a repressed voice.

"Miss Trefusis is one of the most charming ladies in London," answered

the Earl; "but to you I can say it. Yes."

"For the second time!" Susannah spoke in the same tone. "I wonder you

can dare."

"Oh, my dear!"--there was sadness in my lord's sweet weary voice--"you

are a lady of sense, not so simple. How have I been living but on the

prospects of a marriage such as this? With Miss Boyle I should have had

to face God knows what--the Fleet maybe, or a post with the Prince at

Bois-le-duc. As it is----"

"Say no more!" broke in Susannah. "You will break her heart, that is

all."

"Do you speak of Selina Boyle?"

"Of whom else? Miss Trefusis is aware of what she does. What do I care

for her? I regard Selina----"

"She hath said farewell. She would say no other word."

Susannah broke out passionately.

"Oh, cannot you understand? She cares for you beyond anything in the

world; she thinks that so do you care for her, and if you marry--Ah,

but I can say no more!"

"There is no more to be said," answered my lord. "These ideas are

sweet, but over-romantical. I shall ask for the hand of Miss Trefusis

to-morrow, as I am a very ordinary gentleman and cannot go to ruin for

a whim."

Miss Chressham pressed her brow wearily.

"My head aches, and we cannot converse on such things in the crowd,

amid the light and music, neither can I recollect all I would say."

"You despise me," smiled the Earl. He laughed lightly.

Slowly they turned into the gay card-room, where the orchestra played

to the gamesters and an Italian singer's voice rose above the murmur of

talk.

My lord spoke again, with utter weariness in his voice.

"As you say, we cannot converse here. To-morrow I will wait on you and

on my lady; perhaps I can a little justify myself."

She would not look at him.

"Ah, Rose, what do you care about justifying yourself to me? As for my

lady, I think she will be pleased."

"I have confessed to you," he answered. "I have told you I do what

comes, being in no way heroic or noble." He paused.

"You are going now," she said. "I cannot bear to listen to you here."

"Yes, I will get away from these people. I came only to meet you; I

feel fatigued."

She saw Miss Westbrook approaching, and gave Lyndwood her hand.

"To-morrow then we meet, and you will write to Marius?"

"In the morning--yes. I will bring you the letter"--he kissed her hand.

"My duty to my lady."

"Good-night, Rose."

He smiled at her, half appealingly.

"Good-night." So, in this hasty manner, in the midst of a crowd, they

parted.

She moved away with Miss Westbrook, already rehearsing in her mind

what she should say to him to-morrow when her head did not ache, when

they were alone. There was so much to say and they had only had the

fewest words together. She must write to Selina, too. What could she

say there? Should she get him to write? And Miss Trefusis--he was

fixed on that match. Ah, an ordinary gentleman, indeed! But her heart

was crying out after him as she framed the sentences she would use

to-morrow--to-morrow.

My lord left the music-room and the building, avoiding the crowds

desirous of his company, and walked up the street towards the river

where he had left his chair. Reaching it, from the white satin seat he

took a bunch of white roses faded and drooping. Then he dismissed the

men, bidding them go home.

Since his arrival in town that morning he had been playing with the

idea of fulfilling Selina Boyle's strange request; he had meant to

carry it out before the flowers should be utterly dead, and this that

Susannah had told him of his wife's confession affected his wilful

mood, moved him and made him whimsically desirous to lay Selina's roses

on her tomb.

There was a cynical piquancy in the situation that pleased him. His

relations with my lady had been so devoid of romance or sentiment, so

devoid of anything save a final tragic horror, that this touch between

mockery and bitterness appealed to my lord's fantastical mind.

She had tried to be the instrument of his death; she had taken her own

life in despair at the ill-success of her desperate act; she had lain

for nine months in her grave, and no one had dropped a flower on her

tomb nor given her one regret. And now he, having learnt the truth, and

on the eve of his second marriage, came to offer her memory roses from

the garden of Selina Boyle!

My lord smiled, and drew his mantle closer round him, for the May night

was chill, though clear and fair; the stars were few and faint and the

moon high overhead. My lord sang a little to himself. As he passed

St. Martin's-in-the-Fields the clock struck one. He glanced up at the

steeple in surprise; he had not thought it so late. He quickened his

pace. He must write to Marius to-night. Curious that Honoria Pryse

should find a conscience, and how foolish of him not to guess the truth

before! It seemed so obvious now that my lady--He glanced down at the

roses in his hand, and laughed.

Meeting no one in the dreary ill-lit streets, he reached St. Ann's,

Soho, where the Countess was buried; and then, for the first time,

remembered that the church was locked and that he had no means of

entry. Vexed at being thwarted, he crossed the churchyard and tried,

despite his own reason, the heavy door. The cold iron ring of the

handle rattled uselessly in his hand; some leaves fluttered from

Selina's roses on to the steps.

My lord turned and looked about him. The moonlight spread softly over

the tombstones, the dark houses beyond the railings and the plain

lines of the church. A low wind swept through the thick grass and bore

long wreaths of clouds over the sharp outline of the roofs. It was

utterly silent; there seemed no one abroad. My lord pictured the dark

lonely interior of the church and the draped urn in a niche in the

nave. He had only looked at it once, but very clearly he could see the

lettering, even the way it was placed, on the marble tablet below:

NEAR THIS SPOT

LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS

OF

LAVINIA,

WIFE OF THE FOURTEENTH EARL OF LYNDWOOD,

Who died July 16, 1750, aged 23 years.

It was an inscription sinister in its brevity; the scandal, hushed as

it was, attending my lady's death had allowed of no details, and my

lord's humour permitted no eulogy, but it seemed to him now that he

might have added some word of charity, for the sight of the churchyard

and the thought of the cold church made him shudder with a feeling that

was like pity for the unloved dead.

The locked door in no way shook his determination to place Selina's

flowers where he had meant they should lie, and to-night--it must be

to-night. To-morrow there were other things to do. Well he knew himself

fickle, and that he could not foretell his own next mood; but now, this

moment, he must enter the empty church and lay the dead white roses in

the niche that held my lady's urn.

He caught the mantle over his flashing dress and crossed the

churchyard. He thought he remembered where the sacristan lived; he

thought the man, knowing him, would give him the key or open the

church, and he put his hand into his pocket to find his purse.

As he did so the sound of voices made him pause. Sounds of laughter,

loud talking, the rattle of sword-hilts on the cobbles came up the

narrow street.

The Earl frowned, hesitated, opened the churchyard gate and looked

out. By the moonlight and the glimmer of the swinging overhead lamps

he could see a party of gentlemen advancing towards him. With an

exclamation of annoyance he closed the gate. Not so quietly, however,

that they, almost on him now, did not hear it, and stopped instantly

arrested.

"Is the churchyard open?" said one, and my lord knew the voice and

figure--it was Lord Sandys.

"La! A footpad!" replied another.

But some of them had caught a glimpse of the Earl's white and silver

under his cloak.

"By Gad! A gallant, wooing a ghost!"

Rose Lyndwood opened the gate and stepped out into the street. He felt

a great and unreasonable anger against these men, all of whom he knew,

and some of whom were chosen companions of his.

"Split me, it is Lyndwood!"

He faced them impatiently.

"I am on business of mine own."

Both tone and situation were so unusual for Lyndwood that a laugh ran

round the group.

"Hast fallen lovesick at last, my lord?"

"Nay, he only is trying to cast a spell that he may retrieve his late

ill-luck with the cards!"

"Ah, enough of your fooleries, Sandys!" The Earl tried to turn away

from them.

"By Gad, there is something mysterious in this," the other was still

laughing, not guessing my lord's mood. "What is the adventure?"

"At least I am in no humour for any other to-night," was the swift

answer. It added to the Earl's unreasonable anger that not one of them

recollected or cared that my lady was buried in the church behind them.

"Stand aside, sirs," he added abruptly, for they, good-humouredly, were

closing round him.

At this they laughed again, and Lord Sandys, who had been in Villiers

Street, caught sight of the flowers my lord held.

"Have ye been gathering roses--and here?" He pointed to the ghostly

churchyard.

"Ah, let me be," said my lord wearily.

His seriousness excited their malicious merriment. They did not guess

at his inward anger, nor did he allow for their light-hearted folly.

Then, in a second, it happened.

"Dead roses!" cried Lord Sandys, and tried to snatch them.

The Earl turned without warning and struck him across the cheek with

his glove.

Instantly all were sobered. Lord Sandys gave a cry of rage, and drew

his sword. My lord dropped his cloak the length of his arm, laid gloves

and flowers on the churchyard step and unsheathed his rapier. The

others moved back, ringing them round.

"Why did you do that?" breathed Lord Sandys.

Rose Lyndwood did not answer; his face was flushed and reckless.

Their swords crossed. The veiled moonlight was confusing, and both were

angered to passion. The light rapiers clashed aimlessly for a second.

"Come to a better spot," cried one.

"Let him take what he asked for!" exclaimed Lord Sandys, and as he

spoke the Earl fell backwards on the churchyard steps.

It was perhaps but five minutes since he had first met them, but one

since he had drawn his sword. None of them could have told how it had

happened. He had rushed wantonly into the quarrel. They were quieted

and startled to see him lying there.

He made an effort to laugh into their faces.

"Sandys is not to blame," he gasped.

One of them stooped and held him up. There was talk of a doctor, of

assistance.

He shook his head.

"I'm done for. Get Sandys away."

He tried to drag himself to a sitting posture, coughed and groaned.

"Is he dying?" asked Lord Sandys, horrified.

"Yes." Rose Lyndwood answered, fighting for his breath. "Susannah--and

there is Marius. Not much miss--the debts----"

"Can no one get some water?" cried Mr. Harding, who supported him.

"Not in this church," whispered the Earl, "but at Lyndwood. Do you

hear, Harding?"

He sank down on the white roses, the gloves, his mantle and his sword,

his gorgeous clothes sweeping the dusty cobbles. He put his hand over

his beautiful face as if he would hide its distortion.

"I always--believed," he murmured, "in the immortality of the soul. I

don't need--the key."

And so it was over. Within a few feet of my lady lay my lord, dead, as

suddenly, as recklessly, leaving behind him, as she had done, naught

save mistakes and incompletion. It was over.

"Let us take him home," whispered Lord Sandys, and sheathed his sword.

CHAPTER IV

SUSANNAH CHRESSHAM

It had rained all night heavily, but now, in the early morning, cleared

into a bright sparkle and freshness, it was like to the morning on

which my lady had died, Susannah thought as she opened her window on

the clear pure sunlight.

She had never forgiven my lady, and the letter from Honoria Pryse had

roused passive scorn into live anger; she disdained to allow herself to

think of the Countess Lavinia, yet the image of Rose's wife would not

be driven from her mind.

She pictured my lady creeping downstairs to unload my lord's pistol,

following him through the wet streets, lurking among the trees in the

Park, and in the early dawn, buying poison in some evil little shop

off Drury Lane, and coming back in her wet muslins to her cheerless

splendour to die.

Susannah shook herself and stared hard at the sunny sky; there were

other things to think of--Selina for one.

My lord's marriage would be announced to-day; she must write to Selina,

in some way soften or break the sharp pain of the news.

It was still so early that the Countess Agatha would be abed for a good

while yet, but Susannah dressed herself and went quietly downstairs

into the beautiful drawing-room. She liked this chamber at this

hour, when there lay a hush over the house and the sun shone hazily

through the silk curtain; she stepped softly and seated herself at the

tulip-wood desk.

Early roses stood in the delf vases, and their fragrant pungent odour

filled the unstirred air; on the gold settee lay the programme of last

night's fête, and beside it a couple of tickets for a fête to-day; on a

chair rested my lady's mask and fan, left there carelessly.

Susannah sighed and drew from one of the secret drawers of her desk the

letter from Honoria Pryse.

She had read it more often than she could have told, but she read it

again and with intent eyes:

"MADAM,--I have a message for my _Lord the Earl_ from my Lady the

late Countess. You will understand why I never gave it before, and

I cannot tell why I give it now, save that there seems no reason

for withholding it, and it may ease you of some pain you have not

deserved. My lord's _Brother was guiltless_ in the matter of the duel;

it was the _Countess_ who unloaded the pistol; she followed to the

Park, being, I take it, half _Crazed_, and when she was disappointed

of her design to compass my lord's _Death_ she took her own life.

First she bid me tell the _truth_, and here you have it to use for any

end you will.

"_With it, Madam, accept my Advice_. _The Earl_ whom you favour

has nothing in him; _Marius Lyndwood_ is a better man, albeit a

straight-laced fellow and not so pretty; let my _Lord_ alone and take

the brother.

"Madam, your servant,"

"HONORIA PRYSE."

There was no address and no date on the letter, which had come through

the threepenny post; Susannah folded it again and replaced it in the

desk.

An extraordinary epistle and one that she could not dismiss from her

mind; at first she had called its nature insolence, now it seemed to

her to contain a strange kind of sincerity; she could not believe that

the writer meant her harm.

And it was the truth. Marius was the better man; but she----

Miss Chressham checked herself with a smile. It was not her part to be

thinking of herself; her own feelings, her own views had been repressed

all her life; she was for ever acting for others, shielding others,

defending others, encouraging others; who cared what she might feel or

what passion might lie beneath her calm? No one excepting Marius.

Excepting Marius!

Well, it was her own perversity, her own misfortune that she could not

take the only affection that had been offered her.

She firmly turned her thoughts from her own affairs and proceeded to

write to Selina Boyle.

But the words would not come; sheet after sheet was torn up and thrown

aside: one sentence sounded foolish, another blunt, a third had no

meaning.

A thousand things distracted her; the long ray of sunlight falling

between the curtains, a rose that had dropped from its vase on to the

mantelshelf, the title of a book lying on a table near; these and such

foolish trifles.

She pushed back her chair in despair and, turning her head, caught

sight of herself in the mirror behind the harpsichord.

She was astonished at her own extreme pallor; she told herself it must

be the effect of the dead-white wrapper she wore.

With a little shiver she put aside pens and paper. She would write to

Selina in the evening when she had seen my lord; there was still so

much for her to say to him.

Again she glanced, almost guiltily, at the mirror; her ghastly

appearance was no fancy.

The house was very quiet, surely it was time some of the servants were

abroad; the clock pointed to close on six.

With a pang of surprise she heard her own heart beating furiously and

felt the blood tingling in her head; she rose, expectant of something.

"Rose," she found herself saying, "Rose."

She thought he was coming, that any moment he would push open the door

and greet her with his weary smile.

Then she told herself that this was pure folly.

"But something has happened," she said, "something has happened."

Should she call my lady, or her maid? The silence of the house was

terrifying, the loneliness insupportable.

The clock struck six.

"Something has happened," repeated Susannah. "What is it?"

It was not her way to seek help or company. She went swiftly upstairs

and put on her hat and pelisse; there was only one thing to do.

She must go to Lyndwood House and find out.

"What has happened?" she kept repeating to herself. "Find out what has

happened."

Light of foot and with hushed breathing she descended into the hall

that was now full of sunlight, and opened the door.

As she stood on the step looking up the Haymarket it did not seem

strange that she should be leaving the house hastily attired,

gloveless, agitated, to go to my lord at this early hour.

She had no thought for anything, so strong, so imperative had been the

wordless summons.

Then, as she drew to the door, softly, for fear of waking my lady, a

man moved from out the shadow on the opposite side of the street and

crossed towards her.

Miss Chressham paused. It was Mr. Harding, one of my lord's friends.

She noted, with no surprise but with a sense of horror confirmed, his

dishevelled appearance, his haggard, tired face.

Fixing his eyes on her, he raised his hat, with an air of astonishment.

"Do you come from my cousin?" she asked.

He hesitated, staring.

"I have come to see you or the Countess," he answered gravely.

She held open the door.

"Will you enter?" she said.

As he followed her into the house he spoke.

"It is almost as if you knew."

"I think I do know," she replied.

She led the way into the first room they came to, the dining-room; here

the shutters were still closed and it was dark.

"Do you come from my lord, Mr. Harding?" she asked, and faced him

quietly.

"Madam, I come from the Earl, from Lyndwood House," he said

reluctantly. "And I am a coward before what I have to say."

Susannah raised her hand.

"A moment," she breathed, "give me a moment." She moved towards the

window, then checked herself and came back.

"Sit down," she said. "Sit down, sir."

But he, as she, remained standing.

"I was starting for Lyndwood House," she continued.

"Has--has anyone told you?"

She shook her head.

"A feeling--but say what you have come to say, Mr. Harding."

He stood silent, looking away from her.

"You came to tell me," she urged, standing very erect, one hand resting

on the table.

Mr. Harding could not bring himself to speak.

Susannah leant slightly towards him.

"Come, Mr. Harding, tell me how my cousin died."

He looked round startled.

"The Earl _is_ dead," said Susannah. "You are here to say that the Earl

is dead."

"Alas! madam."

She interrupted him almost fiercely. "I knew--ah, I knew!"

"I have no speech suited to this need. Madam, my task is mournful--I

was my lord's friend, and it was last night--I saw him fall--indeed I

know not how it happened--my Lord Sandys----"

"He is dead," repeated Susannah; "dead--dead."

For a while there was silence, then she spoke again.

"A duel?"

"A quarrel, an angry word, a pass or two, and my lord fell, the

moonlight was confusing; it was all over too quickly."

Susannah gave a smile that made Mr. Harding blanch.

"A street brawl," she said slowly. "So, he died that way. Did he

speak--tell me, did he speak?"

"He mentioned your name, his brother's, the debts; it--it happened

outside St. Ann's, madam, and he desired, I think, not to be laid in

that church."

"That was all?"

"He said: 'I have always believed in the immortality of the soul,' that

was all; yes, madam."

"Thank you," said Susannah. "Thank you."

She drew her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her lips.

"They took him home?" she asked.

"I was there."

She gave him a vacant look.

"Ah, yes, you helped them."

"My lord died in my arms, madam."

She closed her eyes.

"And, afterwards?"

"We took him to Lyndwood House; a doctor was brought, but----"

"He lies there now; I will go to him; we must tell my lady, Mr.

Harding, and then we will go to him."

"Alas! madam," he answered, "I fear you cannot go to Lyndwood House."

"Cannot?"

"There are the creditors"--his voice was rough with distress at

the sight of her proud, contained anguish. He had not guessed Miss

Chressham's affection for her cousin or nothing would have brought him

on this errand. "They have seized the house, and his effects."

"We are forbidden to see him?"

Mr. Harding was startled by her quickness; he bowed his head.

"He was most heavily in debt."

"What have his debts to do with this?" she asked.

Mr. Harding tried to evade her.

"My lord leaves his affairs in chaos; this is hardly the moment to

speak of them, and to you, madam----"

She broke in calmly on his agitation.

"I suppose--I think--that he had been raising money on the prospect

of a rich marriage, so he would leave nothing, and they could take

everything?"

"Everything," repeated Mr. Harding.

"And we are forbidden the house?"

"Madam, I cannot tell."

Susannah untied her hat-strings slowly.

"There is my lady--her husband died this way, sir--and now I must tell

her how my lord came home; and there is Marius."

"We have sent to him," replied Mr. Harding quickly. "One left for

Holland at once to fetch the Earl."

"The Earl?" she repeated.

"Marius Lyndwood, madam."

Miss Chressham dropped her hat on to a chair.

"Ah, yes," she said under her breath, "he had no children!" Then she

raised her wide eyes. "Marius is penniless, sir."

"Still, he must return; but this talk, madam----"

She interrupted.

"You would spare me, you are in an unpleasant position. Sir, I thank

you. There is no more for you to do. I must tell my lady."

"If I can be of any use, madam."

"I do not know," answered Susannah faintly. "I am grateful."

He thought she would fall as she spoke, and stepped forward.

"I shall not faint," she assured him with a piteous smile. "You can

leave me now, sir, safely. Will you come later, if I might ask you?"

"I beseech you."

"You knew him," she continued. "You would do what you could now"--her

eyes filled suddenly with tears--"he--he was what they call a worthless

man, sir, no one was the better for his life; but for his death there

are those who are sorry."

Mr. Harding could not bear to look at her.

"I am absolutely at your service, madam."

"We must sell the house, the furniture, and there are some jewels."

Susannah looked slowly round the handsome room with its rich

appointments. "Until Marius comes will you tell me what to do?"

He bent his head. "I will wait on you later."

"I thank you, sir."

With an instinctive, courteous sweetness she smiled at him and came to

the door, and when, with some murmured words, he had gone, she came

back into the room and sat down at the table.

So, she would not see him this afternoon. The tremendous fact seemed

hidden by the trivial one.

And there was no need now to write to Selina Boyle; she would never

know that he could not be faithful.

Susannah looked again round the chamber at the paintings, at the

carvings, and every small detail seemed invested with unbearable

meaning.

She leant back in her chair; she stared at the sunlight that shone

through the crevices of the shutters; she rose and walked up and down

the room; she seemed to see everything, to touch everything through a

distorting mirror; her own body felt numb and strange.

She repeated his name.

"Rose--Rose Lyndwood," and the fantastic sound of it was beyond

credence.

The house began to stir, there came to Susannah the noise of opening

shutters, of the servants on the stairs; she heard the milk girl

calling without and the clatter of her pails.

"Rose--Rose Lyndwood."

Someone whistled in the street and a dog barked in the distance.

Miss Chressham left the room and went upstairs to tell my lady.

CHAPTER V

THE VISIT TO MY LORD

"A lady to see me?" asked Susannah, shrinking. She could not bring

herself to face the sympathy or curiosity of acquaintances. The

address of their present quiet lodging had not been published

abroad, and the house in the Haymarket was in the hands of my lord's

creditors. She could not imagine who, with any other motive but that

of inquisitiveness, this might be inquiring for her. She thought there

was none to take any interest in the survivors of the fallen house of

Lyndwood.

"A lady," the little slim maid repeated. "Her name, madam, is Miss

Boyle."

"Oh, Selina!" Susannah caught her breath. "Bring her here."

The servant closed the door and Miss Chressham gave a little shudder.

The dreary, heavily furnished room, the outlook through the long bare

windows on to the blank houses opposite, the strangeness of everything,

even to her own plain dark dress, were a fitting background to her

secret tragedy. She wondered dully how she could bear it, and shuddered

again.

But there were others to think of, as there always were in the life of

Susannah Chressham.

She went to the folding doors at the back of the room and softly opened

them on to a darkened bedchamber.

"Do you want anything, Aunt Agatha?" she asked gently.

From the curtained bed came a muffled answer.

"No, no."

Susannah looked pityingly at the outline of my lady's slight figure

huddled on the tumbled pillows.

The Countess was attired in the gay silks of her former splendour. One

hand was over her face; in the other she held a miniature, not that of

her still unburied son, but that of her husband, fifteen years dead.

"Selina Boyle is here; she need not disturb you."

"Where is Marius?" moaned my lady. "Is he never coming?"

"He could not be here before to-night," said Miss Chressham for the

hundredth time that day.

The Countess made no answer, and Susannah quietly withdrew, closing the

doors as Selina Boyle entered the outer chamber.

For a moment the two ladies looked at each other with wild eyes, then

Selina Boyle crossed the room and kissed Susannah on the cheek.

"Oh, my dear!" said Miss Chressham brokenly.

"I am very well," answered Selina, in a voice that sounded weak and

hoarse. "I have just come up to town. I told my father; he brought me.

I am very well."

She sank on to one of the torn striped chairs and loosened her black

cloak. Her hair hung in disordered curls under her straw hat, her face

was flushed, her lips feverish.

"I thought that you would come, but I did not expect you so soon," said

Susannah, under her breath. "You received my letter?"

"Yes, and I saw it--in the paper."

Susannah looked at her tenderly.

"I fear you are wearied to death."

Miss Boyle took off her hat; there was a tacit avoidance in their

speech of that which filled the thoughts of both.

"We have been travelling all night, but I am not tired."

"We will have some tea." Susannah rang the bell. "We are very humble

here; it is but temporary."

"Why did you leave home--the other place--so soon?" asked Miss Boyle

faintly.

"It was not ours; we had no right," answered Susannah. "And I could not

bear to stay; we moved at once. This is our first day here."

My lord had been two days dead--only two days. They glanced away from

each other.

"How is my lady?" breathed Selina.

"She is not well, I fear. She lives only for the coming of Marius."

"She is here?"

"Yes, but she will see no one."

The maid-servant, treading softly, in awe of the visitor who had driven

up in a coach, entered and set the tea.

"What time is it?" Susannah asked. There was no clock in the room, and

she had left her watch, with every other article of jewellery, behind

in the house in the Haymarket.

"Nearly four o'clock, madam."

"Thank you." Miss Chressham dismissed her, and commenced pouring out

the tea.

Selina took a cup obediently, but could not eat.

"I am a little sick with travelling," she said.

Susannah observed her covertly, wondering how much she guessed. Was she

still in her fairyland? Miss Chressham thought so.

"Do you know Lord Sandys?" asked Selina.

"I have seen him," answered Susannah.

Miss Boyle raised blurred eyes.

"I saw him once, when they played _The Rival Queens_. My lord was in

the box with me. The lady he married was with him."

Susannah looked into her cup.

"You saw my lord but recently?"

Selina quivered.

"We said good-bye. We--this does not matter for me; it was over."

"For you and him?" asked Susannah softly.

"What could there have been?" The tears ran slowly down her cheeks, but

she smiled. "And what can it matter? He loved me, Susannah, he loved

me!"

Miss Chressham was silent.

Selina wiped away the tears, and fixed her poor scalded eyes on

Susannah.

"He came to tell me so again."

"I know; he told me that he was going to ask you to be his wife."

"We have always loved each other," said Selina simply, "and we have

been unfortunate. For me this does not matter, and for him----"

"He might have died more nobly."

Selina shook her head.

"We do not know; it was some worthy quarrel."

Again Miss Chressham was silent; she, like Selina, was ignorant how

exactly my lord had met his death--a flare-up of temper, a wanton

insult. Those who had seen him die had nothing more to say. No one knew

why he was in the churchyard of St. Ann's at that hour. Susannah, who

knew nothing of the flowers, guessed; Selina, who remembered them, did

not.

"I never thought to see him again," continued Selina, with trembling

lips; "but if it might have been I----"

"You must live to think of him," said Susannah tenderly. "Ah, my dear,

he did not die wholly miserably if he left you behind to mourn him."

She rose and went on her knees beside Selina's low chair, and both were

clasped tightly in each other's arms in an overwhelming impulse of sad

affection.

Miss Chressham kissed the bowed, delicate head resting on her shoulder,

saying in her soul: "She will never know, thank God! She will never

know!" She herself, who _did_ know the man for whom she grieved, she

who had given all her love to one who did not ever hear of it, she

who must guard her secret, uncomforted, to the end, could yet conceal

her deeper anguish to soothe with her strong sympathy the woman who

believed in her beloved.

"I think you must not weep for him," she said softly. "He lived his

life. There were no better years before him than those that he had

known. He died young and splendid; he did not have to face ruin, a

fallen position; he had rich tastes and lordly habits; he did not have

to feel the bitterness of inadequacy." And in her heart she added:

He did not break the dream of a woman who truly loved him by selling

himself a second time. He died while he was still, in one woman's

eyes, all she would have had him. And for that Susannah Chressham was

grateful.

"I do not weep for him," murmured Selina, "only I am tired."

She raised her head.

"Why should we mourn for him, Susannah? I do not think he could have

wished to live."

Miss Chressham kissed her hot cheek.

"You are very brave, sweet----"

There was a little pause, then Selina spoke.

"Will you come with me--to see him?"

Susannah turned her face away.

"I--I dare not speak of that."

"It is very terrible," shuddered Selina, clinging to her, "but I think

I must go."

"Do you know what they are doing?"

Miss Boyle closed her eyes.

"I know."

Miss Chressham put her aside and rose.

"They are showing him for money," she said, in a tone of uncontrolled

agony. "My God, how can one bear it?"

"You--you could do nothing?"

Susannah answered fiercely.

"Why do you ask me that, Selina? Do you think that I have not tried?

And he has friends; but my lord's dead face was one of my lord's

best assets, and there is not a woman in London hath not been to see

him--paying gold for it."

"Ah, forgive me!" said Miss Boyle, in a broken voice. "I have been

forgetting what it is to you--you who are of his house; and you were

fond of him."

"Yes, I was fond of him," answered Susannah, with a short laugh, "but

I could not spare him this. What are they, these men who make their

profit of the dead?"

Miss Boyle rose.

"I must go," she said feverishly. "Would you forsake him, Susannah,

because he hath strangers about him? When so many look on him for

curiosity, shall not some look on him for love? I must go, if it kills

me."

Susannah gazed at her questioningly.

"Could you bear it?"

"I could not bear to stay away," answered Miss Boyle, raising her wan

face. "And my lady--hath my lady been?"

"No." Susannah clenched her hands.

"To-morrow they give him a fine funeral, a spectacle for the town; and

then my lady will go to ride in the pageant, and weep at the window of

her coach."

"You speak bitterly."

"God forgive me, I have no right; but I do not think that she loved

him. It was always Marius."

Selina picked up her hat.

"I am going," she said. "And you----"

Their eyes met.

"I will come."

"At once," whispered Miss Boyle.

"Yes; I will fetch my cloak."

She went softly into the bedchamber, closing the door after her, and

Selina stood leaning against the mantelpiece, fastening her pelisse

over her grey dress.

It had been a cloudy day, but now the sun was shining fitfully through

the long window on to the worn furniture and dark walls. A straight

beam fell across a row of prints in black frames that hung opposite.

Miss Boyle raised her eyes and looked at them.

The title, engraved finely beneath each subject, seemed to start out

and be written on the sunlight:

"THE RAKE'S PROGRESS."

Mr. Hogarth's terrible pictures; she had seen them and shuddered over

them before.

"The Rake's Progress."

"Susannah!" she cried on a sobbing breath.

Miss Chressham entered from the bedchamber.

"Hush! my lady sleeps."

"Susannah, those pictures; can you live with them?"

"My lord did not live to reach that final scene," answered Susannah;

"so, they do not frighten me but make me thankful."

She glanced at that last plate with its Bedlam horrors, then again at

Selina.

"My dear, you look ill," she said, a little wildly. "Can you face it?"

"Yes, ah, yes; I am ready."

She picked up her gloves, and they left the room and house.

It was a beautiful afternoon, of a mild splendour that touched and

transfigured even the dull colourless street into a gracious warmth of

pale magnificence; the sky was faintly coloured, but of a clear blue,

the clouds were delicate but of a pure gold tint, the brick fronts of

the houses glowed in the sun that dwelt on the plane-trees and the few

flowers in the gardens, covering them with a wistful glory.

At the bottom of the street they got into a hackney coach. Susannah

gave the address, after that they could neither of them speak; they

held each other's hand and looked out of the window at the long

familiar and now horribly distorted street, at the little trivial

sights and objects, once pleasant and now terrible, that they passed.

At the corner of Panton Square they stopped the hackney and alighted.

It was Susannah again who paid the man and dismissed him.

"Have you," she asked, "been into my lord's mansion?"

Miss Boyle shook her head. The hackney rumbled off down towards the

Mall; a chapman, shouting ballads and the last dying speech and

confession of a famous thief hanged that morning, went by. The square

was filled with sedan chairs, fashionable curricles and coaches,

waiting footmen and pages.

"My lord's last reception seems well attended," said Miss Chressham

quietly.

"Hold my hand again," whispered Selina, and she pulled her hat forward

so that it concealed her face in its shadow.

Unnoticed they passed round the trees where the golden dusty light of

late afternoon was burnishing the foliage, and reached the door of

Lyndwood House.

A number of ladies, gaily dressed but wearing black favours, were

leaving it; some were weeping, all seemed awed.

"He was very handsome," said one as she stepped into her chair.

"How much will the house fetch?" wondered her companion; and "La, I

wish I had never come," sighed a third, who was very young.

"Hold my hand tight," breathed Miss Boyle.

They mounted the steps Susannah knew so well and entered the open door;

here the crowd, coming and going, a little delayed them. They stood

for a moment brushed by scented skirts and silk mantles and pierced by

careless comment.

In the gorgeous hall stood some of the pictures my lord had delighted

in, piled against the wall; cabinets of china, of gold and silver, and

packing cases showed through the open door of the dining-room; men were

making lists, numbering and valuing. The servants at the foot of the

stairs were strange to Susannah.

She spoke to one, putting money into his hand.

"Where does my lord lie?" she asked.

He answered with an air of one weary of replying to the same question.

The place was on show, for two days the town had trooped through the

rooms, looking at the furniture, at the extravagances of my lord, and

at my lord himself.

Selina turned her wide vacant eyes on Susannah.

"Where is he?" she asked.

Miss Chressham grasped her arm warmly.

"Hush, my dear, my dear; upstairs, in his bedchamber."

On the wide stairway were, here and there, fallen flowers: a leaf, a

fern frond, a rose petal.

On the landing the armour and the enamel ware from the library were

piled, and great portfolios of the engravings my lord had always so

lavishly bought.

Several people passed them. Susannah glanced away for fear they might

know her, but Selina gazed before her as if not aware that any came

near.

So they reached the door of my lord's chamber. A woman, flauntingly

dressed, came out weeping violently; she dabbed at her eyes and looked

round as Miss Boyle stopped.

"Ah, you, ma'am," she said in a hysterical voice.

"You, I remember you! You were in the box with him that night----"

Selina looked at her with expressionless eyes, but Susannah spoke.

"Who are you, madam?"

"I was 'Statira,' ma'am," answered the actress, "but I am as free as

you to come and look at him now."

She lifted her head defiantly; tears had stained the rouge and powder

on her face, and her powdered hair was disarranged under her fantastic

hat.

"Poor soul," said Miss Chressham. "I suppose you cared too. Do not look

at me so fiercely," she added softly; "it does not hurt us that you

have come."

The actress burst into fresh tears.

"God bless you for that; I had no right----"

She snatched Miss Chressham's cold hand, kissed it and hurried on down

the stairs.

Selina did not seem to have seen her; she caught Miss Chressham by the

arm and drew her gently across the threshold of the Earl's bedchamber.

There were two servants inside the door, standing quietly; the blinds

were drawn and the room close with the perfume of flowers. The thing

was decorously done, Susannah told herself in a passionate bitterness.

My lord's personal furniture, even his clothes, were still about the

chamber, only the clock had been stopped and the mirrors were covered

up; a couple of gentlemen and three ladies stood at the foot of the

bed, whispering together.

Selina and Susannah stepped closer.

The gold brocade curtains were looped back from the carved canopy,

displaying to all who cared to gaze the body of Rose Lyndwood, clad in

the white and silver in which he had died, and resting on the purple

satin coverlet and silk pillows of his bed.

His head lay lightly to one side and tilted upwards, his hair,

powdered and tied with a black ribbon, spread across the pillows; his

hands, on which the rings still gleamed, were crossed on the heavy lace

of cravat and shirt that fell over his breast; there were diamonds in

his watch-chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket, in the buckles of

his shoes and in the brooch at his throat.

By his side lay his gilt-hilted rapier in its gold scabbard; the

coverlet was hid in flowers, and the floor about piled with wreaths of

roses, lilies, syringa, violets and hawthorn, mostly tied with ribbons

on which were written ladies' names.

Selina held the curtain yet further back and gazed into his face.

The shadow was over him, and so little changed was his expression

that the colourlessness and distortion of death seemed to have hardly

touched him; he had always been pale.

Selina smiled.

Others entered the chamber and passed round the bed. Miss Chressham

stood behind Selina, who leant forward, and both looked at Rose

Lyndwood with tearless eyes.

Neither touched him nor even the edge of his garments, neither dropped

a flower on his couch nor spoke one word of anguish, nor sighed once in

lamentation.

After a little while they moved and left the room, their hands clasped

and their lips closed. A smile lay, like a ghost of former happiness,

on Selina's face; she seemed to see nothing, to hear nothing; her soul

was listening to distant music, and treading different ways.

They left the square on foot; neither looked back on the shuttered

windows of Lyndwood House.

Selina spoke, and her pure voice was steady.

"Now I will go home; we return to Bristol to-morrow."

She added where they were staying, and remarked on her father's grief

and patience.

"He will be waiting for me," she added, and spoke of the life that was

before her: peace and yet not loneliness, quiet but not desolation.

"It is all over," she said, and kissed Susannah.

They walked together in silence until they came to the Strand and saw

the river flash in the evening sun between the houses.

"Did any tell you," asked Miss Chressham then, "what he said: 'I always

believed in the immortality of the soul'?"

"I did not know," answered Selina. "It was a strange thing to say."

"A strange thing for him to believe," said Susannah. "But I am glad,

are not you?"

"Yes, I am glad."

They had reached her inn.

"Good-bye; will you write to me?"

"Good-bye, sweet; it hath gone beyond words, hath it not?"

"Beyond everything," said Selina. "I think it hath passed earth and

reached heaven."

They clung together, kissed and parted.

Miss Chressham took a hackney and drove home. Everything was as she had

left it; the tea service stood about, my lady lay heavily asleep in the

darkened bedchamber; only the bar of sunlight had shifted and deepened

its golden hue.

"Oh, Rose! Rose!"

She took off her hat and mantle and flung herself on the worn sofa,

hiding her face in her white arms and dark dress.

Selina thought that he loved her; she had that to comfort her, but what

was to console Susannah?

"Ah, Rose! Rose!"

My lady could sleep--Selina could take up her life saying, "It is

over----"

"But what for me?" cried Susannah Chressham through her clenched

fingers.

The door opened softly. She lifted dazed eyes and dropped her hands to

her lap.

It was Marius Lyndwood who entered--Marius, plainly dressed and dusty,

pale and weary-looking, of an infinitely quieter and older aspect than

formerly.

They looked at each other, and she rose.

"I am glad you have come," she said simply.

"Susannah!"

Her eyes widened; he knew, he was the one person in all the world who

knew.

"This has almost broken my heart," he said, "for your sake." She turned

away sharply, rested her elbows on the mantelpiece and her head in her

hands.

The Earl crossed over to her. "There are two of us," he spoke hoarsely,

"two of the house of Lyndwood."

"You are heir to a ruined name and fortune," she answered in a muffled

voice; "you have no cause to feel kindly to us, the dead or the living,

Marius."

My lord laid his hand lightly on her arm.

"Have I your friendship, Susannah?"

She raised her face.

"That, always."

"Do you forgive me that I am the Earl, Susannah?"

Susannah answered unsteadily.

"You--do you forgive Rose?"

"There was nought to forgive," said my lord.

Miss Chressham looked into his steadfast, earnest eyes.

"As you say, there are two of us."

She gave him her hands.

"Will you come and see my lady?"

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co.

Edinburgh & London

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AUTUMN 1912

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AUTUMN 1912

BRAM STOKER

=THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM.= A Novel by BRAM STOKER, Author of

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_[2nd Impression._

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FERGUS HUME

_Just Published_

=A SON OF PERDITION.= An Occult Romance. By FERGUS HUME, author of

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_Now Ready. Of all Libraries and Bookshops_

A HUMAN DOCUMENT OF ABSORBING INTEREST

=CHEIRO'S MEMOIRS.= An account of the Strange Career of the

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Bernhardt, Oscar Wilde, Prof. Max Müller, Blanche Roosevelt, The

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_SOME PRESS OPINIONS_

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=CHEIRO'S LANGUAGE OF THE HAND.= A Complete Practical Work on the

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=BYWAYS OF GHOST-LAND.= By ELLIOTT O'DONNELL, author of "Some Haunted

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious printer errors have been corrected and inconsistencies in the

use of periods in chapter headings have been resolved. Otherwise, the

author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation

have been left intact.