susannah chressham had walked steadily half-way to the lodge before she stopped and reminded herself that she had no object in going there, and that the letter she carried would never be sent.
however, she could not at once return; if only to give colour to the feint that had got her from the house, she must remain a few moments in the garden.
it was a warm evening, but she had nothing over her silk dress, and as she paused in the shade of the chestnut avenue she shivered.
through the broad leaves of the trees showed the night sky, pale with moonlight and the sparkle of the stars.
miss chressham tore the letter addressed to selina boyle into fragments and suddenly hurried on, the scraps of paper crushed in her hand.
she turned from the drive and mounted some shallow stone steps to a temple set on a hillock; a little grecian temple shaded by the tops of the trees that lined the road and grown about with violets; behind the bank sloped away to a stream crossed by a moss-covered bridge.
the moonlight was brilliant over it all, save where the chestnut leaves cast a moving shade on the white pillars.
susannah chressham stepped on to the bridge and listened for a while to the endless ripple of the water falling over the stones below; then she again tore the letter across and across, and cast the fragments down into the stream.
lifting her eyes she could see the yellow lights in the windows of lyndwood house, and for the second time she shivered.
slowly she retraced her way past the temple and reached the head of the steps.
beneath her the moonlight fell in bars across the road, fell between the chestnut trunks and glimmered on the hard white drive.
susannah chressham stood motionless. a man’s figure stepped out of the shadows into one of the patches of moonlight; he wore a long cloak flung over one shoulder and walked towards the house; the little clang of his sword against his spurs was distinct in the great stillness.
susannah uttered an exclamation; at that he stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up.
“rose,” she said; “rose—is that you?”
“it is i,” he answered; and at the tone of his voice she winced, as if, in a moment, all her unreasonable dreads faced her in tangible form. she did not speak.
her cousin came slowly up the steps to her.
“it is late, why are you here, susannah?”
“and you—you return unexpectedly, rose.”
he stood hat in hand, the moonlight on his shoulders and shining on the heavy hilt of his sword.
“marius is here?”
“he came to-night—we thought you would follow tomorrow;” she spoke hurriedly half under her breath to get the better of the unsteadiness of her voice.
rose lyndwood glanced at the lights of the house sparkling through the trees.
“my lady is with marius?”
“yes.”
“then we will not disturb them yet, my dear—the meeting can well wait.”
his cousin let go of her red silk skirt, and it rustled about her on the steps.
“why do you speak in such fashion, rose?” she cried.
he laughed.
“i do not bring the best of news—for marius.”
“it is as if i had known you were going to say that,” answered miss chressham, shivering; “come into the temple.”
he followed her under the doric portico into the cool pillared interior; through the doorway the moonshine streamed, and the light perfume of violets seemed to emanate from the smooth polished columns.
the earl crossed to one of the square windows and stared across his park; his bearing showed a man weary, indifferent, and reckless.
a marble seat ran round the wall; susannah chressham leant against it and turned her eyes on her cousin; but, owing to the thick shadows, she could only see the outline of his figure.
“won’t you tell me what this means, rose?” she asked. “you used always to confide in me.”
“vastly unfair on you,” he answered lightly, but without gaiety; “give me credit for outgrowing my selfishness—or some of it.”
she seated herself and clasped her hands.
“do not evade me—i might help you.”
he turned to face her; now, with the moonlight behind him, she could not see his features at all.
“you cannot, my dear.” his very pleasant soft voice was grave.
“it affects marius?” asked susannah.
“yes.”
“it is about money?”
“you were always a sensible lady,” answered the earl; “it is about money”—he gave the last word a curious little intonation of disdain.
“i have been waiting for this,” said susannah quietly.
“i give you credit for your observation, my cousin.”
he moved slowly across the marble floor, and as his cloak fell back straining at the clasps, she saw the gleam of his blue and silver dress beneath.
“tell me what has happened,” she entreated.
he paused, then swung round and paced to the window again.
“since you are not involved, susannah, in my unfortunate affairs, i have the less reluctance.”
still she could not see his face, the moonlight dazzled her straining eyes.
“not involved!” she murmured.
lord lyndwood pulled his gloves off slowly.
“i have come home to tell my lady and marius that i am ruined.”
she did not move nor speak.
“the estate hardly meets its own mortgage, and the land has been so neglected as to be almost valueless.” he quoted his last steward’s report, though she did not know it. “my lady does not realise this?” he questioned.
“she realises nothing—how should she? you have kept us in ignorance.”
“by gad, i only knew myself a few days ago,” said the earl. “when i was forced to look into the cursed business.”
“but marius has his money?” cried susannah.
“marius has not a penny! it will be pleasant telling him so, will it not?”
susannah rose.
“i do not understand.”
“marius never had any money, my lord dying so suddenly without a will—brereton was our guardian, and a careless one.”
“careless!” interrupted susannah chressham. “there has been fine carelessness here——”
“damned carelessness,” answered the earl with a short laugh. “and when brereton died and i took over my own affairs—i’m afraid i didn’t improve on it. but marius has not been stinted.”
“no, and now you are going to tell him he is a pauper,” said susannah. “now, when he is full of plans, of hopes—oh, rose, rose!”
a little silence fell; very strong was the perfume of the violets, very delicate too, insistent. susannah spoke again.
“the lawyers must have warned you.”
“i left their warnings behind me two years ago, when i first went to the jews, my dear.”
“then—you are—in debt?”
she felt that he smiled.
“a good deal in debt.”
“and my lady?”
“my lady has some money of her own, not much—the estate must go.”
“oh, rose!” she gave a little gasp; “is there no way out—nothing to be done?”
the earl appeared amused.
“nothing, my dear. i have, naturally, tried—now we will go to the house.”
she did not move.
“there must be something we can do?”
the misery of her voice touched him.
“it is good of you to care so, cousin—i might have expected reproaches.”
“since i am in no way involved,” she quoted his sentence—“is that what you want to say, rose?—but my whole life is involved,” she added almost dreamily. “lyndwood to go—you ruined, you and i to tell marius and my lady so to-night?”
she looked over the quiet park and saw the peaceful lights in lyndwood house, and she could not believe her own words.
“ruin!” she repeated.
the earl came towards her.
“are you thinking of marius?”
“no,” said susannah, “of you.”
“i am the least to be considered,” he answered.
“the most!” she cried. “could you help what was in your blood?—i knew this must happen, though now i hardly credit it—i knew this must happen.”
rose lyndwood sighed lightly.
“let us go on to the house.”
but she stood in the doorway.
“tell me what you mean to do?”
“i do not know—it will be according to how they take it—my lady and marius.”
he fingered the ends of his long tie.
“for myself,” he lifted his shoulders, “i could get the appointment at venice, easily, and the place in ireland would pay some of them; i do not know what marius will expect.”
“poor marius!” she echoed softly. “remember he is only a boy, rose.”
she stepped into the open now; he following.
“a lyndwood, too—there is the army, or i would give him the estate in genoa.”
“he says it is worth nothing,” cried miss chressham, trembling—“and in italy!”
lord lyndwood had no reply to that; he wrapped his cloak about him, and his cousin preceded him down the steps.
for a little while they went along the avenue in silence, she holding up her dress, he swinging his gloves.
“will you tell them to-night?” she asked.
“i must get back to london as soon as may be;” he glanced up at the great chestnut leaves that hid the stars—“to-night? gad, i suppose so.”
after a moment he added:
“neither my lady nor marius will understand, and i cannot explain, so it is very quickly over—one word, after all.”
“ruin,” said susannah chressham.
“it has been the lyndwood way, has it not? it is twelve years tomorrow since they brought my father home—do you remember?”
“yes,” she answered.
“he tried to speak to me,” said the earl softly. “i knew what he meant—be generous to marius. that occurred to me last night when i faced it, and that it would also be the easiest way for me—a duel in hyde park.”
he laughed.
and susannah chressham was silent.
they turned the bend of the avenue and saw before them the straight front of lyndwood house.
when they came to the foot of the steps susannah held out her hand.
“good-night, rose; you will find them in the withdrawing-room—you do not want me—i shall go upstairs. good-night.”
he kissed her fingers.
“in the withdrawing-room? i will go round by the garden; good-night.”
they parted; she to enter the house, he to make his way through the roses and laurels to the terrace at the back.
the long windows still stood open as susannah had left them; the gleam of candle-light fell over the stone balustrade and the flowers, the hyacinths, pinks, and tulips.
rose lyndwood heard voices, light, laughing voices, and the rustle of silk; he stepped into the light and saw the countess standing on the hearth.
in her fair hands she held a fine lace scarf that fell over her gleaming dress, and she was looking at marius, who showed her an ivory framed mirror, wonderfully carved.
the earl pushed the window a little wider open and entered the room.
“rose!” cried his mother in a frightened voice.
marius laid down the mirror and flushed; two years of change in each of them had sufficed to make his brother a stranger to him.
lord lyndwood swept off his hat and crossed the room to kiss his mother’s hands.
she flushed and fluttered into her usual sweet aimless talk.
“la! you startled me, rose; we expected you tomorrow—and have you walked?—and i protest you have not noticed marius!”
“my horse fell lame and i left him at the lodge.” the earl turned to his brother—“good evening, marius.”
they looked at each other, and the younger man was overawed and abashed; then he laughed awkwardly.
“i scarcely know you, my lord.”
rose lyndwood smiled.
“two years, marius—you also have altered.”
he unclasped his cloak and flung it over a chair.
the countess glanced at him.
“is anything the matter?” she asked suddenly.
“can you see so much?” he was still smiling. “yes, but i will not trouble you with it yet, my lady.”
he crossed to the table.
“i must speak to marius.”
an expression of annoyance clouded lady lyndwood’s fair face.
“this is a poor home-coming, rose. i have not seen you for months—and ’tis the first evening i have had marius.”
the earl seated himself at the table.
“i am sorry,” he said.
at his elbow lay the ivory framed mirror his brother had put down; it reflected the glimmer of his blue sleeve.
“i am sorry,” he repeated; “i had, however, better acquaint marius—at once.”
he leant back in his chair and glanced from one to the other; his long grey eyes were half closed, and his disdainful, cold expression chilled and annoyed my lady.
“won’t you acquaint me also, rose?” she asked weakly. “i had better know.”
she was vaguely aware that with any personal misfortune he would never have troubled them; this, therefore, must be something overwhelming.
the earl looked at his brother, and marius spoke.
“give me leave, my lady; let me hear what rose has to say.”
his young face was serious and pale; the countess clasped her hands and began to tremble.
“it is about the estates. susannah always said mr. langham mismanaged everything——”
“come into the library, marius. we shall be back in half an hour.”
lady lyndwood sank on the leather settee.
“there are no candles there, rose, shall i ring?” her anxious eyes appealed to him.
“no,” he answered, “this will suffice.”
he took one of the candles from the table and led the way from the room; marius followed, very grave.
the countess heard them enter the next room and the door close after them.
she glanced about her, at the scarf marius had brought her, lying where she had let it slip, upon the hearth, at his mirror on the table, and beside it rose’s grey gloves and riding stock.
the chamber grew unnaturally quiet; she was afraid to move; cruel memories that came to her always in the silences made her blood go cold; a look of age and suffering settled in her delicate face, she fixed her eyes on the portrait of her husband over the mantelshelf and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
