the theatre was crowded and the air close and heavy; a continual murmur of voices rose from the pit, laughter, snatches of song, and whispers.

rose lyndwood leant from his box, put up his glass and surveyed the house; behind him two young men yawned, and laughed, aimlessly, lounging against the side of the box.

the earl was silent; they could not involve him in their jests or comments. he remained with face averted idly gazing at the faces below; nearly all turned towards him, he was commonly more stared at than the play.

“’tis vastly warm here,” complained one of his companions. “why aren’t they beginning?”

rose lyndwood suddenly swung about and lifted dark eyes to the speaker.

“who is that opposite with sandys?” he asked.

“the charmer in green?”

“yes, do you know her?”

george cochrane answered.

“’tis miss lescelles; the dame in the huge toupee is her mother.”

“she and sandys are to be married in july,” added the other.

“she is prodigious pretty,” said my lord languidly, “and i never saw a countenance express more happiness.”

lord cochrane smiled.

“she is quite enamoured of sandys.”

“sandys! good gad!” yawned the other.

rose lyndwood gazed again at the lady opposite; rosy and smiling she was in her green gown with her swansdown cloak revealing the pearls on her white neck.

“sandys is to be envied,” he said, “in that he can make her look so happy.”

george cochrane, signalled by a group entering below, took his leave; his companion followed, and the earl remained alone in the box.

through the murmuring noises of the audience settling to their places sounded the light joyous laugh of miss lescelles, and as rose lyndwood glanced in her direction his eyes saddened.

at last the curtain stirred and parted; miss fenton stepped into the yellow artificial light and lisped the prologue.

she was gorgeous in a scarlet farthingale and a gold silk turban looped with diamonds; she ogled the boxes with good effect, and was apt in the management of her fan; the earl approved her with a smile, and the pit was generous in applause.

she withdrew, reluctantly, from the public gaze, and the curtain was looped back before an eastern scene.

it had been very handsomely done. barry was playing, and quin; the perukes were from paris, and the management had been lavish in the matter of turkish mail and jewelled scimitars.

when statira appeared the house shouted welcome; she turned her eyes up at rose lyndwood as she curtsied.

she held his gaze through the scene that followed, and the knowledge of it made her acting splendid—roxana was eclipsed, vanquished.

the earl found the high emotions, the stormy expressions, the fierce gestures, the lights, the jewels suited to his mood; he was pleased as he had seldom been pleased at the play.

statira was beautiful to look upon; she wore her purple with a regal air, as she moved to and fro gold gleamed round her slender waist, her black curls floated beneath her green turban, red lilies, his gift, heaved on her stormy bosom, and her dark eyes flashed to the box where rose lyndwood sat alone.

he was held by the passion she expressed, by her movements, her changing voice; the tempestuous play, the angry jealousy, the flash of arms, the glint of daggers, the sonorous eloquence of quin, the languishing grace of barry combined to captivate his senses; he did not move or once take his eyes from the scene till the curtain fell on the first act.

statira, panting and flushed beneath her paint, swept a great curtsey to the acclaiming house.

my lord unfastened one of the white roses at his cravat and flung it at her feet. she carried it to her lips as she retired into the wings, and he kissed his hand.

the audience relaxed after their silence. the beaux stood up in the pit to show off their clothes, some of the ladies readjusted their masks; the porters went round snuffing the candles. rose lyndwood leant back in his box smiling to himself a little.

then he chanced to lift his eyes and saw—her.

she sat alone, directly opposite, erect and smiling at him; their gaze met across the lights, the jests and laughter, that in an instant were utterly tawdry, and he got to his feet, breathing sharply.

miss selina boyle still smiled. her hands were folded in her lap, and she was wrapped in a soft grey mantle; against the shadows of the empty background her light hair showed like a wreath of faint flame about her head.

he descended into the theatre and passed through the noisy crowds, not knowing of them; he opened the door of her box.

“may i come in, madam?”

she looked at him, saying nothing, and he entered.

“i thought you were in bristol.”

“we came to london yesterday,” said miss boyle. “will you sit down, my lord?”

he took the chair behind her.

“who is with you to-night, madam?”

“my father—he has gone to visit the room behind the scenes, he will not return till after this act.”

“may i stay?” asked rose lyndwood gravely. “i wish to speak to you.”

she gave him a full glance out of soft and rich eyes.

“i wondered,” she said, below her breath, “if you would care to come—i have been watching you since we entered—just after the rising of the curtain, my lord.”

those past moments, wasted on statira’s noisy charms while she gazed at him, were too utterly dead, too smitten into extinction by her voice and her look to be even regretted.

“do not think,” he answered, “that i left this to chance, madam. i should have come to bristol.”

she moved half round so that she could see his face. they were both in shadow, only the yellow light from without touched his white silk cuff, and his hand resting on the back of the empty chair before him.

“i received your letter, my lord,” she said. “forgive me if i could not answer it.”

“you understood?” asked rose lyndwood intently; “by what i said and what you have heard since, you understand?”

her delicate and spiritual face quivered with a smile.

“oh, yes,” she replied. the folds of the grey silk wrap touched her chin, and the pale auburn curls loosely gathered on her proud head fell apart softly on her low brow. looking at her my lord changed in voice, in mien, in expression, and a part of him that no other had ever seen was hers to gaze on.

“if my lady and your brother wished it,” she added, “there was no other thing to do, and i would have desired you to act as you did, my lord.”

“as i knew,” he answered; “but i am selfish enough to wish you, madam, to know what it costs me”—he caught his breath and bent towards her—“no, not that, i wish to tell you——”

miss boyle interrupted him.

“shall we not, for our own sakes, remember miss hilton? what you have not dared to say to me before you cannot say now,” her tone sank to an exquisite tenderness; “this is farewell.”

“and because it is farewell,” said my lord in a tone low but swelling, “i must be bold enough to say some things to you—to tell you this at least, that you have given me the sweetest pain—that i would sooner have died on my own sword than do what i have to do.”

“but that way is for boors,” she flashed response; “gentlemen must live. perhaps i also see no great joy ahead”—her eyes were like live gold in her shadowed face; “it has all been a pitiful matter, and i am sorry for miss hilton, but as for us—we may find some greatness in our way of meeting the future.”

her breath came hastily, and she lifted her fine fingers to her throat and loosened the grey wrap.

“what do you think i can do?” asked my lord, something wildly; he straightened himself and half withdrew into the shadow of the box. she heard the rattle of his sword, the shiver of his silks, and saw that he pressed his clenched hand to his brow. “where am i to find my consolation?”

“oh, sir!” cried miss boyle. “what can i say, or how judge for you? my philosophy is a woman’s, and suited to a woman’s needs.”

rose lyndwood stared at her across the dusty shadows, and all that was noble in him lay bare in his gaze.

“it is not possible, madam,” he said, “that you could care as i care. it is not possible!”

the spectators had returned to their seats. the curtain had risen upon the pageant of love and jealousy. these two did not heed it, save by lowering a little their already hushed voices. miss boyle had her back to the stage, and my lord did not notice what took place upon it. he did not know whether roxana or statira raved, or if barry or quin declaimed.

“you must not think that of me,” answered miss boyle. “when first i had your letter i thought st. mary’s vaults the sweetest place to be-the sunshine was like a sword—but i strove to justify your—what you thought of me—by some fortitude, and then it came to me, like a bird might come to a flower, how little it mattered.”

rose lyndwood sat motionless in the shadows of the box, only the lace round the raised hand that held his head trembling a little.

“my lord,” continued miss boyle, in a voice mournfully sweet, “thus i reason it—that sure knowledge we both have is so great a thing that—ah, ’tis as if we had been together in some pure temple that none other knew of, and the memory of it were enough. even if the portals are forever closed, none can steal the picture we have of what lies beyond the doors—but you will smile at me and my poor fancies.”

his answer came unsteadily.

“you have lost so little—god knows how little—but i have lost—everything.”

her delicate breast heaved.

“have i given you nothing, my lord—nothing that you may keep always?”

“you shame me,” said rose lyndwood, “and i am too ignoble for these words you speak to me. i have been born and bred in folly, and in folly i must live and die, but i am not yet a patient fool to take this smilingly——”

the manifold colours of the stage flashed and glittered. roxana shrieked, and statira lost her fire staring at an empty box, but these two saw nothing.

the mantle slipped from miss boyle’s shoulders, showing her pale, shining dress, and the tender curve of her chin and throat. the earl spoke again:

“because i thought of you i was false to you; because i had you always in my thoughts i put you out of my life; but this you must have known, and i but mar with words my meaning. ’tis when we strive to interpret our silences that we misunderstand one another.”

“about marius?” breathed miss boyle. “susannah wrote me somewhat——”

“yes,” answered the earl. “marius is my lady’s heir. he hath inherited all her affection for my dead lord, and she in her grief reproached me that i had ruined him, for it seems he hath fallen in love in a fantastical sad fashion. a year ago i had laughed at it, but now it weighed greatly with me. what had i been, thought i, had i met and won her when i was twenty-one? what may it not mean to marius to win or lose this lady? i did not dare it should be through me. ’twas my happiness or his, and i had not the right.”

“no,” said selina boyle softly. “you had not the right; you are the elder of your house.”

leaning towards her, rose lyndwood answered:

“my life hath been amiss, as my lady reminded me, and marius shall not be so shackled that his can be no better. if his romance is strong enough to save him from being the useless rake-helly fool i have been, somewhat hath been achieved; if not, at least i have tried to make amends, and he hath it in his own hands.”

he paused a moment and pressed his handkerchief to his lips.

“mine own deeds can i take on my own soul, but not the life of another man; so marius is free.”

silence fell in the dark, narrow little box. miss boyle bent her head.

“you understand, madam?” asked the earl, after a moment’s agonised scrutiny of her averted face.

she gave a torn little sigh.

“my silly heart incommodes me. i strive to tell you, my lord, that you have done the best that could be-for mr. lyndwood and your honour.”

still she would not look at him, and he rose in his seat.

“if he is spared what i endure now,” he said unsteadily, “through any act of mine, he hath cause to thank me.”

now she slowly turned her eyes on him.

“there is one we do not speak of,” she whispered. “what of miss hilton?”

his pale face darkened.

“she knows why i seek her hand, and assents to the dictates of her ambition.”

“maybe of her father,” said miss boyle. “she is very young.”

“i cannot find it in me to pity her, madam, for this honour i do her. she will find me courteous, as i doubt not i shall find her obedient.”

a sudden smile radiated miss boyle’s ardent face.

“i do not commiserate her in that she will be your wife, my lord, but in that she hath no place in your affections. your wife—ah, sir, the theatre grows something close, and my head throbs piteously.”

the smile faded from her face, and her long lids drooped.

“give me that flower from your lace,” she whispered, “and go. you must go!”

she rested her head against the side of the box, and her lashes showed dark yet gleaming against her smooth pale cheeks.

“i cannot give you that,” answered my lord, “for it hath touched one i degraded, lain next a fellow i treated carelessly.”

she did not move, speak, or raise her eyes, but her whole slight body quivered and trembled with her breathing.

“this is for you,” said rose lyndwood, under his breath, and faintly. “when i was a child i loved it; it seemed to me sacred. i—i did not understand it, and so i kept it hidden; it hath been secret all my life because of this. will you take it?”

she looked, and her eyes were drenched with tears; it was a small white shell with a smooth pink lip that lay on my lord’s palm. she did not put out her hand, and he placed it on the edge of the box.

then she took it up.

“’tis safe with me,” she breathed, “for ever.”

the act came to a tearing conclusion. these two looked at each other.

“it is better you should go now,” whispered miss boyle.

he stooped in the darkness and took up the end of her scarf, laid it to his lips, and was gone.

a shaft of strong light fell across her face as he opened the door. as he softly closed it, and she was again concealed in soft darkness, she closed her eyes and smiled while the great tears quivered on her lashes.

lord lyndwood’s box stood empty for the rest of the performance. statira acted like a fury, and afterwards fell into hysterics in the green-room, to the triumph of miss fenton and the other ladies performing in the rival queens.