when the countess lavinia left the library she went instantly and stealthily to the foot of the great stairway.
“honoria!” she called in a hushed yet insistent voice. “honoria!”
a slight figure in a light dress and mob cap appeared on the first wide landing.
“come down,” said the countess, glancing furtively behind her, and the maid noiselessly and carefully descended.
“what has happened, my lady?” she asked, peering into her mistress’s face, her own sharp fair countenance alert and eager; she had an air of secret malice and quick, unpleasant eyes.
the countess clutched her arm.
“come into the garden, not another moment under his roof, not another moment!” she whispered feverishly.
the maid expressed no astonishment, nor did her mistress seem to expect it; they had the manner of adepts in quick confidences and whispered exchanges of dangerous talk.
with a light step that seemed that of taught secrecy, honoria preceded her mistress down the passage, and softly opened the door.
the two came out on to the wide steps where the moonlight lay still and pure.
“shut the door,” whispered the countess, and the maid obeyed, asking under her breath:
“what are you going to do, my lady?”
the countess with a wild gesture tore her purple gown wider open at the throat.
“i don’t know—i will leave the place, i cannot endure it—why should i endure it?”
“hush! hush!” whispered the maid.
her mistress stifled a little hysterical sound and again caught her companion’s arm.
swift and noiseless they descended the steps and passed under the shadows of the high rustling trees; then honoria stopped, holding back her mistress.
“you can’t run away now,” she said with an air of resolution, “whatever has happened, my lady; why, you have neither mantle, nor hat, nor money—and who is to shelter you till the coach goes, here in a strange place?”
the countess pressed her open hand to her forehead.
“i will not stay to be scorned—i will not,” she cried frantically. “i am going back to my father if i have to walk; he can but murder me, and that were to be preferred to life with these!”
and she tried to press on through the low sweet shrubs.
“you are in a frenzy,” said honoria quietly, not loosening her hold. “return home! it is madness, my lady. consider a little.”
the countess shuddered.
“what is there to consider? i am sick with hate!”
“what did they do?” questioned honoria shrewdly. “they did not fight?”
“would to god they had!” answered rose’s wife furiously. “but i am of too little account to bring gentlemen’s swords to the crossing! ‘what do we marry you for if not for our convenience?’ he said, and sent me from the room. and marius turned his back on me!”
she flung herself on the maid’s bosom, clinging round her neck, choking with bitter weeping in her throat. in the darkness cast by the peaceful trees, alone in the free air with her one confidante, she let herself go utterly, the nameless passion that possessed her broke forth, tearing speech to tatters.
“how i have loved him! bear witness how i have hated him, honoria! every time he looked at me ’twas as if he saw a smirch on his escutcheon. he never troubled to speak to me of any matter of his world, taking it for granted i could not understand; my people were not genteel; i should be waiting in my father’s shop. but there was always marius. did he not follow me in paris? did he not wait beneath my window? did he not colour when i spoke to him, as if i had been a princess, honoria? did he not?”
she freed herself from the maid’s support, and leant heavily against the straight trunk behind her.
“my god! my god!” she cried violently. “he spoke to me after his brother’s fashion, and i was scorned of both of them!”
honoria looked at her curiously.
“i should not have thought it of mr. marius,” she said; “but these great gentlemen are strange. but they are men,” she added quickly, “and you are a woman, my lady. he was in love with you once, and might be again, i’ll swear to it!”
the countess lavinia was silent, wearily struggling with tumultuous sobs that hurt her breast. she clasped her hands over her heart and looked on the ground.
the maid leant forward. a stray ray of moonlight pierced the gently waving foliage, and showed her delicate, sharp face and the curling locks of bright gold hair that escaped from under her white muslin cap.
“think a little, my lady, of the position you have and the power it gives you over both of them. what good would you do by running away?”
“disgrace him, at least,” came heavily from the countess lavinia.
“and yourself more, my lady. what would they say—‘who was she but a perked-up miss that lost her head?’ great ladies do not run away. and how would mr. hilton receive you?”
“but for him i had never married this man,” broke out the countess desperately. “no, i vow it! but did he not threaten to shut me up in bedlam? you heard him tell me my grandmother had died mad, and so his daughter should if she were not lady lyndwood!”
“and ye were resigned,” returned the maid quickly.
“i was cowed, but i would have married marius. yes, last spring i would have married him, so great a fool was i, and let the money go. the money! what use is it to me? what pleasure have i in seeing it go to pay his debts, to procure luxuries for his mother, to keep up the estate he mocks me with, to minister to his extravagance? my money, my father’s money! and my amusement must be to see it spent on foreign delilahs and gipsy actresses who laugh at me!”
she stopped, gasping for breath. the maid eyed her keenly, and offered no reply.
“let us walk on!” cried the countess. “i cannot stand still.”
she moved forward through the trees, and honoria followed.
for a while there was no speech between them, and the snapping of branches and crushing back of leaves was distinctly heard. the countess pushed back the damp dark curls from her brow and burst into words again.
“am i not a good woman?” she exclaimed. “am i not as fair and as witty as that cousin of his? why should they turn their backs on me? i wot that among the women he has courted were some not so well born as i.”
“but he did not marry one of them,” returned honoria in her quiet, insinuating voice, “and that is your strength, my lady. you do not hold him by the bonds of fancy, or the bonds of liking, or bonds of fashion, but by the bonds of the law, and that is the most lasting thing, my lady.”
they had come out on to a fair lawn that sloped to a lake, and the sky showed vast above them. through the dark trees ran the constant tripping murmur of the wind, and the long grass bent towards the water when the breeze strengthened. the moon was almost overhead and floated in a faint golden haze.
the countess turned and looked back at the house, impassive and fine in the veiled silver light.
“could we not have bought such a place?” she said. “ay, and finer, honoria! could we not have paid for them with pieces across the counter in our tradesmen’s way, sooner than have made this bargain of scorn for hate, sooner than have given our all for this unendurable position?”
the misty moonshine fell over her close dark hair and slender figure. her face was in shadow, and she supported herself by resting one frail white hand against the cold cedar trunk behind her.
“listen to me.” the maid spoke with gathered energy. “you are the countess of lyndwood, and that means you may do what you will, with all of them, my lady. consider that.”
“i have no power,” answered her mistress, “to do anything.”
“if a man’s wife hath not the power to ruin him, one way or another, i know not who hath, my lady. they make nothing of you now, but in a year hence, in two years hence you might have your foot on all of them.”
the countess lavinia slowly turned her head and fixed her distended eyes on the speaker.
“be discreet,” continued the little maid, “and who knows what you may put between my lord and his brother, and between these two proud ladies of his? there is always mr. hilton behind you with the money, and he will love you if you go on smoothly with my lord, and become a great lady of fashion.”
she moved closer and gently touched her mistress’s arm.
“ye took comfort always in mr. marius. well, ye may have him back, and all discreetly, only we must be cunning. it is fine manners, my lady, will avail you now. do you not suppose that my lord would be pleased to see you in the sulks that he might shut you away here under his mother’s espionage? be wary, my lady, and gay and pleasant, and go with him to london. hold your own.”
“there is sense in what you say,” answered the countess, in a deep breath. “but marius lyndwood is going away.”
“he will come back; and there are others.”
the two women looked at one another.
“oh, a great lady may do much!” cried honoria, “and still be a great lady. my lord is the most famous rake in town. his wife will be allowed a fair margin.”
the countess lavinia was familiar with tales of her husband—servants’ tales. she had discussed them with honoria every day since her marriage, taking a pleasure in anything that was to his discredit, as some set-off to his scorn of her. much of what she heard was false, but she knew more of the truth about things than any save her maid guessed. marius had thought her soft, simple, divine. her father believed her ignorant of all save what the boarding-school had taught. my lord held her raw, knowing nothing of the world; and they were all of them deceived.
she was silent now, pondering, and her dark eyes were fixed blankly on the distant argent glimmer of the lake.
“i wonder if i care about him still?” she said suddenly. “i wonder? i would like to do him a hurt. then i should know—yes, when i had done him a mischief, i should know what my feeling for him is. and as for my lord—” she paused, then added, passionately, “i think i should like vengeance on my lord.”
“you may have that and all other things,” answered honoria. “but take your part now, and carry it through. let him see he has not married a puppet. but be easy, courteous.”
“is there anyone he cares for?” demanded the countess broodingly. “something might be done that way. which of them do you think of, honoria? he fought a duel for mrs. armstrong last year——”
“i know not,” answered honoria. “but one might discover. he was spoken of with miss boyle at the wells. you remember i found the paragraphs in the papers last season, and i think, as i have always told you, my lady, that he has a great regard for her.”
“i know—i know,” answered the countess wearily. “he must be a fine lover, my lord! well, we will see!” she shivered. “they have had everything from me, but maybe i can make them pay!”
“it is clouding over,” said honoria, “and we had best return. now school yourself, my lady.”
“i can act well enough,” replied the countess fiercely, “an i be so minded.”
her passion had not spent itself, but gathered cruelly in her heart, expelling peace and ease. she was calm because her body was weary, but surging malice rioted in her soul.
“there must be letters, meetings,” said the countess lavinia, below her catching breath. “it were ill if you and i could not compass some knowledge which we could turn into weapons as sharp as those with which he to-night struck me—ay, and marius lyndwood, too—there must be means. marius lyndwood!” she repeated the name with a curious accent, as if, despite herself, she dwelt upon the words.
she put her fingers to her hot mouth and stared at the night clouds behind the house.
“we must hasten home, honoria!” she cried, catching the girl by the arm. “home!”
“’twill all be well, my lady,” whispered the maid. “they have had their turn. yours comes.”
as they reached the steps a soft warm rain began to fall, and the moon was entirely obscured.
“who is this?” asked the countess, stopping.
the door opened; a glow of intimate yellow light was diffused over the jasmine and roses, and a woman’s figure showed.
“miss chressham!” breathed honoria, and slipped behind her mistress.
the countess gave a quick catch of her breath and clenched her hands.
“is that you, my lady?” the voice of susannah chressham came cold and pure.
“it is i,” answered mr. hilton’s daughter, “and i am coming home.”
the last word was stressed with an accent of insult. the speaker came rapidly up the steps, and faced miss chressham in the light of the hall lamp.
“come in,” said susannah, with pallid lips; “i think it is raining. i was going to look for you.”
the countess lavinia passed into the house, after her the maid, discreetly.
“go upstairs,” commanded her mistress. “i shall not be long, honoria.”
miss chressham closed the door. the girl dropped a quick curtsey, and ran swiftly up the great stairway.
when she had gone rose’s wife, a slight, wild figure in her dark plain dress, turned sharply on the other woman.
“has he been speaking of me to you?” she demanded.
miss chressham drew back against the door.
“my lord told me,” she said, and her wide eyes dilated.
“i wonder what he told you,” replied the countess. “i wonder what name you gave to me, among yourselves?”
“none i would not use to your face,” answered susannah chressham, breathing hard. “but why this tone to me, madam? what has happened must be borne by all of us.”
“what do you think he has to bear?” asked the countess.
miss chressham straightened herself.
“do you speak of my lord and cousin, madam?”
“i speak of the earl of lyndwood, madam, my husband.” she turned her large fierce eyes on susannah, and passion sprang up in them like a flame. “my husband, and may god curse him and his house as i curse him and his!”
the blood rushed to miss chressham’s face.
“you are mad!” she said furiously.
“take it so, if you will.” the countess’s voice wavered and sank. “but remember it, we are not like to speak on this matter again.”
she moved towards the stairs, susannah staring after her with a full glance of horror. at the newel post she paused and looked over her shoulder.
“mad? strange you should use that word,” she said huskily, “but i am very sane, madam.”
slowly she went up the wide stairs of lyndwood holt, and rose’s cousin watched her until the childish violet-clad figure disappeared in the shadows.
