the st. james’s coffee-house was nearly empty; the candles had burnt to their sockets and only a sickly lamplight revealed the three gentlemen who sat together at a table scattered with cards. they had finished playing. one who had lost rose up without a word and reached down his hat and coat from the shining wall. rose lyndwood, a second loser, lifted his eyes to glance at him.
a clock without struck three. a sleepy drawer was slowly clearing some of the other tables. the place, but a little while since so noisy, had an extraordinarily dreary look.
“good-night,” said lord sandys. he put on his hat and left the room with a firm step.
the earl nodded. cathcart, the winner, laughed.
“sandys looks dashed,” he remarked.
“probably ruined,” remarked my lord.
a fresh gust of air rushed in and stirred for a second the stale, smoke-laden atmosphere; then the door was closed again, and idle, heavy silence was unbroken.
the earl pushed aside the backgammon board and the glasses, and leant his elbow on the table. he sat with his back to the door and opposite the shuttered window. he took his chin in his hand and stared at these blank shutters through half-closed eyes. he wore pearl-colour; at his throat was a large buckle of brilliants that sparkled with restless hues; his hair and his dress were tumbled, his face disfigured with a lazy expression of sneering distaste. at the corner of his mouth was the fantastic patch cut into the shape of a bat.
“you should have gone to kensington to-night,” said cathcart, who was leaning back and smoking. “i’ll wager you’ll hear of it.”
“why should i have been there?” asked the earl, without moving his eyes or changing his expression.
“you know, ’twas a cabinet meeting, or some such foolery. but i am no agent of the government.”
“why, then, ’tis no matter of yours,” said lord lyndwood in the same tone.
“but something of yours,” answered the other. “lud, how you throw away your chances! newcastle said you might have been chancellor or a secretary of state by now had you cared. don’t that fire you?” he laughed, then yawned.
“why should i trouble about their soiled politics?” asked my lord indifferently. “what comes my way i’ll see to. but what is this all about? a parcel of niggers on the coast of coromandel—coromandel! good lord!”
cathcart laughed again.
“i see you have got in your man.”
“my man?”
“francis boyle—to be lord of the bedchamber. i saw it today.”
“i haven’t looked at the gazette” answered rose lyndwood. “i hope he will be pleased,” he added with a sneer. “it cost me more damned trouble than it was worth. newcastle resisted, of course, and pelham don’t like me.”
“why did you do it?” asked sir thomas abruptly.
the earl turned and fixed his eyes on him.
“i wonder,” he said languidly.
cathcart returned his gaze curiously.
“so you haven’t seen the gazette?”
“no. what’s in it now?”
“one of their paragraphs about you, my lord.” cathcart put down his pipe, stretched himself and yawned again.
“i do not find them amusing,” smiled rose lyndwood.
both fell on silence again. the door opened sharply, and a gentleman entered the coffee-house. my lord did not turn his head, but sir thomas looked with some surprise at the new-comer, who was not of a type common to taverns at this time of night.
he was a young man, alert, composed, graceful, with noticeable chestnut hair and eyes of the same hue; a peacock-blue mantle was wrapped about him. he took off his hat, spoke to the drawer and passed to the table behind the earl, where the screen hid him from cathcart’s observation.
“who is that spark?” asked my lord. “he has a business-like tread for three in the morning.”
“i do not know him; ’tis no one i have seen here before.” sir thomas called for his bill and shifted from one pocket to another the roll of paper and gold he had won from the earl and lord sandys. “i’m going,” he said, as he paid the drawer. “it is plaguy dull here, and late, too.”
“i’m well enough,” answered my lord, yawning. “good-night.”
“good-night!”
sir thomas got into his cloak and swaggered off; the door banged after him. my lord yawned again, and called for a pint of wine. the sombre chimes struck half-past three. the earl eyed under drooping lids the stained glasses and cards before him, the closed window, the flickering lamp. he drank his wine slowly, and with a brooding face propped on his hand fell into a gloomy silence of miserable thoughts.
a quick step roused him; he glanced up to see the gentleman in the peacock mantle coming round the screen. he sat up, and it was not pleasure that flushed his cheek. he saw, standing the other side of the dismantled table, the elegant figure, the fresh handsome face, the masterful eyes of a man he did not love.
“i had not thought to see you here,” he said slowly.
“i followed your lordship,” answered sir francis boyle.
“followed me?” queried the earl.
“i called at your house, my lord, and was advised that you were at carlisle house. i waited there an hour or more, when one told me he had seen you here.”
“is your business with me of such importance?”
“yes.”
the earl leant back in his chair and idly fingered the stem of his glass. his eyes were not idle, but excited and bright, though his attitude was slack and his chin rested on his tumbled cravat.
“i have to thank your lordship for the promotion i was gazetted with today, have i not?” said sir francis in a low voice.
“i used my influence on your behalf,” answered rose lyndwood. “i think you know it, sir francis.”
“i wished to be confirmed, sir. i could not flatter myself it was my own merits. i decline the place, my lord. i can be under no obligation to your lordship.”
“and your motive in this?” asked the earl slowly. he roused himself with an indolent air and looked up at the other.
“what was your motive in doing me this favour?” demanded sir francis, his red-brown eyes darkening.
“i do not care to endeavour to understand you,” said rose lyndwood, frowning. “i do not know what you have against me, nor is it worth while to inquire.” he yawned and his lids drooped. “the time is inconvenient—and the place—for these discussions,” he added.
“i have not studied your convenience or my own in coming here,” answered sir francis haughtily. “i am not fond of taverns. but the matter i have in hand is imperative. has your lordship seen the gazette today?”
“it seems to have been an interesting sheet,” said the earl languidly but with watchful eyes. “ye are the second has asked me that. well, what of it?”
sir francis threw back his mantle and drew from the pocket of it a copy of the paper.
“will you read this?” he said. “afterwards i shall have to ask your lordship two questions.”
rose lyndwood took the small, closely printed sheet and sat up, leaning heavily on the table, to read it. sir francis stood erect, his hand on his hip, observing him. there was not the slightest change in the even pallor of my lord’s weary face—not the least alteration in his indifferent attitude. he laid down the gazette and looked up.
“what are the two questions?” he asked.
sir francis drew his breath sharply.
“first, is there any truth in that paragraph? secondly, what are you going to do?”
the earl lowered his gaze to his fine hand lying idly across the paper.
“for the first, i will give you neither yes nor no, sir francis. for the second, how can i say yet what i shall do?”
“i am not contented with that,” answered sir francis. “if what is stated there be true, i must know it, and you must answer for having permitted it to become public. if it be false, you and i, my lord, must track down the malice that dictated it.”
rose lyndwood pushed his chair back.
“it is false,” he said with sudden recklessness. “what should that lady be writing to me for, or i to her? oh, be assured that it is false, sir francis. do these damned scribblers ever write the truth?”
sir francis eyed him keenly.
“i do not take your mood, my lord. this cannot be ignored.”
the earl lifted his shoulders.
“oh, if you like to challenge every hack in grub street!”
“i do not think one of those wrote that, lord lyndwood.”
“who else? there is no one in town who has not been so written of. i am well used to it; and as to the lady——”
“as to the lady?” sir francis took him up with a strained voice and his eyes narrowed and grew fiery.
“am i her protector?” asked my lord. “by gad, it would give a colour to it if i interfered, would it not?”
his tone was unpleasantly mocking. sir francis coloured swiftly.
“i do not like the manner of your speech, my lord.”
rose lyndwood laughed.
“upon my honour, i do not know why you have come to me. why do you not marry the lady out of hand and give them the lie that way?”
“i do not think you understand me,” said sir francis breathlessly.
my lord opened wide, insolent eyes.
“has she jilted you? are you sore on that? well, you must not blame me. i know nothing of it, whatever they say in the gazette,” he sneered.
“so you have answered my first question,” said sir francis, keeping himself well in hand. “this”—he struck the paper lying before him—“is a malicious falsehood?”
“it is a paragraph in the gazette,” answered rose lyndwood, raising his eyebrows.
“i will have the name of the man who coined it and horsewhip him into an open confession!” exclaimed sir francis.
“is it worth while?” smiled the earl. “there are always the pamphlets and lampoons, and if you offend a penman they will kill you in a paper warfare.”
“i have no care for that. i shall know how to act.”
“why did you come to me?” the earl interrupted suddenly.
“to ask you if there were any truth in this libel.”
“which seems as if you suggest there might be, sir francis.” his tone changed. “and had there been, do you think that you would have got it from me?” he laughed. “i suppose that you came here to force a meeting on me?”
“no,” exclaimed sir francis, “no!”
“the matter is too delicate for speech,” continued the earl, “and one you and i can never cross swords over. what is the use of these words? we each know what we know.” he glanced swiftly at the other. “do what seems good to you. you need give no thought to me.”
“because i am helpless i came to you,” answered sir francis in an agitated voice.
“and i can be no help.”
“will you not aid me to discover the writer of this?” again he touched the paper.
“i have no clue to go upon,” answered the earl slowly, “and i think you make too much of it. what does any of it matter?”
his manner and his tone were devoid of meaning. sir francis boyle, not knowing him, felt as if he dealt with a man of sand. against his own conviction he believed the earl was indifferent—to miss boyle, to everything; but he could not remain content.
they fell both into silence. the solitary drawer passed them in a noiseless weariness. sir francis picked up the paper and folded it mechanically, then he looked across the table at my lord. a sharp exclamation left his lips, for he seemed to be looking at a dead man.
against the murky background the face of rose lyndwood showed white in between the tumbled grey curls. there was a fixed smile on his colourless lips and a lifeless droop in his weary pose. the brilliants under his chin sparkled in an incongruous fashion.
“what is the matter?” he asked.
sir francis moved.
“it startled me,” he said. “it is the dawn.”
the drawer had opened the shutter of the window behind him, and the first ghastly grey light entering had showed him the worn face and fickle eyes of lord lyndwood.
“yes, the dawn,” repeated my lord. “it is ugly, is it not?”
sir francis turned away heavily.
“good-night, then, my lord.” he glanced back again in a fascinated way at the earl.
“good-night,” answered rose lyndwood. he looked so ill in the cold unmerciful light that sir francis hesitated.
“good-night,” repeated my lord, with a deepening of his unnatural smile. he half roused himself to pour out the wine he had ordered before he had been interrupted.
bewilderment and contempt gathered on the fresh countenance of sir francis. he gave the drawer his money impatiently and impatiently flung on his hat. his firm, angry step echoed the length of the dreary coffee-house and the heavy door fell to slowly behind him.
my lord did not turn his head nor in any way alter his attitude, though now there was no one to observe him save the man at the window, who yawned miserably at the eastern sky.
the earl drank his wine; he also stared out at the grey gloom gathering strength above the hard dark line of the houses. the lamps burnt so palely in this new insistent light that they became mere yellow specks of misty radiance. the drawer shuffled to the other windows and opened the shutters with a cumbrous slipping of bolts. an ignoble and yet solemn stillness hung over the dreariness. the scattered cards, backgammon boards, the glasses and bottles on the tables, the chairs pushed awry—each of these details became more distinct as the sky glowed into a melancholy faint gold and the blank windows filled with a cold increasing light.
my lord finished his wine and leant forward across the table, supporting his head by a hand thrust into his pomaded hair. the splendid dress he wore and his bright ornaments glimmered softly in contrast with his lifeless face. presently the hush was rudely disturbed by the rumble of the market carts coming in to covent garden—the sound of the wheels over the cobbles, the clatter of the harness.
lord lyndwood rose and stepped to the window. slowly he set it open and looked out. a waggon laden with country flowers was going past, and the clear early air was fresh with the perfume of the masses of blooms that lay close pressed in the wicker baskets. my lord watched these carts go by until the sun was above the chimney-pots and shining down the narrow street.
