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 today; 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 today; 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.
