“a lady to see me?” asked susannah, shrinking. she could not bring herself to face the sympathy or curiosity of acquaintances. the address of their present quiet lodging had not been published abroad, and the house in the haymarket was in the hands of my lord’s creditors. she could not imagine who, with any other motive but that of inquisitiveness, this might be inquiring for her. she thought there was none to take any interest in the survivors of the fallen house of lyndwood.
“a lady,” the little slim maid repeated. “her name, madam, is miss boyle.”
“oh, selina!” susannah caught her breath. “bring her here.”
the servant closed the door and miss chressham gave a little shudder.
the dreary, heavily furnished room, the outlook through the long bare windows on to the blank houses opposite, the strangeness of everything, even to her own plain dark dress, were a fitting background to her secret tragedy. she wondered dully how she could bear it, and shuddered again.
but there were others to think of, as there always were in the life of susannah chressham.
she went to the folding doors at the back of the room and softly opened them on to a darkened bedchamber.
“do you want anything, aunt agatha?” she asked gently.
from the curtained bed came a muffled answer.
“no, no.”
susannah looked pityingly at the outline of my lady’s slight figure huddled on the tumbled pillows.
the countess was attired in the gay silks of her former splendour. one hand was over her face; in the other she held a miniature, not that of her still unburied son, but that of her husband, fifteen years dead.
“selina boyle is here; she need not disturb you.”
“where is marius?” moaned my lady. “is he never coming?”
“he could not be here before to-night,” said miss chressham for the hundredth time that day.
the countess made no answer, and susannah quietly withdrew, closing the doors as selina boyle entered the outer chamber.
for a moment the two ladies looked at each other with wild eyes, then selina boyle crossed the room and kissed susannah on the cheek.
“oh, my dear!” said miss chressham brokenly.
“i am very well,” answered selina, in a voice that sounded weak and hoarse. “i have just come up to town. i told my father; he brought me. i am very well.”
she sank on to one of the torn striped chairs and loosened her black cloak. her hair hung in disordered curls under her straw hat, her face was flushed, her lips feverish.
“i thought that you would come, but i did not expect you so soon,” said susannah, under her breath. “you received my letter?”
“yes, and i saw it—in the paper.”
susannah looked at her tenderly.
“i fear you are wearied to death.”
miss boyle took off her hat; there was a tacit avoidance in their speech of that which filled the thoughts of both.
“we have been travelling all night, but i am not tired.”
“we will have some tea.” susannah rang the bell. “we are very humble here; it is but temporary.”
“why did you leave home—the other place—so soon?” asked miss boyle faintly.
“it was not ours; we had no right,” answered susannah. “and i could not bear to stay; we moved at once. this is our first day here.”
my lord had been two days dead—only two days. they glanced away from each other.
“how is my lady?” breathed selina.
“she is not well, i fear. she lives only for the coming of marius.”
“she is here?”
“yes, but she will see no one.”
the maid-servant, treading softly, in awe of the visitor who had driven up in a coach, entered and set the tea.
“what time is it?” susannah asked. there was no clock in the room, and she had left her watch, with every other article of jewellery, behind in the house in the haymarket.
“nearly four o’clock, madam.”
“thank you.” miss chressham dismissed her, and commenced pouring out the tea.
selina took a cup obediently, but could not eat.
“i am a little sick with travelling,” she said.
susannah observed her covertly, wondering how much she guessed. was she still in her fairyland? miss chressham thought so.
“do you know lord sandys?” asked selina.
“i have seen him,” answered susannah.
miss boyle raised blurred eyes.
“i saw him once, when they played the rival queens. my lord was in the box with me. the lady he married was with him.”
susannah looked into her cup.
“you saw my lord but recently?”
selina quivered.
“we said good-bye. we—this does not matter for me; it was over.”
“for you and him?” asked susannah softly.
“what could there have been?” the tears ran slowly down her cheeks, but she smiled. “and what can it matter? he loved me, susannah, he loved me!”
miss chressham was silent.
selina wiped away the tears, and fixed her poor scalded eyes on susannah.
“he came to tell me so again.”
“i know; he told me that he was going to ask you to be his wife.”
“we have always loved each other,” said selina simply, “and we have been unfortunate. for me this does not matter, and for him——”
“he might have died more nobly.”
selina shook her head.
“we do not know; it was some worthy quarrel.”
again miss chressham was silent; she, like selina, was ignorant how exactly my lord had met his death—a flare-up of temper, a wanton insult. those who had seen him die had nothing more to say. no one knew why he was in the churchyard of st. ann’s at that hour. susannah, who knew nothing of the flowers, guessed; selina, who remembered them, did not.
“i never thought to see him again,” continued selina, with trembling lips; “but if it might have been i——”
“you must live to think of him,” said susannah tenderly. “ah, my dear, he did not die wholly miserably if he left you behind to mourn him.”
she rose and went on her knees beside selina’s low chair, and both were clasped tightly in each other’s arms in an overwhelming impulse of sad affection.
miss chressham kissed the bowed, delicate head resting on her shoulder, saying in her soul: “she will never know, thank god! she will never know!” she herself, who did know the man for whom she grieved, she who had given all her love to one who did not ever hear of it, she who must guard her secret, uncomforted, to the end, could yet conceal her deeper anguish to soothe with her strong sympathy the woman who believed in her beloved.
“i think you must not weep for him,” she said softly. “he lived his life. there were no better years before him than those that he had known. he died young and splendid; he did not have to face ruin, a fallen position; he had rich tastes and lordly habits; he did not have to feel the bitterness of inadequacy.” and in her heart she added: he did not break the dream of a woman who truly loved him by selling himself a second time. he died while he was still, in one woman’s eyes, all she would have had him. and for that susannah chressham was grateful.
“i do not weep for him,” murmured selina, “only i am tired.”
she raised her head.
“why should we mourn for him, susannah? i do not think he could have wished to live.”
miss chressham kissed her hot cheek.
“you are very brave, sweet——”
there was a little pause, then selina spoke.
“will you come with me—to see him?”
susannah turned her face away.
“i—i dare not speak of that.”
“it is very terrible,” shuddered selina, clinging to her, “but i think i must go.”
“do you know what they are doing?”
miss boyle closed her eyes.
“i know.”
miss chressham put her aside and rose.
“they are showing him for money,” she said, in a tone of uncontrolled agony. “my god, how can one bear it?”
“you—you could do nothing?”
susannah answered fiercely.
“why do you ask me that, selina? do you think that i have not tried? and he has friends; but my lord’s dead face was one of my lord’s best assets, and there is not a woman in london hath not been to see him—paying gold for it.”
“ah, forgive me!” said miss boyle, in a broken voice. “i have been forgetting what it is to you—you who are of his house; and you were fond of him.”
“yes, i was fond of him,” answered susannah, with a short laugh, “but i could not spare him this. what are they, these men who make their profit of the dead?”
miss boyle rose.
“i must go,” she said feverishly. “would you forsake him, susannah, because he hath strangers about him? when so many look on him for curiosity, shall not some look on him for love? i must go, if it kills me.”
susannah gazed at her questioningly.
“could you bear it?”
“i could not bear to stay away,” answered miss boyle, raising her wan face. “and my lady—hath my lady been?”
“no.” susannah clenched her hands.
“to-morrow they give him a fine funeral, a spectacle for the town; and then my lady will go to ride in the pageant, and weep at the window of her coach.”
“you speak bitterly.”
“god forgive me, i have no right; but i do not think that she loved him. it was always marius.”
selina picked up her hat.
“i am going,” she said. “and you——”
their eyes met.
“i will come.”
“at once,” whispered miss boyle.
“yes; i will fetch my cloak.”
she went softly into the bedchamber, closing the door after her, and selina stood leaning against the mantelpiece, fastening her pelisse over her grey dress.
it had been a cloudy day, but now the sun was shining fitfully through the long window on to the worn furniture and dark walls. a straight beam fell across a row of prints in black frames that hung opposite. miss boyle raised her eyes and looked at them.
the title, engraved finely beneath each subject, seemed to start out and be written on the sunlight:
“the rake’s progress.”
mr. hogarth’s terrible pictures; she had seen them and shuddered over them before.
“the rake’s progress.”
“susannah!” she cried on a sobbing breath.
miss chressham entered from the bedchamber.
“hush! my lady sleeps.”
“susannah, those pictures; can you live with them?”
“my lord did not live to reach that final scene,” answered susannah; “so, they do not frighten me but make me thankful.”
she glanced at that last plate with its bedlam horrors, then again at selina.
“my dear, you look ill,” she said, a little wildly. “can you face it?”
“yes, ah, yes; i am ready.”
she picked up her gloves, and they left the room and house.
it was a beautiful afternoon, of a mild splendour that touched and transfigured even the dull colourless street into a gracious warmth of pale magnificence; the sky was faintly coloured, but of a clear blue, the clouds were delicate but of a pure gold tint, the brick fronts of the houses glowed in the sun that dwelt on the plane-trees and the few flowers in the gardens, covering them with a wistful glory.
at the bottom of the street they got into a hackney coach. susannah gave the address, after that they could neither of them speak; they held each other’s hand and looked out of the window at the long familiar and now horribly distorted street, at the little trivial sights and objects, once pleasant and now terrible, that they passed.
at the corner of panton square they stopped the hackney and alighted.
it was susannah again who paid the man and dismissed him.
“have you,” she asked, “been into my lord’s mansion?”
miss boyle shook her head. the hackney rumbled off down towards the mall; a chapman, shouting ballads and the last dying speech and confession of a famous thief hanged that morning, went by. the square was filled with sedan chairs, fashionable curricles and coaches, waiting footmen and pages.
“my lord’s last reception seems well attended,” said miss chressham quietly.
“hold my hand again,” whispered selina, and she pulled her hat forward so that it concealed her face in its shadow.
unnoticed they passed round the trees where the golden dusty light of late afternoon was burnishing the foliage, and reached the door of lyndwood house.
a number of ladies, gaily dressed but wearing black favours, were leaving it; some were weeping, all seemed awed.
“he was very handsome,” said one as she stepped into her chair.
“how much will the house fetch?” wondered her companion; and “la, i wish i had never come,” sighed a third, who was very young.
“hold my hand tight,” breathed miss boyle.
they mounted the steps susannah knew so well and entered the open door; here the crowd, coming and going, a little delayed them. they stood for a moment brushed by scented skirts and silk mantles and pierced by careless comment.
in the gorgeous hall stood some of the pictures my lord had delighted in, piled against the wall; cabinets of china, of gold and silver, and packing cases showed through the open door of the dining-room; men were making lists, numbering and valuing. the servants at the foot of the stairs were strange to susannah.
she spoke to one, putting money into his hand.
“where does my lord lie?” she asked.
he answered with an air of one weary of replying to the same question. the place was on show, for two days the town had trooped through the rooms, looking at the furniture, at the extravagances of my lord, and at my lord himself.
selina turned her wide vacant eyes on susannah.
“where is he?” she asked.
miss chressham grasped her arm warmly.
“hush, my dear, my dear; upstairs, in his bedchamber.”
on the wide stairway were, here and there, fallen flowers: a leaf, a fern frond, a rose petal.
on the landing the armour and the enamel ware from the library were piled, and great portfolios of the engravings my lord had always so lavishly bought.
several people passed them. susannah glanced away for fear they might know her, but selina gazed before her as if not aware that any came near.
so they reached the door of my lord’s chamber. a woman, flauntingly dressed, came out weeping violently; she dabbed at her eyes and looked round as miss boyle stopped.
“ah, you, ma’am,” she said in a hysterical voice.
“you, i remember you! you were in the box with him that night——”
selina looked at her with expressionless eyes, but susannah spoke.
“who are you, madam?”
“i was ‘statira,’ ma’am,” answered the actress, “but i am as free as you to come and look at him now.”
she lifted her head defiantly; tears had stained the rouge and powder on her face, and her powdered hair was disarranged under her fantastic hat.
“poor soul,” said miss chressham. “i suppose you cared too. do not look at me so fiercely,” she added softly; “it does not hurt us that you have come.”
the actress burst into fresh tears.
“god bless you for that; i had no right——”
she snatched miss chressham’s cold hand, kissed it and hurried on down the stairs.
selina did not seem to have seen her; she caught miss chressham by the arm and drew her gently across the threshold of the earl’s bedchamber.
there were two servants inside the door, standing quietly; the blinds were drawn and the room close with the perfume of flowers. the thing was decorously done, susannah told herself in a passionate bitterness.
my lord’s personal furniture, even his clothes, were still about the chamber, only the clock had been stopped and the mirrors were covered up; a couple of gentlemen and three ladies stood at the foot of the bed, whispering together.
selina and susannah stepped closer.
the gold brocade curtains were looped back from the carved canopy, displaying to all who cared to gaze the body of rose lyndwood, clad in the white and silver in which he had died, and resting on the purple satin coverlet and silk pillows of his bed.
his head lay lightly to one side and tilted upwards, his hair, powdered and tied with a black ribbon, spread across the pillows; his hands, on which the rings still gleamed, were crossed on the heavy lace of cravat and shirt that fell over his breast; there were diamonds in his watch-chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket, in the buckles of his shoes and in the brooch at his throat.
by his side lay his gilt-hilted rapier in its gold scabbard; the coverlet was hid in flowers, and the floor about piled with wreaths of roses, lilies, syringa, violets and hawthorn, mostly tied with ribbons on which were written ladies’ names.
selina held the curtain yet further back and gazed into his face.
the shadow was over him, and so little changed was his expression that the colourlessness and distortion of death seemed to have hardly touched him; he had always been pale.
selina smiled.
others entered the chamber and passed round the bed. miss chressham stood behind selina, who leant forward, and both looked at rose lyndwood with tearless eyes.
neither touched him nor even the edge of his garments, neither dropped a flower on his couch nor spoke one word of anguish, nor sighed once in lamentation.
after a little while they moved and left the room, their hands clasped and their lips closed. a smile lay, like a ghost of former happiness, on selina’s face; she seemed to see nothing, to hear nothing; her soul was listening to distant music, and treading different ways.
they left the square on foot; neither looked back on the shuttered windows of lyndwood house.
selina spoke, and her pure voice was steady.
“now i will go home; we return to bristol tomorrow.”
she added where they were staying, and remarked on her father’s grief and patience.
“he will be waiting for me,” she added, and spoke of the life that was before her: peace and yet not loneliness, quiet but not desolation.
“it is all over,” she said, and kissed susannah.
they walked together in silence until they came to the strand and saw the river flash in the evening sun between the houses.
“did any tell you,” asked miss chressham then, “what he said: ‘i always believed in the immortality of the soul’?”
“i did not know,” answered selina. “it was a strange thing to say.”
“a strange thing for him to believe,” said susannah. “but i am glad, are not you?”
“yes, i am glad.”
they had reached her inn.
“good-bye; will you write to me?”
“good-bye, sweet; it hath gone beyond words, hath it not?”
“beyond everything,” said selina. “i think it hath passed earth and reached heaven.”
they clung together, kissed and parted.
miss chressham took a hackney and drove home. everything was as she had left it; the tea service stood about, my lady lay heavily asleep in the darkened bedchamber; only the bar of sunlight had shifted and deepened its golden hue.
“oh, rose! rose!”
she took off her hat and mantle and flung herself on the worn sofa, hiding her face in her white arms and dark dress.
selina thought that he loved her; she had that to comfort her, but what was to console susannah?
“ah, rose! rose!”
my lady could sleep—selina could take up her life saying, “it is over——”
“but what for me?” cried susannah chressham through her clenched fingers.
the door opened softly. she lifted dazed eyes and dropped her hands to her lap.
it was marius lyndwood who entered—marius, plainly dressed and dusty, pale and weary-looking, of an infinitely quieter and older aspect than formerly.
they looked at each other, and she rose.
“i am glad you have come,” she said simply.
“susannah!”
her eyes widened; he knew, he was the one person in all the world who knew.
“this has almost broken my heart,” he said, “for your sake.” she turned away sharply, rested her elbows on the mantelpiece and her head in her hands.
the earl crossed over to her. “there are two of us,” he spoke hoarsely, “two of the house of lyndwood.”
“you are heir to a ruined name and fortune,” she answered in a muffled voice; “you have no cause to feel kindly to us, the dead or the living, marius.”
my lord laid his hand lightly on her arm.
“have i your friendship, susannah?”
she raised her face.
“that, always.”
“do you forgive me that i am the earl, susannah?”
susannah answered unsteadily.
“you—do you forgive rose?”
“there was nought to forgive,” said my lord.
miss chressham looked into his steadfast, earnest eyes.
“as you say, there are two of us.”
she gave him her hands.
“will you come and see my lady?”
