“i wish you would go and meet them at the lodge,” said susannah chressham.

“’tis near an hour before they are due,” smiled marius, looking at his watch. “how impatient you are!”

“to see her, yes.” miss chressham unfurled her pink parasol. “i am quite agitated.”

“shall we return to the house?”

“no, it is very pleasant here; let us go to my rose garden, it will pass the time, and really some of the blooms are beautiful.”

they took a path that led towards the lake across the cedar-shaded lawn; the sun was strong before its setting and cast a soft glow through the rosy silk of miss chressham’s parasol on to her bare brown head and white dress; marius lyndwood was very exquisitely arrayed in dove-coloured satins; as he walked beside his cousin he played with the red tassels on his ivory-headed cane.

“has rose written to you of late?” asked miss chressham suddenly.

“i received a letter from him two days ago, as i was leaving brereton’s,” answered marius half shyly. “i spoke of it to my lady, but she did not encourage me to show it to her.”

he switched at the thick daisies with his cane.

“rose wrote from calais—charmingly—he enclosed bills to a large amount, and said he had arranged a captaincy for me in the blues—’twas all very sweetly worded.”

“rose has a chivalrous soul,” said miss chressham.

marius flushed.

“you, with him, make me out a selfish boor, maybe,” and the crimson deepened in his cheeks. “i was passionate with my lord, but he hath given me no chance to put it aright.”

they were now skirting the borders of the lake, and their bright dresses were reflected like painted shadows in the still water.

susannah spoke firmly.

“what rose has done he did because he was the head of the house and because you and my lady made it clear that you expected his duty of him—it was natural that you should——”

“ye make me uneasy with this talk of his sacrifice,” cried marius.

“i said duty, not sacrifice,” returned miss chressham; “this marriage hath saved the estates, the name, my lady and you.”

it was at the irises growing at the water’s edge that marius struck now with his impetuous cane.

“but,” he said as if in self-justification, “a man in my lord’s position must marry, and ’tis usually an heiress; the thing is done every day; many might have expected rose to do it sooner, before it came to openly making a bargain of it.”

susannah chressham tilted her parasol and turned keen eyes on his half-ashamed face.

“would you have cared to marry a stranger, marius, because she had a hundred thousand pounds to her dowry, and her father had paid your debts?”

“i am not the earl,” said he, wincing.

“but had you been——”

he interrupted.

“had i been, susannah, maybe i had not so wasted my fortunes that i had need to mend them in this way; take it as you will, my lord is a rake and a prodigal; why, beau lyndwood is the most conspicuous name in town.”

“my lord,” she answered warmly, “hath lived as his father before him, and ye have no cause to speak; your romance lies open to you—my lord has paid, and with the price he gets you can save yourself from my lord’s sins.”

marius answered in a soft troubled voice.

“do not blame me, cousin, ’tis not entirely for me that he does this——”

“very largely for you, that you may have the chance to win this lady who may be all in all to you.”

“i am grateful,” said marius simply. “for indeed i want little else but that same lady—we shall not trouble rose.”

they had turned away from the lake into a little grove of eastern shrubs, myrtles, laurels and oleanders; susannah’s skirt trailing over the fallen fragrant leaves made a pleasant sound; she softly closed the parasol.

“has she written to you, marius?”

“no,” he looked away, “but she said she would not be returning to london till september, and, of course, it does not matter whether she writes or no.”

“you are so sure of her?” breathed susannah.

“so sure,” he smiled.

“not even knowing her name!”

he lifted a bough of myrtles from the path.

“i called her in my fancy ‘aspasia’ from mr. fletcher’s play, ’twas enough; i only spoke to her twice; the first time we said so little! the second time i gave her my name and she gave me her picture. ‘i will write to you,’ she said—and so—and so——”

“you are very fortunate,” answered miss chressham in a hushed way, “it must make you more tender with my lord.”

she passed under the trellis arch that led into the garden, he followed, and they stood among the heavy roses looking at each other.

“what do you mean, cousin?” asked marius.

she put her hand among the thorns and leaves and shook a huge crimson bloom free from wet.

“this—do not be over-righteous, marius—when you have found her, and won her, and are as happy as you dreamed, remember my lord’s unlovely marriage, and be a little sorry for him.”

her voice broke; she turned away, pressing against the rose bushes; marius lifted her hand and kissed it in silence.

“i grow sentimental,” she cried. “come, which of these flowers do you think the new countess would give the preference to?”

she shifted her parasol and her fingers fondled the ribbon on the handle.

“we must pick her some of my roses,” she added. “i want to like her, marius—my lady will be cold with fear, but she might have been sour or vain or common; rose has always spoken of her as gentle and sweet.”

“her birth is well enough,” answered marius uneasily. “her people have never been less than gentlefolk.”

he did not care to think his brother had mated too utterly beneath him, and it seemed that susannah was making too much of it—as the matter really only interested him obliquely he would have had it taken for granted and put aside; he would have preferred to relate how he first met aspasia in the luxembourg gardens in paris; susannah could be, when she chose, a perfect listener.

but she would not suffer the subject to change. “it must be difficult for her—at first,” she said. “i am very curious to see her. lavinia hath quite a pretty sound, hath it not? i wonder if she likes riding.”

“ye seem very desirous to please her,” smiled marius.

susannah paused before an opulent bush bearing roses red almost to a purple tinge.

“i want her to like me,” she repeated.

marius looked at his cousin; certainly she was making too much of it; he could not find rose’s wife of such importance.

“why?” he asked. “why do you want her to like you?”

miss chressham answered with an ardent gravity.

“because i am afraid of hating her,” she said; “i wish to like her before i am lured into loathing her.”

she pulled two roses from the stem, never heeding the thorns, and gazed intently at them.

“i think you take it over heavily,” replied marius with a judicial air. “rose was bound to marry and to marry a fortune—he would scarcely have made a love match.” marius was boyishly pompous. “we hear the lady has qualities, is as desirable as another lady with a hundred thousand pounds, and i cannot think rose would ever let his wife interfere with him.”

susannah’s eyes flashed over the gorgeous blooms she held to her lips.

“and you will supply sentiment for two; well, no doubt i am foolishly romantical.”

but the words were a mere dismissal of a subject she disdained to discuss with one who would not understand.

“i think we might go now,” she added; “surely it is time?”

“the moments have been vastly swift!” he glanced at his watch. “yes, they are due—shall i go straight to the lodge?”

“had you not better? my lady awaits them in the withdrawing-room. she thinks of her own home-coming, i know—a triumphal arch, villagers lining the road with flowers—and regrets this for rose; but his commands were stern.”

miss chressham spoke rapidly. her restless eyes and fluttering lashes showed agitation. as marius parted from her by the lake she laughed nervously, and waved her hand to the careless youthful figure hurrying through the shrubbery.

she was very glad marius was happy; it was as pleasant to watch his eager joy in life as to survey the content of a loving dog; and as sad to see him miserable as to behold an animal in distress.

susannah had much the same faith in his aspasia as he himself possessed. she considered him likely enough to come across his fate early—likely enough to love, to be loved, to satisfy, and be satisfied.

he was simple, she thought—no makings of a rake in him. honest and brave he was, but no more to be compared with rose.

she kept her thoughts from the earl, and fell to, somewhat desperately, considering his wife. miss lavinia hilton, daughter of merchant, child of a parvenu, countess of lyndwood now—the wife of rose!

the thing was so monstrous that it must be taken without exclaim, naturally, or it became a horror unendurable, a wonder all credulity strained at. he, so fastidious, asking for wit as well as beauty, breed as well as grace, polish as well as youth—mated to a melancholy schoolgirl whose father had spent his life in the countinghouse!

to susannah this was a picture to be ignored, not even glanced at—to contemplate it was to behold the cruel elements of tragedy.

susannah dropped her skirt, closed her parasol, and looked at the two long-stemmed roses she carried, holding them up against the fading blue sky.

a little further and she came into view of the house; its brick front was warmed by the universal glow of the setting sun. on the terrace in front bloomed peonies and turks’ caps, the stone vases held trailing masses of geraniums, scarlet amid their bright leaves. all was peaceful, stately, and beautiful. “what a home for her to come to!” thought susannah.

she went slowly to the front where the magnificent lawn, broken with one dark cedar-tree, reached to the fountains and the lake where the white swans glittered, and as she neared the wide steps, a coach and six, swinging on its leathers, came up the chestnut drive.

it drew up with a scramble of the horses’ hoofs on the gravel. the first thing to strike miss chressham was that this equipage was not belonging to the new countess. she had seen it last year in london. her second thought was that he could never have kept it but for the hilton money.

the postillions and footmen jumped down, but, quicker than they, rose lyndwood opened the door and sprang out.

“ah, susannah!” he said. his voice had a note of relief; he pulled off his glove and offered her his hand.

miss chressham glanced at his face, and her heart gave a sick swerve.

“where is my lady?” asked the earl.

susannah forced herself.

“in the house. i sent marius to the gate; he must have missed you.”

her eyes travelled anxiously to the coach door. my lord held it open and assisted a lady to alight.

“this is lavinia,” he said.

susannah’s first impression was that she was extremely young and quite pretty; her second that she did not know how to dress.

“my cousin susannah!” said the earl.

the countess swept a nervous curtsey, and stared at miss chressham.

her plain purple coat and wide leghorn hat, with black ribbons, had the effect not of elegance, but of insignificance. susannah thought it ostentatious, too.

“i am rejoiced to see you,” said miss chressham; “but ’tis difficult to say so without a set speech, and i expect you are tired—may i call you lavinia?”

a pair of brown eyes were gravely fixed on her from under the shade of the leghorn hat.

“if you will, please,” answered lady lyndwood, with never the flicker of a smile.

another coach had arrived with the servants and the baggage. rose was half-way up the steps. he did not look at his wife, nor she at him. susannah, under cover of the confusion of arrival, took the countess’s arm.

“you look rather fatigued,” she ventured, “the roads are rough.”

“i am very fatigued.”

they ascended the steps together. in the doorway stood the dowager countess, radiant in lace and gold silk.

if rose’s wife had been of her own choice, she could not have been more gracious.

“my dear!” she took the new countess prettily by the hands. “you are as sweet as rose described you, and i cannot say more.” she kissed her. “forgive my lord’s mother the impertinence of welcoming you to your own house.”

lavinia disengaged herself.

“i thank you, madam,” she said.

“where is marius?” asked my lord.

“he went, as i said, to meet you,” replied susannah. “he must be back any moment.”

now lady lyndwood looked at her husband, only for a second; her baited glance turned with an expression of relief to miss chressham.

“please, i am very tired—sick with the jolting of the coach; might i go to my room?”

before susannah had time to answer the elder countess had swept her up the shining oak stairs, in a cloud of graceful speeches.

rose did not look after them. he turned into the library and his cousin followed him. she still held the two red roses, and as he seated himself at the table she drew their stems through the lace at her breast.

the earl rested his cheek on his hand and his elbow on the table. he had not removed his dark-green travelling coat. it set off the grace and fineness of his figure as the high black stock relieved the weary pallor of his face. at the corner of his lip was the familiar bat-shaped patch, and under the paste buckle in his hair the turquoise ribbon he affected.

susannah looked at him. her cousin, rose lyndwood, home again, in his old place!

and upstairs, his wife!

“i am sorry marius missed you,” she said.

he turned his grey eyes on her.

“’tis no matter,” he said, in a lifeless manner.

then miss chressham threw aside restraint.

“oh, rose,” she cried, coming up to the table. “what have you done? what is she like?”

“what makes you say that?” he demanded, raising his head.

“your face—her face!” she answered. “don’t you suppose i can see what this is going to be?”

he made a movement with his hand on the table, as if his nerves were strained almost beyond bearing.

“it is well enough,” he said, looking away. “what did i expect? i suppose my lady is pleased?”

“she takes it for granted. she never realised it.”

the earl rose and crossed to the fireplace.

“and marius?”

“marius is happy; you have that satisfaction.”

susannah’s eyes were anxious and tender as she gazed at her cousin.

“that is, as you say, some satisfaction,” said my lord. “otherwise it was not worth it—by god, not worth it!”

his tone, his expression, startled her.

“why did you do it?” she cried. “you were madly reckless.”

he took his pipe from his pocket and filled it with a trembling hand.

“to have sold myself!” he muttered.

again her heart gave the lurch it had done when she first saw his expression; but before she could speak he had made an effort with himself.

“but i do not know why i speak like this. you are too sympathetic, my dear”—he smiled—“and i suppose i am a little tired, too, of sitting still in a coach. is marius pleased with his commission under willouby?”

“marius is very well content,” replied susannah, but her mind was not on what she said.

the countess agatha entered.

“rose! i have not spoken to you! what manner of journey had you? lavinia seems exhausted. i have sent her woman to her, and she wishes to be excused coming down, poor thing! i fear she hath a sad headache.”

it might have been her own daughter she spoke of, so naturally and gracefully did she refer to rose’s wife.

the earl turned to the door.

“i will go find marius,” he said shortly, and left them.

“rose is out of humour,” remarked his mother.

“yes,” said susannah abruptly.

the countess looked absently at the reflection of her frail charming person in the mirror by the bookcase.

“and no wonder, my dear, all day shut up in a coach with that girl! and rose of all men!” she laughed, half under her breath.

miss chressham glanced at her in a kind of shock.

“what do you think of her?” she asked.

“she is impossible!” answered the countess at once. “gauche, vapourish, no style, a little sullen, i think. of course, quite pretty behind a bourgeois tea-table, but no manners! la, poor rose! she seems afraid of him, too.”

susannah was silent. it was startling to find the shallow judgment of the countess pronounce thus.

“but,” added that lady sweetly, “what does it matter? rose will get used to her.”

“and there is the money,” finished miss chressham bitterly.

“of course, there is the money.” the countess raised her brows; she thought the remark not quite genteel.

“and marius can have his romance unspoiled, his commission, and his happy future,” continued miss chressham. “but what is before rose?”

“oh, my dear, i am no prophetess! i suppose rose can manage his own affairs. he can certainly manage his own wife; he is so different from marius.” then she gave the younger woman a sudden pleading look. “do you think i am vastly selfish in being glad of rose’s marriage, and what it has meant to marius?”

susannah stooped and kissed her. she could not say anything, nor was it necessary. the countess brightened at once under the caress.

“did you see her dress?” cried lady lyndwood mischievously, with the pleasure even a good-natured coquette feels in seeing another woman make the least of herself. “la! she will never start a fashion! which reminds me, i wonder if rose brought those satins i asked of him!”

miss chressham roused herself from depths of different thoughts.

“let us go after him, aunt agatha. i think he will be in the withdrawing-room.”