the countess agatha laid down her novel and looked across the beautiful room at her niece, who was drawing the white and gold curtains over the twilight prospect of the haymarket.

“when is marius going to wait on rose?” asked the elder lady. “he has been home now two days.”

susannah chressham turned quickly.

“rose is so occupied—since he hath gone into the ministry, he is seldom at home.”

“it isn’t always service in the ministry keeps him abroad,” remarked his mother lightly.

“marius has been to his reception, you know,” said miss chressham, “and will call privately tomorrow.”

she came slowly down the centre of the room.

“it is nearly a year since marius came home before,” she said; she seated herself near the countess and her pink striped dress rustled against the other lady’s lavender muslins; the room was all white and pale colours, flowers were painted on the walls and cupids smiled from the ceiling; the furniture was aubusson, finely carved and of melting hues; the candles were scented and set in crystal sconces; in one corner stood an elegant spinet, and close by susannah’s gold harp; on a tulip-wood table rested a beau-pot of forget-me-nots, the most vivid thing in the chamber.

“a year ago,” repeated the countess vaguely; “yes, just before rose married.”

“i was thinking of lavinia,” said miss chressham quietly; “he has not seen her since.”

the countess agatha laughed.

“i expect he has forgotten her, my dear, certainly she has forgotten him.”

“i suppose so; but, just at first, it might be painful for them, and can one forget, like that?”

miss chressham took her musing face in her two fair hands and gazed absently at her own lovely reflection in the oval mirror opposite.

“oh! my dear, you get too deep for me,” the countess smiled prettily; “it was vastly sad at the time, but now everything moves along quite properly, and lavinia has behaved very well.”

“she has acquired a manner,” responded miss chressham, “and she has been discreet.”

“which is quite sufficient; but then you never liked her.”

“how could i? no, i dislike her, and her maid.”

“it is quite a pity,” answered the countess, “for really i can discern no fault in her; of course she was wild at first, and difficult; and, of course, she is only middle-class at heart now, but she is not in any way openly discreditable; indeed, she passes very well for a lady of fashion.”

“that is not what i mean,” said miss chressham. “i think there is mischief in her, and mischief in that honoria pryse; and i think it may be difficult, with marius.”

the countess laughed; a habit with her that did not in the least imply that she was amused.

“i am sure you are wrong, susannah,” she replied languidly. “lavinia is merely bent on enjoying herself.”

“well, i trust her not; she hath a quick sly way of questioning; the last time i saw her she was trying to discover from me what i knew of selina boyle.”

“can you blame her if she is sometimes jealous?” asked the countess.

miss chressham’s foot beat the delicate-hued carpet.

“but rose has not seen selina save in public since he married, and ’tis understood that it is to be a match between her and sir francis,” she answered impatiently. “and i know not how she can be jealous of one whom she doth not even pretend a regard for.”

“well, you always thought rose’s marriage a mistake,” remarked the elder lady placidly; she could not say she did, there was the money, and she had enjoyed it, was enjoying it, vastly.

miss chressham suddenly swerved from the subject.

“selina and her father are coming to town; they have taken a house in golden square for the season. sir francis is delighted; i suppose they will be married this year.”

the countess raised her delicate head and looked at the silver-gilt clock.

“where has marius gone, my dear; isn’t he late?”

susannah was well used to reminding her aunt of things that lady knew perfectly well.

“he has gone to attend my lord willouby,” she smiled. “and i think he will be back very soon.”

“i recall it,” said the countess agatha. “do you think he will be ordered abroad again?”

“not to madrid, i hope; he seems wearied of it to the death, doth he not?”

“yes,” sighed his mother. “and i want to keep him at home; he spoke of an appointment in paris, in the suite of my lord northcote; i trust he will not go.”

miss chressham rose.

“the mantua-maker is coming at six, shall we not go upstairs?”

“oh, la!” cried my lady, shaking her laces into place; “it should be very modish, should it not, that watered tabby—which minds me that all the best heads have ribbon in the lapels—i wish to order some of a precise red.”

susannah chressham smiled, for the countess agatha spoke with more animation and decision than she had used when discussing her sons and their affairs.

the two ladies left the room; a few moments after their departure the timepiece struck six, and before the clear chimes had ceased marius entered—captain the honourable marius lyndwood of the 2nd buffs now, of a slightly weightier presence, a slightly quieter manner, otherwise not changed at all by his year in the train of the english ambassador in spain.

he wore his buff and blue uniform, and his hair was powdered and rolled into stiff military side-curls; he moved with an air of precision that made him look older than he was. finding the room empty he walked up and down idly a while, then stopped before the spinet and began turning over susannah’s fragrant music-sheets. one took his fancy, he had been fond of music and not unskilled; this was a piece of scarlatti, showy, foreign.

he sat down before the keyboard, making a clatter with his sword, and began to play; he laughed to himself at his own mistakes, and commenced whistling the air.

the white door opened and miss chressham entered; marius rose, flushing a little, and both smiled.

“i thought you must have returned,” said susannah, coming across the room. “well, what of the paris appointment?”

“the post has been offered me,” he answered rather gravely. “but my lord says it is as i wish; it can easily be arranged that i stay in london.”

“are you going?” asked miss chressham.

he fixed his eyes on the keys.

“i think so.”

she moved away to the table that held the forget-me-nots and bent over them; then he looked at her, at the long fair curls flowing between her shoulders over her gleaming pink gown, and the slender hand hanging by her side.

“i want to do something worth while, susannah,” he said quietly “to make a position for myself—this has all been rose, rose’s money.”

“i think you had better go,” she answered slowly, “though we miss you very much, marius.”

he went suddenly pale.

“i want to thank you for writing to me so often,” he said abruptly. “if i go away will you still write to me?”

she faced him, smiling.

“of course, marius.”

he sat silent; she noticed his pallor and his serious mouth, and faintly wondered; he had been rather moody since his return.

“well,” she said, “my lady sent me to see if you were here, that was all; we have the mantua-maker upstairs; but expect us at dinner!” she laughed.

“can you not stay?” he demanded.

“not now,” a touch of surprise was in her tone; “indeed i must go.”

again he made no reply, and she smiled at him and left him.

marius returned again to scarlatti, swaying a little to the music, the long lace at his wrists sweeping the ivory keys; and again he was interrupted.

the servant opened the door.

“the countess of lyndwood.”

his brother’s wife stepped into the chamber and stood facing him; for a moment he did not know her; he received the impression of a slight dark lady, of a vivid personality, gorgeously dressed.

she wore black velvet, a large hat with black plumes, and a silver scarf; at her breast was a cluster of pink geranium; she appeared utterly out of harmony with the delicate taste of the chamber.

“good evening, captain lyndwood,” she said.

he had not seen her since the earl had turned her from the library at lyndwood holt, nearly a year ago; he opened his lips, but nothing came, and she laughed, pointing his silence.

“are my lady and miss chressham out?” she asked, coming forward.

“they are upstairs, madam,” he answered, remaining standing by the spinet.

“well, i can wait.” she moved slowly, trailing her heavy dress and revealing the fragile grace of her figure effectively and obviously; her hat was well tilted off her face, in her powdered hair was a knot of pink ribbon, and on her left cheek a black patch.

“am i much changed?” she asked, and her eyes were slightly insolent.

“yes,” said marius in a troubled way. “i think you have changed, madam.”

she sank lightly into the gold chair by susannah’s little work-table.

“think! you know!” she cried; “but you are very much the same, captain lyndwood.”

he coloured furiously, and looked sternly at the page of music lying before him on the spinet.

“you must excuse me, madam,” he said formally, “that i have not yet waited on you. i am intending to visit lyndwood house tomorrow.”

the countess smiled.

“i heard of your return, from the gazette; why did you not write to me?”

“my lord knew of my home-coming, madam,” he answered coldly.

“do you imagine that i am in my lord’s confidence? i say i learnt it from the gazette.”

there was no reply possible to her astonishing directness; her lately acquired manner of ease and presence but emphasised her graceless ignoring of the screen of words used by people of breed.

marius looked at her; she was painted and powdered, beneath her gown showed her violet velvet shoe sparkling with a great diamond buckle; she leant forward a little, and gazed at him with eyes that were desperately unhappy; again she laughed.

“what were you playing?” she asked. “la! but i did not know that you were a player.”

“’twas scarlatti, madam,” he answered.

their eyes met and she rose.

“i will play you something,” she said, and pulled off her grey gloves. “i am credited with some skill, captain lyndwood.”

he moved away from the spinet, mistrusting her, uneasy, the colour still in his fair face; he kept his eyes on her, noting how different she was, admitting her slender elegance and flaunting grace.

she played a little prelude, not looking at the notes but at him; then she glanced down at her slim hands and began to sing:

“i hung a bird in a wicker cage

to catch the morning sun,

and saw below the people rage

and press, and shout, and run,

to see her walk, her guards between,

with her face to the maytime sun.”

marius fingered his sword and walked up and down, but he was listening and she knew it.

“i was a clerk at a window, with learnèd books to write,

she was a mary martyr and sin in the church’s sight.”

the countess did not raise her eyes; she sang softly, and the words of the laboured incongruous song struck to the heart of her listener.

“the bird sang in his prison

to a captive daffodil,

that with the spring had risen,

in the pot on my window sill.

the sky was bright as a jewel

through the trees on tower hill.

as her stainèd feet crept onward, i saw the people turn—

and i looked at the mary martyr whose body and soul must burn.

“young was she and slender,

lo! but a wondrous thing.

her face was as full of splendour

as the primrose woods in spring,

when god bends through the branches,

to hear the mavis sing.

she was but a mary martyr, cursed for her heresy,

but her eyes were clear as water and troubled the heart in me.”

the countess rose swiftly.

“are you glad to be in london?” she said; she came towards him, swinging her gloves; he was aware of the perfume of her garments, of the heavy soft sound of her moving velvet.

“i think i am leaving again for paris, madam,” he looked at her straightly. “shall i not fetch miss chressham?”

“no,” answered lady lyndwood. “i came to see you. i learned from the mantua-maker she would be here at this hour. i chanced finding you alone.”

he thought her speech outrageous; his nostrils distended a little and his eyes darkened.

“you flatter me,” he said shortly.

she smiled.

“and now i have seen you, and you have nothing to say.”

“what should we have to say to one another, my lady?” his mouth set, and he frowned.

“do not do that,” said the countess suddenly. “you look like your brother.”

she moved to the work-table and picked up her gloves; he bit his lip and was silent.

the countess spoke again.

“this is a beautiful room, is it not? this house cost my lord a vast sum—you lyndwoods are very extravagant,” she drew her gauntlets on slowly. “i doubt if even a wealthy match can save you—the fortune of a merchant’s daughter has its limits—if the marriage were to last only as long as the money i were soon free.”

marius turned to gaze at her.

“do you mean to insult us?” he said in a goaded way.

she shrugged her shoulders.

“what do you think i mean?” her dark eyes held an unfathomable expression, one that could not fail to stir his blood with excitement, with wonder and confusion; she held her head very high and her complexion flushed beneath the rouge; “when we are all damned together each shall know perhaps what the other meant, not before.”

with an air of bright and deep passion she moved towards the door; it seemed that she would leave without another word, nor did he offer to detain her, though his curious gaze was eagerly on her; but abruptly she stopped and looked back.

“are you not grown up yet, marius?” she said wildly and softly.

he stood perfectly still and she held out her hand.

“good-bye, captain lyndwood,” she said quietly. “i will not ask you to see me to my carriage.”

he began some hot reply, but was interrupted; susannah chressham entered.

“you, madam!” she said, sincerely surprised.

the countess gave her a veiled glance.

“i am taking my departure, madam. i had a fancy to come in, but it is too late to stay.”

she lifted the heavy skirt off the twinkling paste on her shoes; certainly the most composed of the three.

“i sang to captain lyndwood!” actually she laughed; “and he never commended it! what are our gallants coming to? good-night, madam; au revoir, sir.”

she curtsied and was gone.

miss chressham stared at her cousin.

“what is this, marius? she has not been here for months; and the hour and the manner of her leaving!”

“i do not know anything of it,” said marius shortly.

miss chressham crossed to the spinet.

“how dare she play my instrument!” the fair countenance was angry. “and come here in this manner to my lady’s house?”

“i do not know,” said marius again, staring at the floor.

susannah looked up at him sharply.

“i think you had better go to paris,” she said slowly.