the heavy coach rolled cumbrously over the cobbled streets, and the fitful flame of the lamp that lit the handsome interior showed the wan, troubled face of susannah chressham, colourless between the folds of bright hair, and the clouded countenance of captain lyndwood who sat opposite to her, wrapped in what seemed a passionate and seething silence.

she, sitting up, and gathering her mantle together over her low blue dress with a mechanical gesture, was the first to speak.

“i regret i could not find selina again,” she said. “i was sorry to leave without speaking to her—” she broke off; marius was not in her confidence, nor indeed much in her thoughts, and she paused, wondering what she should reveal and what keep back.

he half startled and half relieved her by his abrupt answer.

“it was concerning that paragraph in the gazette you wished to see rose, was it not?”

“how did you imagine it?” she queried faintly.

“the countess informed me.”

this remark brought miss chressham to glance at him closely and to notice that he was flushed and frowning, obviously ill at ease and striving for control.

“the countess informed you!” she echoed.

he beat his foot impatiently on the floor of the coach.

“she had seen it, of course. she concluded you would wish to prevent a meeting between rose and sir francis.” he checked himself, then added in a lower tone, “she has no doubt it is true.”

miss chressham coloured in sheer anger.

“she dared to put it so to you!” the sad grey eyes darkened with wrathful scorn. “did she wish to enlist you as her champion?”

“is it surprising that she was angry?” he answered defiantly. “if it be true——”

“it is true and she knows it,” broke in miss chressham. “she hath good cause to know it. selina wrote to my lord, and she—this woman—stole her letter and composed, from that and what she further knew or imagined, this paragraph in the gazette.”

“the countess!” cried marius. “the countess—that paragraph! susannah, i do not believe it!”

miss chressham answered with weary passion.

“believe it or no, it is true, true—and it was an action of a meanness, a vulgarity——”

“i do not credit it,” he interrupted vehemently. “after what she said to me.”

susannah gave him a swift look.

“she had no right to speak to you.”

the dusky blood flooded his agitated, handsome face.

“hath she no wrongs?” he asked desperately. “how have we behaved to her, any of us? and it has always been her money. rose and miss boyle are in the wrong.”

“i was well advised in not making you my confidant sooner, if this is how you take it,” cried miss chressham angrily. “oh, you understand none of it, none; but at least be silent, do not defend the countess lavinia to me.”

“how you hate her,” he answered, in a breathless way.

susannah’s fair white hand made a gesture as if she put aside the semblance of something hideous.

“i do not care to talk of her. this is the first time that my speech has meddled in my lord’s affairs”—she drew herself together, as if her mental effort braced her body; “but it becomes no less than my duty now, marius, to bid you take care.”

marius leant forward and caught hold of the red silk window blind.

“of what?” he asked hoarsely.

his obvious unease and agitation did not reassure susannah.

“of the countess lavinia,” she answered. “do you think rose will endure it? whatever he is, he is not that manner of man.” her voice held an odd note of pride.

marius moistened his lips.

“has he said anything?”

“to me, this evening, he warned me. i think you had better leave for paris.”

“because of the countess lavinia?” marius spoke unsteadily.

something in his troubled, distracted bearing touched her; a kinder look came into her passionate eyes.

“oh, marius, there was the old wretched mistake; rose must remember it. you wooed her first, after all; well, when he sees you together—you must respect his pride.”

marius drew back against the leather cushions and unaccountably laughed.

“the countess lavinia,” he said wildly, “i loathe her.”

he clenched his hand and brought it down with vehement force on the seat beside him.

“then you will go away?” susannah spoke softly.

“no, i cannot do that.” the lace and diamonds at his throat heaved with his unequal breathing, and his lips quivered.

“the countess means to do us all a mischief,” said susannah, faint and shuddering with the effort of putting these things into words. “cannot you see it, marius, that she will find in this fashion her amusement and her revenge? are you going to lend yourself to it? go away.”

he looked up with brilliant eyes.

“i shall stay,” he answered passionately; “but not because of the countess.”

“ah, you think yourself very strong and courageous,” returned miss chressham wearily, “but she is, in her way, a clever woman.”

“do not talk of her,” cried marius roughly.

susannah made no reply.

a little longer and the coach jolted to a standstill.

miss chressham sprang up with a nervous little exclamation; the heavy door was opened on to the dark silent street and the summer fragrance, that clung even about the haymarket with a sweet suggestion of things stirring, growing, breathing, animals, flowers and men, beneath the rising moon.

they went into the house; the coach swung off up the street and the delicate stillness fell again.

marius slowly closed the door, replaced the key in his pocket and flung off his domino. the wide hall was lit by one lamp that cast a pale glow and heavy shadows. miss chressham stood still a moment, gazing before her in an absorbed fashion.

“can i speak to you a while?” asked marius on a rebellious breath.

she forced herself to listen, to comprehend.

“of course,” she thrust aside her thoughts. “it must be still early—maybe my lady is up. let us go into the withdrawing-room.”

they discovered that it was not yet midnight, but the countess agatha was in bed, and susannah’s woman in charge. miss chressham ordered candles beyond the few left burning, and wine and cakes.

“i tasted nothing at the mask,” she said, smiling to cover her distraction, “and i vow i am quite hungry.”

marius, struggling with some deep and tumultuous feeling, heeded nothing, but paced to and fro the gay and beautiful chamber until the servant had left them.

the window stood open on the mute city and winking stars, a beau-pot of white roses on the work-table gave forth a lingering and exquisite perfume; miss chressham, near as pale as they, and drooping, as if with fatigue, had seated herself on a low brocade settee; her rich and glittering hair rolled in full curls over her dark domino, rounded throat and turquoise gown; beside her lay her mask and her fan.

“what did you wish to say, marius?” she asked.

he poured her out a glass of the delicate white wine; she thanked him with a smile and drank it. there was still that absent look in her deep eyes that showed her thoughts were not at all absorbed with marius; but he did not notice it, being too completely engrossed in his own passions.

“you think that i have behaved unworthily,” he said, moving towards the window.

susannah roused herself with a half sigh; it was like marius to take everything heavily. she looked at him kindly; he leant against the window frame and gazed out at the night; a persistent breeze ruffled the pomaded curls on his forehead and the lace at his throat.

“i had no right to speak to you, of anything,” she answered. “only rose mentioned it and i ventured. marius, the countess is not to be trusted.”

he answered in a muffled voice.

“do you think rose has been impeccable?”

had he had her in view he could not have failed to mark the swift expression of anguish that passed over her face; but her settee had its back to the window, and though he had turned his head towards the room he could see only her bent neck and shining curls.

“my lord made this mad marriage for your sake,” she said. “at the time you did not consider it strange or ignoble that he, as everyone, should marry money; ’twas only on discovering who the lady was——”

marius interrupted.

“then i cared for her no more, that was dead on the instant;” he spoke vehemently, “from then onwards the whole thing was ugly, sordid. i think we behaved all of us in a miserable fashion, i, and she and rose.”

“what other than you did could you have done?” she asked, faintly surprised that he should refer to this with so much passion.

but marius continued unheeding.

“we turned on her that night—well, we have been living on her money ever since, rose is again on the verge of ruin, and what has her life been? he has behaved to her as to his servant.”

susannah straightened herself.

“i fear i can look at none of it from the countess’s point of view.”

“she is indifferent to me,” he struck in quickly. “but i have her on my conscience.”

he moved forward suddenly and stood behind the settee.

“she was so different once—what have we made of her? i have no right to scorn her as i did, and now it seems that she appeals to me. susannah, tell me what i ought to do.”

miss chressham was startled by the tense note in his voice; she glanced up at him over her shoulder.

“oh, marius! why do you come to me?” she murmured weakly.

he leant his arms on the top of her seat and rested his head in his right hand; his frowning eyes gazed before him, and he spoke in a voice that she hardly knew for his.

“i want to be better than any of it, i should like to live differently from rose—from any of them.” as he jerked out the words the colour rose and receded in his earnest young face. “i started wrong, i never really cared for her, but i did not know. and then there was always the money. i thought i should never need for that; but things have changed so, in this last year. i—i want to get out of it, i want you to help me.”

he came to an end, very pale, and susannah sat silent. she felt with a sense of shock that he was making an effort to reveal his very soul to her; she saw his emotion, and wondered dimly that it did not touch her. she was angry with herself that her only desire was to silence him, to escape from the effort of striving to understand him; she was very tired, and her inner thoughts were far from marius.

“when i was abroad,” he continued, “i—i used to think of it and could find no way; but i must escape it. i—do you believe in heaven and hell, susannah?”

“’tis what we are taught,” she answered; “what makes you speak in this fashion, marius?”

his breath came passionately, he did not look at her.

“ah, i want to do something worth while; i do not want to be damned through ignoble foolish vices. you know, you remember, in the ballads we used to read—” he broke off, then added huskily, “do you not understand, susannah?”

she was frightened.

“oh, not to-night! do not speak of this to-night,” she cried. “i am very weary.”

“i must speak when i can. i am appealing to you, do not you see? you are the only person i would say this to. i speak very awkwardly. i am not worth——”

“oh, marius!” again weakly she tried to stop him.

his speech became almost incoherent; she caught only the burden of it, “do you not understand?”

“some day, if i tried with this before me, i might be in an honourable position; you cared a little to write to me, did you not? it might be all honest and worth while, and splendid, susannah.”

she rose, shuddering.

“i fear you have mistaken me, marius. i—i can be no help to you.”

he gripped the top of the settee.

“do you mean that?” he leant towards her. “i speak like a fool, i know; but i am trying to tell you.”

“marius!” she entreated, overwhelmed, surprised, in no way moved with anything save pity. “please do not say anything more now.”

again came his desperate passionate question. “do you not understand me? i want you—some day when i am not penniless—to be my wife.”

susannah made an effort over herself; her own emotions were in no way touched, but she was desperately sorry and a great deal startled; always she had considered him as very young.

“i have never thought of this, marius,” she said simply, pale as was he, but composed. “and i am honoured that you should care; but ah! my dear, you do not quite mean what you say.”

he coloured furiously.

“by heaven, i love you.”

she looked away.

“i hope you do not mean that,” she answered, “because——”

he half laughed.

“because you do not care for me?”

“not in that way, marius,” she said gently.

he put his hand to his brow in a dazed way.

“then it is over, impossible?”

“yes.” miss chressham was still not looking at him. “and i am sorry, oh, very sorry!”

“is there not a chance, some day?” his tone was piteously incredulous.

but susannah, strengthened by an intense and hidden feeling, answered with a finality calm to cruelty.

“no, i could never, marius; i beg of you not to speak of this again. if i have hurt you i am grieved; but it is impossible.”

silence followed, and now she ventured to look at him; he stood quite still, frowning, with downcast eyes; the fire and flash had died from his demeanour, which was that of a man utterly humiliated. susannah sickened at herself for having had to repulse him, what he had offered was something she might have been proud to accept, and a sense of guilt stole into her heart.

marius was speaking, quietly.

“forgive me, it was all my fault, i had no right to presume.”

remorse flushed her face, since he was taking it so well.

“i would give anything it had not happened,” she murmured.

“it shall not recur;” he straightened himself and moved from the settee. “i was a fool—when does a man meet such fortune as i hoped for? forget it, and good-night.”

he smiled, giving her the sudden impression of someone older, and weightier, and turned towards the door.

impulsively she held out her hand, then, seeing his instant flush, withdrew it.

“good-night,” she murmured.

“good-night, susannah.”

he was gone, and she gave a great sigh of exhaustion and relief; she had not thought of this from him, and he was in earnest too; well, it eased her mind with regard to the countess. he had appealed to her, she could have done anything with him had she responded—now. why could she not have cared for him, he was a finer man than—ah, for whose sake was she refusing him?

she sank across the settee and hid her face in her hands.

the feeling that had been the background of her life ever since she could remember, strong, intense, always, but always under control and hidden, broke all restraint and shook her from head to foot; she clasped her moist hands tightly and pressed them against her brow with a shiver. she asked herself what would become of marius, and answered herself—nothing.

he was drifting, like my lord, and she could put out no hand to save either, or did not. it seemed that no action was to redeem these last annals of their house. marius would do nothing. rose would do nothing, she would do nothing; the countess wasted her malice, there was no fire to be struck out of the lyndwoods.

miss chressham had seen the earl with miss trefusis on his arm. sir francis was appeased. selina, most fortunate of all of them, could wrap her heart in dreams and go about smiling; she did not know him, at least not as his cousin did.

there was marius—poor marius; his longings, his half-stifled aspirations had passed by her like the breeze that blew in from the dark town, but she knew that they had been real; even while she could not rouse herself to understand his mood she had hated herself that she must send him away bitter, unsatisfied.

she rose and put out the candles. the two churches, st. martin’s-inthe-fields and st. james’s, struck the chiming quarters, and then the hour—one.

susannah, protected by the dark, made an uncontrollable movement of her locked hands to her bosom.

“oh rose, rose!” she murmured; then, with a shudder crushed the name back into her heart, and went softly through the silent beautiful house to her chamber.