honoria pryse lay in bed and listened to the rain. all night long it had poured steadily, and now, when the june day had dawned, there was no sign of its cessation. honoria was always pleased to hear that comfortless beat of the rain when she lay warm and dry herself, just as it pleased her to think over what had happened yesterday and what would in all likelihood happen today. she herself had acted prudently to her own advantage, and yet in a way that no one could blame; even the proud miss chressham had been glad of her help, and the earl owed, if he had not given, her thanks.

marius lyndwood had reason to be grateful to her, and if my lady loathed her for her interference it was not a matter to trouble about. the countess was too dependent on her maid for honoria to fear her wrath.

it was curious that the countess had returned so quietly. honoria could recall neither protest nor complaint, and the burst of passionate invective that she had been waiting to receive the moment they were relieved from the restraint of my lord’s cold presence had never come.

honoria was surprised, puzzled also by the curiosity my lady suddenly showed in the matter of the earl’s duel with sir francis. it was not to be marvelled at that she was interested in the fact itself, one that might mean a great deal to her, but her questions as to time, place, and weapons seemed to honoria unusual and purposeless.

sitting up in bed and shaking the yellow curls out of her eyes, she smiled to herself at all of it—at my lady, lying in a sick sleep in the next room; at miss chressham, awake certainly and praying for my lord; at the earl and sir francis, meeting under the trees in hyde park—and for the sake of a few lines in the paper composed by her in this very room; at miss boyle, in a fainting agony, praying also for my lord. honoria laughed aloud, yawned, and got out of bed.

as she dressed she wondered, with a sense of amusement, and perhaps a little anxiety, what would happen next. if they brought my lord home, shot through the heart; if mr. hilton failed; if they were sold up in a downfall that would be the talk of london—what would become of my lady and herself? her mouth and eyes hardened as she stared at herself in the mirror. well, suppose my lord shot sir francis?

she shrugged her shoulders, opened the shutters and looked out over london. the grey clouds were beginning to break, a light that was between gold and silver glimmered over the wet roofs. the rain was ceasing.

it was about eight; the duel must be over now. the countess would surely be awake. honoria was surprised that she had not been roused by her in the night—that she should still be sleeping on such a morning as this. after all, my lord’s life or death meant something to her.

honoria adjusted her muslin mob, her pink ribbons, her buckle shoes—she was always neat, though she served a slovenly mistress—and opened the door that led into the countess’s bedchamber.

as she stepped into the close dun light of the shrouded room she came to a stop with a great start. the heavy-curtained bed was empty. the clothes were flung back and the spaniel slept on the coverlet; an open novel lay on the pillow; garments, dead flowers, masks, fans, boxes, books and prints lay scattered over the chairs and floor. the countess was not in the chamber.

“my lady,” cried honoria softly, “my lady!”

she crossed the room quickly and entered the apartment beyond it, her mistress’s private withdrawing-room. the blue brocaded satin curtains were drawn close and the white rose-wreathed walls showed cold and luminous in the confined light.

“my lady!” cried honoria again.

at a little chinese cabinet in the corner, set open and covered with a confusion of papers and rich articles of gold and jewels, sat the countess, resting her head in her hands. she wore again the muslin dress, red mantle, and straw hat of last night. her clothes were wet, clinging to her, and stained with mud. her hair hung uncurled and unpowdered on to her shoulders; her face was drawn and of an unhealthy pallid colour. at her elbow stood a lit candle, and on the carpet by the chair was a little pile of burnt paper.

she did not move at her maid’s entry, and honoria spoke again.

“have you been out, my lady?”

the countess lavinia turned her head.

“did you think i was asleep?” she asked in a weary voice.

honoria crossed to her side.

“you are wet to the skin. do you wish to kill yourself?”

“i do not feel it,” answered the countess, but she was shivering. “i have been to the park, honoria.” she put the candle out and leant back in her chair.

“to the duel?”

“yes.” her voice had a vague far-off sound. “i crept downstairs last night after you had left me, and unloaded his pistols, thinking he would have to fight without a second.”

“you did that!” quivered honoria.

the countess turned wide glazed eyes on her. she did not seem to know to whom she spoke.

“and then i followed to see him shot.” she coughed, laughed, and sat up.

“my god!” said honoria, staring at her mistress.

the countess thrust her fingers through her damp hair.

“marius was there, that is why i am speaking of it. you can tell them afterwards.”

“i do not understand,” cried the maid. “are you sane, my lady?”

“i want to say this,” smiled the countess, holding her head. “it becomes so difficult to say anything. sir francis fired into the air. why are men such fools? i went to see him shot!”

“you accuse yourself of murder,” said honoria.

“when my lord’s pistol clicked uselessly,” continued my lady, “they thought it was marius’s doing—at least, my lord did. no one saw me. i was standing at the top of a little rise among the bushes. how it had rained! now was my revenge, i thought. but useless, useless! and they must know.”

“ye are mad!” muttered honoria.

the countess caught up some of the letters lying before her and began to tear them across; but her fingers failed her, the pieces dropped from her grasp and her hands sank into her lap.

“there is no need for me to speak any more,” she said, and her head fell against the satin and gilt chair-back.

“you are ill!” cried honoria. “get up, my lady, and take off these wet clothes.”

the countess made no movement, and her maid, who could not see well in this dim light, sprang to the window and pulled back the blinds. the rain of the night was over, the drops gleamed beautifully on the panes and a pale bar of sunlight fell across the chamber and struck the upturned face of the countess lavinia.

“what is the matter?” exclaimed honoria. “come to bed, my lady.”

“i walked home,” said the countess. “how strange the city is at night! i beheld the dawn break behind st. james’s church.”

“no one saw you?” asked the maid.

my lady shook her head.

“but you must tell them i was there.”

“ye talk madly! why should i speak? it hath ended well; my lord lives.”

“marius hath the blame,” said the countess in an exhausted voice. “honoria, i could have loved him.”

“what matter for that? he can go abroad. ye are safe. come to bed.” she caught her mistress by the arm and strove to raise her from the chair. “will you not come to bed? what if any find you in this trim?”

the countess raised herself languidly.

“i should put these papers to rights,” she said feebly.

honoria noticed with a little pang of horror that the letters scattered about were old, childish epistles dating from my lady’s girlhood at the boarding-school, and long put away.

“what are you doing with these?” she asked.

“i do not know.” the countess dropped the keys of the desk from her limp hand and caught honoria’s shoulder. “help me to bed. i am very cold.”

“you risked your life in this wet!” cried the maid, terrified at her face. “you are certainly ill. shall i fetch the doctor?”

“no—no doctor,” answered the countess. “i am very well.”

honoria helped her to the bedchamber and undressed her, huddling away the wet clothes with their treacherous stains of mud. the countess flung a blue wrap over her tumbled petticoats and sank into a chair at the foot of her bed.

“will you have your chocolate?” asked honoria, kneeling before her and taking off her damp shoes.

the countess nodded.

“it is early yet,” continued the maid. “will you not get to bed?”

the countess lavinia raised herself in her chair and looked round the room—rich, yet dishevelled and dreary with its confusion of articles of frivolity and vanity.

“no,” she said vacantly. “go make the chocolate.”

honoria gave her a pair of glittering slippers and went lightly into the next chamber, where, on an elegant table of kingswood, stood the silver chocolate service. before preparing this she crept to the door, opened it, and went out upon the landing to peer over the lordly stairs. everything was silent. but the earl must have returned.

honoria went back and cast a wondering glance on the pile of torn letters. there was insanity in my lady’s family, and honoria remembered it—recalled violent scenes between father and daughter—threats of bedlam. the maid was convinced that the scene of yesterday had upset her mistress’s brain. what was it but an act of madness, this wild attempt to cause my lord’s death, this lonely adventure? and then this return to a desperate sorting and tearing up of old worthless letters?

she drew the rich heavy curtains back and let in the early sunlight, that shone gaily over the elegant, extravagant appointments of the chamber. when the chocolate was ready, frothed and milled, she poured out a cup and took it in to my lady.

the countess sat where she had left her. the vivid colour of her wrap accentuated the curious pallor of her face; her tangled hair fell on her shoulders and her head was leaning back.

“madam,” said honoria sharply, “you are indeed ill, and i shall send for the apothecary.”

“no,” replied my lady languidly. “come here.”

the maid placed the cup on a side table covered with pots of pomade and bottles of hungary water.

“come here,” repeated the countess, and held out her hand.

honoria caught the cold fingers.

“what is the matter?” she demanded anxiously.

the countess slowly raised her handkerchief with her free hand and wiped her lips.

“you must tell them,” she murmured. “i leave it very incomplete. i—yesterday i felt a fear of sudden death.”

“god help us! ye are not dying?” cried honoria.

my lady shuddered, and closed her eyes. the maid caught her by the shoulder almost roughly.

“what is the matter? are you dying?”

“i am not afraid,” muttered the countess without opening her eyes, “now—but tell the earl.”

“i will fetch him!” exclaimed honoria.

the countess made no answer but a faint moan, and as she stared at her honoria saw the truth.

“you have taken poison,” she said.

there was no answer from my lady. her eyes fluttered open and stared blankly before her.

“so this is the turn it has taken!” said honoria, very pale. “you are a fool, madam, and a wicked fool. i will go fetch a doctor.”

“no, no!” wailed the countess. “do not leave me, i am dying.”

but honoria pryse ran out of the room.

at that the countess dragged herself into a sitting posture and gazed about her. the shrouded windows, the close light, the unmade bed, the untidy chamber, the profusion of useless, extravagant things scattered about, formed a dreary picture. there was luxury but no comfort; to my lady’s hazing eyes it appeared a cheerless place.

the little dog awoke, roused himself, jumped off the bed and came round to his mistress. she held out a shaking hand to him, and he leapt on to her lap.

“honoria!” she said faintly, and looked towards the other room, where the sunshine lay strong and gold. her fingers wandered over the spaniel’s soft coat; she gave a little cough and passed her hand patiently to and from her brow. she was not thinking of anything at all; she felt that for the moment everything was suspended, but that presently she would be able to adjust it all in her own mind—think it out and put it straight.

when honoria returned she had not moved. the maid was not alone; my lord, in his black ball dress, stained and tumbled with the rain and mud and the powder shaken out of his bright hair, followed her.

the countess roused herself as she saw him.

“what is this?” he asked wildly.

“the end, my lord,” she answered, coughing.

“have you no remedies?” cried the earl, turning on honoria. “have you done nothing for her?”

“one hath gone for the apothecary.”

my lady’s glazed eyes rested on her husband’s face.

“it is no use. i have taken poison,” she shuddered. “i bought it this morning. there is no need for me to say anything more.”

“why have you done this?” cried the earl wretchedly.

she was getting fast beyond all questions or reproaches, getting beyond knowing or caring who spoke to her.

“oh, i am in pain!” she said faintly. “this is a horrible way to die! honoria will tell you.” she made a writhing movement that caused the dog to jump from her knee.

rose lyndwood dropped to one knee beside her and caught her wrist.

“why does not the doctor come?” he cried distractedly. “speak to me, my lady, speak to me!”

“give me some water,” she murmured.

honoria moved away to fetch it. the countess shuddered and groaned.

“shall i send for a clergyman—for your father?” asked my lord.

“send for no one,” she gasped. “what are any of them to me?”

honoria brought the water, and as the countess raised her head to take it she fixed her vacant eyes on my lord.

“you wait for me to ask your forgiveness,” she said with sudden strength; “but honour was—never in-the bargain. i told susannah chressham so.”

she took the glass and held it a moment, staring at her husband; then it slipped through her fingers and broke on the gilt arm of the chair; the water was spilt over her blue wrapper and the floor.

“oh,” she murmured, and sank backwards, “save me from this!”

my lord sprang up and supported her frail body. she choked, struggled, and her eyes rolled in her head, her forehead grew damp and her face distorted.

there was a tap on the door of the outer room. the doctor, my lady’s black page, a maidservant and the hairdresser entered, filling the chamber with the agitation of low talk. honoria followed the physician to my lady’s side.

“what can you do for her?” demanded my lord impatiently, and the maid’s sharp face was keen as she waited for the verdict.

there was hesitation, talk, delay. half the household gathered in the outer room; the countess lay breathing heavily in a half-swoon. it was decided to bleed her.

“make haste!” cried the earl.

my lady opened her heavy eyes.

“leave me alone,” she whispered. “it is over.”

the doctor took her arm and rolled back the loose blue sleeve. honoria, watchful, quiet, held the basin and the linen.

“she is dying!” cried my lord hoarsely. for the first time he used her name. “lavinia!”

she gave a great heaving breath, coughed, and sank sideways off the chair, her lips parted and her eyes turned up. the earl caught her with an exclamation of horror. the countess struggled a moment for breath, gave a sound like a laugh, and fell against my lord’s breast.

“she is dead!” said the earl.

confusion and bewilderment fell on my lady’s chambers; only honoria pryse was cool and unmoved. she gave one look at the face of the countess as they carried her to the bed, then slipped away, picked up my lady’s red cloak of last night, in the pocket of which still remained the casket of jewels she had provided for her flight, and quietly left the apartment.

“there is no hope,” said the old doctor in a frightened voice. “she is dead or dying.”

“lavinia!” cried the earl again. he bent over the bed on which they had laid her slight figure, and his tumbled hair touched her hollow cheek. the countess did not speak.

in the outer chamber was sudden commotion.

“’tis my lady’s father, nor will he be stopped.”

through the gaping crowds of servants a man’s figure thrust forward. the earl moved to the door of the inner chamber. mr. hilton, motioning aside those who sought to speak to or impede him, caught sight of my lord.

“where is lavinia?” he cried at a pitch of passion that was regardless of all about him. “i will speak to her, and to you, lord lyndwood.”

“you cannot see your daughter, sir,” said the earl.

“is the idle jade still abed? no matter, i must speak to her.” he forced past the earl into the bedchamber.

“stand back!” cried my lord, and caught his arm. “can you not see?”

mr. hilton turned on him fiercely.

“i am ruined, you rake-helly fop! do you hear me? ruined!”

“we are not alone!” exclaimed my lord, glancing with horrified eyes on the older man.

“where is lavinia?” shrieked mr. hilton. “lavinia, you have ruined me! i am a beggar! do you hear? god curse you, my lady!”

a shudder ran through the room. the earl stepped to where the countess lay, and raised the heavy curtain so that the light fell over the bed.

“my lady does not care,” he said wildly, and pointed to her face.