rose lyndwood paused a moment with his hand on the gate, and looked smilingly up at the sky, which was covered with dappled clouds, tinged with the gold pink of sunset.

the scent from the box hedges was freshly pungent in the clear air, and the roses climbing over the front of the old red brick house had their perfume too, that came in breaths faintly as the breeze stirred.

this was the home of selina boyle—where she had waited for him, susannah said. my lord was not displeased with the thought; he persuaded himself that the affair had been sweetly romantic from the first. he almost persuaded himself that he had really cared for miss boyle. certainly that night at the theatre——

he laughed a little; it could not but amuse him that he found himself there at all. his cousin’s words had roused some emotion, exactly what he could not tell, but one strong enough to bring him here.

it might have been vanity. he himself thought it curiosity. he had not met her since that night at the masque, when sir francis had come between; he had not even thought about her much, yet she had been waiting until he chose to remember.

certainly the reflection was pleasing. he had not the vaguest idea of what he should do or say. it was utterly against his nature to form plans on any subject, but the contemplation of her faithfulness softened him into a loverlike mood.

he entered the beautiful garden, and wondered was she at home. he had left london on an impulse, and had not announced to her his coming. to meet her unexpectedly was more in keeping with the idyll; and that it was, and always had been, a very perfect idyll my lord was now convinced.

as he neared the house, walking slowly between the box borders and the beds of pinks and roses, he saw her coming down an alley overarched by a trellis covered in sweet-brier. she wore a white dress and a wide straw hat that shaded half her face. on her arm was a flat basket filled with sprays of green.

the earl took off his hat and waited. his elegant, rich appearance seemed out of place in the simple garden, just as the heavy perfume of his clothes mingled curiously with the odours of the flowers.

she came towards him, the lovely moving shadows of thorns and leaves cast over her muslin gown, and as she stepped out into the pure faint sunlight she saw him.

“ah, you!” she cried, without restraint or confusion. “you!”

she held out her hands, and her face expressed nothing but radiant joy.

my lord was moved and thrilled. he kissed the hands that trembled at his touch, and smiled into her eager eyes.

“were you expecting me—selina?”

“to-day?” she was quivering, blushing. the same sweet face, the same low voice, unchanged. “ah, how could i tell it would be today?”

“i never wrote,” he said, probing her.

“i did not expect it. as if there was any need of letters, my lord!”

he swung his cane by the gilt tassels, wondering how he should feel his way to her mood.

“my father is in the house,” she said, “but you have come to see me.”

“naturally—to see you!” he gave his half excited, wholly charming laugh.

“we will remain out here. come, i will take you to a place i love.”

there was no embarrassment nor agitation in her manner; she was calm, unaffected in her welcome. evidently she had been very sure of his coming.

my lord thought of miss chressham as he followed her friend down the rose-covered alley.

“i am glad that you did not write.” selina boyle spoke suddenly. he saw her eyes, dark and soft, in the trembling shadow of her hat as they turned to him.

she was grave now, and pale, but her expression was that of pure happiness.

“i should not have known what to say,” answered my lord, also with some gravity, and truth.

“i understand it all, without any word from you,” she smiled. “of course, you knew that i should——”

they came out on to a square of grass, in the centre of which stood a stone fountain clasped by heavy crimson roses. beyond was a grove of beech-trees; through the boughs the sunset light fell in a glory; facing the fountain was a garden wall, overgrown with moss and tufts of grass; beneath this a row of straw beehives; the other side was the rose garden, not yet in full bloom, but a revelry of green.

there was no water in the fountain. in the basin grew white, sweet-smelling pinks, and on the edge of it miss boyle seated herself and clasped her hands in her lap.

“do you not find it sweet here?” she asked. “you have never seen my home before.”

she might have added with truth that he had never known her before. there was something in her rapt face that he was afraid of. he felt an alien in the garden, a stranger by her side; yet his fickle taste found this sweet after the noisy life of town, and miss boyle, seated before her beehives, even more winning than miss boyle, the beauty of the wells.

for a while they were both silent, looking at the clear space of sky above the beech-trees.

she was the first to speak.

“there is so much to say, and yet so little.”

the earl looked at her; her white dress touched the white flowers growing in the stone basin; her auburn hair hung lightly on to her slender neck, and her eyes rested on him intently.

“i should have come before,” he said.

“why?” she smiled, and he wondered why it was a sad smile. “now we are both ready. at first it was bitter, but now——”

so it seemed she had never questioned he was bound to her, never questioned, either, his love. there was no mistaking the sincerity of her look, her voice. miss chressham was amazingly right.

the church-bells came up from the town of bristol. it was sunday, though till now my lord had forgotten it. he took a step or two across the grass, and the sun, growing stronger at the last, gleamed on his grey satin coat, and glittered in the brilliants at his throat.

“it was difficult for me,” he said. “at first——”

“what of your brother?” she asked. “susannah tells me that he has gone into business in holland.”

“he does well there.” my lord’s voice was disinterested.

“that was one of the things i wished to say to you. you do not believe the—the story they whispered of the duel?”

“marius is better abroad,” said the earl evasively.

“but you do not believe it?” pleaded miss boyle. “no, you could not!”

he smiled down at her.

“very well, as you wish. i will not believe it; but it was not to speak of marius that i came to bristol.”

inwardly he asked himself what had brought him—asked himself between tears and laughter. what he must do now he was here he could read in miss boyle’s eyes.

“you have heard of me from susannah?”

“a few words—sometimes,” she answered.

“i should have written.”

“no, it was sweet to wait.”

“then you are not displeased with me?”

she laughed softly.

“how could i be displeased with you?”

the earl blushed slowly.

“ye abash me, selina. ye should be saying this to a better man.”

again miss boyle laughed.

“oh, my dear, my dear!”

she put her hand quickly to her heart, to her lips, and rose, turning from him.

“i have something to show you—something still to say to you.”

“i think it is i who have to speak,” said my lord, and marvelled that she should be so sure of this perfect understanding between them, when in reality (and this was strange and piteous) she did not comprehend his motive in being here, nor in the least grasp his feelings towards her. he looked at her keenly, decided she was not foolish, but exalted, and wondered still more in a kind of shame.

miss boyle stood still. in a quite unconscious way she seemed to be listening to the sweet sound of the bells. her bearing held no confusion nor agitation; she did not appear to be waiting for either confession or caresses. my lord found himself at a loss; his thoughts flew to miss chressham. he smiled to himself and watched the pure profile of selina boyle.

presently she glanced round at him and gave a little sigh, as if she awoke reluctantly from a reverie.

“will you tell me how she died?”

the earl was startled beyond concealment.

“how she died? who?”

miss boyle answered softly.

“the countess.”

his face darkened.

“you must know. it was talked of enough.”

“she died suddenly. i heard no more.”

“let it go at that,” said my lord.

miss boyle observed him intently.

“i mean the manner of her death—did she speak of me?”

“of you? no.”

“and you—how did she leave you?”

“there was little enough passed!” replied my lord gloomily. “the countess fell ill and died before she could be even bled. why do we speak of it? it is not one of my most pleasant recollections.”

“forgive me,” said miss boyle tenderly; “only sometimes it has weighed on me that she might have died bitterly reviling us—and, also, i am sorry for her. it is so terrible a thing, my lord, to die suddenly.”

he gave her a sideways look. it was curious that she had not at once, like susannah chressham and most other people, guessed the meaning of my lady’s tragic end, yet there could be no doubt that she was sincere.

he was silent, and miss boyle spoke again, moving slowly over the long grass.

“do you put flowers sometimes on her tomb?”

the earl smiled. her words did not jar; he could be sentimental himself. the garden and her company were both fitted to make him fall in with her delicate moods.

she did not give him time to compose an answer.

“i have some roses here i want you to take back with you—for that—her tomb.”

she pointed out a tree on the edge of the rose-garden laden with heavy white blooms, then sank to one knee beside it, and, taking a pair of scissors from her basket severed the thick and thorny stems. as the roses fell one by one upon the grass, my lord felt the tears sting his eyes. he bent over her impulsively.

“selina,” he said, in an unsteady voice, “selina, will you not lay flowers there yourself?”

she raised her face and looked at him.

“i am not likely to be in london,” she answered.

he recollected that london, after the crash their marriage must involve, would not indeed be their home.

“i’ faith we can go there—” he began, but her expression gave him pause.

“why do you think i have come, selina?” he asked, in an altered voice.

she rose, two flowers in her hand; her eyes had a startled look.

“to bid me good-bye,” she answered calmly.

my lord was too bewildered and startled to answer. he stared curiously at her sweet gravity.

“what other reason could have brought you?” she continued, with a faint colour in her face.

“can you conceive no other?” he replied. “i came to claim you, selina—at last.” he smiled in an agitated manner.

the blush deepened in her cheeks.

“you did not think, my lord, that i could ever be your wife?”

“i had that presumption.” he was goaded by this unexpected attitude of hers to speak bitterly, to commit himself beyond the truth. “there is no obstacle now, selina.”

“i never thought of this,” said miss boyle, under her breath. “i do not know if you are serious; but, surely it is needless for me to tell you, my lord, that it is impossible. everything is impossible between you and me—save farewell.”

“why do you say so?” he demanded. “have you not been waiting for this moment?”

“to bring—farewell. yes, i believed you would come for that—to see me once more, to bid good-bye; but—ah, the idyll was broken so long ago.” she turned her head away sharply. “we shall care always, shall we not? i—i do not dare express to you what i feel.”

“we will not part, selina!” he cried.

she faced him courageously.

“nothing can move me, not even your sincerity. i am resolved; and you know in your heart that i am right.”

the words held him silent with a shame she took for grief.

“what does it matter,” she said, with a soft passion in her voice, “since we——”

“since we have loved one another,” finished my lord, lifting his grey eyes.

“yes,” breathed miss boyle.

a silence followed and the bells ceased; the sun had set, and all colour faded from the sky. miss boyle stooped and picked up the few roses still upon the grass.

“you understand?” she asked.

“i understand,” answered the earl.

“you must go.”

“i would not,” he said softly, “dare to stay.”

she smiled in an absorbed manner, and turned down the rose alley. as they walked together they spoke a little, in low voices, of common things, words with no meaning, but of sweet sound, and a great regret touched my lord’s fickle heart.

she came with him to the gate.

“do you still bid me go?”

“farewell!” she said.

he lingered, divided in himself, moved and sad. she put her hand to her bosom and drew from her fichu a white ribbon on which hung a little shell. she showed it to him and smiled.

“must i—shall i go?” he said, asking himself.

her hat had slipped from her golden head, and as she looked up at him the fine curls were displayed on her brow and shoulders.

she opened the gate. the earl stepped slowly out on to the road. she took the roses from her basket and gave them to him.

“farewell!” she repeated.

he bent and kissed the fingers among the rose-leaves.

“farewell!” he said, on a half-sigh, yet smiling.

she moved away from the gate, back among the boughs of fragrant box. for the first time suddenly she used his name.

“rose! rose!”

the earl stood, looking at her; then she turned towards the house, and he down the road, wondering at her, at himself, and staring at the great mass of white roses that he was carrying, he knew not why.