the curtain fell on the last act of za?re.
“i do not like monsieur voltaire,” said susannah chressham. she and her companion, miss westbrook, moved on the outskirts of the crowd that filled the music-room in villiers street.
“shall we go?” asked miss westbrook, unfurling her fan.
“why, not yet. where is my lady?”
“i saw her but now with my mother.” they turned into the card-rooms that opened from the large hall.
“that tedious tragedy has given me a headache,” remarked miss chressham, seating herself on one of the gilt chairs. a number of violins were playing, and the air was pleasantly heavy with the scent of hot-house roses and syringa.
“la, look at that beauty there!” cried miss westbrook.
susannah glanced round; she coloured.
“do you not know her? ’tis miss trefusis.”
“ah, then a swinging fortune, too!” said helen westbrook.
susannah understood her tone, but her answer closed the subject.
“there is captain lestrange coming for you, my dear; you promised to be of his party at a game of faro. if you see my lady tell her that i am waiting here.”
miss westbrook laughed and moved away into the crowd. susannah rested her elbow on the table and put her hand over her eyes. the glitter of the chandeliers, the gleaming of the gilt and satin walls, the bright colours of the dresses hurt her eyes.
she sat so for a while, indifferent to the crowd that passed and repassed, aware of the music, but listening to the insistent clamour of her own agitated thoughts. when she at last looked up it was to see my lord, splendidly dressed in white and silver and conspicuously attended by those eager to be in the fashion, entering the room.
her vacant look was replaced by one of eagerness. she made a motion with her black fan. he saw it at once, left those who crowded round him and crossed over to her.
“so you are back—so soon,” she greeted him a little breathlessly.
“i made post haste—i travelled all night.” he was smiling, his manner as always of an indifferent gaiety; but to susannah’s keen observation his beautiful eyes looked shadowed and weary.
“you did not stay long in bristol?”
“a few moments only.”
“ah!” she rose. “let us walk about a little; you cannot say much here.”
“it is very crowded to-night,” he remarked, looking about him with distaste. “i hate the place.”
“then why have you come?” she challenged him.
“to see you. i was at my lord carlisle’s for dinner; afterwards, in the haymarket, i learnt you were here.”
“ah, forgive me, it is good of you, rose,” she answered gently; “indeed, i am very glad to see you. i want to speak to you—and on a second matter now.”
they turned into the almost empty hall, where the play had been given. the dark curtain over the stage and the scattered few lights gave the place a mournful air. from the distance came the thin melody of the violins.
“i must tell you,” said susannah, “though this is not the place. still, a few words are best, and we need never refer to it again.”
her powdered hair and bronze-coloured silk gown accentuated the pallor of her fair face. she looked tired, anxious, and her voice, for all her obvious effort at control, trembled on her words.
“i have heard from honoria pryse.”
the earl glanced at her sharply.
“why does she write to you?”
“she writes concerning marius”—miss chressham pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “having fled with my lady’s jewels, she kept silence at the time, nor does she now disclose her whereabouts; but she has had on her mind my lady’s—the countess lavinia’s—dying wish, and she writes to me. but i do not care to show you her letter, rose.”
“tell me what she says.”
“yes, since it is by her—the countess lavinia’s—desire that anyone speaks at all,” answered susannah. “i—i will strive to be brief and gentle.” she took breath a moment. “it seems she followed you that night to hyde park,” continued susannah hurriedly; “she was there at the duel. god forgive her! she had previously drawn your pistol, finding occasion that evening when you left it set out in the library. i have not the details, but the bare facts suffice. she wished your death. i think perhaps she cared for—i would say she did not wish that marius, your second, should bear the weight of her sin; so after she had made certain of her end she laid it on honoria to confess to you. but the girl fled, thinking only of herself. still, conscience has worked, and she sends to me this late avowal.”
the earl had kept silence, was silent now. susannah could read nothing from his pale profile.
“i have to tell you, because it was her wish, and out of justice to marius,” she said, “not to blame the dead.”
“i might have known,” replied my lord, and he half smiled. “i will write to marius.”
“i always believed in him,” breathed susannah, “so did my lady. do not let us speak of it any more. i must be leaving soon; but first”—she raised her eyes—“selina?”
the violins were playing a gavotte. my lord’s long fingers beat time to the measure on the hilt of his rapier.
“she hath refused me,” he answered. “is it farce or tragedy we play? i know not. she is a creature of gossamer, of sentiment. what has passed makes our marriage as impossible to her as sordid matters would have made it impossible to me.”
“however, she believes you care,” breathed susannah, divining suddenly selina’s view.
the earl bent his head.
“and hath taken farewell of me. her affection is not of the earth. better for her that she should never know the quality of mine.”
“she is happy?”
“i do think so,” said my lord.
susannah faced him suddenly.
“and you—what are you going to do?”
he laughed sadly.
“for once i can answer you. i shall marry miss trefusis.”
they stood facing each other under a silver sconce, the pale light of its candles over their faces. susannah leant against the panelled walls and lowered her eyes.
“for the money?” she said in a repressed voice.
“miss trefusis is one of the most charming ladies in london,” answered the earl; “but to you i can say it. yes.”
“for the second time!” susannah spoke in the same tone. “i wonder you can dare.”
“oh, my dear!”—there was sadness in my lord’s sweet weary voice—“you are a lady of sense, not so simple. how have i been living but on the prospects of a marriage such as this? with miss boyle i should have had to face god knows what—the fleet maybe, or a post with the prince at bois-le-duc. as it is——”
“say no more!” broke in susannah. “you will break her heart, that is all.”
“do you speak of selina boyle?”
“of whom else? miss trefusis is aware of what she does. what do i care for her? i regard selina——”
“she hath said farewell. she would say no other word.”
susannah broke out passionately.
“oh, cannot you understand? she cares for you beyond anything in the world; she thinks that so do you care for her, and if you marry—ah, but i can say no more!”
“there is no more to be said,” answered my lord. “these ideas are sweet, but over-romantical. i shall ask for the hand of miss trefusis tomorrow, as i am a very ordinary gentleman and cannot go to ruin for a whim.”
miss chressham pressed her brow wearily.
“my head aches, and we cannot converse on such things in the crowd, amid the light and music, neither can i recollect all i would say.”
“you despise me,” smiled the earl. he laughed lightly.
slowly they turned into the gay card-room, where the orchestra played to the gamesters and an italian singer’s voice rose above the murmur of talk.
my lord spoke again, with utter weariness in his voice.
“as you say, we cannot converse here. to-morrow i will wait on you and on my lady; perhaps i can a little justify myself.”
she would not look at him.
“ah, rose, what do you care about justifying yourself to me? as for my lady, i think she will be pleased.”
“i have confessed to you,” he answered. “i have told you i do what comes, being in no way heroic or noble.” he paused.
“you are going now,” she said. “i cannot bear to listen to you here.”
“yes, i will get away from these people. i came only to meet you; i feel fatigued.”
she saw miss westbrook approaching, and gave lyndwood her hand. “to-morrow then we meet, and you will write to marius?”
“in the morning—yes. i will bring you the letter”—he kissed her hand. “my duty to my lady.”
“good-night, rose.”
he smiled at her, half appealingly.
“good-night.” so, in this hasty manner, in the midst of a crowd, they parted.
she moved away with miss westbrook, already rehearsing in her mind what she should say to him tomorrow when her head did not ache, when they were alone. there was so much to say and they had only had the fewest words together. she must write to selina, too. what could she say there? should she get him to write? and miss trefusis—he was fixed on that match. ah, an ordinary gentleman, indeed! but her heart was crying out after him as she framed the sentences she would use tomorrow—tomorrow.
my lord left the music-room and the building, avoiding the crowds desirous of his company, and walked up the street towards the river where he had left his chair. reaching it, from the white satin seat he took a bunch of white roses faded and drooping. then he dismissed the men, bidding them go home.
since his arrival in town that morning he had been playing with the idea of fulfilling selina boyle’s strange request; he had meant to carry it out before the flowers should be utterly dead, and this that susannah had told him of his wife’s confession affected his wilful mood, moved him and made him whimsically desirous to lay selina’s roses on her tomb.
there was a cynical piquancy in the situation that pleased him. his relations with my lady had been so devoid of romance or sentiment, so devoid of anything save a final tragic horror, that this touch between mockery and bitterness appealed to my lord’s fantastical mind.
she had tried to be the instrument of his death; she had taken her own life in despair at the ill-success of her desperate act; she had lain for nine months in her grave, and no one had dropped a flower on her tomb nor given her one regret. and now he, having learnt the truth, and on the eve of his second marriage, came to offer her memory roses from the garden of selina boyle!
my lord smiled, and drew his mantle closer round him, for the may night was chill, though clear and fair; the stars were few and faint and the moon high overhead. my lord sang a little to himself. as he passed st. martin’s-inthe-fields the clock struck one. he glanced up at the steeple in surprise; he had not thought it so late. he quickened his pace. he must write to marius to-night. curious that honoria pryse should find a conscience, and how foolish of him not to guess the truth before! it seemed so obvious now that my lady—he glanced down at the roses in his hand, and laughed.
meeting no one in the dreary ill-lit streets, he reached st. ann’s, soho, where the countess was buried; and then, for the first time, remembered that the church was locked and that he had no means of entry. vexed at being thwarted, he crossed the churchyard and tried, despite his own reason, the heavy door. the cold iron ring of the handle rattled uselessly in his hand; some leaves fluttered from selina’s roses on to the steps.
my lord turned and looked about him. the moonlight spread softly over the tombstones, the dark houses beyond the railings and the plain lines of the church. a low wind swept through the thick grass and bore long wreaths of clouds over the sharp outline of the roofs. it was utterly silent; there seemed no one abroad. my lord pictured the dark lonely interior of the church and the draped urn in a niche in the nave. he had only looked at it once, but very clearly he could see the lettering, even the way it was placed, on the marble tablet below:
near this spot
lie the mortal remains
of
lavinia,
wife of the fourteenth earl of lyndwood,
who died july 16, 1750, aged 23 years.
it was an inscription sinister in its brevity; the scandal, hushed as it was, attending my lady’s death had allowed of no details, and my lord’s humour permitted no eulogy, but it seemed to him now that he might have added some word of charity, for the sight of the churchyard and the thought of the cold church made him shudder with a feeling that was like pity for the unloved dead.
the locked door in no way shook his determination to place selina’s flowers where he had meant they should lie, and to-night—it must be to-night. to-morrow there were other things to do. well he knew himself fickle, and that he could not foretell his own next mood; but now, this moment, he must enter the empty church and lay the dead white roses in the niche that held my lady’s urn.
he caught the mantle over his flashing dress and crossed the churchyard. he thought he remembered where the sacristan lived; he thought the man, knowing him, would give him the key or open the church, and he put his hand into his pocket to find his purse.
as he did so the sound of voices made him pause. sounds of laughter, loud talking, the rattle of sword-hilts on the cobbles came up the narrow street.
the earl frowned, hesitated, opened the churchyard gate and looked out. by the moonlight and the glimmer of the swinging overhead lamps he could see a party of gentlemen advancing towards him. with an exclamation of annoyance he closed the gate. not so quietly, however, that they, almost on him now, did not hear it, and stopped instantly arrested.
“is the churchyard open?” said one, and my lord knew the voice and figure—it was lord sandys.
“la! a footpad!” replied another.
but some of them had caught a glimpse of the earl’s white and silver under his cloak.
“by gad! a gallant, wooing a ghost!”
rose lyndwood opened the gate and stepped out into the street. he felt a great and unreasonable anger against these men, all of whom he knew, and some of whom were chosen companions of his.
“split me, it is lyndwood!”
he faced them impatiently.
“i am on business of mine own.”
both tone and situation were so unusual for lyndwood that a laugh ran round the group.
“hast fallen lovesick at last, my lord?”
“nay, he only is trying to cast a spell that he may retrieve his late ill-luck with the cards!”
“ah, enough of your fooleries, sandys!” the earl tried to turn away from them.
“by gad, there is something mysterious in this,” the other was still laughing, not guessing my lord’s mood. “what is the adventure?”
“at least i am in no humour for any other to-night,” was the swift answer. it added to the earl’s unreasonable anger that not one of them recollected or cared that my lady was buried in the church behind them. “stand aside, sirs,” he added abruptly, for they, good-humouredly, were closing round him.
at this they laughed again, and lord sandys, who had been in villiers street, caught sight of the flowers my lord held.
“have ye been gathering roses—and here?” he pointed to the ghostly churchyard.
“ah, let me be,” said my lord wearily.
his seriousness excited their malicious merriment. they did not guess at his inward anger, nor did he allow for their light-hearted folly. then, in a second, it happened.
“dead roses!” cried lord sandys, and tried to snatch them.
the earl turned without warning and struck him across the cheek with his glove.
instantly all were sobered. lord sandys gave a cry of rage, and drew his sword. my lord dropped his cloak the length of his arm, laid gloves and flowers on the churchyard step and unsheathed his rapier. the others moved back, ringing them round.
“why did you do that?” breathed lord sandys.
rose lyndwood did not answer; his face was flushed and reckless.
their swords crossed. the veiled moonlight was confusing, and both were angered to passion. the light rapiers clashed aimlessly for a second.
“come to a better spot,” cried one.
“let him take what he asked for!” exclaimed lord sandys, and as he spoke the earl fell backwards on the churchyard steps.
it was perhaps but five minutes since he had first met them, but one since he had drawn his sword. none of them could have told how it had happened. he had rushed wantonly into the quarrel. they were quieted and startled to see him lying there.
he made an effort to laugh into their faces.
“sandys is not to blame,” he gasped.
one of them stooped and held him up. there was talk of a doctor, of assistance.
he shook his head.
“i’m done for. get sandys away.”
he tried to drag himself to a sitting posture, coughed and groaned.
“is he dying?” asked lord sandys, horrified.
“yes.” rose lyndwood answered, fighting for his breath. “susannah—and there is marius. not much miss—the debts——”
“can no one get some water?” cried mr. harding, who supported him.
“not in this church,” whispered the earl, “but at lyndwood. do you hear, harding?”
he sank down on the white roses, the gloves, his mantle and his sword, his gorgeous clothes sweeping the dusty cobbles. he put his hand over his beautiful face as if he would hide its distortion.
“i always—believed,” he murmured, “in the immortality of the soul. i don’t need—the key.”
and so it was over. within a few feet of my lady lay my lord, dead, as suddenly, as recklessly, leaving behind him, as she had done, naught save mistakes and incompletion. it was over.
“let us take him home,” whispered lord sandys, and sheathed his sword.