“You ask me about Rose—what can I say? Alas, that my talents should not be equal to your curiosity! My letters at best are feeble productions, and when I have a deliberate request to answer I swear my pen refuses its duty. ‘Tell me about Rose,’ you say. ‘Our one meeting, two years ago, remains in my mind.’ And you would know more of the most charming person you ever met—so I finish the sentence for you!

“And rightly, I am sure. But, again, what can I say? I know too much, and not enough.

“I have chosen a wet day to write to you and the afternoon hours when my duties are done, so that nothing interferes between us but my faltering pen. Aunt Agatha sits in the next room making knots. You see how I avoid the subject! And now how I valiantly strive faithfully to answer you.

“You say you have heard ‘whispers and more than whispers in London.’ You imply about Rose, and I cannot pretend not to understand.

“I, too, have been made aware (in what extraordinary fashion, more subtle than words, is scandal communicated!) of various rumours. Remember that I have not seen Rose since I was last in town, six months ago, and then only amid the distractions of a gay season. Laughter passed between us, little else. You will recall the charming laughter of Rose. My prayer is that its gaiety may never be quenched, as—ah!—I fear it may be. I must repeat—(here give me credit for a pause of earnest thought)—that I know nothing.

“If youth, beauty, race, talents, a fine name, the most winning manners, the sweetest temper, the lightest spirits are to be ruined by the common lures of the world, if ordinary vices are to tarnish a character so bright——

“But—no, I will not think it, nor must you. Remember Rose as all nobility, virtue, and discretion, the sweetest gentleman in England.

“Marius comes home to-night. His letters read full of a sparkling pleasure in the incidents of the tour. I fear he has not spared money; I dread the moment when he must be made aware how perilously near the limit of our fortunes we all live. Hideous subject! Even to you I shrink from putting the word on paper, but I anticipate that this lack of money will mean trouble for both Rose and Marius. The Lyndwoods were ever thriftless. I remember my sweet mother losing ￡300 at faro; the silk dress she wore, unpaid for, and my father having to sell the silver plate to pay her page and her carriage. I recall other scenes, but all taken with a smile on my mother’s part—like Rose!

“Aunt Agatha says (as you must have heard her) that my mother’s death alone saved my father from ruin, which seems to me a dreadful thing. Reflecting on it, I think of these two cousins of mine. Imagine Rose or Marius without money—impossible, is it not? Yet I know of mortgages, of encumbered estates.

“Still, I must not play the pedant; I am not the monitor of the Lyndwoods nor any wiser than they. And Marius comes home to-night. We had hoped Rose would be here to meet him; but, no. He comes tomorrow, full of eagerness, his note reads, to see us all again. Yet I fear they will both find Lyndwood dull, and it will be but a while before their poor cousin is waving them farewell again.

“I must tell you (perceive that this epistle alters with the current of my thoughts) that Marius visited Genoa and saw the Lyndwood property, which is of but little value, he writes, since the whole town has fallen into neglect and decay.

“I notice that Aunt Agatha is rising, and I must follow her to see that Marius’s chamber is ready and the table set with flowers. So au revoir, my friend, and remember I await your letters with impatience.—Ever your faithful

“Susannah Chressham.

“Lyndwood Holt,

Lyndwood in the County of Kent,

June 17, 1748.”

The clear and gentle evening sunlight fell through the long open windows on the bright hair and face of the writer as she rose, slowly folding her letter. Mellow shadows rested in the spacious beautiful chamber; smooth dark walls, painted ceiling and polished floor, rich sombre paintings of fruit made a glowing background for the rounded figure of Miss Chressham as she stood looking thoughtfully at the exquisite vista of parkland that spread beyond the stone terrace on to which the windows gave.

Where the distant golden green elms quivered in the steady breeze a few faint white clouds rested in the pale blue sky; the glade formed by the nearer trees was crossed with bars of sunshine where slow sheep moved.

Along the terrace grew late spring flowers—tulips, striped, purple, and red; hyacinths, deep blue, and soft clusters of fragrant stocks. A swallow flew by, a great sound of birds came from the trees about the house. Miss Chressham turned from the window to open folding doors that revealed an inner room.

“Aunt Agatha,” she said.

A lady emerged from the gloom of the other chamber. She held a number of knotted skeins of coloured silk.

“I thought I heard you moving,” smiled Miss Chressham, “so I finished my letter and am now at your service.” Her smile deepened prettily. “How charming it will be to see Marius again,” she added.

Lady Lyndwood smoothed her silks out with delicate fingers.

“I wish Rose could have been here,” she answered.

Miss Chressham was ready.

“Marius has been so uncertain as to the date of his arrival, and Rose wrote he was under an engagement for to-night that he could not contrive to avoid. He is coming tomorrow.”

The elder lady replied with a certain languid impatience attractively in keeping with her slender dignified grace.

“Ah, my dear, I hope he will come tomorrow; not only because of Marius—for other reasons! And now you had better call for candles.”

Miss Chressham pulled the bell.

“For other reasons?” she repeated.

Lady Lyndwood’s answer came wearily through the twilight.

“The estate, you know,” she complained. “I vow it worries me. Since Mr. Langham left us we have had no steward. I wrote to Rose he must come and see after it; he is aware from Mr. Langham when he gave up his accounts that the value of the land is decreasing, or whatever the term may be.”

“And what does Rose say?”

“Rose laughed, of course, and Mr. Langham——”

“Oh—he,” cried the girl impatiently, “I know that he sold Brenton Farm at half its value, and the crops, too, always!”

“Perhaps so,” Lady Lyndwood laughed vaguely, “but one must have someone. Rose should come himself and put a person he can trust into the place, for really I cannot be worried.”

“We understand so little about it,” said Miss Chressham sadly, “and Rose tells us nothing.”

“My dear!” the Countess protested. “Rose has managed his own affairs since he was eighteen. His fortune is his own concern, and it would be mightily ill-bred of him to trouble the ladies of his family with the buying and selling of horses and dogs.”

The servant entered with a long taper and began to light the candles. Miss Chressham answered with restraint.

“You have no head for business, Aunt Agatha.”

The Countess of Lyndwood was standing by the mantelshelf. As the sconces either side were lit her delicate shoulders and pale lovely face were reflected in the dark depths of the mirror.

“No,” she admitted; “after all, one can manage without it. I could never see it as a reproach, Susannah,” she added.

Miss Chressham looked at her.

“Not if one is as pretty as you are,” she answered, and smiled half sadly.

“Oh, fie, my dear! You must not flatter an old woman.”

The Countess sank easily into a brocaded chair and her pearl-coloured satin dress gleamed in the candle-light. The lace over her faint blonde hair and over her shoulder seemed pearl-coloured too. She folded her silks away into a blue and silver bead-bag and when the servant had left the room she spoke again.

“You are so sensible, Susannah,” she remarked in a tone of gentle helplessness; “such a comfort to me, my dear.” She sighed, and rested her cheek on her long white fingers. “Rose is heedless, and I really know so little of what he does in London. Of course, I hear things”—she paused, and added placidly—“which, of course, are also no business of mine. But I do wish”—she gave Susannah an appealing look—“that he would come down and look after the place, and I wish he would marry.”

“I dare swear he will do both,” answered Miss Chressham cheerfully; “nay, it would be vastly strange if he did not.”

The room was very pleasantly full of candle-light; it sparkled in the folds of Miss Chressham’s red silk gown as she moved close to the Countess’s chair; through the still open window terrace, trees and sky showed luminous and purple.

“I have heard the names of several ladies,” remarked the Countess, “mentioned by Rose and other people, but not one he could or would marry.”

“Why, when he meets her he will not speak of it,” smiled Susannah.

Lady Lyndwood sighed.

“Well, I wish he would come. Marius will want to see him about his fortune.”

“Is it in Rose’s hands?” asked Miss Chressham, a faint look of surprise on her fair face.

“Ah—yes,” the Countess spoke vaguely, “all the money went to Rose; but Marius has something when he comes of age, which was last October. I am sorry he should have been abroad, and now, I suppose, he will want to leave us again.”

“I suppose so,” assented Susannah absently.

“Nothing else is to be expected,” returned Lady Lyndwood. “Rose cannot ask Marius to look after the estate, and really it is very dull here. I think we must all go to town this season.”

Susannah was silent.

The Countess continued her gentle disconnected talk.

“Two years ago—how different Marius will be! I hope he will get on with Rose. And—la, my dear, ’tis near seven of the clock!” She rose, her grey eyes agitated and a flush in her cheeks. “Seven he is to be here!”

“Let us walk to the front and watch for him,” said Miss Chressham.

The elder lady took her arm, and they went into the quiet hall, looked into the dining-room where early moss roses showed between the glass and silver on the table and the candles in their sconces sent flickerings on the portraits of fair gay Lyndwoods, past to the open door, and so on to the wide, shallow steps.

It was a most beautiful evening, a new moon floated in gauzy vapour above the soft dark lines of the trees; mysterious and beckoning the white road gleamed away into the twilight; the stone vases at the bottom of the steps were dimly visible; a faint sweetness rose from the early pinks they carried.

Jasmine and roses covered the front of Lyndwood Holt, and their tendrils, lightly stirring now and then, touched the dresses of the two ladies waiting in the dusk.

The village clock sounded faintly, then from the stable came the chimes of seven.

“He will be very tired,” said the Countess.

Miss Chressham laughed.

“He will only have ridden from Maidstone, dear.”

“Of course,” answered Lady Lyndwood’s sweet vague voice. “I always think of him as coming from Paris—as if he had come straight from there”—she laughed aimlessly. “I wish Rose had been here,” she added. “I swear I feel quite nervous.”

“Rose comes tomorrow,” repeated the younger lady.

A little pause, then the Countess spoke again.

“The place looks very well, does it not? though perhaps after the gaieties of the Continent——”

“Here he is,” interrupted Miss Chressham.

Down the dusky glimmer of road came the sound of a hurrying horse.

The Countess advanced impulsively down the steps. A rider galloped up through the twilight—a slender young man in a travelling cloak was kissing Lady Lyndwood, laughing and breathless, before Miss Chressham had freed her skirt from a long rose bough.

“Susannah!” He held out his hand as she joined them. “May I still kiss her?” he asked his mother.

“Yes, Marius,” smiled Miss Chressham; “to-night, at least.”

He saluted her cheek and her hands. The three came towards the house together.

“And you are well and safe? And your portmantles? And where is Mr. Hardinge? And—oh, Marius—I fear it will seem so dull!” cried the Countess in a breath.

Marius Lyndwood laughed an answer.

“Indeed, I am well, and the man is following with the trunks. I left Mr. Hardinge at Dover. And, now my turn. Where is Rose?”

“He is coming tomorrow,” answered both the ladies, as they passed into the hall.

“Why, he wrote to me he would be here to-night,” said Marius Lyndwood.

“He could not,” replied Miss Chressham hastily. “His engagements.”

The young man flung off his cloak and hat with a pleasant laugh.

“Rose is the fashion—a town rake. His brother must not hope to see him. Well, I cannot care to-night——”

He turned into the dining-room, looking about him. The ladies followed, and there, in the strong fair light of the candles, the three cast eager eyes on each other.

After the gay warmth and joy of their meeting this pause came almost like embarrassment, as if they found themselves, after all, strangers.

His mother was quick to see the change in the new arrival. At first she did not think this Marius as handsome as the boy who had left her two years ago. The next second she told herself that his powdered hair, his elegant clothes, his graceful bearing, had vastly improved him, and that he was very like his father.

He came round the table, took her hand and kissed it.

“How beautiful you are, mother,” he said.

The Countess coloured. That, too, was like his father. Across this scene of the handsome room, with its pleasant appointments, with the figures of young man and woman, rose the picture of a tablet in the parish church. She felt suddenly very lonely.

“Susannah will show you your room,” she said faintly, “and then we will have dinner.”

“The same room?” smiled Marius.

“Oh, yes!” nodded Susannah.

“Then I can find it. I have not been away a hundred years, my lady, and I hear them with the portmantles. You must not move for me.”

Laughing, he left the room. They heard his greetings to the servants in the hall, and the agreeable bustle of arrival filled the quiet house.

The Countess sat down at the head of the table; one of her fair hands lay among the glasses on the shining white cloth. The other drooped in her lap; she looked up at Susannah, and her eyes were wistful.

“Do you think he has changed?” she asked.

“Into a man—yes.”

Lady Lyndwood sighed.

“He has the air—he was never as handsome as Rose.”

Miss Chressham laughed shortly.

“He is handsome enough.” She moved a silver bowl of roses further on to the table. “Rose, of course, is—” She suddenly broke off, and her manner had an air of distance. “You must be very proud of them, Aunt Agatha.”

The Countess shook her delicate head.

“I feel a helpless old woman, my dear, and quite a stranger to both.”

The window stood open on the June evening, a most exquisite perfume lingered round the chamber, a perfume of roses, violets, and indefinable things of the night; an almost imperceptible breeze caused the candle flames to tremble against their shining silver sconces and filled the room with a sense of life and movement.

In each of the glasses on the table a gem of light quivered, and the little gold labels hung round the necks of the dark wine bottles gave forth long shuddering rays. The white china was painted in pink, the hue of the half-opened moss roses; in the centre of the table two harts in ivory, each wearing a collar of turquoise, bore between their antlers a crystal dish filled with pale lilies.

Miss Chressham slipped to her seat, her brown hair and eyes, her rich complexion and bright dress made her catch the light in rivalry even of the sparkling crystal and silver. As she moved something fell from her dress. “My letter to Selina!” she laughed, picking it up, “and I have never addressed it—that was Marius.”

“Selina Boyle?” questioned the Countess, listening for her son’s step.

“Yes, my dearest friend, you know, though I so seldom see her; she is in Bristol with her family now,” smiled Miss Chressham.

Lady Lyndwood turned her sweet face to the door.

“Of course, I remember her, my dear; she was here two seasons back—how long Marius is!”

“She sends her greeting to you,” said Susannah, “and asks after Rose; she has heard so much of him, even in Bristol. I meant to tell you before.”

She glanced at the Countess with a feeling almost of guilt, and two lines from Selina Boyle’s letter—“tell me, I pray you, of your cousin the Earl, who I hear has all the graces and all the vices—the saddest rake in London!”—seemed to weigh on her as if her own.

But Lady Lyndwood smiled absently.

“Marius must be so fatigued—he is rather pale, do you not think? And I wish he had brought Mr. Hardinge.”

Miss Chressham reminded her gently.

“Mr. Hardinge had to accompany Mr. Brereton’s son to London, and I expect Marius would not have cared to travel through England with a tutor.”

She was grateful her mention of Selina Boyle’s letter (that she had been nerving herself to for three days past) had passed without comment.

To attain this end she had chosen a moment of abstraction; Lady Lyndwood, weary with leisure, would most probably have desired to see the letter.

And Miss Chressham did not wish to show it to her.

Now Marius reentered, fresh and elegant in grey satin, his eyes wonderfully dark under his powdered hair, a knot of thick lace at his throat and a fine pink cameo clasping it—a more animated Marius, a more charming Marius than the slightly ungainly lad from college who had, on occasion, flouted his mother and teased his cousin two years ago.

“Mr. Hardinge has done wonders, I swear,” sighed the Countess, still striving with that sense of loss.

And Marius, too young to admit he had ever been different from what he was, blushed, and for a moment was awkward.

“’Tis only two years,” he said; then he caught his mother’s yearning gaze and became conscious of his modish side curls and all the little fopperies of his dress so delightfully new, and the fresh colour deepened in his smooth cheeks.

“’Twill seem very quiet here,” remarked Susannah, coming delicately to the rescue, as he took his place opposite her; “look at the moon”—she pointed towards the violet night.

“She appears so different in Venice,” cried Marius; “are you sure she is the same, Susannah?”

“Not at all,” she answered. “And did you like Venice?”

“All of it—so much, but this is sweet, the sweetest of all, my lady,” he bowed towards his mother.

“Ah, Marius,” said the Countess wistfully, “I do not look to keep you long.”

“Rose and I must talk of that,” he answered youthfully, and joyously important. “I shall take you and Susannah to London, my lady. I have been thinking you must be over quiet here.”

“We go to stay with Rose in the season,” answered Lady Lyndwood; then she became rather abruptly silent, since what she had been about to add could not be said before the servants.

Miss Chressham, sensitive to the reason of the pause, covered it. She spoke of little home affairs, and drew out Marius to relate again those incidents of his travels that had so entertained them in his letters.

He talked with animation, with gaiety, his listeners were interested and loving; but whenever he touched on the future, on his bright plans, on his young unconscious hopes for it, Susannah Chressham winced.

After dinner they went into the great withdrawing-room that looked on to the hidden fragrance of the terrace and the park, and Marius sat beside the Countess on the long Spanish leather couch; his laughing voice made the old room ring with youth, and his mother’s face flushed as she looked at him.

Miss Chressham moved to the writing-table and observed both of them; she felt curiously averse to speech to-night; in her heart she was sorry—sorry for all of them, and—afraid. Idly she picked a quill and stared at Marius.

His young English face, fair and bright, with rounded features, grey eyes, and rebellious brown hair under the powder, wore a proud air of distinction given by the beautiful mouth and arrogant cleft chin, common to the Lyndwoods; when he smiled, which was not seldom, he showed a charming dimple.

As Miss Chressham gazed at him, in a half-troubled manner, he looked round, and she glanced away and began addressing the letter she held in her hand.

Marius Lyndwood rose and crossed to her.

“How quiet you are, Susannah!”

She kept her face turned from him as she answered; lightly and hurriedly her quill glided over the smooth paper.

“I am finishing my letter to Selina—interrupted because of your return, Marius! You would not remember her, ’twas after you left that she was here.”

He scrutinised her clear writing.

“Miss Selina Boyle!” he said. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Susannah’s glittering brown hair was blown across her brow by the little breeze from the terrace as she turned to glance up at him.

“We were at school together—yes, a dear friend of mine; you do not know her?”

“I heard of her but now at Dover—Miss Selina Boyle——”

“Heard of her?”

Marius laughed.

“Mr. Hardinge met a friend who was lately from the Wells,” he explained, “and Rose was mentioned; this gentleman had seen him at the Wells; he had a rake-helly reputation, he declared. . . . ”

“Marius!” protested the Countess, rising delicately; “that is not fair to Rose.”

“But about Selina?” cried Miss Chressham, and her white brow was wrinkled.

“Oh, la, Susannah, I only heard that she was at the Wells, and what a name she had for a belle, and how Rose was paying her a deal of attention—you must know that!”

Miss Chressham was completely off her guard.

“No!” she cried; “and I cannot understand Selina—she writes from Bristol, and Rose is in London.”

“Why, this was a month or so ago, maybe,” answered Marius.

“Still, it is rather curious,” remarked the Countess. “Rose never spoke of her—and their names coupled! my dear, it would be an impossible match.”

Susannah Chressham put her letter into her pocket.

“After all, they met here, Aunt Agatha.” She spoke slowly, looking the while at the moonlit park, “And why should Rose mention it? and as for the gossip, people will always gossip about anyone like Rose.”

Lady Lyndwood fluttered open a delicate ivory fan.

“Last time it was Mrs. Fanshawe—and one always hears it so indirectly,” she complained.

Marius glanced from her to his cousin.

“It seems I have thrown the apple of discord, my lady; I was foolish to repeat it, but I thought you would know!”

Susannah laughed, clearly and suddenly.

“How vastly foolish that we are all fallen grave over this! Now I am going down to the lodge to leave my letters for the night coach, it will be passing soon. Do you remember how we used to wait for it? Nay, you must not come with me; I shall be only a moment, a few moments.”

She stepped out on to the terrace, her red gown showed a moment against the dark, then disappeared.

Marius Lyndwood was following her, when the Countess called him.

“Come and talk to me, Marius; Susannah is quite well alone.”

He was beside her instantly; a slender eager figure he looked leaning against the wide mantelshelf with the golden candle-light over him.

Lady Lyndwood kept silent, but her eyes were busy with him; the lace had fallen from her blonde curls and lay shimmering about her shoulders, she moved her fan to and fro as if she did not know she had it there.

“Dear heart,” she said softly, “you are wearing a miniature round your neck; may I see it?”

Marius became slowly pale and did not answer, but he loosened from his stock the black ribbon his mother had noticed, and held out the gold case.

The Countess opened it, gazed at the timid placid face of a girl it contained, and sighed and smiled.

“Where did you meet her, Marius?” she asked.

He answered, looking away.

“In Vienna—in Paris;” then he added, “she is coming to London this autumn, and then I may see her again.”

Lady Lyndwood returned the locket.

“Is she very sweet?”

“Yes,” said Marius Lyndwood stiffly; “I do not know her people—we met by chance—but I found her—sweet.”

The Countess fell into silence again; she thought of Rose, who had never mentioned to her the name of any woman in this manner, and she looked at the ardent, innocent face of her younger son.

She spoke at last, under her breath.

“Thank you, Marius, and I hope you will present her to me—in the autumn. Now will you not show me what you brought me from Venice?”

Marius kissed her hand; he would have liked to have kissed her feet.