The Rake's Progress - Bowen Marjorie

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the posts that bordered the grass, and drew a letter from his pocket, the latter part of which he re-read in the waning afterglow:

      " … Marius is staying with Mr. Brereton now; I had his Confidences before he left. Had You heard You had pitied! He is very much in Love. He does not, it seems, know her Name, though she has his. He is awaiting her letter in an ardour Beautiful to behold.

      "I tell You this to put a gloss upon his Selfishness. He is frankly Pleased at your Marriage and the prospect it unfolds for him. He desires you will write to him to let him know your Commands about his attendance at the Ceremony.

      "My Lady has forgiven you; indeed, I think has forgotten that she Ever reproached you. She makes complaint of Miss Hilton's lack of Pedigree, but wishes her friendship. I think she is not Eager to go to London for the Wedding, which she desires to be very Private, so as not to make a show of a necessity; but this must be as you Wish.

      "From what you say of Miss Hilton I think she must be Good and Sweet. Convey our duty to her; we shall be glad when you bring her to Lyndwood.

      "We are very Quiet here now Marius has gone, and the white Roses that are Just coming to a bloom are become my best Companions.—Your dutiful cousin,

      "Susannah Chressham.

      "Postscriptum.—I have had no Letter for a long While from Miss Boyle. Is she still in Bristol? I heard you had met her at The Wells. I would be Obliged if you would Tell me if she be in London and at what address.—S. C."

      Rose Lyndwood folded up the letter, returned it to his pocket, and walked idly through the twilight streets to his mansion near Panton Square.

      His solitary and splendid dinner over, he answered his cousin's letter in this manner, writing with a steady hand but showing a face which reflected emotions not to be forever repressed:

      "My Cousin—Accept my dear thanks, and this brief answer, for your Epistle, which was pleasant to receive and to read.

      "The marriage is for the 3rd of July in St. James's Church. Very few will be present. I shall not desire my Lady's attendance.

      "Afterwards we go to Paris, and shall return to Lyndwood the beginning of August, when I shall desire Marius to be at home that I may Speak with him.

      "I have seen but Little of Miss Hilton; at present she is Indisposed and confined to her House.

      "She sings and plays with a Charming air, but I think she hath a Melancholy disposition.

      "Convey my Service to her Ladyship.—Your dutiful cousin,

      "Lyndwood.

      "Postscriptum.—I have not seen Miss Boyle since I was at the Wells. I believe she is still at Bristol.—L."

      As the Earl sealed this letter he smiled with a sad disdain—not at what he had said, but at what lay unexpressed behind the bare sentences, and for a while he sat silent with dreaming eyes.

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      The theatre was crowded and the air close and heavy; a continual murmur of voices rose from the pit, laughter, snatches of song, and whispers.

      Rose Lyndwood leant from his box, put up his glass and surveyed the house; behind him two young men yawned, and laughed, aimlessly, lounging against the side of the box.

      The Earl was silent; they could not involve him in their jests or comments. He remained with face averted idly gazing at the faces below; nearly all turned towards him, he was commonly more stared at than the play.

      "'Tis vastly warm here," complained one of his companions. "Why aren't they beginning?"

      Rose Lyndwood suddenly swung about and lifted dark eyes to the speaker.

      "Who is that opposite with Sandys?" he asked.

      "The charmer in green?"

      "Yes, do you know her?"

      George Cochrane answered.

      "'Tis Miss Lescelles; the dame in the huge toupee is her mother."

      "She and Sandys are to be married in July," added the other.

      "She is prodigious pretty," said my lord languidly, "and I never saw a countenance express more happiness."

      Lord Cochrane smiled.

      "She is quite enamoured of Sandys."

      "Sandys! Good Gad!" yawned the other.

      Rose Lyndwood gazed again at the lady opposite; rosy and smiling she was in her green gown with her swansdown cloak revealing the pearls on her white neck.

      "Sandys is to be envied," he said, "in that he can make her look so happy."

      George Cochrane, signalled by a group entering below, took his leave; his companion followed, and the Earl remained alone in the box.

      Through the murmuring noises of the audience settling to their places sounded the light joyous laugh of Miss Lescelles, and as Rose Lyndwood glanced in her direction his eyes saddened.

      At last the curtain stirred and parted; Miss Fenton stepped into the yellow artificial light and lisped the prologue.

      She was gorgeous in a scarlet farthingale and a gold silk turban looped with diamonds; she ogled the boxes with good effect, and was apt in the management of her fan; the Earl approved her with a smile, and the pit was generous in applause.

      She withdrew, reluctantly, from the public gaze, and the curtain was looped back before an Eastern scene.

      It had been very handsomely done. Barry was playing, and Quin; the perukes were from Paris, and the management had been lavish in the matter of Turkish mail and jewelled scimitars.

      When Statira appeared the house shouted welcome; she turned her eyes up at Rose Lyndwood as she curtsied.

      She held his gaze through the scene that followed, and the knowledge of it made her acting splendid—Roxana was eclipsed, vanquished.

      The Earl found the high emotions, the stormy expressions, the fierce gestures, the lights, the jewels suited to his mood; he was pleased as he had seldom been pleased at the play.

      Statira was beautiful to look upon; she wore her purple with a regal air, as she moved to and fro gold gleamed round her slender waist, her black curls floated beneath her green turban, red lilies, his gift, heaved on her stormy bosom, and her dark eyes flashed to the box where Rose Lyndwood sat alone.

      He was held by the passion she expressed, by her movements, her changing voice; the tempestuous play, the angry jealousy, the flash of arms, the glint of daggers, the sonorous eloquence of Quin, the languishing grace of Barry combined to captivate his senses; he did not move or once take his eyes from the scene till the curtain fell on the first act.

      Statira, panting and flushed beneath her paint, swept a great curtsey to the acclaiming house.

      My lord unfastened one of the white roses at his cravat and flung it at her feet. She carried it to her lips as she retired into the wings, and he kissed his hand.

      The audience relaxed after their silence. The beaux stood up in the pit to show off their clothes, some of the ladies readjusted their masks; the porters went round snuffing the candles. Rose Lyndwood leant back in his box smiling to himself a little.

      Then

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