The Rake's Progress - Bowen Marjorie

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"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.

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      Susannah Chressham had walked steadily half-way to the lodge before she stopped and reminded herself that she had no object in going there, and that the letter she carried would never be sent.

      However, she could not at once return; if only to give colour to the feint that had got her from the house, she must remain a few moments in the garden.

      It was a warm evening, but she had nothing over her silk dress, and as she paused in the shade of the chestnut avenue she shivered.

      Through the broad leaves of the trees showed the night sky, pale with moonlight and the sparkle of the stars.

      Miss Chressham tore the letter addressed to Selina Boyle into fragments and suddenly hurried on, the scraps of paper crushed in her hand.

      She turned from the drive and mounted some shallow stone steps to a temple set on a hillock; a little Grecian temple shaded by the tops of the trees that lined the road and grown about with violets; behind the bank sloped away to a stream crossed by a moss-covered bridge.

      The moonlight was brilliant over it all, save where the chestnut leaves cast a moving shade on the white pillars.

      Susannah Chressham stepped on to the bridge and listened for a while to the endless ripple of the water falling over the stones below; then she again tore the letter across and across, and cast the fragments down into the stream.

      Lifting her eyes she could see the yellow lights in the windows of Lyndwood House, and for the second time she shivered.

      Slowly she retraced her way past the temple and reached the head of the steps.

      Beneath her the moonlight fell in bars across the road, fell between the chestnut trunks and glimmered on the hard white drive.

      Susannah Chressham stood motionless. A man's figure stepped out of the shadows into one of the patches of moonlight; he wore a long cloak flung over one shoulder and walked towards the house; the little clang of his sword against his spurs was distinct in the great stillness.

      Susannah uttered an exclamation; at that he stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up.

      "Rose," she said; "Rose—is that you?"

      "It is I," he answered; and at the tone of his voice she winced, as if, in a moment, all her unreasonable dreads faced her in tangible form. She did not speak.

      Her cousin came slowly up the steps to her.

      "It is late, why are you here, Susannah?"

      "And you—you return unexpectedly, Rose."

      He stood hat in hand, the moonlight on his shoulders and shining on the heavy hilt of his sword.

      "Marius is here?"

      "He came to-night—we thought you would follow to-morrow;" she spoke hurriedly half under her breath to get the better of the unsteadiness of her voice.

      Rose Lyndwood glanced at the lights of the house sparkling through the trees.

      "My lady is with Marius?"

      "Yes."

      "Then we will not disturb them yet, my dear—the meeting can well wait."

      His cousin let go of her red silk skirt, and it rustled about her on the steps.

      "Why do you speak in such fashion, Rose?" she cried.

      He laughed.

      "I do not bring the best of news—for Marius."

      "It is as if I had known you were going to say that," answered Miss Chressham, shivering; "come into the temple."

      He followed her under the Doric portico into the cool pillared interior; through the doorway the moonshine streamed, and the light perfume of violets seemed to emanate from the smooth polished columns.

      The Earl crossed to one of the square windows and stared across his park; his bearing showed a man weary, indifferent, and reckless.

      A

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