The Countess Lavinia sat by the heavily curtained window, her hands idle in her lap; she wore a loose, slightly soiled white mob; her hair in front was twisted into paper curlers and hung straightly down her back behind, her bare feet were thrust into low blue slippers, and a fat little dog lay asleep on the edge of her striped petticoat.
It was nearly midday, and the glaring sunshine without beat on the yellow blind and cast a close dun light into the large dark chamber, which was handsomely furnished and luxuriously untidy; on the inlaid dressing-table beside the Countess a cup of cold chocolate and a plate of Naples cakes stood among curling-irons, pots of rouge, and bottles of Hungary water; a bunch of dead flowers lay on the floor and a broken fan; over the back of a painted chair hung silk and velvet garments, and a black mask dangled from them by its fall of lace.
The Countess yawned; her youthfulness had vanished before the life of a lady of fashion, she looked ten years older than her age, sallow without her powder and undistinguished without her splendid attire; her eyes were shadowed and wretched, her mouth dragged; she might be a beauty by candle-light, she was no longer a beauty in her own chamber.
She caught up a worn book in a paper cover and wearily fluttered the pages, but the stale romance could not hold her; she looked up eagerly when the door opened, and even faintly smiled as her maid entered.
Honoria Pryse crossed the room in her quick, delicate way; her shrewd, clear-cut face was slightly flushed.
“You have been a long time,” said her mistress. “What have you been doing?”
Honoria put her hand to the muslin fichu crossed over her bosom.
“I have something to tell you, my lady.”
The Countess sat up, jerking the dog off her dress.
“What?” she pitched the book across the room; it hit the leg of a chair, and fell on the floor, an untidy mass of twisted pages; the spaniel whined peevishly.
“Last night, when you were out, my lady, I went downstairs to hear what they were talking of.”
“My lord, you mean?” asked the Countess sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Have a little patience, my lady. Sir Thomas was here and Mr. Steyning; they came on from the Palace about twelve o’clock; they talked of politics in my lord’s study; he seemed to be suggesting a position for Sir Francis Boyle, but I couldn’t hear much when they shut the door; but afterwards when the gentlemen left my lord stayed on below, and I came down again to see what he was about. I went into the library, which was in darkness, and from the open folding doors saw my lord writing; there was a letter lying by his elbow, on a lady’s paper, in a lady’s hand.”
The Countess made a little impatient movement.
“Be quick,” she said.
Honoria was in no way put out.
“I thought of Miss Boyle; my lord’s manner had been of a restrained desperation, and his speaking of Sir Francis——”
“Ye have been thinking of Selina Boyle for a year past,” interrupted her mistress, “and it has come to nought.”
“It has come to a great deal,” replied Honoria Pryse. “I saw my lord looking at this letter as if he consulted it in what he wrote—a reply, then he folded it and placed it in the top drawer of the cabinet and turned suddenly towards the library—he passed me, so close, but I slipped behind the door, then into the study, opened the drawer and got the letter.”
“Got the letter!” cried the Countess.
“I left by the other door into the passage—my lord had gone for his keys. I peeped through the crack and saw him lock the drawer, then he left the house. Fenton says he returned about four this morning.”
The Countess held out her hand.
“Give me the letter—who is it from?—why did you not tell me before of this?”
“You were home so late, my lady, and slept so late,” she took a package from the fichu of her gown; “here is the letter, and it is from Selina Boyle.”
The Countess snatched it and stared eagerly at the fair Italian hand.
“Read it,” said Honoria Pryse; “it was worth the pains.”
Her mistress glanced down the epistle rapidly, then read it aloud as if she feared to lose even the sound of those words written in a sad sweet agony by a very different lady in a very different chamber.
“Golden Square,
June 25, 1749.
“MY LORD,—I have your letter—you mind me that you have Only written to me once before, and that then I did Not Answer. I would I might refrain now from a Reply. In a Manner you have Broken the Bond of the sweet Reserve there was between us and unlocked a Heart of which you Only have the key. I am more Unhappy than this Time a year Ago . . . the thought of your Discomfort and Passion Stirs in me a tumultuous discontent that I cannot easily overcome and of which it would be Weak to Write. As for what You ask of Me—be Assured that I shall never Marry—my Cousin Francis overvalues my poor Affections and seeks continuously to Persuade me—my Father also desires to see me Settled—but Nothing will Alter my Resolution. I would Rather have rested in Bristol, but in this matter had to follow my Father’s wish.
“Let me know that You are content with me—but no more—I Fear it is Folly to exchange Regrets and Dangerous to dwell on a Forbidden Fondness, therefore be not Surprised if you Hear no more from
“Selina Boyle.
“POSTSCRIPTUM.—I saw the Countess at a Masquerade Last Week and Thought her a Lady a Noble might find himself Honoured to Own.
“S. B.”
When the Countess finished the letter there was a silence; the maid watched her mistress quietly and made no further sign of interest nor any comment.
The Countess frowned, pushed the spaniel away from her with the toe of her shoe and put down the letter on her dressing-table.
“What is this to me?” she said sullenly. “Do I care to know that they are in love with each other? As well Miss Boyle as any other woman.”
“Well, my lady, I thought you wished to show my lord you were no fool; how has he treated you?”
“Some day I am going to be avenged on them, Honoria,” she said breathlessly.
“Why not now, my lady? here are the materials.”
Lady Lyndwood waved her slight hand impatiently.
“I cannot deal with that woman—he never sees her—it is all in the clouds.”
“You can bring it to earth,” said Honoria Pryse.
“What of her father—what of Sir Francis. Just now there is nothing in it, you can make everything of it.”
“Could I rouse my lord in that way?” demanded the Countess with a sudden gleam in her tired eyes.
“In what better,” Honoria answered; “what does this letter mean?” she lightly touched it. “He must have written to her saying he could not bear to see her married, and she says, ‘for your sake I remain unwed,’ what more?”
The Countess Lavinia rose impatiently.
“My life is Hell, Honoria, and some way I must alter it.” She paced up and down, the loose gown flowing about her, an expression if utter wretchedness on her sallow face. “I saw Marius Lyndwood yesterday, the same as always—why was I never young like that? The regret of it, Honoria—the early spring last year in Paris; my God, why have I lost it all?” She spoke in a stifled voice and walked to and fro as if driven into movement by inward pain. “I would rather die tomorrow in the ruin of his house, than live like this; I cannot do it, Honoria.”
“Ye have your wild moods, my lady,” answered the maid calmly, “but life is well worth living and you have............