It had rained all night heavily, but now, in the early morning, cleared into a bright sparkle and freshness, it was like to the morning on which my lady had died, Susannah thought as she opened her window on the clear pure sunlight.

She had never forgiven my lady, and the letter from Honoria Pryse had roused passive scorn into live anger; she disdained to allow herself to think of the Countess Lavinia, yet the image of Rose’s wife would not be driven from her mind.

She pictured my lady creeping downstairs to unload my lord’s pistol, following him through the wet streets, lurking among the trees in the Park, and in the early dawn, buying poison in some evil little shop off Drury Lane, and coming back in her wet muslins to her cheerless splendour to die.

Susannah shook herself and stared hard at the sunny sky; there were other things to think of—Selina for one.

My lord’s marriage would be announced today; she must write to Selina, in some way soften or break the sharp pain of the news.

It was still so early that the Countess Agatha would be abed for a good while yet, but Susannah dressed herself and went quietly downstairs into the beautiful drawing-room. She liked this chamber at this hour, when there lay a hush over the house and the sun shone hazily through the silk curtain; she stepped softly and seated herself at the tulip-wood desk.

Early roses stood in the delf vases, and their fragrant pungent odour filled the unstirred air; on the gold settee lay the programme of last night’s fête, and beside it a couple of tickets for a fête today; on a chair rested my lady’s mask and fan, left there carelessly.

Susannah sighed and drew from one of the secret drawers of her desk the letter from Honoria Pryse.

She had read it more often than she could have told, but she read it again and with intent eyes:

“MADAM,—I have a message for my Lord the Earl from my Lady the late Countess. You will understand why I never gave it before, and I cannot tell why I give it now, save that there seems no reason for withholding it, and it may ease you of some pain you have not deserved. My lord’s Brother was guiltless in the matter of the duel; it was the Countess who unloaded the pistol; she followed to the Park, being, I take it, half Crazed, and when she was disappointed of her design to compass my lord’s Death she took her own life. First she bid me tell the truth, and here you have it to use for any end you will.

“With it, Madam, accept my Advice. The Earl whom you favour has nothing in him; Marius Lyndwood is a better man, albeit a straight-laced fellow and not so pretty; let my Lord alone and take the brother.

“Madam, your servant,”

“Honoria Pryse.”

There was no address and no date on the letter, which had come through the threepenny post; Susannah folded it again and replaced it in the desk.

An extraordinary epistle and one that she could not dismiss from her mind; at first she had called its nature insolence, now it seemed to her to contain a strange kind of sincerity; she could not believe that the writer meant her harm.

And it was the truth. Marius was the better man; but she——

Miss Chressham checked herself with a smile. It was not her part to be thinking of herself; her own feelings, her own views had been repressed all her life; she was for ever acting for others, shielding others, defending others, encouraging others; who cared what she might feel or what passion might lie beneath her calm? No one excepting Marius.

Excepting Marius!

Well, it was her own perversity, her own misfortune that she could not take the only affection that had been offered her.

She firmly turned her thoughts from her own affairs and proceeded to write to Selina Boyle.

But the words would not come; sheet after sheet was torn up and thrown aside: one sentence sounded foolish, another blunt, a third had no meaning.

A thousand things distracted her; the long ray of sunlight falling between the curtains, a rose that had dropped from its vase on to the mantelshelf, the title of a book lying on a table near; these and such foolish trifles.

She pushed back her chair in despair and, turning her head, caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the harpsichord.

She was astonished at her own extreme pallor; she told herself it must be the effect of the dead-white wrapper she wore.

With a little shiver she put aside pens and paper. She would write to Selina in the evening when she had seen my lord; there was still so much for her to say to him.

Again she glanced, almost guiltily, at the mirror; her ghastly appearance was no fancy.

The house was very quiet, surely it was time some of the servants were abroad; the clock pointed to close on six.

With a pang of surprise she heard her own heart beating furiously and felt the blood tingling in her head; she rose, expectant of something.

“Rose,” she found herself saying, “Rose.”

She thought he was coming, that any moment he would push open the door and greet her with his weary smile.

Then she told herself that this was pure folly.

“But something has happened,” she said, “something has happened.”

Should she call my lady, or her maid? The silence of the house was terrifying, the loneliness insupportable.

The clock struck six.

“Something has happened,” repeated Susannah. “What is it?”

It was not her way to seek help or company. She went swiftly upstairs and put on her hat and pelisse; there was only one thing to do.

She must go to Lyndwood House and find out.

“What has happened?” she kept repeating to herself. “Find out what has happened.”

Light of foot and with hushed breathing she descended into the hall that was now full of sunlight, and opened the door.

As she stood on the step looking up the Haymarket it did not seem strange that she should be leaving the house hastily attired, gloveless, agitated, to go to my lord at this early hour.

She had no thought for anything, so strong, so imperative had been the wordless summons.

Then, as she drew to the door, softly, for fear of waking my lady, a man moved from out the shadow on the opposite side of the street and crossed towards her.

Miss Chressham paused. It was Mr. Harding, one of my lord’s friends.

She noted, with no surprise but with a sense of horror confirmed, his dishevelled appearance, his haggard, tired face.

Fixing his eyes on her, he raised his hat, with an air of astonishment.

“Do you come from my cousin?” she asked.

He hesitated, staring.

“I have come to see you or the Countess,” he answered gravely.

She held open the door.

“Will you enter?” she said.

As he followed her into the house he spoke.

“It is almost as if you knew.”

“I think I do know,” she replied.

She led the way into the first room they came to, the dining-room; here the shutters were still closed and it was dark.

“Do you come from my lord, Mr. Harding?” she asked, and faced him quietly.

“Madam, I come from the Earl, from Lyndwood House,” he said reluctantly. “And I am a coward before what I have to say.”
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