When Ambrosia returned to Sellar’s Mead, she found the Countess
Fanny in the drawing-room with her harp; she seemed very fond of this
most old-fashioned accomplishment, which Ambrosia had heard her mother
speak of as out of date. She wore what was, to the Englishwoman, a
most extraordinary dress of black and white striped silk, with green
ribbon; but it was useless to try to mitigate the fact that she was a
picture of exquisite loveliness, seated there in her fantastic,
flowing garments, at the elegant gilt instrument, which she had
brought, at much trouble and expense to Oliver, from Italy.
Seeing Ambrosia, she took from her pocket a letter, and presented it
to her, saying, with her careless smile, that she had forgotten it
last night.
“It is from Madame de Mailly,” she said. “Poor thing--she will be very
sad and lonely at Calais, and I think it would show very kind in you,
Amy, if you were, after all, to invite her here.”
“But it is Oliver’s house,” replied Ambrosia; “and if he has
quarrelled with this lady, how is it possible for me to invite her?”
Fanny made a little grimace, and fluttered her long fingers across the
harp-strings.
“Must it always be as Oliver says?” she asked lightly.
And Ambrosia replied:
“No; I dare say in time it will be as _you_ say; but, for the moment,
surely it is better not to provoke him? Indeed, my dear Fanny, I do
not see how it is possible for me to invite your friend here, in face
of Oliver’s command to the contrary. Shall I read the letter now?” she
added. “And do you know what is in it?”
“Why, I can guess,” replied the Italian girl, “but I do not quite
know. Yes, read it if you please--and tell me what my friend says!”
Ambrosia tore the envelope, and took out the sheet of thin, foreign
paper. The letter was in a fine, flowing hand and a finished English.
“Mademoiselle,--_No doubt you will think it peculiar that a stranger
should thus address you; but the circumstances, you must admit, are
peculiar also. I refer, of course, to the projected marriage between
my dear pupil and companion, Countess Francesca Sylvestra Caldini, and
your brother, Mr. Oliver Sellar._
“_In my judgment--and I do not lack experience and knowledge of the
world--this matrimonial arrangement is of the most foolish possible.
There is a vast disparity in age and a vast disparity in temperament._
“_I have endeavoured to make of the Countess Francesca an accomplished
lady, but it has been impossible for me to give her, at the age of
eighteen, the worldly wisdom which she would require to judge the
merits and faults of such a man as Mr. Oliver Sellar. She is, in
brief, thoroughly ignorant both of his character, his country, and his
position._
“_I am aware, of course, mademoiselle, that your brother is of a fine
presence, notable fortune, and of good family; but are these
sufficient to assure the happiness of my dear pupil? For I may add
that her heart is not touched. This you, no doubt, will soon perceive
for yourself. Nor can I disguise from you--indeed, it is the main
purpose of this letter to put it before you--that Mr. Sellar,
obviously smitten by one of those passions which are usually as brief
as they are violent, has importuned my pupil, the Countess Francesca,
into the acceptance of his hand with a persistency and an ardour which
have secured for him the present gratification of his wishes, and, I
fear and dread, a most unhappy future both for himself and the girl on
whom his choice has fallen._
“_Mademoiselle, it is a random affair, with passion on one side and
indifference on the other; and I must state that I consider that Mr.
Sellar has greatly abused his position by forcing his suit on an
unprotected and unadvised female._
“_There was, also, another circumstance which operated greatly in his
favour: the Countess Francesca’s parents had proposed a match between
her and her cousin, the Count Caldini--the present heir of the Italian
estate. This marriage, in every way desirable from a worldly point of
view, was certainly not likely to be agreeable to a lively and
beautiful young girl, for the Count Caldini is not amiable in
appearance, polished in manners, nor robust in health. Mr. Sellar goes
favourably by contrast with this unwelcome pretender, and by every
means in his power--and these were considerable, as we were all
enclosed in the castle together while the affairs of the late Countess
were settled--pressed his advantage._
“_The result you know, and, I have no doubt, mademoiselle, are as
dismayed at it as I am myself._
“_Mr. Sellar has already perverted the Countess from the faith of her
childhood, and separated her from the companion of her youth. After
enduring every possible disagreeableness during a long and tedious
journey, I find myself separated from my pupil--nay, I was almost
going to say my ward--and relegated to the obscurity of a lodging in
Calais._
“_I send you this letter through the hands of the Countess Francesca,
and I conclude it by entreating you to use every means in your power
to break off a match which I fear will be fatal to both parties
concerned._
“_The Countess Francesca Sylvestra Caldini has many friends and
connections on the Continent, any one of whom would be willing to
receive her at a moment’s notice should she decide, after all, to
leave England, which I cannot believe she would find genial to her
disposition._
“_I therefore, mademoiselle, shall remain for the present at this
address, in the expectation and the hope that you will write to me and
request my companionship and protection for the Countess Francesca,
which will be very willingly and affectionately hers until I can
escort her to the protection and guardianship of her friends._
“_Mademoiselle, pray take this letter both as a protest and as a
warning; I am, with many compliments,_
“_Your devoted servant_,
“Hélène de Mailly.”
Ambrosia folded the letter up and returned it to its envelope, then
glanced at the Countess Fanny, who remained seated negligently by her
harp, idly plucking at the slackened strings.
“Your friend is not in favour of your marriage.”
“No,” said the Italian girl; “she quarrelled with Oliver, of course.
Oliver quarrelled with everyone in Italy; it is odd, is it not? I
suppose you would call him,” she added with her careless smile, “a
disagreeable man.”
“Why are you marrying him?” asked Ambrosia, stung to bluntness. “All
your friend says is quite true: you may read the letter, if you will.”
“There is no need for me to read it,” replied the Countess Fanny, “for
she told me herself all that she could possibly tell me on the matter;
used, I dare swear, every conceivable argument.”
“And you remained unmoved?” asked Ambrosia. “Therefore, of course,
there is no need for us to speak about this any more. I shall answer
Madame de Mailly’s letter, and tell her that the whole matter is quite
out of my hands. You are your own mistress, of course. Oliver would
remain quite unmoved by any argument of mine. Madame de Mailly says
her letter is a protest and a warning--perhaps I ought to tell you
that.”
“She told me so herself,” smiled Fanny. “It is a pity, is it not, that
she and Oliver should not have been good friends?”
Ambrosia was silent. She picked up a painted hand-screen, and through
it gazed at the flickering flames on the hearth. It was all very well
for her so lightly to shake all this responsibility off her shoulders,
but perhaps this foreigner, this stranger, was right in the attitude
she had taken up. Perhaps it was not mere spite and malice, and the
result of her quarrel and disagreement with Oliver. Perhaps she felt a
sense of duty towards the girl, and perhaps, also, she (Ambrosia)
should have the same sense of duty. Could she, this foreign creature
of eighteen, realise what she had undertaken in promising to marry a
man like Oliver and spend all her life at Sellar’s Mead? It was
scarcely possible, and in that case was it not a bare duty of Oliver’s
sister to warn her, to try and set before her to what manner of task
she had put her hand?
And yet, when she stole a covert glance at the Countess Fanny, and saw
her seated there, so negligent, so lovely, so fantastic, she found she
could not speak the words of cold advice and dry warning. There was
something in the vivid personality, in the vivid loveliness, that she
found unapproachable. It was the Italian girl who spoke first:
“I hope it does not rain this afternoon, for I am to go riding again
with Oliver.”
“You like riding?” asked Ambrosia mechanically.
“Yes--and I like this country too. It is so different from Italy, but
grand and stimulating, is it not? These rocks and the loneliness.… I
want, this afternoon, to go right down to the sea. There is a
lighthouse there Oliver says.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Ambrosia. “We are all very interested in the
lighthouse. It has just been renovated--almost rebuilt--and there will
be a great test for it this winter, for everyone predicts great
storms.”
“I have never seen a lighthouse,” replied the Italian girl with
flashing vivacity. “It must be most vastly exciting! May one visit
it?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Ambrosia. “Lord Lefton was only this morning asking
if you would care to go.”
“Of course I should care to go!” cried the Countess Fanny. “I should
like it above all things. It is out on the dangerous rocks, is it not,
with a marvellous view of the sea?”
“No doubt it will please you,” smiled Ambrosia, “if you have never
seen anything of the kind before; but I have grown up with the
lighthouse and I am afraid it rather depresses me.”
The Countess Fanny laughed, and rose and tripped lightly to the
window, and gazed up at the lowering clouds.
How lovely she was, Ambrosia mused, even in that cold, hostile light.
How delicious and grand and noble the lines of her head and throat,
the sweep of those black ringlets and the poise of those delicate
shoulders! How exquisite and graceful every movement!
“You must find it all very chill and dark and foreboding!” remarked
the Englishwoman thoughtfully.
But the Countess Fanny turned a flashing look over her shoulder.
“Indeed I do not,” she said. “I find it--well, I don’t know--exciting:
that seems the only word. To be out this morning, and feel the wind
and the rain on one’s face, those clouds all hurrying out to sea… and
the rocks… and now, there is the lighthouse, right out there at the
end of the land, battling with the ocean… oh, how could one find it
dull or chill?”
“It is my native place,” said Ambrosia, “but I find it depressing.”
“And you will go away?” smiled the Countess Fanny. “Yes, I can
understand that!”
“I think you will go away too,” Ambrosia could not resist replying.
“You won’t want to spend all your life in Cornwall.”
“I don’t believe I think beyond to-morrow,” replied the Italian girl,
gazing again at the sky. “Does anyone? For the moment I am happy here;
I was tired of Italy and the castle, and that sunshine, so hard and so
continuous. Yes; I loved the place, but I was glad to get away.”
“Where did Oliver take you this morning?” asked Ambrosia.
“Round the farms,” replied the Countess Fanny. “All over his estate
and up to Flimwel, which is mine. And that is odd, is it not--looking
at those strange lands and thinking: ‘Why, they are your own; that was
where your mother came from, where she was born.’”
“You did not go to Flimwel Grange?” asked Ambrosia. “That has been
shut up so long that I think it must be rather dreary.”
“No, we did not go so far. We saw the entrance gates, and they looked
very worn and rusty. But I must go--I want to go--and I do not think I
shall find it dreary,” she added. “It is my mother’s home, is it not?
I am not quite Italian, you know, but half Cornish. And now I must
write to Madame de Mailly. She will be looking for a letter from me,
and it would be rude in me and unkind, would it not, not to write to
her?”
Speaking rapidly, moving swiftly, and smiling, she left the window and
the room. Ambrosia heard her running lightly upstairs.
Almost immediately Oliver entered, and asked for her.
“She has gone to her room to write a letter, I think,” said Ambrosia.
“I don’t quite know. It is nearly luncheon-time.” And she could not
forbear the thought that she would not be able, with much equanimity,
to endure months of this: Oliver’s constant enquiries after the girl,
if she was out of his sight for a single moment… no, it was too much
to ask of any woman to remain during the storm and gloom of a long
winter, shut up with indifference and passion! A man’s
scarcely-contained violence of emotion; a girl’s ignorance and
negligence and serenity.…
Ambrosia hesitated, then handed her brother the letter which she had
been given by the Countess Fanny.
“Perhaps you ought to see this,” she said, and hoped that she had kept
all malice from her voice and from her heart.
Oliver took the letter ungraciously.
“Whom is it from?” he demanded.
“Madame de Mailly. She dislikes you. Oh, what a pity you had to
quarrel with her, Oliver!”
He replied fiercely, snatching the sheet of paper from the envelope:
“The woman was intolerable. I can’t think what Fanny’s mother was
about to have her! She has been divorced, I believe; in every way
unsuitable--a cynical, flippant, worldly woman.”
“But accomplished, I think,” remarked Ambrosia drily. “And she seems
to have a sense of duty and a certain affection for Fanny.”
“Nothing of the kind,” retorted Oliver. “She merely wishes to preserve
her own position. She was extremely well paid, and has been most
generously pensioned; but that is not sufficient. She wishes to obtain
a hold on Fanny, to get a footing here; and surely, even you, Amy, can
imagine what that would mean. An intriguing woman who hates me is to
be given a position of authority in my house.”
“Of course, you are right,” agreed Ambrosia sincerely. “It would be
quite impossible for her to come here, and she would never have
forgiven Fanny for leaving her religion. Still, need you have
quarrelled with her, Oliver? It makes it all seem so disagreeable and
harsh.”
Oliver Sellar did not listen to this. He was reading the letter, his
handsome mouth set bitterly, and his fine face flushed darkly as he
read the polished, acid sentences.
“Presumptuous impertinence!” he cried at length, and, crumpling the
letter up, cast it into the fire. “The woman is false and dangerous,
and I was well advised in dealing with her firmly.”
“One must allow for her affection for Fanny,” said Ambrosia. “I dare
say that it does all seem very--well--peculiar to her.”
“And to you, too, I suppose?” asked Oliver haughtily. “I have no doubt
that you have judged me--aye, and all the neighbours also, Amy.”
Ambrosia stood her ground before his portentous scowl.
“No one thought you would marry again so soon, Oliver,” she said, “and
certainly no one thought that you would marry someone so much younger
than yourself--a foreigner, a stranger. After all, we know nothing
about her at all.” And she could not resist adding: “Neither, I think,
do you. Probably you did not require to know anything about her--it
was sufficient for you to see her.”
Oliver turned away with the deepest impatience. Though Ambrosia’s
regard of him was cold, she admitted that he looked, in his
riding-suit, a manly, almost a splendid, figure; and she could believe
that Fanny might behold him in an attractive light. No doubt he had
one manner for his sister and another for the woman whom he was going
to marry, and yet there came into her mind, even at this moment,
directly and poignantly into her mind, that remark made by poor
Amelia: “Amy, I am not happy!”
“When is Lucius coming back?” demanded Oliver.
“I don’t know--to-morrow perhaps, or the day after. He is really
obsessed with the lighthouse. There is a scheme now for a bronze wolf,
that is to be hollow, and emit howls when the blasts blow.”
“Folly!” cried Oliver. “Folly! Surely enough money has been spent on
that lighthouse! There is a foghorn now.”
“It is more than a lighthouse to Luce,” said Ambrosia. “An ideal, a
symbol.”
“An ideal? A symbol?” cried Oliver in disgust. “I hope, Amy, you will
knock all that nonsense out of Lucius when you are married!”
This was Ambrosia’s own hope, but she detested to hear it voiced in
this harsh and unsympathetic manner.
“You do not understand Lucius,” she replied. “Everyone,” she added
with meaning, “even those who most pride themselves on their strength
of character, are liable to infatuation.”
Oliver frowned sullenly. He understood perfectly the meaning of her
allusion. She knew that he was caught in the toils of an infatuation
for Fanny, a more perilous infatuation than one for a lighthouse. He
had not wished Amy to guess this, but it had been impossible to
deceive her, and indeed, what other reason could anyone suppose he had
in marrying this foreign girl? In his sullen pride and petulant
temper, Oliver Sellar had hoped people would believe he was marrying
the girl for her money, because the two estates marched, and Flimwel
would be a very handsome addition to Sellar’s Mead. But evidently he
had betrayed himself--at least to his sister, who was acute enough;
and probably to those three old fools whose company had been forced on
him last night. How tactless and stupid in Amy to ask those tiresome
old people the first night of his arrival--just as it had been
tactless and stupid in Amy to come to the shore with a brougham, not
to send his horse to the ferry; to think that he wished to be shut up
with Spragge and herself in that close carriage!
He would be glad when Amy was married and away from Sellar’s Mead. In
many ways she jarred on him and irritated him. He thought now, with
vexation, that she and that young idiot, Lucius, would be well
matched. Pedantic, pragmatical--both of them!
Ambrosia broke in on his reserved and angry reflections.
“Fanny appears interested in the lighthouse,” she remarked. “She says
you are taking her there this afternoon.”
“Not to the lighthouse,” replied Oliver sullenly. “Near enough to see
it, I dare say. And of course she is interested, it is a great novelty
to her. She has never seen anything of that kind before. You ought to
be flattered, Amy, that Lucius has at least one admirer.”
Ambrosia ignored this. “Lord Lefton is coming over this afternoon,”
she said, “so do not keep Fanny out late.”
“Lord Lefton need not have troubled,” replied Oliver. “If he could not
get to the ferry yesterday, it is odd that he can get here to-day.”
“He means it most courteously and kindly,” said Ambrosia.
Oliver replied that he did not think that the old Earl meant it in any
such manner.
“It is just curiosity,” he said hotly. “I suppose everyone, for miles
round, will be coming to pass an opinion on Fanny, just because she is
a foreigner and I am going to marry her.”
Ambrosia knew what lay behind this bitter protest; he was sensitive,
almost ashamed, on this subject. He could not endure that anyone
should nose out the store he set upon the girl. His next words
confirmed the supposition on the part of Ambrosia:
“It is perfectly natural that I should marry Fanny,” he said in a
guarded voice, “seeing how Flimwel and Sellar’s Mead march.”
“Oh, yes,” smiled Ambrosia ironically. “Of course it seems perfectly
natural.”