The Countess Fanny had returned, considerably fatigued, from her
long ride. Oliver had gone to the stables, and Ambrosia was occupied
with some domestic affairs. The Italian girl therefore found herself
alone in the drawing-room. She sat down beside the fire without
troubling to change her elegant habit, threw off her hat, and clasped
her hands behind her long curls. She knew that her flowing attire, her
plumes and her veil, were out of fashion and not very suitable for
this country or climate; but she did not care in the least, for she
knew that these slightly fantastic garments were infinitely becoming.
With graceful easiness she nestled into Ambrosia’s cushions and stared
into Ambrosia’s fire. She had not actually approached the lighthouse,
but she had seen it from a distance, and it haunted her imagination
and pervaded her memory.
They had been testing the light; therefore she had been able to see
the red-orange and the blue-white of the lanterns, flashing every
second through the gathering gloom of the late autumn afternoon. She
had been able to hear, also, the faint distant sound of the angry
swirl of the waters across the Leopard’s Rock, where the waves always
boiled and eddied, even on a calm summer day--dashing to and fro on
the hidden ledges of greenstone.
Luxuriously enjoying the warmth and the candlelight and the softness
of the silk behind her head, Francesca Sylvestra Caldini recalled with
pleasure that sombre, gloomy, and stormy scene. She did not find it in
the least depressing, any more than she found the grey landscape
depressing; it was all so new, all so exactly like Oliver Sellar
himself--dark, sullen, petulant, and strange, but exciting also! Oh,
yes--exciting. To feel the light rain on one’s cheeks, to sense the
high winds blowing the clouds above one’s head, the feeling of that
angry scene encompassing one--the jutting rocks; the dull furrows of
the barren fields; the gaunt and bare trees that appeared to have been
swept seawards in some portentous storm, and never to have recovered
their erect defiance of the heavens.… All like Oliver. Yes, it all
reminded her of Oliver, her English lover. So, too, he was dark, and
stormy, and difficult, and grim. Yet she could do what she liked with
him. That was the fascination. She had already learned how to make
that commanding voice stammer with emotion, that stern face flush with
hope and pale with fear, those powerful hands to tremble. She could
already play on Oliver Sellar almost as skilfully as she played upon
her harp; and that was amusing, like the landscape--both strange,
amusing, and diverting.
She stretched and yawned, agreeably sleepy, pleasantly tired. She was
an excellent rider, and had had an excellent mount. It had been a
delicious feeling to trot along those roads beside Oliver, the dark
man in the dark landscape, the wind and the storm overhead and that
impetuous, sullen lover by her side. Francesca Sylvestra Caldini had
enjoyed that ride. And the glimpse of the lighthouse at the end, like
a glimpse of something beyond the usual ken of human eye, almost like
a glance into another world--that brilliant and flashing light, and
then the austerity of the winter evening.… That had been exciting,
stimulating. She would have liked to go nearer, to have seen the
lighthouse at close range, to inspect it, that strange building, out
there on the angry rocks, which, as Oliver had told her, were reported
to be haunted with evil things--the creation, no doubt, of man’s
frightened fancy, but none the less terrible and fascinating for that.
The Countess Fanny was superstitious. She believed that the fancies
men created in their minds often left that narrow habitation and
walked the earth; and she would not have cared to go alone to the
Leopard’s Rock either in the twilight of morning or evening, and
scarcely in the full blaze of noon. But she would go there one day
with Oliver, and he would row her out to the lighthouse, and she would
inspect it, and stand beneath that light, and see it revolve, and hear
the harsh, strident screams of the seagulls that he had described, and
see them flutter by that light like moths around a candle; that was
odd and exciting. She smiled to herself, thinking of these great
birds, many of whom, her lover said, measured five feet across, from
wing to wing, beating against that gigantic light, and falling,
wounded or dazed, into the hissing sea.
And then the cavern underneath it, where the wind howled in such a way
that a man had died of fear, and another’s hair had turned white in
twenty-four hours--shut up there alone, with that terrible roar and
boom of the pent-up wind in the long cavern beneath the lighthouse.
She would have heard that. She had a mounting spirit that had early
tired of sun and peace, and she thought now that, with pleasant and
sturdy company, she would have liked to spend the night in the
lighthouse, and behold the ocean spread around her--an unknown and
powerful domain--and hear the waves beating against the greenstone
rock, and listen to the wind threatening in his underground cave--that
would be surely magnificent, a fresh sensation, something different
from those long days, all hazed with golden sunshine, in the castle
outside Rome. Why, even in the winter there had been sunshine, of a
paler, less lucent, quality, perhaps, but still sunshine; and she
could not remember any storm upon the lakes, which had always lain
peaceful beneath a sky more or less vivid; a blue sky always blue,
sometimes a cerulean blue of summer hyacinth, and sometimes a pale
blue of the last speedwell; but always blue, and seldom clouded, and
then only with evanescent clouds, pale and tremulous in quality--not
clouds like these that she had seen this afternoon; and these, Oliver
had declared, were nothing. She must wait till the winter, he had said
grimly, and see then what a tempest on the Cornish coast really
meant.…
The Countess Fanny nestled more closely into the cushions and looked
into the fire, building there, after the manner of youth, many magic
castles, nameless habitations, and immemorial palaces, gilded with a
brighter glory than even the glory of the glowing coals; the glory of
a young and ardent imagination.
The rose-gold of this firelight and of a few lit candles on the
mantelpiece was over her, and cast into shadow the heavy furniture,
and the big, clear water-colours on the walls, and the massive
curtains of stiff damask, and the diminishing mirror by the door,
which was framed in walls of polished mahogany. All these things, and
the Countess Fanny, lounging on the sofa, were in warm light.
She liked the house as much as she liked the landscape, and as she
liked Oliver; and she could not understand why Ambrosia, whose native
place it was, should find it dull or distasteful. “But then,” thought
the Countess Fanny lightly, “poor Amy is not very young or very
pretty,” and, indeed, to an Italian imagination, the stately
Englishwoman was past her first youth, and had never been beautiful.
The Countess Fanny was sorry for her, but in a light and careless
fashion; for as yet no deep feelings had been stirred in her young
heart. From Ambrosia her mind travelled to Madame de Mailly, in
Calais; and she was sorry about Madame de Mailly, and wished that
Oliver could have been pleasant to her. When they were married, she
thought, she would see that Madame de Mailly came to stay with them at
Sellar’s Mead, whether Oliver liked it or no.
The door opened, and the Countess Fanny turned her head languidly on
the cushions, smiling her careless and accomplished smile, expecting
to see Ambrosia, with her keys at her waist, emerge through the
shadows; but it was not a woman, but a young man who advanced, and the
Countess Fanny sat up, shaking out her ringlets, which had been
crumpled beneath her cheek.
A young man, a stranger; she rose, with her pretty composure, and
dropped her antiquated curtsey, at which Ambrosia had smiled without
much indulgence.
The young man came into the warm blaze of the candle and firelight. He
seemed utterly surprised and amazed, and the Countess Fanny enjoyed
his surprise and amaze, for she knew that this was his expression of
his homage to her beauty. She had already seen, many times, such a
confusion on the part of those who first beheld her.
She stretched out her hand gracefully, and said, still with that
rather meaningless smile:
“I am Francesca Sylvestra Caldini, and residing here; you, no doubt,
are a visitor for Miss Sellar, or perhaps for Oliver.”
“I am Lucius,” he answered, in some confusion. “You have, perhaps,
heard of me.”
Ah, yes, she had heard of Lucius! This was the man who was going to
marry Amy. How much younger than Amy, she thought, picking up the
hand-screen and holding it between her face and the fire. How
different from any man whom she had pictured as likely to be marrying
Amy!
She asked him to sit down, with a charming air of being hostess, and
reclined again among the cushions, and asked him if he would wait
awhile, as neither Amy nor Oliver were, it seemed, at leisure.
He somewhat stiffly took his seat in the large armchair opposite; and
she was rather glad of these uncertain lights and shifting shadows, so
that she could study him, furtively, carefully, and as long as she
wished. It was very interesting to be able to have this keen scrutiny
of poor Amy’s lover; for already the Countess Fanny thought of
Ambrosia as “poor Amy.”
Well, he was good-looking, she decided, but rather peculiar. Of
course, not nearly so good-looking as Oliver, but much, much younger,
and much, much more like an Englishman. Why, Oliver might have been an
Italian--several people thought he was so; or would have thought so,
she reflected with malice, if his manner had been more amiable and his
accent less atrocious. But for darkness, for a vivid look of swarthy
strength, he might have been Italian. This man, no; this man was like
the Englishmen whom she had imagined, the Englishmen of whom her
mother had spoken, and the Englishmen whom she had seen at Dover, in
London, and on the voyage. Yes, he was fair--inclined to be reddish in
his thick locks; smooth-shaven and pale, with a long face and
light-grey eyes. He was very elegantly dressed, with a precision that
Oliver despised. She liked his exquisitely swathed cravat, and his
cameo pin; his riding-suit was surely much more fashionable than the
riding-suit of Oliver, which had seemed to her very rough
indeed--almost like that of a farmer.
Plainly he was embarrassed; plainly he did not know what to talk
about; and why was this? Because, of course, she was beautiful; so
much more beautiful than he could possibly have expected to find her.
He had come prepared to discover a Countess Fanny, a poor little
foreign girl, but he had not been prepared to discover a beauty. So
the girl read him, and she laughed with pleasure, and asked him
gracefully if he had lately seen the lighthouse.
“I rode there this afternoon with Oliver,” she said. “Perhaps you know
that I am going to marry Oliver, and he is taking me about to see
Cornwall, which is, I suppose,” she added, smiling, “to be my home.”
Lucius had become instantly interested at the mention of the
lighthouse, and he answered at once:
“Yes, Countess Fanny--for I suppose that is what I am to call you----”
In the pause, she said: “Why, you may call me what you please. I
suppose it will be ‘Fanny,’ will it not, if you marry Amy.”
She unconsciously stressed the “if,” but he did not appear to notice
that, nor, indeed, could he very well have given any sign if he had
done so.
“It seems bold to call you ‘Fanny,’” he said with a smile, “on this
our first meeting.”
He was still feeling embarrassed and confused, but was making a
gallant attempt to disguise this awkwardness.
“And I am indeed flattered that you are interested in the lighthouse,
for that is very--well--dear to me; almost my own work--mine and my
father’s,” he added.
“Is it?” she cried with animation. “That is indeed diverting! I never
heard that, though, now I think of it, Amy did say something--yes, she
said that you were very interested in the lighthouse; but I had
forgotten. Now you must take me there, will you not? One day quite
soon.”
Lucius laughed uneasily.
“Do you really want to see it?” he asked. “I suppose it is a great
novelty to you; but I have been brought up--well--in sight of the
lighthouse, and for months thinking of nothing else. We get the most
terrible winters here--you would hardly believe, the storms and
tempests last sometimes for weeks together.”
“I know,” she said, with a kindling voice and glance, “I have heard of
it, and it pleases me very much.”
“Pleases you?” he asked curiously. “Coming from Italy and sunshine?”
“Just because of that, perhaps,” smiled the Countess Fanny. “One
wearies of the sun.”
“I suppose so, but I have been so little abroad,” he said doubtfully.
“My father is a great invalid, and I do not care to leave him for
long. It is to make his apologies that I am here to-day. He should
have come to welcome you to St. Nite’s, but this afternoon he found
himself most unwell; and, as I had just arrived from London, I thought
that I would come instead, and beg you to forgive him.”
At the end of this speech, which the young man made rather stiffly,
the Countess Fanny laughed, and clasped her hands round the long folds
of her riding-habit, which fell across her knees.
“Oh, la, la!” she cried. “Make no matter about that. I dare say you
think it very tiresome in me to come here like this, and to be going
to marry Oliver! People don’t like foreigners in England, do they? I
have been told that several times already, and, though I am half
English, I dare say no one remembers that.”
Lucius was startled by her plain speaking, as Ambrosia had been
startled, but touched by it in a way that Ambrosia had not been
touched.
“Surely,” he exclaimed, “no one has said anything about not liking
foreigners to you! We are very rough and uncouth here, but not, I
think, as rude as that!”
“Oh, not said it!” she replied lightly, “but one senses it, and I
think it’s amusing.”
“It is very gracious of you,” he replied, “to take it as amusing; but
believe me,” he added, with an earnestness that overcame his
awkwardness, “you must never think that anyone round here, even the
roughest, intends any discourtesy towards you. It would be
impossible.”
She knew what he meant, but pressed him to explain the meaning.
“Why?” she asked.
“You know,” he smiled.
Yes, she knew: it was because she was beautiful. He had been impressed
with that beauty from the moment he had seen her. The Countess Fanny
was quite aware of that. Impressed just as Oliver Sellar had been
impressed when he had come into that large, grey room at the castle,
hung with rather worn tapestry, where she had sat at her harp and
looked at him across the room. Yes, she had seen Oliver Sellar
impressed and moved as this young man was impressed and moved.
Oh, it was very pleasant and agreeable to be so lovely, and see so
often the reflection of that loveliness in the eyes of men! But this
was Amy’s lover--she must remember that; and she stretched herself and
yawned, pitying Amy, pitying the young man.
He had risen, and stood by the mantelshelf, and she looked at him
under her lids, and observed his beauty and his strength. He was not
so massive as Oliver, but oh, much more graceful, she thought, with a
far finer air of breeding.
“It is odd that you should be interested in the lighthouse,” he said,
with an accent of excitement, “for I am afraid that Amy begins to be
quite bored with it. I dare say I talk of it a great deal too much,
but to me it is entirely fascinating--even absorbing. I have a scheme
now for a fog-signal--a large bronze wolf or leopard--perhaps it
should be leopard, as it is the Leopard’s Rock--through which the
winds will howl and give a warning when a gale blows.”
The Countess Fanny clapped her long hands.
“Why, that is splendid!” she cried in deep delight. “I should like
above all things to hear your wolf howling through the storm!”
“That is what father says,” smiled Luce, “but I do not know yet
whether it is practical. I have been to London to see engineers about
it, and they have made trouble, and nothing yet has been really
decided.”
“But it is decided,” asked Fanny swiftly, “that you take me over the
lighthouse? And you must do that soon, before the bad weather comes,
for everyone is predicting great storms.”
“Of course I will take you over the lighthouse,” he answered
instantly. “Of course I will take you anywhere you wish.” But then he
seemed to reconsider his words, and, with a slight change in manner,
added: “But Oliver will wish to take you.”
“Oliver,” smiled the Countess Fanny, “is not, I think, so interested
in the lighthouse as you are. We came in sight of it to-day, as we
were riding, and he was dry and brief about it, and seemed to think it
is no matter for a woman’s enthusiasm.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Lucius quietly, “when he hears that you wish
to go, he will wish to take you. Perhaps I may come too, and point you
out one or two curiosities in the structure.”
“You must come too,” she answered, “for I can see that the lighthouse
means a great deal to you, and nothing at all to Oliver.”
“Now how did you know that?” he asked curiously.
She smiled, and shook back her ringlets. Of course she knew it, in the
same way that she knew she looked entrancing by candlelight.
Intuition, Madame de Mailly had called it--a woman’s intuition; a
useful quality, and one that served very well to baffle the men. She
had maddened Oliver with it often enough before now.
He did not press her for a reply; he seemed to read that in her smile
and her glance.
Ambrosia entered the room.