The year darkened down to implacable gloom and rising storm; day
after day of sombre weather set in. The winds, menacing during the
day, rose to gales during the night.
Lord Lefton was not able to leave his room and pay his promised visit
to Sellar’s Mead, although his curiosity to see the Countess Fanny was
extreme. Nor could he satisfy himself from his son’s account: Lucius
had very little to say of the Italian girl, and no opinion to express
as to the desirability or the reverse of her marriage with Oliver
Sellar. Even when the Earl asked, “Is she really as beautiful as Amy
declares?” Lucius had no definite reply to give.
“She will be married in the summer,” he remarked once shortly, “nay,
in the spring, I believe, and Amy and I shall be abroad; there is no
occasion for us to concern ourselves with her very much.” And he
appeared absorbed in his lighthouse.
Oliver Sellar himself waited on the old Earl, but not from him,
either, could Lord Lefton obtain any satisfaction. Oliver was taciturn
and sombre, and only referred briefly and replied drily on the subject
of the Countess Fanny.
“I hear she is very beautiful,” said the old man courteously; and
Oliver at once and harshly demanded: “Who told you that, sir?”
“Amy,” replied Lord Lefton. “Amy, perhaps, would say that out of
kindness, but I believe she meant it. You should not resent it,
surely?”
But Oliver did not wish to have the Countess Fanny’s beauty stressed,
it seemed.
“She is well enough,” he admitted shortly; “a common Italian type,
sir--dark and slender; yes, a pretty young girl, you might say; and I,
of course, am very devoted to her. But you must admit that it was a
great inducement that the two estates marched. I have rented the land
for years now, and it will be very gratifying to know that they are my
own.”
This was meant to deceive the old Earl, and to an extent did so. He
questioned Lucius as to the position when Oliver had gone.
“Is it really for the land or for the girl?” he asked. “I mean, is he
honestly in love with her, or is it merely a _mariage de convenance_?”
Lucius replied abruptly that he did not know. It was all a sealed
matter to him, he declared, nor was Amy any wiser.
“The girl seems happy, light, and even excited.”
“A rattle and a coquette, I suppose?” smiled the old man. “Well, well,
I should think if she survives this winter she can survive a lifetime!
Shut up here with the storms, with Oliver----”
“There’s Amy,” said Lucius quickly. “Amy is always there, you know,
and a houseful of servants. She has brought her own maid with her.”
Lord Lefton thought these remarks very curious. He did not wish to
probe into the inner meaning of them. And that afternoon he had a
chance of judging the Countess Fanny for himself, for she rode over
from Sellar’s Mead, buoyant, with her accomplished smile and her
careless air, and trailed, in her fantastic riding-habit, straight
into the old man’s closet, where he was busy with his shells, washing
them, indexing them, examining them through a microscope.
“Well, sir,” she cried as she entered, “you would not come to see me,
and so perforce I am come to see you. I have heard a great deal about
you, and surely it is time that we should make a certain
acquaintance.”
She watched him to see in his old face the effect produced by her
beauty, just as she had watched Oliver Sellar, and, later, Lucius
Foxe.
Her effect, now as then, was unfailing. She saw the admiration, the
kindness, and the goodwill at once in the fine old countenance before
her.
“Why, I had no idea,” he said, rising with difficulty from his
invalid’s chair, “really no idea! Well, well, my dear, why didn’t they
tell me that you were a beauty--a great beauty? And yet,” he said,
taking her hand and patting it, as she smiled delightedly up at him,
“now I come to think of it, Amy did tell me, but somehow I didn’t
quite realise.”
“Now, I think that very kind of you!” said the Countess Fanny. “Really
charming and delightful of you, Lord Lefton--a pretty compliment; and
I love compliments!”
“But you didn’t come here to get compliments, eh? But to give pleasure
to an old man.”
“To make your acquaintance,” said the Countess Fanny, dropping her
little, old-fashioned curtsey. “Indeed, sir, I could not any longer
stay away.”
“Not bored, are you?” he enquired, with a trace of anxiety in his
voice. “You don’t find it dull at Sellar’s Mead?”
“Dull! Oh, no, not in the least dull! I like it--the greyness and the
dark, the grandeur and the storms!”
Lord Lefton laughed at these peculiar expressions.
“Then perhaps you will enjoy our long, severe winter, eh, my dear? I
am afraid there are a great many storms and tempests in store for us
before the spring.”
She seated herself beside him, and picked the shells up in her
delicate fingers, and laid them in her delicate palm, and looked at
them with a warm admiration and a fastidious appreciation that
delighted Lord Lefton.
“You collect these? Oh, that is charming! What a delicious occupation!
And you wash them--do you?--in that bowl of crystal-clear water! You
see the sand fall to the bottom, and the colours brighten into lustre,
that is indeed diverting!”
“Do you think so?” he asked, enthralled.
But now her attention was distracted by something else. She placed the
shells carefully back on their trays, and darted round the room, and
stopped before the fantastic drawing of Winstanley Lighthouse.
“That is a very old print,” the Earl informed her, “and one of our
earliest lighthouses, built by a very brave man; though he had, as you
perceive, a fanciful turn. But it was blown down in a storm. In those
days engineering was very crude. We have a lighthouse here, I dare say
you have seen it in the distance.”
“Yes, I have seen it,” replied the Countess Fanny, still looking at
the fanciful print; “but I have not been over it, though I want very
much to do so; and presently it will be too stormy.”
“But surely,” exclaimed the old man, “Lucius would take you any time,
and with the deepest of interest and pleasure! Why, Lucius is absorbed
in the lighthouse--spends hours there every day!”
“Ah, Lucius!” replied the Countess Fanny serenely. “But Oliver does
not wish me greatly to go. He, you must know, sir, does _not_ spend
hours every day at the lighthouse, nor is he greatly concerned with
it.”
The old Earl smiled at this plain speaking.
“Oliver must not be selfish,” he remarked. “He must indulge you; it is
something that you consent to remain here all this winter, and do not
wish to go to London, or to Paris. You have, of course, friends in
both places?”
“Yes, I have friends and connections and relations,” replied the
Countess Fanny, turning, with her back to the print, and elegantly
gathering up the riding-habit with her left hand. “Yes, dear sir, I
have all these, and I have a dear companion--a certain Madame de
Mailly,” she added with a smile, “who is even now waiting for me at
Calais, in case I should change my mind.”
“Change your mind about what, my dear?”
“About marrying Oliver, and staying in England, of course,” said the
Countess Fanny, with her careless smile. “Madame de Mailly thinks that
I cannot long endure such seclusion, and such limited company; and you
must know, sir, that she detests Oliver, and has violently quarrelled
with him. So far, my mind remains fixed; I desire to stay in Cornwall,
and to marry Oliver.”
“Oliver,” smiled the old man, “should be very flattered, and reward
your complaisance and your preference, my dear, by making everything
as comfortable and as pleasant for you as possible. I think he should
take you to London; here there is no society, and indeed but little
comfort. I, as you may see, am old and sick, and there remains
only----”
“Lucius,” smiled the Countess Fanny; and the name fell oddly into the
room between them, like something definite; and the Earl was silent,
and put his thin, wrinkled fingers to his mouth, and looked down on
the floor.
Yes, there was Lucius--Lucius, more or less her age, and so much
younger than Amy. Why had she said the name just like that? She must
be very coquettish or very innocent. The Earl could not decide which.…
“Lucius,” continued the Italian girl in the same light tone, that was
yet so polished and controlled, “is much more agreeable than Oliver.”
“Have you seen much of him?” asked Lord Lefton cautiously.
“Oh, no! Very little. I have only been here about ten days, and, of
course, when he comes to Sellar’s Mead, he is with Amy; and I must be
with Oliver.… Why, I scarcely have a word with him, or I should have
pressed him to show me the lighthouse, but perhaps, dear sir, you will
do that on my behalf.”
“Is that what you came here for?” smiled the old Earl.
“No, indeed--I came to make your acquaintance,” she replied, with an
earnestness that he sincerely believed to be purely candid. “I wished
to see if you were like Lucius; and so you are! I wished to see the
house that Lucius lived in, and it’s just like the house I thought it
would be! Not quite so large as my castle, you know, but something the
same--so many large rooms, and gloomy.”
“Yes, it is gloomy,” said the old Earl with a smile. “I can’t do what
I would like to with the place, my dear. It is built for a large
family and a large staff of servants, and I have neither.”
“But perhaps,” she replied, “Lucius and Amy will have both.”
“They won’t have very much money, my dear,” he answered. “Amy is
scarcely an heiress, and poor Lucius will not have a very rich
inheritance; but I dare say they will do well enough, and probably
make it a great deal more cheerful than I am able to do. Do you like
Sellar’s Mead?” he added abruptly.
“Oh, yes; I like it very well, and everyone makes me very comfortable
there; but best of all I like to ride out. These dark days, these
sombre skies, the storms, you know--it fascinates me. I should like,”
she added impetuously, clasping her hands, “to be in the lighthouse
during a storm.”
“Why, that is a dreadful experience which will turn some men’s wits;
you must not wish for anything as awful as that, my dear!”
“No. I suppose,” she replied with a light sigh, “I shall always be
safe and guarded! There will always be Oliver there to see that
everything runs smoothly. And I should consider myself very
fortunate--should I not?”
“Is Oliver calling for you now?” asked the old Earl. “You surely are
not riding back alone?” For the light was already beginning to fail,
and he looked anxiously at the darkening squares of sky and landscape
beyond the tall window.
“No, Oliver does not know I am here; neither does Amy. I went away
while both were occupied. Oliver spends a great deal of time with his
agent and on the estate; the farm, he says, has been neglected while
he has been away. And Amy has the house: it is astonishing what she
finds to do in the house. At the castle we did hardly anything at
all--and all seemed to go well enough!”
“Amy is a prudent and a thrifty housewife,” said the Earl. He smiled
as he added, “I dare say you have not much concern in these matters
yet?” And he looked at her curiously, for he knew the exacting and
precise tastes of Oliver, and how these had always been tended--tended
and pampered--first by his mother and then by Amy, and then by an
excellent staff of servants, who were quite likely not to remain when
the Countess Fanny was their mistress. How would Oliver’s love--or
Oliver’s self-interest, or whatever it was that was inducing him to
marry this girl--stand the strain of her carelessness and her
incapacity in household matters? For the Earl did not doubt that she
was both indifferent and incapable in those directions; and, now that
he had seen her, he thought with compassion of her future, and, with a
certain indignation, of Oliver. Why, the man was old enough to be her
father--as the catch-phrase went. He had really no right to have
snatched her away like this from her own home and people! He was
convinced that her heart was untouched where Oliver was concerned.
Yes, after these few moments’ conversation, the old man, though not so
very wise nor so greatly experienced, was assured in his own heart
that the girl before him was not in love with any man, nor greatly
moved by Oliver Sellar. It was an odd, a rather uncomfortable,
situation.
He felt concerned for the girl, for her beauty had moved him
profoundly; whereas to Amy it had been an obstacle to an understanding
and a mutual kindness, to the old Earl it was no such thing, but a
bond and an incentive to friendship.
Lucius came into the room, with a roll of drawings on blue paper in
his hand.
The girl said at once:
“Oh, will you ride home with me? It is getting late and dark, and I do
not care for the roads without company--especially when it’s
twilight.”
The old Earl answered for his son, who did not instantly reply.
“Of course he will go with you, my dear. Of course. And tell them all
how kind you have been, in coming to see an old man; and I hope you
will come again, and quite soon--and earlier in the day, so that you
can stay longer. I dare say that there are still some things here that
you would care to see.”
For answer she stooped, with the prettiest of foreign gestures, and
lifted the veined old hand and kissed it.
“I am so glad that I have come!” she said, with a simplicity that was
in contrast to her usual slight affectation. “It has been very
pleasant to know you; I thought you were nice, but you are even nicer
than I had thought. Is not that the right way to put it in English?
But ‘nice’ always seems to me a silly word.”
The old Earl laughed, and affectionately stroked the lovely hand that
was laid on his.
“But now you must go at once, my dear, because I don’t want you either
distressed by rain or frightened by the wind.”
“Frightened!” she said, with a little lift in her voice. “But I like
the wind, and I came on purpose!”
“But you don’t want to ride home alone.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I thought that Lucius would see me home.” And the
old man remarked how strange it was to hear his son’s name on this
stranger’s lips.
Lucius had not spoken yet. He had set his roll of plans carefully down
beside the cases of shells, and now the Countess Fanny perceived them,
and took them up.
“Are these to do with the lighthouse?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes,” he answered, with a slight stiffness; “but you must not look at
them now. It is late, and we must go at once; and, in any case, I fear
that you would not understand them.”
She looked at him directly.
“You have not taken me to see the lighthouse,” she said; and Lord
Lefton interposed:
“Of course you must take her to see the lighthouse, Lucius. You ought
to be delighted that she is interested. I believe you bore most
people, but Fanny is kind enough to say that she really wants to go.”
“Of course I want to go--on a stormy day, if possible.”
Lucius laughed uneasily, and said he feared that was not possible, but
that on the first possible occasion they should go--the four of them;
she, and of course Oliver, and he, and of course Amy. And the Countess
Fanny said, with the slightest intonation of malice:
“Of _course_ Amy, and of _course_ Oliver.”
They were mounted, and riding through the park. The wind was rising
with steady and mournful force, lifting the boughs of the bent trees
and spreading them out like stiff tresses against the grey of the
twilight. The lake was full of shadows, and appeared fathomless, and
as soon as they had passed the house was blotted into one massive dark
shape.
“It will be a wild night,” remarked Lucius; and the Countess Fanny
asked:
“How much more daylight have we?”
He was startled by this, and asked:
“Do you mean now?”
And she replied:
“Yes--now!”
“Well, I think the light will hold for another hour--perhaps an hour
and a half. It gets dusk like this, you know, but not immediately
dark. Why do you ask? There is, in any case, plenty of time to reach
Sellar’s Mead.”
“I was not thinking of that,” she answered at once; “I wish to go
somewhere before we go home, and I was wondering if there was time.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asked curiously.
“The churchyard,” she replied.
“The churchyard?”
“Yes; you see, all my mother’s people are buried there, and I would
like to go. I have not been yet. I asked Oliver, but he said it was a
dreary pilgrimage. I have not been to Flimwel Grange, either, perhaps
you will take me there one day, if Oliver will not.”
Lucius did not answer, and the girl added:
“I suppose you think all this queer, and yet, I hoped that you would
not be so ready to think me queer.”
He replied at once and impetuously:
“Of course I don’t think you queer. I don’t think anything queer,
really; we will certainly go to the churchyard, if you wish--it is not
far out of the way, and is a reasonable request. Why not? After all,
even if it gets dark,” he added, as if arguing with himself, “we can
get lanterns in the village, the church is quite close to the
village.”
“I know--I have seen it, I have been past, but I want to stop, and
dismount, and go into the churchyard, and find those monuments of the
Flimwels, my mother’s people. Please take me,” she added on an
imperious note, “and don’t question me. That is why I asked
you--because I thought you would take me immediately, and not question
me!”
“I will certainly do so,” said Lucius gravely; and they did not speak
again until they had reached the village, which lay, cosily enough,
nestled into the hollows of the precipitous rocks and hills, in a cove
which stretched down to the shore, six or more miles from St. Nite’s
Head and the lighthouse.
“We could leave the horses at the vicarage,” suggested the Countess
Fanny; but Lucius said no, it was not necessary to rouse Mr. Spragge,
who might be curious as to their visit, and even offer them his
company as guide.
“I do not want that above all things,” she answered impatiently. “I
want to go alone--that is, with you.”
“Do you mean that you would really like to be alone?” said Lucius,
“for I can wait at the gate; and yet, how are you to find your way?”
“I did not mean I wished to go entirely alone, but with you,” she
replied.
They dismounted at the lych-gate, and Lucius took the two horses to
the blacksmith’s house, that was not far from the church, and then
returned to her to where she waited in the blackness of the porch.
Lights were already showing in the low windows under the deep thatches
of the cottages in the village street; the steady, livid gloom of the
heavens increased. Against this rose the squat, dense greyness of the
church, and near it the blackness of an enormous yew, which spread its
impenetrable shadows over the huddled gravestones. A wind swept round
the tower, and smote them as they left the shadow and shelter of the
gate.
“Oh, but it’s cold!” cried the Countess Fanny, laughing. “And I like
it, you know--the wind and the cold and the dark!”
Lucius did not answer; he led the way down the long brick path between
the bleak, sodden, damp grass that grew in patches round the
headstones. He had brought a storm-lantern with him, and he stopped
and lit this when they reached the church porch.