The next morning the Countess Fanny did not appear at the
breakfast-table, and Ambrosia guessed that there had been a scene
between her and Oliver the night before; but, as she looked at her
brother’s dark, scowling face, she decided to say nothing of the
matter, and to accept the non-appearance of her guest as the most
natural thing in the world. Perhaps, indeed, it was the most natural
thing in the world in the life of the foreign girl; though to Ambrosia
it was a very peculiar occurrence indeed. Never, save in the case of
rare sickness, had she been absent from the formal breakfast table.
From the first moment that she had seen her guest, she had expected
some such jar as this; of course, a lively, arrogant, and impetuous
girl would not be able to regulate her ways exactly to the liking of a
man like Oliver. She was sure to vex him sorely by too much licence
and too much exercise of liberty; and Ambrosia’s only surprise and
vexation at the episode arose from the fact that Luce had been
involved in it. Of course she was able instantly to understand _how_
he had come to be involved in it; when the Countess Fanny had paid her
late and unexpected visit to Lefton Park, it would have been
impossible for Luce to do anything save to offer to escort her home;
and, no doubt, not easy (though here Ambrosia was not so full of
excuses for her betrothed) for him to refuse to take the Countess
Fanny over the old church. Imprudent and indiscreet, Ambrosia thought
that action. He might have seen that it was only the wilful whim of an
impetuous girl, and have refused so late and so injudicious a visit,
which gave Oliver some handle for his temper.
Luce was sure to ride over that morning, and give her his account of
the whole affair. It was a pity that he had to be concerned in it at
all; she had feared that from the first--that she and Luce would be
dragged into Oliver’s quarrels and Oliver’s grievances.
Cool and indifferent behind the tea-urn, she turned over her morning
paper. She was not going to sympathise with Oliver, nor even to be his
confidante. No doubt he would very much like to pour all his
annoyances and irritations into sympathetic ears; but Ambrosia had
resolved to regard all his grievances coldly. Why, anyone--even a
fool--could have told him what was in store for him with a girl like
Fanny. With such a marriage, arranged so hastily and in so peculiar a
fashion: nay, in a fashion more than peculiar; a fashion indecorous,
according to Miss Drayton and Mrs. Spragge. They had hinted as much to
Ambrosia, and Ambrosia had been forced, in her heart, to agree; though
on her lips had been every loyalty towards her brother. But she knew,
with perfect clarity, that a certain convention had been outraged by
Oliver when he had brought home this girl as his future wife, and that
another convention was being outraged by him in this insistence in
keeping her in Cornwall, in his own house, during the long months of
their betrothal, during the forced seclusion of the tempestuous
winter. He should have allowed the girl to go, under the chaperonage
and protection of friends and relations, until such time as they could
be married, or he should himself have left Sellar’s Mead, or, as a
third alternative, he should have permitted Madame de Mailly to
accompany her pupil to England.
As things were, the girl was oddly isolated, in a peculiar position,
heightened, of course, by her peculiar appearance and manner; and
Oliver himself was to blame.
Ambrosia, therefore, now, when she lifted her eyes from the dull
news-sheet, studied him coldly--almost with hostility. She did not
intend to endure, during those dreary, dark months ahead of them, any
scenes with Oliver. She could very well surmise what had passed last
night. Oliver had left his horse in the village, and ridden back with
Fanny in the carriage: a thing he detested doing, and a thing which
would by no means have improved his sour mood.
Lucius had not accompanied them, and if there had been the least
goodwill or good humour on Oliver’s part, Amy knew that he would have
done so. He was well used to the road, and did not mind riding to and
fro at any hour of the night, or under any circumstance of wild
weather. But Luce had not come, and Oliver, of course, was responsible
for that. If Oliver was going to quarrel with Luce--Ambrosia shrugged
her shoulders and bit her lip, endeavouring to force her attention on
the paragraph which she held beneath her gaze--if Oliver was going to
quarrel with Luce, why, how intolerable! She could not see herself in
the rôle of universal peacemaker.
Oliver rose heavily, seeming to make as much noise as was possible in
doing so. He pushed back his chair roughly, and shook the table. He
was a massively built man, and clumsy in everything he did.
“If Fanny begins complaining about me,” he said heavily.…
Ambrosia put her paper down with a quick gesture of temper.
“My dear Oliver,” she cried, “please don’t draw _me_ into it! Of
course Fanny will complain about you, if you have been rude and
disagreeable. I suppose she is not infatuated to that extent--as to
accept everything with meekness.”
“How do you know that she’s had to accept anything disagreeable?” he
challenged. “Of course you women always stick together, I shall have a
pleasant life of it, it seems to me.”
“Nothing will be ever pleasant to you, Oliver,” replied Ambrosia,
“unless you cultivate a better temper. You know perfectly well there
was no harm in yesterday, why, the girl must sometimes go out by
herself! I cannot be always ready to accompany her--nor you, I
suppose. And even if it was a little late, there was no harm done!
Luce was with her.”
Oliver did not answer this, and Ambrosia was conscious of an immediate
tension in the air at the mention of that name.
Yes, of course, there had been a quarrel with Luce--perhaps a quarrel
that would make it difficult for him to come to the house. How
intolerable Oliver was! She rose impatiently, brushing down the stiff
folds of her silk gown. She was expecting some violent outburst from
her brother, in which case she intended to leave the room; but Oliver
contained himself, and answered, not without difficulty:
“Amy, you must not try to come between me and Fanny, for I will not
tolerate it. She is quite wild and impetuous, and knows nothing of our
ways and customs. I must, of course, train and shape her; and do you
not interfere with me.”
“I shall not interfere,” replied Ambrosia; “neither shall I help you.”
And though this was not in the least a favourable moment for such a
comment, she could not resist adding: “You know, Oliver--everyone
thinks it very peculiar that she should be here at all: both of you
under the same roof like this, during a long engagement. It is
scarcely fair to her.”
“Who is ‘everybody’?” retorted Oliver sullenly. “A few old women in
the village, I suppose.”
“Useless to argue,” replied Ambrosia, “you know perfectly well what I
mean; but it is a detail, really. Nothing would matter if you could be
more good-natured.”
“Good-natured,” sneered Oliver. “That’s a woman’s word for a fool; she
expects a man to be a fool when she tells him she wishes him to be
good-natured. You want to have your own way in everything, and that
the man is to dance to every tune you choose to call, if he does not,
he is a brute, and disagreeable.” Again he added, not without dignity:
“I must beg you, Amy, not to encourage Fanny.” He left the room
gloomily.
Ambrosia said resolutely to herself:
“I will not be drawn into the position of peacemaker. Nothing is more
odious; and, of course, however hard I strove to make things pleasant,
they would quarrel just the same. I will not interest myself in, or
exhaust myself with, the affair at all. I will go my own way, and just
try to put the months through somehow till the spring.” That was very
glibly said. Would it be so glibly accomplished? She could not resist
staring out of the window, at that dark, iron-grey country, at those
bent, leafless trees, and those high clouds, tumbled by an incessant
wind. Well, every day there was a number of small, insistent duties;
things that appeared of no importance, and yet were indispensable--all
the machinery for the smooth-running of this complicated household
depended upon her; there was plenty to occupy her; she must fix her
attention on these incessant duties.
Yet to-day she was reluctant to take them up. She did not wish to
interview the housekeeper, to give out the stores, to visit the
still-room, to pack baskets for the poor and write notes to Mrs.
Spragge and Miss Drayton; no, she had no heart for any of these
things. Her mind went back to last night, and to Luce. Would he come
to-day? How detestable to have to count one hour after another,
wondering if he would come! Of all things, Ambrosia was frightened of
waiting, terrified of suspense. Neither did she wish to write to him.
No, in every detail she would have had him the pursuer, and herself
the pursued, indifferent while he was ardent. Well, she must try to
forget him; there was no other way; and probably, when she was
absorbed in her small, regular duties, he would be there, and
everything would be different.
He was at least her lover--yes, at least he coloured her life for her.
Without Luce the days would be unendurable. And she resolved that when
he came she would be kinder than usual, and listen with interest, even
if he wished to talk about his lighthouse. She would even promise to
go and visit the lighthouse--that would please him very much; for
hitherto she had been rather contemptuous of the new work there, and
quite careless as to all the points in which he was so passionately
absorbed; but she felt now that she had been harsh in this, and she
would be so no longer. She would endeavour to see something of what he
saw in the lighthouse.
Meanwhile, there was Fanny. She remembered that with a start. Of
course, she must go and see Fanny. The girl had not even pretended
illness; she had merely sent down a message by her maid that she would
like her breakfast in bed. Not to vex Oliver, not to encourage the
girl, but as a plain matter of duty, she must go and see Fanny; and
that little visit would be an excuse also for putting off the routine
of the day, which, this morning, seemed more than usually distasteful.
This was the first time that she had entered her one-time bed-chamber
since the stranger had occupied it. Hitherto, she had said, rather
fastidiously, her good-nights on the threshold. Now, as she entered
the room, once so poignantly familiar, she saw that she scarcely
recognised it--Fanny and her maid between them had so altered
everything, and put about so many curious objects, taken from those
immense trunks which Fanny had brought with her from Italy.
The bright, clean chintz had gone, and been replaced by lengths of
handsome, yet faded, silk, embroidered with gold and silver threads.
There were a great many cushions about; vases and bowls of porcelain
and glass; and a long, painted wooden coffer, set, oddly, in
Ambrosia’s eyes, at the foot of the bed. There were silk scarves and
shawls, and strings of bright beads, and trinkets that looked very
alien to Ambrosia, scattered almost everywhere; flounces of lace and
French books; and, amid all this luxurious finery, the startling
black-and-white of an ivory and ebony crucifix hung beside the bed
between the two pale water-colours of English flowers which Ambrosia
had placed there to please her guest.
Ambrosia noticed the rosary of corals and crystal which Fanny had had
in her bag on the night of her arrival, and which she had been looking
for in the drawing-room. Ambrosia thought ironically of that
conversion of Fanny’s which Oliver had so pompously announced to
everyone.
The girl was no longer in bed. She was seated by the fire, wrapped in
a flowing gown of white silk, which made the hair, falling on her
shoulders, appear ink black. She was embroidering, with nervous
fingers, with a length of vermilion silk, a faded strip of orange
canvas; she seemed a queer, unfamiliar figure to the Englishwoman, who
could not infuse much friendliness into the manner with which she
asked her how she did.
“I am quite well,” said Fanny, with her quick frankness, “but I did
not want to meet Oliver, I dare say you guessed as much.”
Ambrosia said yes, she had guessed as much; but added:
“Really, you know, my dear Fanny, it is stupid of you to quarrel with
Oliver.”
“Perhaps,” said the Italian girl, “it is stupid of him to quarrel with
me!”
Ambrosia did not like the note of temper in that. She held to her
resolution of the breakfast-table.
“Really,” she replied, as pleasantly as possible, “I cannot be a
peacemaker, you know; it is very awkward for me to be between you two
like this. You will have to make your quarrels and conciliations
without me.”
The Countess Fanny had dropped her embroidery, and was staring into
the fire.
“Of course,” added Ambrosia, “I know that Oliver is very
overbearing--sometimes harsh, but you could have spared all this if
you had let us know that you were going to Lefton Park yesterday, the
country is very wild and lonely, and you are a stranger, and you might
have been lost.”
“I had Lucius with me,” said Fanny.
“Yes, but we did not know that; and I dare say,” added Ambrosia,
speaking quickly to conceal a certain hurry in her breath, “that in
Italy you were not allowed out alone.”
“I had Madame de Mailly,” said Fanny, “and if she were here now, of
course she would go with me everywhere. But you and Oliver are always
busy, are you not?”
“Not always!” Ambrosia found herself in a position of defence. “Not
always, Fanny! Of course, we cannot neglect everything--Oliver has
been away six months, and there is a great deal for him to do; and I
always have my duties in the house. You should be learning them, you
know,” she added negligently. “You will be taking them on in the
spring.”
She spoke without interest, for in reality she did not greatly care
whether or no the girl made a success of the housekeeping at Sellar’s
Mead. She excused herself for this indifference by the consideration
that whatever Fanny did, Oliver would not be pleased. Neither his
mother nor his sister had been ever able to win his full approbation
for the domestic arrangements of Sellar’s Mead; it was therefore quite
impossible that Fanny Caldini would be able to do so.
The Italian girl answered quickly, with her brilliant self-assurance:
“But of course I can learn all that in a day or two--there is no need
to bother about it now, and it is not very interesting, is it?”
“I have had to find it so,” smiled Ambrosia. “I dare say it is very
dull and monotonous, but it is the work that women have to do. I could
never manage Lefton Park if I had not learned to manage Sellar’s
Mead,” she added; and felt the words were in the worst of taste, yet
could not withhold them.
“Ah, yes, of course!” said the Italian girl. “You will be mistress of
Lefton Park, as you call it, and that is a much bigger house than
this, is it not?”
“There are not so very many servants, there is not very much money,”
said Ambrosia gravely, “and that makes it all so much more difficult.
One must be economical without being mean. There will be no chance for
show or splendour, but there may be decorousness and good management.”
“Lucius is so young!” cried the Countess Fanny with a sigh; and
Ambrosia blushed hotly and at once.
“What an odd thing to say!” she exclaimed.
“It came into my mind,” said the Italian girl indifferently. “I
thought of that picture you called up of economy and good management
in a place like Lefton Park, and Lucius, so young.”
“He is not the owner of Lefton Park yet,” said Ambrosia, trying to
control herself. “I dare say the Earl will live for a great many
years, and by then Lucius will be trained for his position, if that is
what you mean.” Nothing could have vexed her more than this reference
to the difference between her age and that of Lucius, for so she took
the girl’s remark “Lucius is so young!” She had never said “_You_ are
so young!”
“Trained for the position,” repeated the Countess Fanny. “I suppose
that is what he meant yesterday, when he spoke about planning his
life.”
“It is what we all must do,” replied Ambrosia, relieved that Lucius’
conversation had run on such sensible lines.
“But I answered,” smiled Fanny, “‘We cannot plan our love.’ And that
rather throws our schemes out, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” replied Ambrosia nervously, “but not always, you know.
After all, love and duty do, frequently, go hand in hand! There aren’t
so many of us who crash to a tragedy.”
“Madame de Mailly,” remarked the Countess Fanny, “used always to say
that when the passions met the conventions there would certainly be a
tragedy.”
“We all know that,” replied Ambrosia with some stiffness.
“But I can tell you something worse,” cried Fanny, turning in her
chair and looking at her with those almost unnaturally dark, brilliant
eyes, “and that is when passion meets passion.”
Ambrosia was startled, and even affronted. She had never discussed
these subjects with anyone, and certainly did not intend to discuss
them with a woman so much younger than herself.
“Oliver will not care to hear you talk like that,” she said, smiling;
“it is that spirit in you that he will complain of most.”
“Oliver does not matter to me,” replied the Countess Fanny carelessly.
“Oliver not matter to you?”
“No. For I do not intend to marry him.”
Ambrosia laughed at the childishness of this.
“Don’t carry these petty quarrels too far,” she said. “That is petty
in you.”
The Italian girl, unmoved, persisted:
“I do not intend to marry Oliver.”