The manservant stepped aside, though not without a murmur, earnest,
though whispered, of warning; and the Countess Fanny proceeded through
the windy dusk up to the blank façade of the large dark house.
The door stood open, and a large shaft of light fell from it across
the exotic and withered shrubs that bordered the beds of the terrace.
Slowly, reluctantly, and yet without faltering, the girl entered the
house.
Ambrosia was standing by the open door of the brilliantly-lit parlour,
and she gave an exclamation, that did not seem wholly one of pleasure
and relief, when she saw the Countess Fanny. Then she immediately
repeated the warning which the girl had already received from the
frightened manservant.
“Oliver is in a most violent temper,” she whispered, “and it were wise
for you to go directly to your room.”
The Countess Fanny did not reply. She took off her wide-brimmed hat
and put back her long, black ringlets, which had been blown by the
evening wind; and Ambrosia, exasperated by this silence, added:
“Was there any need for you to do this--for a second time to ride out
like this? You know very well this is not the proper thing, and that
it very much disturbs Oliver; and it is the second time, my dear
Fanny, that you have treated us like this!”
“I cannot for ever remain in the house,” replied the girl quietly.
“No, but you can go out in the ordinary way, and with some company! It
certainly looks odd and perverse in you to pass the day in your room,
and then to ride out like this, without telling us where you are
going.”
“I went to the lighthouse,” said the Countess Fanny. “I am tired; it
is a good many miles there and back.”
Ambrosia put her hand to her forehead, and repeated dully:
“To the lighthouse? What do you mean? You are crazy indeed!”
“I wanted to see the lighthouse,” explained the Countess Fanny
patiently, yet with a blight over her usual flashing manner; “and no
one would take me, so I went alone. There was no wrong in it. Indeed,
you must not consider me harshly!”
“No, no, there is no wrong; but now it would be well if you went
upstairs. Indeed, it would not be wise to see Oliver now.”
Then she asked the question that she loathed to take upon her lips:
“Did you see Lucius? I believe it was to-day that he was to leave the
lighthouse. Perhaps you knew that, and went there to see him?” she
added, with a forced smile.
“Yes, I knew that,” replied the girl, “and I did go there to see him,
and I met him, and he rode with me as far as the cross-roads; and he
sent this message to you, Amy--that he is coming to-morrow morning.”
“I am obliged,” said Ambrosia stiffly and dully. “This is all very
extraordinary, Fanny, and I am rather without words.” She did not
approach the girl, or look at her, but she made a little gesture with
her pretty hand towards the wide, shallow stairs, and repeated: “You
had better go, and I will try to make your peace with Oliver.”
The Countess Fanny moved slowly towards the stairs, and then
hesitated, and then turned back and held out her hands, and took those
other cold, reluctant hands in hers, and exclaimed, with more passion
than Amy had yet heard her use:
“We should be friends! Do, I pray you, let us be friends! It would
look very strange if we were to quarrel; above all things I do not
wish us to quarrel!”
“I hope we _are_ friends,” replied Amy still dully. She found it
impossible to evoke any response in herself towards this affectionate
impulse on the part of the other woman.
“But help me with your brother!” cried the Countess Fanny earnestly,
still clinging to Ambrosia’s unresponsive hands. “Help me with him!”
“How can I do that if you continue to provoke him?” cried Ambrosia,
vexed. “My position is very difficult.”
“But what is mine?” asked the Countess Fanny proudly. “Is not that
also difficult?”
“But you created it yourself,” said Ambrosia reproachfully. “Remember,
I do not know how you behaved in Italy--though I can guess. Now,
please go upstairs before he comes in and finds you here, for I cannot
support any more scenes of violence and temper.”
The Countess Fanny dropped her hands, but continued to plead with her
impetuously.
“But you must see there are no such scenes; you have some influence,
surely? You are his sister; you have lived with him always. You know
what the dispute is between us; I have told him that I cannot marry
him.”
“And he will not believe that,” said Ambrosia nervously, “and it all
creates a disturbance and a scandal; and if you were willing to marry
him when you were in Italy, and even the first week that you were
here, how is it that you have so suddenly changed your mind? It all
seems to me,” she added, on a rising note of hysteria, “to date from
that day when you went to the church with Lucius--that quarrel you had
with Oliver then. But do go, I pray you, or I shall say what I did not
mean to say. The days here are very long and trying, and I--I cannot
always control myself.”
The Countess Fanny took no notice of this storm of words. She gazed at
Ambrosia, and again said mournfully:
“You will not, then, help me?”
“I cannot help you,” said Ambrosia, and she turned into the parlour,
and closed the door on the other girl’s face.
The Countess Fanny stood alone in the wide hall; with an impulsive,
foreign gesture she wrung her hands, and then she turned to mount the
stairs. If she had meant to escape, she was too late, for she had not
passed the newel-post before the front door, which still stood ajar,
was pushed open, and Oliver Sellar entered his house.
The girl paused on the lowest step of the stairs, and, half turning,
gazed seriously at the man.
“Ah, you are back at last!” he exclaimed; and he, like his sister,
spoke without pleasure or relief.
“It is not so late,” replied the Countess Fanny quietly, “and I have
not been so far--only to see the lighthouse.”
“And to meet Lucius, I suppose,” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I saw Lucius. He was leaving the lighthouse, and he rode home
with me as far as the cross-roads,” replied the girl lightly.
Oliver Sellar unbuttoned his coat and flung off his hat.
“I want to speak to you,” he said hoarsely; “come into my room and let
me speak to you.”
She came, with no sign of fear, to his side. The heavy, powerful man
seemed enormous in the narrow space of the hall. His massive face was
strained and livid. Against the unnatural pallor of his complexion his
hair looked horribly dark, the grey on his temples like ashes.
The Countess Fanny studied him coldly, and paused before she was quite
close to him. He picked up her hat, that she had dropped on the floor,
and put it next his own.
“Dishevelled,” he muttered, eyeing her. “Blown by the wind, wet with
the rain, well, and you must go down to St. Nite’s Head, and find
young Lucius, eh?” Then he asked: “Where is Amy?”
“Here, in the parlour.”
“Then come with me into my room.”
“If you are going to scold me, it is better I went upstairs, as Amy
advised.”
“Amy advised that, did she?”
“Yes--said that you were in a vile temper, and that I should get
scolded.”
He looked at her with gloomy rage.
“Then why didn’t you go?”
“Because I am not afraid!” said the Countess Fanny, gallantly holding
her ground. “But I will come with you into your room, Oliver, and hear
what you have to say. It will not make any difference.”
Without answering, he flung open the dining-room door, and she
proceeded down that empty chamber, where the silver and china and
glass were already set out on the gleaming mahogany table, and a fire
gave a cheerful light on the wide hearth.
Oliver Sellar opened another door, and showed her into a room where
she had not been before--the room where he did most of his business,
and which was fitted up as a small library or business-closet. Here,
also, was a fire, and here was a heavy desk, and a multitude of books,
and some sporting prints and engravings, and a gun hanging on the
wall, and an old fat dog, asleep on the hearth.
“Sit down,” said Oliver Sellar grimly.
The Countess Fanny sat down, gracefully and negligently, on one of the
rough, worn leather chairs.
Oliver Sellar lit the lamp that stood ready to his hand on the desk.
He took a long time over this simple task, which gave him an
opportunity to endeavour to control himself--a task which he had to
admit, in his own heart, he found well-nigh impossible.
The Countess Fanny shaded her face with her long fingers and her long
ringlets from the glow of the fire which was so near, and waited.
“Understand this, once and for all!” he said, at length. “You must
conduct yourself differently--do you hear me?”
“Don’t threaten me,” she replied in a low voice. “Please, Oliver,
don’t threaten me!”
“How do you expect me to speak to you?” he demanded. “What am I to
make of your behaviour? I always knew that you were light and
capricious, but I was not prepared for this!”
“Neither was I,” she replied sincerely. “Believe me, Oliver--neither
was I!”
“But it is your fault, Fanny; yours entirely. I have not changed, but
you have!”
“No,” she replied with the same earnestness, as if she pleaded with
him, “I have not changed. You have just said that you always knew I
was light and capricious; well, I am the same now. Why should you have
expected constancy from a creature so flimsy and thoughtless?”
He bit his lip at that, and struck the table with his closed hand.
“Don’t fool with me,” he said, “don’t palter with words. Cease this
game you play, for I’ll not endure it!”
“You’re not my master,” she replied, yet still in a gentle,
conciliatory tone. “Remember that, Oliver!”
“Remember that you promised to be my wife!”
“But that was a fiction!” She seemed to entreat him. “That was an
amusement, a gay diversion--you surely guessed as much! I said yes,
and yes, and yes again, because you importuned me, because Madame de
Mailly advised me against you, because I was, as you say, light and
frivolous, because--oh, because of a thousand things! But that is over
now, and you must let me go! Oliver, I have come with you here now to
entreat you to let me go! Do not force me beyond a point. I warn you,”
she added with a certain wildness, “not to force me beyond this
point!”
“It is no question of forcing,” he answered thickly; “I hold you to
your word.”
She drew away, nearer to the blaze of the fire, farther from the anger
of the man.
“That is a gross way of putting it,” she said. “I am not used to such
an attitude! I have said that I am inconstant and capricious! I take
all the fault, all the blame, Oliver. But now you must let me go!”
“Never!” he replied violently. “Never! I will not be so put and played
upon by a foolish girl.”
“If I am a foolish girl,” she entreated, “you--a man like you--are
better rid of me! If it is my fortune you want,” she added, “you may
have it; take all the lands that you rent; I still have money enough;
and I need so little.”
“You need so little!” he flared out. “You are the most extravagant
piece I have ever met. What is this play-acting, what is this pose you
take up? Your fortune is nothing to me, and you know it. Your estates
have no interest for me, and you are aware of it! It is you I want!
You took good care of that in Italy, didn’t you? You made me want
you!”
“Perhaps I did; see, I am striving to be honest. Yes, I dare say it
was not fair, Oliver; but I had never thought that it was a sin to be
a coquette, or that men would take it amiss if one strove to make them
admire one.”
“No,” he ejaculated, struggling hard to express himself with some
moderation, “that was the teaching you got from that Madame de Mailly.
A false, worldly woman.”
“I was wrong,” she admitted. “I was wrong. Accept my contrition,
Oliver! Indeed, I did not understand!”
“What,” he asked violently, “makes you understand now--eh? Why this
sudden change of mood and complexion?”
She did not try to defend herself against this invective, but, rising,
said, on a panting breath:
“Oliver, I cannot marry you--recognise that, and be a good friend.”
“I’ll never recognise it!” he answered, impetuously and stubbornly, a
flash of fury in his black eyes. “I’ll never even deal on the matter;
you’re promised to me, and that promise stays! I’m your guardian,
remember, and I shall exert my full authority.”
“You cannot force me,” murmured the Countess Fanny. “And surely,
Oliver, you can be a little kind!”
“Kind!” cried the heavy man scornfully. “Kind! Who am I to be talking
of kindness?” Again he struck his hand upon the table, and then cried,
with exceeding bitterness: “It is Lucius! It’s that fool and fop,
Lucius!”
The Countess Fanny cried out as if she were hurt indeed.
“You must not use that name--you must not say that!”
And he, for the first time since they had been in the room alone
together, appeared moved by her protest, and caught up the other
violent words that were on his trembling lips.
“No, no,” he muttered; “I had no right to say that! Of course Lucius
could have nothing to do with it, of course not! I did not mean to say
it, Fanny--the name slipped out; I have been grossly tried! This is
the second time you have done this--escaped away from me into the
dark; and each time you’ve chanced to meet Lucius.” He laboured with
his words. He contrived a ghastly smile. “And of course it could have
nothing to do with Lucius: that was only a coincidence, was it not?”
“I am sorry,” she said timidly, “to see you moved!”
At this faint indication of tenderness, he turned instantly towards
her.
“Oh, Fanny, you know that you move me! You know that you have this
power over me! Don’t abuse it, I entreat you!”
She blenched away from his nearer approach. She rose, and stood behind
the chair, keeping it in front of her with her back against his rows
of heavy books.
“I feel kindly towards you, Oliver; indeed I do,” she said. “I want us
to be friends. But you must not talk any more of our marriage. That
was all a wild jest, a stupid mistake.”
“Don’t talk like that, Fanny! You know that you can do anything with
me; and I, I’ll give you all you want. I’ll take you away from here if
you find it dull--if you don’t get on with Amy; there’s London;
there’s Paris--or back to Italy: where you will! But don’t be unkind
to me, Fanny, for God’s sake don’t be unkind!”
The black, sparkling eyes were at once compassionate and terrified.
This entreaty seemed to alarm her more than his frenzy. Closer and
closer she drew against the bookcase. She stared at his powerful and
energetic hands, clasping and unclasping nervously on the worn back of
the leather chair.
“I can’t let you go, Fanny!” he muttered. “I don’t intend to let you
go--understand that! See,” he added with distressing emotion, “I will
be gentle and kind; I will do anything you wish--behave as you desire!
I did not mean to be angry to-night; it was only fear for your safety.
You don’t know the country, and it was getting dark, and--well--I am
jealous of every moment that you are away from me. Can’t you
understand it, Fanny? I dare say you understand nothing yet, but be
patient--wait; don’t indulge these whims! Have some pity! You must
know how it has been with me from the first moment I saw you, and I am
not so facile or impressionable.”
“Forgive me,” she murmured, “but it cannot be. Oh, Oliver, you
distress me very much! Please let me go!” And with a lithe, swift
movement she tried to pass him and the chair and gain the door.
This movement towards escape half maddened the man already wrought
almost beyond control, he was instantly after her, and with a certain
exultant pleasure in the exercise of his strength, had caught and
detained her, gripping her brutally by the shoulders; and at this
powerful touch her control was gone also, and she began to struggle,
endeavouring to push the massive bulk of him away with her long, slim
hand.
“See,” he said fiercely, “you can’t free yourself!” And, his passion
inflamed by the feel of her struggling fragility clasped firmly in his
two hands, unable to resist his long pent-up and fierce desires, he
began to kiss her neck and cheeks, though she violently turned her
head away.
“Don’t be a fool, Fanny!” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t be a tiresome,
vexatious little fool!” And between every word he kissed her the more
greedily for her frantic efforts to be free of him. The Countess Fanny
wrenched and writhed in his harsh grasp, and gasped out words which,
as they forced themselves on his understanding, made him let her go,
so suddenly that she almost fell.
“I loathe you!” she had stammered, with all the bitter accent of clear
truth. “I detest you. You are repellent to me; if you do not let me
go,” she added, “if you do not release me, I will make a scandal by
calling Amy and the servants!”
But he had set her free before she had finished her sentence, and she
fell upon the door and stood there panting, and endeavouring to
re-arrange her habit, torn across the breast and about the neck by his
violence. Her shoulders were aching where he had clutched her. She
felt outraged, sick, humiliated. At least she had always, so far, been
able to keep him at arm’s length; throughout all the comedy of their
engagement he had never done more than press a kiss upon her brow or
cheek. But this! As she recovered from her immediate fright, she
stamped her foot in haughty rage.
“Never--do you hear, Oliver?” she exclaimed; “never, never!”
“No,” he answered hoarsely, “you detest me, do you? And I am repellent
to you? You don’t suppose I am going to take any notice of these
girlish rages, do you? Go upstairs and stay upstairs, keep out of my
sight, and do not suppose that I shall give any heed to your brittle
fancies! Nay, nor concern myself with your furies! I’ll marry you
first and tame you afterwards!”
The Countess Fanny, with all the force of her Italian temper, which
was usually concealed under such a pretty gloss of courtesy, replied,
in the extreme of violence:
“I’ll die first!” and flung herself out of the room.
The man’s impulse was to follow her instantly and subdue her on the
spot; but the habits of a long convention were too strong for him. It
was his house. There was Amy there, and the servants. Decorum and
restraint encompassed him. His passion was out of place, and he must,
as best he could, conceal and control it.
With a groan, he flung himself into the chair where she had sat, and
put his distorted face in his trembling hands.
How endure it? How break her?