“You see,” said Ambrosia hurriedly, “to what I am exposed; I come
from Lefton Park, and there I find Lucius abroad, searching for Fanny,
and I return home, and Oliver is abroad, searching for Fanny. It is
beyond all reason--an obsession, as you observe, sir.”
Mr. Spragge could not be unaware of the emotions which must be
agitating Ambrosia, and which he considered she was making a very good
show of concealing. Though his lips and his ears were sternly sealed
to gossip, yet it was impossible for him not to know, even from
glances and intonations, that everyone was remarking on the assiduity
that Lucius showed in searching for the lost girl and his ardour in
the quest, which seemed by now to everyone hopeless; she had been
really no concern of his, and though his anxiety and distress had been
for a while excused by the fact that he had been the last person to
speak to her, that excuse did not hold any longer, and it seemed, as
Mr. Spragge very well knew, to everyone wholly unnatural in Lucius to
continue this desperate search for the Countess Fanny. The absorption
of Oliver in his grief was allowed to be normal, and wholly excused;
he was the missing girl’s betrothed, and her guardian. Both his love
and his responsibility would be hard hit. But Lucius had no real part
in the affair, and Mr. Spragge was afraid that his behaviour was
causing a great deal of gossip, and even scandal. But he could hardly
speak of this to Ambrosia, though he threw as much sympathy as
possible into his voice, as he replied:
“It is indeed most painful for you, Miss Sellar, and everyone will
sympathise with you; a most ghastly thing to have occurred, and I
greatly admire the fortitude with which you have met it.”
“Fortitude!” echoed Ambrosia. “I feel all to pieces!”
“You do not show it,” said Mr. Spragge encouragingly; “you put a very
good face upon it.”
“Tell me,” cried Ambrosia, holding out her cold, trembling hands to
the warmth of the fire, “tell me, do you not feel convinced in your
own heart, sir, that she is dead?”
The clergyman answered, gravely and deliberately:
“Indeed I do; I can come to no other conclusion. Think round the
subject as one will, and reflect upon every possible aspect of it, one
can indeed come to no other conclusion but that; the unfortunate young
lady is dead, and the fact should be met with a decent resignation.”
“I hope,” replied Ambrosia, “that you will, dear sir, use your utmost
influence to persuade Oliver to meet it with a decent resignation; for
indeed I know not how long I may continue to endure this atmosphere of
despair and agitation.”
Oliver Sellar now violently entered the placid and polished room. He
was booted, spurred, wet, and muddy, and Ambrosia could not forbear a
fastidious glance of disgust at his appearance. She was forced, no
doubt, to allow him a certain latitude at present, but she disliked
the absorbed negligence which brought him into her drawing-room
straight from the stables.
He gave her no greeting, and he looked, gloomily and without welcome,
at the clergyman.
“You have had your ride in vain,” asked Ambrosia dully, “of course. I
have brought Mr. Spragge home with me, Oliver. He has promised to stay
with us a little while--I am very lonely here, you know.”
“Good evening,” said Oliver coldly.
Not disturbed by these rude manners, the good clergyman said mildly:
“I did not wish to intrude upon you, Mr. Sellar, but your sister
somewhat earnestly desired my company.”
“Very well, very well,” said Oliver distractedly, “but I fear you will
find me but a sullen host just now. There is only one thing in all my
mind.”
“That I can understand, Mr. Sellar. This has been a great tragedy, a
great shock to you.”
Oliver glanced at him with contempt. Such insipid and formal
condolences irritated him. Over everyone with whom he had any power,
he had set the command never to mention the Countess Fanny, though he
was searching for the girl all day and often a great part of the
night, no one was to murmur her name or to refer to her disappearance;
and now Ambrosia, provoking woman that she was, had brought this
wandering old man here to go over the tale, to make a scandal and a
gossip of it, to probe into his feelings, which he wished above all
things to conceal.
Pride gave him the strength to make an effort to reply to Mr.
Spragge’s remark.
“It is my plain duty to search for the Countess Fanny,” he remarked
darkly. “She was not only my promised wife, but my ward. I have all
the responsibility in the matter. It was my house she left, and she
was under my protection.”
“But surely human resource and human ingenuity are exhausted now,”
replied the clergyman mildly. “There are limits, my dear sir, to what
any mortal may accomplish.”
“But if she is anywhere on St. Nite’s Head, I must, in time, find
her,” replied Oliver with fierce stubbornness.
“You see,” cried Ambrosia, “that he will not realise that she is
lost.”
“I realise that she is lost,” said Oliver gloomily. “For weeks I’ve
realised nothing else.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Spragge, “what you must realise is that she is
dead; and one of my reasons for this visit is to suggest to you that
some monument be put up in the churchyard or the church.”
At these words, Oliver’s face, already pallid, dark, and ravaged, took
on an expression and a hue livid and terrible.
“She is not dead,” he declared hoarsely. And then he said the same
words that Lucius had said such a short time before: “If she were
dead, of course I should know it!”
Ambrosia cast a despairing glance at Mr. Spragge, but the clergyman
did not see this look, which seemed to appeal to him for
commiseration, for he was gazing at Oliver, fascinated by the man’s
look and appearance.
The clergyman had had a long life, but not very much experience, and
he had never before seen anyone in the grip of a violent passion. He
thought, as he looked at Oliver Sellar, of the old Greek fables of men
possessed by furies; for like a fury, he thought, must be the
vehement, convulsive feelings that shook and rent the soul of Oliver
Sellar. The man was frenzied by a wild rage, frantic with thwarted
passion, furious with a fierce jealousy--cruel, insatiable, bitterest
jealousy; the most ghastly of all jealousies--the jealousy of Death.
All his hopes, all his fancies, must now be in his distracted mind as
a mockery and a torment. Lost, all lost! Swept away by the dark ocean
which had seized his bride; baffled, outwitted, triumphed over,
scorned by Death. The conventional comforts, the usual props and stays
of religion, the talk of Christian resignation and trust in the Most
High with which Mr. Spragge had come armed, now failed him as he
stared at Oliver Sellar. In the agony of the man’s eyes, the grim set
of his features, the very hunch of his shoulders and the clench of his
hands, the atmosphere he gave out, the clergyman felt agony--agony of
soul and agony of body; and how was he, with his platitudes, his
formal commonplaces, to deal with that?
The old man shivered. He wished that he had not come to Sellar’s
Mead--he would do no good there, might, even, provoke that demon of
fury with which Oliver Sellar was battling.
Even now he seemed to be forgetful of those other two, both of whom
were regarding him so earnestly. His look showed where his thoughts
had flown--out into the storm, out on to the sea; with his mind he was
still searching for Fanny. And still Mr. Spragge could not speak. The
atmosphere of this dark personality in such dark torment was too
powerful for him. He stood motionless and trembled. And then he turned
his glance away; his dimming eyes could not endure the spectacle of
such unbearable pain. Yes, the dismal and awful atmosphere of this
room was engulfing him more and more. He began to see things with the
eyes of Oliver Sellar--be engrossed in that most horrid mystery, that
terrible tragedy of the death of the Countess Fanny. He wished he had
not come to Sellar’s Mead.
But Ambrosia spoke, and her words were like the breaking of a spell.
The old man startled. She was beside him, and had laid her hand on his
arm.
“Won’t you speak to him?” she pleaded. “Why are you quiet, sir? See
how he stands there, like a man possessed.”
Mr. Spragge tried to rouse himself to say something appropriate and
friendly, but his words came unwillingly and stiffly. He was too much
under the influence of that dark, silent, staring figure by the
chimney-piece.
The old man endeavoured to rouse himself--call up his beliefs, which
had been so easy to hold to in placid times, which had supported him
very well until he came to a crisis like this. He had always been able
to deal adequately with ordinary troubles--sickness or domestic grief;
but this was beyond him here; the agony of Oliver seemed to him to
pass the ordinary agony of humanity, and to come into the province of
the devil.
Still, he must rouse himself. How mean and shaking a thing was his
faith, if it fell before the first assault like this. And he was
startled that in his thoughts he had used the word “assault,” for who
had attacked him? Oliver had said nothing.…
Ambrosia waited, glancing from her brother to the old clergyman.
“Sir,” said Mr. Spragge, moistening his thin lips, “I should be
showing but a fickle temper and a hollow faith were I not to speak to
you now as I had resolved to speak to you when I entered your house.”
Oliver did not move or reply, and before that dark, implacable
presence, Mr. Spragge winced again. But Ambrosia’s hand tightened on
his wrist, and she whispered hoarsely, under her breath:
“Speak to him, sir, speak to him!”
The old man continued in a steadier tone:
“I will admit that, until I saw you now, Mr. Sellar, I had hardly
realised the extent of your trouble, nor the torment which is
consuming you as by a slow fire; and the spectacle of your suffering
made me a little stay my hand. Yet for your own sake, for your
sister’s sake, and for the sake of all of us, I must speak, to entreat
you to a decent resignation.”
Oliver turned:
“To what am I to resign myself?” he demanded hoarsely; and even under
those dark, sunken, shadowed eyes staring him down, Mr. Spragge found
the courage to reply:
“To the loss of this girl.”
“I will never resign myself to that,” replied Oliver, with a ghastly
grin worse than any frown, “for she is not dead--only lost; and I am
resolved to find her. Do you not think a man may do as much, sir?”
“This is not a moment to boast of your humanity,” replied the
clergyman. “It is all in the hands of God; and though you may think me
preaching, yet, if you will but use your reason, Mr. Sellar, you will
see that I speak the bare truth. We are all in the hands of God. What
can you do against this black mystery which has suddenly engulfed all
your happiness? Nothing.”
Oliver ground his teeth.
“Do not rage,” said the clergyman. “It is so, we are all of us puny
before the unfathomable gloom of this tragedy.”
“You cannot console me,” replied Oliver fiercely, “and I will scarcely
endure to be reprimanded. I find no comfort in any of these
platitudes; I am past smooth phrasing, sir.”
“It is no platitude nor smooth phrasing, sir,” replied Mr. Spragge
with dignity. “I would suggest to you some measure of control and
resignation; whether or no you will bear to hear the name of God, it
must be clear, even to your obstinate mind, that there is some Hand in
this whose power you cannot fathom.”
“More the devil, I think,” groaned Oliver, “to take her away like
that.”
“Call it the devil if you will,” returned the clergyman. “It is
something against which you strive in vain, and by indulging in this
sense of grief, you will not only overset your own reason, but will
confound your friends. Regard your sister now, how she is overwrought
and overwhelmed by this.”
In reply, Oliver gave Amy a thunderous regard.
“We won’t discuss her part of it,” he said shortly, “and I entreat
you, sir, to forbear your homilies, which but exhaust yourself and do
me no manner of good.”
The clergyman continued to exhort him, in mild and earnest tones.
“Consider, sir, your age and station. You are no boy, to indulge these
fantasies; there is a responsibility attaching to you--a name and
estate. There is your sister to consider. She is to be married in the
spring. Must all her prospects be blasted by this?”
Again Oliver gave his sister a bitter, black glance. Mr. Spragge
continued hurriedly:
“Leave aside those higher Powers that you do not desire me to name;
say nothing of resignation and fortitude, and submission to divine
ruling; think of yourself, sir, in a social sense. Frenzied tempests
of unappeasable grief give cause for scandal in the place. It is now
nearly three weeks----”
Oliver interrupted vehemently.
“But people have been lost for longer than three weeks.”
“I do not know about all that; it may be so. But taking all the
circumstances here, it is incredible to me and to every other person
of sense who has considered the matter that the lady still lives.”
“So I have told you for days,” urged Ambrosia. “You hear what Mr.
Spragge says, Oliver, and so says the Earl, and so all of them.”
“But Lucius?” asked Oliver, with a cunning reflection. “Does he say
so?”
“What matters the opinion of Lucius?” demanded Ambrosia wildly. “Why
bring in the name of Lucius? Oh, Oliver, do let us be sane about all
this! Fanny is dead. She is gone. Let us plan our lives without her!”
Oliver did not seem to hear these words. He began pacing up and down
the room with his hands clasped behind the skirts of his heavy coat,
his glance bent downwards. And he began to talk in rapid, uneven
tones, as if he cared not who listened, nor, indeed, was aware that
there was any one in the room besides himself. And the old man and the
young woman glanced at each other with horror, for they feared that
these were symptoms of a breaking mind--that horrid muttering of
Oliver’s, and his uneven pacing up and down.
“I went to that Pen Hall Farm,” he said, “where she went in once, you
know--on her way to the lighthouse. They admitted that. They’re wild
rogues up there; they’ve always defied me. I’ve had my doubts of them.
I thought I’d go again.”
“Heavens!” said Ambrosia. “You never thought that Fanny would be
hiding there! It’s incredible, it’s unthinkable! Do not let such ideas
get into your head, Oliver!”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” he muttered. “I went there again.
They’ve still got her jewel--the jewel she gave the child; some
Italian fal-lal; the child is wearing it round its neck yet. I made
them go over her visit, word by word.”
“That was the day before,” protested Ambrosia. “That has nothing to do
with her disappearance.”
“I had my doubts of them, I had my suspicions,” continued Oliver. “I
thought she might be there. I searched the place out. But then, the
scoundrels! I’ll get them off the land somehow, they’ve got a sick boy
there, tramped up from Falmouth, coughing and choking by the fire, in
rags. The filthy, diseased brat! I’ll have them turned off, freehold
or no; they’re a plague-spot to the neighbourhood!”
“But why should you speak of it now?” asked Ambrosia. “What has that
got to do with the search for Fanny? What has it got to do with any of
us--we all know about Pen Hall Farm. They have been there for
generations.”
“He scarcely knows what he has said,” whispered the clergyman. “He is
exhausted, mind and body.”
Oliver suddenly paused in his uneasy pacing up and down.
“Can’t we have dinner?” he demanded gruffly. “Can’t we have some food?
I want to be off again.”
“Again? To-night? Oh, Oliver, you must not.…”
“I tell you I’m going out again, immediately. I’ve thought of
somewhere else to search. What a fool I was not to think of it
before!”
Ambrosia was now alarmed beyond concealment. She wrung her hands.
“Somewhere else to look--what do you mean, Oliver? As if every inch
had not been searched!”
“There’s somewhere where no one has been,” said Oliver with a cunning
look. “And that’s Flimwel Grange--her own house. No one thought of
that, did they?”
“Flimwel Grange?” said Ambrosia, in accents of horror. “But this is
lunacy, Oliver! Why should she go there? She could not have lived
there for three weeks--that’s only an empty house, so long shut up.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t go there!”
“I’m going,” he replied violently, “and at once. Do you hold your
tongue, Ambrosia, and leave me in peace or I’ll say things you won’t
care to hear, nor I to speak! I give you some fault in this, you
know!”
“That is ungenerous in you,” said Mr. Spragge. “You should not, sir,
blame your sister. And you, I pray you, show a little charity and
patience.”
Oliver glared at him angrily. His black brows were pulled deep over
his eyes; his pale lips twitched convulsively.
“I do not intend to preach to you,” said the clergyman steadily, “if
you wish, I will go with you to Flimwel Grange. It were better, since
you are set on this expedition, that you should at least have a
companion.”
At this suggestion, the look of hate cleared from Oliver’s gloomy
face. He gave a long, heaving sigh, and said:
“Yes, I would like a companion! If you are prepared to leave at
once.…”
“I will certainly go with you, and at once,” declared Mr. Spragge
firmly. “Let us, however, conduct the matter with common sense. We
will take some refreshment, and you will change or dry your clothes;
and, as the night is so wild, we will go in a carriage, not on
horseback.”
He half expected to be met by a further outburst from Oliver; but
instead, the tormented man regarded him with a sudden wistfulness in
his expression, and muttered: “Thank you, thank you!”