Long after the fishers had retired into their houses and shuttered
their windows against the cold, Oliver Sellar remained on the beach,
staring through the dark, twilit air at the distant, wave-beaten rocks
which bore the now hardly discernible lighthouse, crowned with its
cresset of red fire--the fire which Lucius had lit and which he must
tend for so many days to come.
Oliver felt lost in a void; the escape of Lucius affected him only
less powerfully than the disappearance of Fanny. He had the same sense
of being cheated--of frustration; of clutching at the air in useless
fury and impotent passion. Fanny had gone when he had been sure of
her; he had been thwarted there in his most poignant and powerful
desires; and now Lucius had gone, not into the blackness of any
imponderable mystery, but out there on to the lighthouse, where no man
would be able to speak to him again, perhaps, if the storm returned
again, for many weeks to come. And he, Oliver, was left lonely, even
more lonely than he had been since the tragedy of Fanny; for now hate,
as well as love, had first assailed then escaped his grasp.
He assured himself that he had grown to hate Lucius for this many day
past--nay, from the first; from that evening when he had ridden up to
the village to find the two of them in the purple twilight together in
the village street. He had certainly begun to hate Lucius then; and
that hate had grown and nourished and battened on his dead love, as a
weed might grow out of the corruption of a murdered flower. In some
manner, not yet formulated in his dark mind, he had meant to vent his
suppressed emotions on Lucius; he had meant to make him smart and
bleed for the loss of Fanny. Half he had believed his own furious
accusation that Lucius did really know of the whereabouts of the girl;
half he had utterly disbelieved it; that ugly suspicion had eddied to
and fro in the tumult of his mind. But, in any case, he had believed
that Fanny had favoured Lucius, and he had meant to make him pay for
that--somehow, some way; he had meant to torment him--weak, sickly
youth that he was, in the eyes of a man like Oliver.…
And now he had escaped; he had gone. The land was clear of him. It was
almost as if he had never been. Why, he might not return at all! A
great tempest might sweep the lighthouse away, as lighthouses had been
before swept away.… The winter was to be long and fierce, they all
declared; they might not be able to get out to him--he might starve
there, as men had starved before in lighthouses. He had gone
impetuously, without much thought or precaution, taking no one with
him but that half-witted, half-diseased lad.
And one night they might look across the waste of water at the cruel
rocks and see darkness in the lighthouse cresset. So Lucius would
escape him--his wrath, his revenge.… There would be nobody on whom to
vent his thwarted passions.
He had never thought of this. It had taken him utterly by surprise;
during that long, cold journey down to St. Nite’s Point, over the
frozen roads, Lucius had said nothing. Again and again he, Oliver, had
glanced at that pale, composed profile above the upturned collar of
the greatcoat beneath the low beaver hat, and seen no expression
except a difficult fortitude in that face. But, all the while, Lucius
had been thinking of this--of escaping to the lighthouse; for he had
himself declared that that had been his intention, even without this
accident of the young man’s sickness, to take the watch.
No one came to speak to Oliver Sellar as he stood on the shore; they
glanced at him now and then through the chinks of the shutters, and
one came to the door of the inn and peered at him to see if he was
still there, through the thick, gathering dusk; but no one interfered
with him. They disliked him too much, and were, in a sense--rough and
brutal as they were themselves--too much afraid of him to venture to
speak to him. If he liked to catch his death of cold there, they
thought, he might, for all they cared. They had no sympathy for him in
his tragedy. They had had but a glimpse of the young lady, but they
were sure she was too good for him, and had drowned herself rather
than marry such an ill-mannered, foul-tempered, brutal, violent man as
was Oliver Sellar.
They knew well enough the general talk and gossip: such things travel
fast even in wild and isolated communities. Rough and full of
superstition as they were, they very accurately sensed his feelings as
he stood there, staring out at the lighthouse; they could perceive his
rage at the escape of his rival.
“She beat him,” grinned one woman. “She was a brave girl; she got the
better of him, even if it was by jumping into the sea!” And another
said: “If he stands there much longer in the dark, he’ll see her
ghost! And he won’t care for that. Maybe she’ll come up beaming with
light across the water, and pass him by, or point downwards to where
her grave is now! That won’t be a pleasant thought for him to take
home with him!” Then they looked at the lighthouse, and were glad to
see how bravely the lamp shone across the night.
At last Oliver Sellar dragged himself away from the lonely shore. It
was now too late to ride home. He spent the night, gloomy, silent, in
proud isolation, at the dirty little inn. There was no one who could
take a message at that late hour, and many were the wonders and
distresses and speculations in the village of St. Nite as to the
whereabouts of the two gentlemen during that long winter night.
Ambrosia thought they were both searching for Fanny. She believed that
they had returned to Flimwel Grange; and Mr. Spragge, who was still
her companion, was for setting out and seeing for himself if either of
the two men was there.
She detained him. She had proved his uselessness. He could do nothing
with Oliver. Why should be expose himself, poor old man--she
thought--for nothing?
So she begged him to remain with her, and keep her company by the
fireside which now seemed so desolate.
There came messages from the Earl, who wondered why his son had not
returned. But they could give him no news.
It was only well into the morning that a man came up from St. Nite’s
with two letters, and the account of how Lucius had gone out to the
lighthouse to take the next watch.
Of these two letters, one, at least, was perfectly understood. Lucius
had written only a few lines to his father, but the Earl read between
them. He could sense accurately what had been in his son’s mind when
he took this sudden decision, a decision which he (the father)
applauded. It was better for Lucius to be away on the lighthouse. This
was an honourable and a safe course. It would cut him clear of all
implication in the disappearance of Fanny. It relieved him of the
wearing and harassing position he had been in. It silenced all gossip.
It precluded the possibility of any disgraceful quarrel with Oliver.
And the Earl had no misgivings as to his son’s safety. Lucius knew
more of the workings of lanterns and foghorns than the average
lighthouse-keeper. The lighthouse had just been rebuilt, was
up-to-date and well equipped. Even if the storm continued, the Earl
would be in no distress as to the safety of Lucius. He would enjoy it,
too; he had always been obsessed with the lighthouse and loved the
sea; nor did he shrink from storms. Therefore, the old man was more at
ease about his son than he had been for many weeks past.
It was not so with Ambrosia. She saw at once the banal formality of
the little note of excuses. She did not even believe in the sudden
sickness of Mathews; she thought it all a subterfuge on the part of
Lucius, in a frantic attempt to get away from her, to indulge in peace
his rhapsody of grief for the Countess Fanny. And then, the
loneliness… three weeks at least without seeing him, without hearing
from him.… She could not say that there had been of late much pleasure
in his company, and yet she had this bitter sense of desolation when
she found she was relieved of it. Had she ever loved him? She did not
know. She could not yet answer that question. Did she intend to
relinquish him? That also she did not know. But she did know that she
had looked forward to her marriage with him as a release from her
present life, and now all that seemed a withered hope.
What would the spring bring to her beyond the fresh leaves on the
trees, the sunshine in the air, and the flowers on the earth? Nothing,
it seemed. She had spent too many barren springs to be able to
contemplate yet another with equanimity.
“I’ve lost Lucius,” she said to herself, and mechanically crumpled up
the note and threw it on to the logs blazing on the hearth. “That
girl, by her death, has taken him away. Yes, if she’d lived, I believe
he’d have stayed faithful to me, but by dying she has him.”
As Ambrosia turned over the various fragments of her embroidery that
she was putting together with her careful hand, so she turned over, in
her careful mind, the various fragments of pleasure that must now be
forgone--the title; to be mistress of the big place; to go abroad; to
go to London; to have another life and new interests; to have a
husband, young and adoring; to have children, and her place in the
ordinary world--all these things must be put aside. And presently she
folded up her needlework and put that aside in the green-satin-lined
box. One must be resigned; one must be decorous; one must play one’s
part and pray, though one prayed to a stone wall, though one prayed to
an empty sky, still one must have the name of God on one’s lips, bow
one’s head and be dutiful! It seemed to her now as if she had been
training all her life for this one moment of disaster and
disillusion.… For what other purpose had she been taught all this
self-control, all this ladylike deportment, save that it might help
her in such a moment as this?
She found the courage to look ahead down the years, and saw them
stretched before her in one intolerable, grey monotony, ending in a
tomb in St. Nite’s Church--what else, what else? Her youth was almost
passed. Soon she would be thirty--an old maid, prim and shrewish,
fussy in her ways, intolerant to the young, ruling her household,
looking after the poor, going to and fro the church, making Oliver
comfortable… yes, she supposed that Oliver would continue to live
here, and she would continue to make him comfortable, for years and
years; each year like to another as a pea in a pod; and all
futile--all weary as a string of tired horses plodding homeward.
“What will Luce do? Ah, my heart! What will Luce do? He’s young; he’ll
recover--he’ll go away! He’ll find another bright girl somewhere;
she’s not the only beauty in the world. He was so young and had
remained so shut up here--such a dreamer, too, with his head full of
radiant fancies. But he’ll go away, and find another one. But you
won’t--you’ll be always here by the hearth, with the household keys at
your waist and your head full of important trifles; your hands busy
with petty duties, growing old beside an ageing, soured man! Perhaps
Oliver will become insane, and you, out of pity, won’t tell anyone,
but will stay there administering to him. He will drink; more often
than not he’ll be intoxicated in the evening, and sometimes in the
morning. He’ll be harsh and cruel--never for five minutes civil. He’ll
abuse you, and say you were the cause of it all. He’ll say you might
have prevented it, might have saved her; but that you didn’t--that you
were sour and jealous; that you hated her for being so beautiful. And
you’ll be quiet, for you’ll know that half of it, at least, is true,
and that you did so hate her, and that you were so jealous of her. As
the years go on, and he can bear to talk of it, he’ll tell you that
Luce loved her; he’ll speak of all his jealousy of Luce. But you
mayn’t do so; you mayn’t say a word about it, because you’re a woman,
and well-bred! You’ll have to endure it, deep down in your heart, go
on with your fine stitching, your measuring out of food, your making
of jam and preserves and your mending of linen, your going to the back
door to listen to the tale of the poor, the whines of the indigent!
“Nobody may condole with you, for you have had no open loss; nobody
can say they are sorry for you because you had a lover and he left
you; people will be compassionate behind your back and respectful to
your face; and in the middle of such respect and such compassion, you
will freeze and wither till you will be ugly within and without.”
So Ambrosia, sitting quietly by the fire in the handsome,
well-appointed room, with her capable hands clasped on her black silk
lap, saw her own situation and her own future.
Mr. Spragge left Sellar’s Mead--where, indeed, he could help no
one--and returned to his parish. Dr. Drayton came over to see
Ambrosia, but, warned by her guarded manner, got no further than
formalities.
“Oh, yes, it was very well that Lucius had gone on the lighthouse; oh,
yes, indeed, the most natural thing to do--she was glad that he had
done it. The storms had subsided; maybe, after all, they would have a
fair Christmas; and it would only be three weeks--yes, strange that
the man Mathews should be taken ill!”
Dr. Drayton himself had gone over to see him. There was not much
chance of his recovery.
Oliver Sellar had returned, and had said nothing of Lucius. Neither
had Ambrosia breathed his name. Life went on, grey and sober, in the
large grey, sober house in the middle of the desolate park and the
black landscape of St. Nite’s Point.
Oliver was less violent. A moody calm seemed to have fallen on him.
But Ambrosia knew that this did not mean resignation. He was still
brooding bitterly, deeply--as well she knew--over his atrocious,
miserable, incurable wound. Never did he smile; and every day he rode
or walked abroad, wandering for miles over fields and cliffs and
roads; and he had traversed many, many times every square inch of
ground on St. Nite’s Point.
Ambrosia did not attempt to detain him when he would set out upon
these expeditions, nor to argue with him as to the futility of this
hopeless quest; nor did she speak to him about the coral bracelet,
which he had never mentioned again. Only, in awe-struck whispers, she
had managed to ask Luisa, now reduced to weeping grief and quiet
resignation, about the bracelet which her mistress had worn the day
she had disappeared. And Luisa had said yes, there was a coral
necklace and two coral bracelets, made like grapes and vine-leaves.
“A mystery,” thought Ambrosia; “well, let it go with all the other
mysteries. What does it matter--one inexplicable detail the more?” She
would interfere with nothing now; she had nothing to say against the
preparation of Fanny’s room every evening, the lighting of the fire,
the turning down of the bed and setting out of the bedgown, the
slippers… all those frail and pretty garments of pale-coloured satin
ruffled with swansdown; the lighting of the candles on the massive
dressing-table; the drawing of the curtains before the twilight.
Against this Ambrosia had nothing more to say. She was even used to
it. It caused her now no thrill of horror to pass that prepared room
when she left her own after changing her dress for dinner; it no
longer gave her a sense of dismay when, in the morning, Oliver went
and locked up those same rooms again and put the key in his pocket
there to rest till the evening. She was used to these things, and
supposed they would continue, night and morning, all the rest of her
life.
Once she said to herself, staring at him across the immense table, so
rigorously and decorously supplied with silver and glass and plate:
“Oliver is mad; but I don’t know it.” And then she thought: “What does
it matter whether I know it or not?”
She went over once to see the Earl, and was pleased that the old man
was better in health, and even seemed serene and cheerful. He could
see--so he declared--nothing odd in Lucius’ departure for the
lighthouse; and he patted Ambrosia’s hand reassuringly as he said:
“He will come back to you, my dear, a changed man--happier and more at
ease, I’m sure--and things will go smoothly for you again.”
Ambrosia did not trouble to shake her head or proffer a denial; but
she knew better than this. Never again would things go smoothly
between her and Lucius.
“It will be a quiet Christmas,” remarked the old man. He had intended
to have relatives to stay at Lefton Park; distant and not very
cherished relatives, but they usually came at Christmas and made a
diversion in the darkness of the winter season. But this year, no: he
had put off everyone under the excuse of his illness, but really
because of the tragedy of the Countess Fanny. He could not himself
endure, and he did not think that anyone who had known the lost girl
could endure, to see other young women moving lightly and carelessly
through the rooms where she had last trodden; see any affectation of
gaiety or lightness while they still mourned her.… Neither Lucius nor
Oliver would be able to support any festivities this Christmas, he had
known; and neither at Lefton Park nor Sellar’s Mead would there be
any. But it was dull for Amy. The kind old man admitted that it was
very dull for Amy.
“Lucius will be back for Christmas,” he reminded her. “The watch is
over on the day before Christmas Eve. Look out for the 23rd, my dear;
Lucius will come back then, and, as I say, a changed man.”
“If the weather holds,” said Ambrosia.
“The light goes very well, they say,” remarked the Earl, with pride.
“Every night it’s lit, and exactly at the same time; Lucius is an
excellent keeper.”
“I must go and see it,” said Ambrosia dully, and indeed she had often
thought that she would like to ride to where she could see that beacon
out at sea--the beacon that Lucius was tending. Yet something had kept
her from ever doing so.
“I should like to see it, too,” said the Earl, “if I could get abroad;
but I fear that is impossible until the spring.”
How acridly these words echoed in Ambrosia’s ears.… “Till the spring”…
and they had once been the dearest of sentences, fragrant with
blossoming hope.
What did she care now if the spring ever came or not? Her life looked
as if it would be one continuous winter.
“Is Oliver abroad again to-day?” asked the old man timidly.
And Ambrosia said:
“Sir, he is every day abroad.”
“Still searching?” asked the Earl.
“Still searching,” said Ambrosia.