The storm blew again continuously for three days, and Amy made no
attempt to go over to Lefton Park. She remained in Sellar’s Mead and
nursed Oliver--or rather watched by Oliver, for he required no
nursing. Brought up on a wagon from St. Nite’s Promontory, he had
remained for twenty-four hours unconscious. Amy had stared, with
repugnance and dismay, at his prone, heavily-breathing figure, at his
senseless, flushed face, which was distorted and twitching. “A
stroke,” the doctor had said; and if he had a third it was scarcely
likely that he would survive it--a man of his habits, who drank so
heavily, and was now in such a continuous stress of bitter emotion.
And he did not fail to add the usual consolation of doctors, face to
face with such terrible maladies: “It is far better, Miss Sellar, that
he should pass away suddenly in one of these fits than survive
paralysed or senseless--a log for you to tend, perhaps for years.”
For all the conventional courtesy of his profession, the doctor had
spoken without much pity or feeling. Ambrosia noted that, and it
reminded her of how little Oliver was loved, even from those who
obtained some advantage from him--even among his own dependants and
servants, who ate his bread and did his work, Oliver was not loved,
nor scarcely liked.
No one would regret him if he should die; perhaps, as Dr. Drayton had
seemed to say, it would be better if he did not recover. What was his
life but an agony?
She dutifully did what she could for him; she sat by his bed and
watched for returning consciousness; and there was the wind again,
howling and battling round the house, and no leaf yet on any tree, and
no flowers save those few snowdrops under the yew-tree hedge. Evenings
were longer now, and in the lengthening twilight the landscape looked
bleak as a bleached bone.
One day Amy rode over to Pen Hall Farm, proceeding cautiously and with
difficulty along the frozen road. The wind had dropped a little, but
it made no difference to the desolation and coldness of the weather.
Ambrosia had come reluctantly on this errand, but it was one she
scarcely cared to trust to a servant, and one she felt that must be
undertaken. She did not wish these people, wretched and outcast as
they were, to cherish any grievance against her or Oliver. Her pride
forbade that. Of course, it was Lucius who should really have thought
of them, since the boy had been his companion, and he paid the
lighthouse-keepers for any extra service. Yet she felt the
responsibility to be hers, in a way, for she knew that these people
hated Oliver, and that Oliver hated them. Odd that he should hate
anyone quite so insignificant, but there had been no other name, she
thought, for the curious passion with which he had spoken of them, and
the persistency with which he had ridden over here to menace and
threaten them.
In the dirty kitchen Amy took out her purse, counted five gold pieces
on to the soiled table.
“You looked after that boy, I believe, who was with Lord Vanden on the
lighthouse,” she said, “and he was swept into the sea by an accident,
as you have heard, no doubt.”
They replied sullenly that they had heard it.
“Well,” said Amy, more and more hostile, as she perceived how
unwelcome she was, and what an antagonistic reception she was
receiving, “here is what I reckon to be his wages, and something over.
The poor child seems to have had no relations, nor can he be traced at
Falmouth. He was a stowaway on some ship, no doubt; therefore I have
thought that _you_ should have this money.”
She had expected to see her gold snatched up with avaricious greed; it
could not have been often, if ever before, that these people had seen
sovereigns lying on their table. But there was a pause, of hesitation
and reluctance. Men and women looked at each other, and then on the
ground.
“Don’t you think it enough?” asked Amy coldly.
The grandmother, a repulsive old hag, replied malignantly:
“We asked for nothing, madam.”
“You are angry with me, I suppose,” said Amy, “because my brother is
trying to get this farm from you; but he will pay you a good price for
it, and you might do better somewhere else. The land is very poor, you
know; and you keep it all wretchedly,” she added. “I wonder you make a
living out of it. Since you will not work, why not let the farm go to
those who will make something of it?”
“It’s our land,” replied the man sullenly, “and we intend to remain on
it.”
“Very well; that is, after all, nothing to do with me,” remarked the
lady coldly. “But here are these five gold pieces, if you care to have
them. I don’t wish you to cherish a grievance about that poor boy. I’d
like to do something for him, and for you, who looked after him. I
suppose he was scarcely able to pay for himself?”
“He paid,” said one of the women. “He had a few shillings with him,
and he was always careful to pay his dues.”
Still no one made any attempt to touch the money, and Ambrosia
shrugged her shoulders and turned to the door. Economical as she was,
she could not endure to pick up the sovereigns which she had so
negligently thrown down on that dirty table.
“Take it or leave it, as you please,” she said, and went out and
mounted her horse by herself, and rode home.
When she reached Sellar’s Mead, she found that Oliver had recovered
consciousness, and had been asking for her. She hastened at once to
his room, and found him sitting up in bed, looking ghastly, she
thought, for two days unshaven, with one side of his face slightly
dragged, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, the face bloodless beneath the
dark tan that had come from these long weeks of exposure to wind and
rain and keen air.
“Where’s Lucius?” he asked at once.
“With his father, of course; I have not seen him since he left the
lighthouse.”
“He hasn’t written?” asked Oliver, in a faint voice. “No
message--nothing from him at all?”
“Nothing whatever, Oliver. You see, the storm has risen again.”
“He isn’t ill?” whispered Oliver.
“No; no, indeed, he is not ill. He is stronger than we thought.
Oliver. Dr. Drayton said this morning that he is very well; but the
old Earl is failing fast. But you, Oliver--how are you?” she asked
perfunctorily.
“I’m well enough now,” muttered the big man gloomily. “Queer I should
be struck down like this twice--eh, Amy?”
“You’ll have to be careful,” said his sister. “Dr. Drayton says so.
You must not agitate yourself so much, Oliver, nor drink so heavily.
If you have this attack for a third time it may be fatal.”
“And if it were?” he snarled. “Who’d regret me, eh?”
“I don’t know, indeed!” was on her lips; but she checked these harsh
and bitter words.
“Don’t you find anything worth while living for, Oliver?” she asked,
rather desperately. “Can’t you make some effort to command and
restrain yourself?”
“Yes, I’ll make an effort,” he answered; “I want to see Lucius.” And
he added in rasping tones: “How is it between you and Lucius?”
“As it has been for some time past,” she replied coldly. “Why do you
ask, Oliver? It must be clear to you that everything sentimental is
over between me and Lucius.”
“Has he said so?”
“No; he would scarcely say so,” replied Amy, with a bitter smile. “I
have not said so yet, either, for the moment was scarcely right, since
he had just come off the lighthouse and I was waiting for him. Then,
Oliver, I didn’t quite know; I thought perhaps--but it was hopeless;
he was as estranged as before.”
“By what?” asked Oliver.
Ambrosia would not feed his smouldering fury by mentioning the name of
Fanny. He only wanted her to say that name to give him an excuse for
an outburst of passion--of that she was well assured. He knew, as well
as she did, what had happened between her and Lucius. She would not
give him the gratification of discussing this hideous affair.
“We are not suited,” she replied. “That is the usual excuse, is it
not?” And then, with a fierce desire to wound herself, she added: “I
am older than he.”
Oliver gave her no word of sympathy or compassion. He seemed not to
regard her point of view in the least, but to remain entirely absorbed
in his own brooding and gloomy thoughts.
“What is Lucius going to do?” he demanded abruptly.
“How can I tell?” answered Amy wearily. “You had better go and ask
him, Oliver; but what concern, now, is it of either of us?”
That afternoon there came news from Lucius. He wrote hastily, saying
that his father was very ill, and that had prevented him from coming
over to Sellar’s Mead, and prevented him still; but that, if they
would care to come to Lefton Park, the old Earl might recover
consciousness and would, indeed, be glad to see them.
“I don’t want to meet him over a death-bed,” said Oliver, when this
news was brought to him. “But do you go, Amy, if you wish.”
“I will certainly go,” replied Ambrosia, for she had nothing but the
pleasantest and most tender recollections of the old man. But when,
that evening, she reached Lefton Park, the Earl was dead. He had
passed away dozing in his chair, in the little closet off the library,
surrounded by his shells, cases and boxes and trays of specimens, and
the clear glass of water into which he had dropped them to wash them;
dead so peacefully, beneath the print of Winstanley Lighthouse, amid
the shelves of books dealing with conchology. And everyone in Lefton
Park was mourning for the kindest and most patient of masters. And
again, when she heard the news, Ambrosia had the impression that
Death’s scythe was mowing a clear space round them, as the reaper cuts
the standing corn and leaves the last blades lonely.
Lucius had little to say to her. No doubt he was greatly shocked and
troubled, though he was dry and tearless, and said little about his
father, save to remark that he was glad the tempest had dropped, so
that he could return home in time to see the Earl again.
“And I can do nothing?” Ambrosia asked.
“Nothing, my dear, nothing.” And then he asked about Oliver--if he
were yet recovered from his seizure.
“Yes,” said Ambrosia, “he is better; Dr. Drayton says we must be
careful, or I, too, shall have Death in the house. But how is one to
be careful, Lucius, with a man like Oliver? I cannot cure his
heartache, nor make him cease drinking!”
“Does he drink?” asked Lucius.
“Yes--heavily; almost every night, now. One could hardly expect
anything else. I think, Lucius, that his mind is broken!”
And then Lucius said the name that she wished to say, but did not
dare.
“Does he still grieve for Fanny?”
Ambrosia answered:
“Who else should it be but Fanny that he grieves for?”
“I know,” replied Lucius, “I know.”
“And you, too,” she longed to cry out, in an accusing voice. “What do
you think of but Fanny; even now, when your father lies a few hours
dead, you are thinking of nothing but her!” But she choked back this
bitter reproach, and took her leave with decorum.
At the door he retained her hand a second between his own.
“Everything is all right between us, isn’t it, Amy?” he asked.
She stared at him out of the shadow of her bonnet.
“I don’t know,” she said, forcing a smile. “We must talk of that later
on.”
And driving home she wondered if she should keep him to his word. To
be a countess, to be the mistress of Lefton Park… should she ignore
his hurt, and keep him to his word and marry him, and so be rid of
Oliver and get away? Or should she renounce him, bidding him remain
faithful to his lost love? Ah, the choice was odious! “Most women
would marry him,” thought Amy. “Why not? The other’s but a dead
dream--dead, dead!”
Oliver recovered sufficiently to escort his sister to the funeral of
the Earl. He took his full part in the long and lugubrious ceremony.
Side by side, in ponderous and heavy mourning, brother and sister sat
in the dark church and listened to the service read by Mr. Spragge,
and looked round at the mural tablets and funeral hatchments on the
walls and pillars, and the congregation--all, like themselves, in
black--and then followed out into the bleak churchyard, and stood by
while the stone doors of the vault were unlocked and another coffin
was lowered into the impenetrable darkness of the interior; and then
rode back, in mourning coaches, the horses trapped in black, to Lefton
Park, where all the servants wore crape and the funeral meal was set
out in the long, green room with the indigo tapestries and the black
portraits, the room which the Countess Fanny had crossed the last time
that anyone had seen her radiant figure.
The will was read, and there were little legacies for all of them, but
nothing for Ambrosia, “since, as my son’s wife, she will have all.”
And Lucius sat at the head of his table and did the honours of his
house gravely and without fault. Only his coarsened face and his rough
hands showed strangely against the unrelieved black of his clothes.
Oliver had scarcely spoken to him, nor he to Oliver; but the elder man
stared at the younger continuously. Once or twice Amy had touched her
brother’s arm, saying, “Oliver, don’t stare so; it’s odd in you.
Whatever you have with Lucius, forget it now for pity’s sake!”
When all the guests had gone save those relations who had been able to
reach Lefton Park in time for the funeral and were staying in the
house, Amy and her brother yet lingered; Amy would have gone, but
Oliver detained her, saying:
“I wish to speak to Lucius; I want to see Lucius.”
“But not to-day, surely?” protested Amy; but to that he gave no
answer. Nor did Amy endeavour to urge him further. She was busy with
her own thoughts, drowsy with a certain lassitude of melancholy and
reflection. The large house, and even life itself, seemed blank enough
without the kind old man.
This loss in itself saddened her, and brought in its train reflections
which she must consider.
Lucius was now his own master--the master of Lefton Park, and the
whole estate, and such influence and honour and money as there were.
There was nothing--Amy must face that--there was nothing to keep him
in Cornwall if he wished to leave. He might in a few days go away, and
she never see him again. If she released him, she believed that that
was what he would do; go away, and for ever. But, if she held him to
his promise, then he must marry her, and then she would go too; and
Amy, sitting there in her black shawl and bonnet, with her hands
folded in her lap, staring down at her white cambric cuff and her
prayer-book, had thought: “And I _will_ hold him to it--why not? There
is nobody else now; even if he loved her, that’s over. I’ll marry him
and go away with him. I shall make him a good wife. I can’t be left
here with Oliver; I must escape, and he’s the only chance!”
Always, from the first day that Lucius had spoken to her, from the
first day that there had been any understanding between them, this had
been in her mind: Lucius was a way of escape; but never had she put it
so crudely and even brutally as she put it to herself now, sitting in
that house of mourning. She would not let him go! She would not lose
her only chance.… She could not afford to do so; let more
highly-placed and better dowered women be generous.…
When Lucius had a little leisure, he came and spoke to her, very
tenderly and affectionately; and she took instant advantage of that,
and, clasping his hands, said:
“Lucius, can we begin again? I always counted on the spring, and it is
the spring now? Can you be a little composed?”
He looked at her earnestly, and she turned away her face. She feared
that she was no longer pleasing to look at, and that even in the
shadow of her black bonnet he must see lines under her eyes and about
her mouth, and hollows in her cheeks. This long winter had rifled her
charms; too well she knew that.
Turning from him, she must gaze out of the window, across the desolate
park. The snow was beginning to fall; the flakes appeared to drift
more up than down.
“You must marry me soon,” said Lucius, “and we will go away.”
And she made no demur, while her heart leapt to hear those words which
were like the grating of the key in the lock to some long-inured
prisoner.
At last they left; even so, Amy found their departure was but a feint,
for Oliver must turn back, saying he had forgotten his gloves--must
leave her in the carriage and return to Lefton Park.
The door was still open, and he made his way in, directly across the
long, dark-green drawing-room, where the food still stood on the long
table--the sherry and the cakes, the pies and the tea-urns--and
lightly and directly reached the little closet beyond, where the young
Earl stood, where they had left him a few moments ago. He was leaning
on the mantelpiece, contemplating a small object that he held in his
hand, and he did not hear Oliver open the door; nor did Oliver speak
or move, but stood there staring at him. And he was staring at what he
held--a small coral bracelet.
Hearing an odd, choking sound which he thought to be that of some
animal, Lucius turned abruptly and beheld Oliver Sellar in the
doorway. The two black-clad figures faced each other, one so heavy and
grim, and one so slight and comely.
Oliver pointed to the bracelet.
“Hers!” he cried. “Her bracelet!”
“Yes,” said Lucius, in a still voice. “She gave it me the day she was
lost.”