Chapter XIV

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?