Chapter XXXV: Epilogue

Custom had so schooled the lady that she seldom indulged in the dangerous luxury of memory. But sometimes, when the music played, and she sat, as now, idle in the theatre, vague images of years ago would come into her mind. She was beside her husband in a box at the opera in Paris, formal, composed, amiable, brilliantly yet modestly dressed--an aristocratic Englishwoman, the wife of a successful diplomat, the mother of well-bred children--the Countess of Lefton, by all respected and admired; by none, perhaps, very warmly loved; but that had not as yet been admitted by Ambrosia. She never said, even in the innermost recesses of her heart: “My husband does not love me.…”

She looked at him now as he sat beside her--a distinguished, quiet, stately man. She had no definite thoughts of her own, and she wondered what his thoughts were.

They very seldom went to Cornwall now--both Sellar’s Mead and Flimwel Grange were let, the land farmed by others and the houses shut up; and their visits to Lefton Park were brief and rare and always in full summer.

They lived mostly abroad, as Ambrosia had always planned to live abroad; but, of all the countries they had been to, they had never travelled to Italy, and there was good excuse in the revolutions, the wars, and troubles in that disturbed South.

But the music to-night was Italian, and one of the songs both these people had heard lightly played on a harp, in the drawing-room in Sellar’s Mead, ten years ago this winter: the winter that Lucius had taken the watch on the lighthouse and Oliver had met with the accident that had killed him; far away now, all of it, and they never spoke of it, of course; and Ambrosia wondered why she must think of it to-night. Simply because the melody was Italian, she supposed. They never spoke of Italy, or of anything that came from Italy. That had become a frosty custom between them, part of the eternal subterfuge they played with one another, and to which they were now so used that they were hardly aware that they played it--custom, “deep as life.”

They had never quarrelled: that was the most deadly fact about their life--that they were always courteous to one another, and never disagreed; because they were keeping a pact which each had sworn to themselves--a pact of gratitude on her part, and of duty on his, which she maintained with fortitude and he with sweetness.

The many clusters of radiant lights were kept lit during the performance, and Ambrosia’s gaze wandered from the stage and round the house; and finally rested on a party opposite, who occupied one of the ornate boxes facing their own.

Her attention was attracted by these people because the woman wore so many diamonds--a _rivière_ of brilliants round her white neck, and falling in sparkling drops on her white bosom; a tiara of brilliants in her smooth black curls; brilliants round her wrists; a very beautiful woman--vivid, imposing, and splendid. An elderly lady and two men were her companions; she sat before them, and rested on the edge of the _loge_ an enormous bouquet of deep crimson roses arranged in a circle of white lace with long crimson ribbon, which hung over red velvet and gilt tasselled cushions; and Ambrosia looked, fascinated, at this profusion of luxurious flowers--crimson roses in the midst of winter. And presently, when the act was over, she remarked to her husband:

“That is a very beautiful woman opposite; do you know who she is?”

The Earl glanced across the theatre, and said no, he did not know who the lady might be. He spoke with careless courtesy, and deep indifference.

A great many people were gazing at that beautiful woman, and when some friends came into Lady Lefton’s box she asked them, “Who is the gorgeous stranger?” and one of them informed her that she was a certain Marquise de Marsac, the wife of a considerable noble, and, they believed, Spanish by birth. She had certainly been for some years in South America, and that was where her husband had met her. “He was a very wealthy man,” added the informant with a smile, “as the lady’s appearance might indicate.”

Ambrosia gazed at the stranger again. She could not fathom her own uncontrollable impulse to stare and stare at this woman. And then, suddenly--and the knowledge was like a sharp pain in her body--she knew why: for the lady opposite had turned her face full towards her, and Ambrosia thought: “Why, she is like Fanny Caldini! Exactly like Fanny Caldini would be now!” And she instinctively glanced at her husband.

He was reading his programme; Ambrosia could not bring herself to mention that name, which had not passed the lips of either of them for ten years. Besides, of course, it was absurd; a Spanish-American! How could Fanny have escaped, and have remained for ten years concealed? And what of her relations--that woman with her now? Why, she was like--and Ambrosia smiled at her own oddity--she was like she had imagined the faithful Madame de Mailly; and surely that was Fanny Caldini’s very way of holding her head, and flinging back the long, black curls?

“You look very pale, my love!” remarked the Earl, suddenly turning towards her. And then she had to say:

“That woman opposite reminded me of someone--Of poor Fanny Caldini!” And the name was spoken at last, after all these years.

“Ah, yes,” replied the Earl, still indifferently. “It is a common enough type, you know; and then those red roses.”

“Why do red roses make you think of her?” asked Amy. “There were no red roses then, you know, in Cornwall in the winter-time.”

“No,” he admitted, “no; and yet there is that association in my mind.”

“In mine, too,” said Amy. “Odd that they should be playing Italian music to-night,” and she nearly added (but checked herself in time): “when we have so avoided everything Italian.”

“It is the music, perhaps, that brings up the likeness,” returned Lucius, and Amy looked earnestly at his fine face--already, though he was but little over thirty, too fine-drawn--a closed, a secret, a resigned face.

“She is very beautiful,” murmured Amy. “How those diamonds become her! I suppose the elderly man is her husband, and that lady, perhaps, her sister; an elder sister, do you think?”

“Why, too old,” remarked the Earl; and the man who had told them the identity of the fair creature said no, she was only a companion, one who had always been with Madame de Marsac, and was in her complete confidence.

The voluptuous music began again to fill the vast theatre. Amy felt her head aching. She wished she had not come to the opera; she did not care for these garish diversions. The routine of every day suited her best: small duties, small cares, decorous conventions, elegant company, a stately going to and fro of petty pleasures and petty cares. Why need she tell herself now, defiantly, that she was happy? Why need a flicker of passion that she had long hoped burnt out flame up again as she looked at her husband, so remote and cool, as always remote and cool.

He was holding his programme up as if to shade his tired eyes from the glare of the light; behind his programme he was looking at that woman opposite, flashing in her diamonds, throwing back, with a white hand, those long, black ringlets.

Absurd! absurd! She must not let such a thought get hold of her, or everywhere she might see the likeness of Fanny Caldini. Had she not been married at an altar, beside which was a new marble tablet inscribed: _To the memory of Francesca Sylvestra Caldini, drowned by accident on these coasts, November_ 13_th_, 1856?

There were many Italian women of that type; she must remember that. It had been the music and the roses. Italian! But this woman was Spanish… well, then _Southern_ women of that type. The music and the roses, of course.… Italian music, and that little _aria_ Fanny had played on the pretty gilt harp that Oliver had brought, with so much vexation, from the castle outside Rome, the odd association with red flowers--of course she had heard Oliver say that, and that was what lingered in her mind.… The girl who had come and stayed so short a time had been like red flowers, he had said--red roses, in that unutterably chill and stormy and distant winter.

They left the theatre, and were delayed for a moment or so by the brilliant crowd in the _foyer_. In that moment they were brought quite close to the lady who had sat in the box opposite, and who was leaving the theatre with her companions. Amy could still not forbear to stare at her; seen close, she had more than ever the likeness of Fanny Caldini--yet a woman, where that Fanny had been a girl; and stately, where that Fanny had been wild. But how like! And Amy stood mute beside her husband, glad of the press, the gay voices and the laughter, and the formal, artificial air that encompassed them.

As the stranger approached, she looked at them. She was holding that close-packed bouquet of red roses high against her bosom; and then, as she paused near them, higher still against her lips; and over it she looked at them directly. And Ambrosia’s lips almost formed the word “_Fanny!_”

She pressed her husband’s arm, murmuring a request that he should take her away, for the heat and the perfumes were excessive. The stranger had just passed them, and was glancing back, still looking at them; and Amy saw that the Earl was looking at her; no wonder in that; she was a very beautiful woman, most extravagantly bedizened with diamonds, the most voluptuously and gorgeously attired woman there; he was not the only man who stared at her. For a second they looked at each other across those red roses she carried, higher still now, so that only her black eyes flashed above their crimson radiance.… For that one second she and Lucius looked at each other… he had no expression in his tired face.

And then she had turned away, and, leaning on the arm of her elderly escort, was gone down the wide stairs, the long, stiff train of her crimson satin dress rippling behind her.

“She is very beautiful,” murmured Amy timidly.

The Earl did not answer; Amy had always been accustomed to feeling outside his intimacy, but never had she had that sense so strongly as she had it to-night.… He was a stranger--a stranger who was not interested in her; she had never quite put that into words before.

In the carriage she began talking about ordinary affairs; this was their last night in Paris. He had a post in a city in Central Europe, and it might be months before they would return here. She said she was glad--she had grown to dislike Paris. It was so large and noisy and garish.

The Earl said yes; the excessive lights at the opera, and the flash of jewels, tired one’s eyes and gave one a headache.

The next morning, when taking leave of her acquaintances, Ambrosia had the curiosity to enquire of them if they knew anything of Madame de Marsac; and she was told that that brilliant and erratic lady had left Paris early that morning.

“She seldom stays long anywhere, and now, I believe, she is to return to South America after spending the winter in the South.”

They would not, then, meet again; and she must be careful. In no other woman must she see a likeness to Fanny Caldini. For when she had looked at that lovely woman last night, and then at her husband’s face, expressionless, composed, alien, she had felt as if someone had knocked on the lone structure of her life and sounded the hollowness of all her supposed happiness, echoing in that hollowness the name of Fanny Caldini.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. fisherfolk/fisher-folk, Jefferies/Jeffries, newel-post/newel post, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Add ToC.

Fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings.

[Chapter III]

Change “The _stanger_ was not in the least shy or self-conscious” to _stranger_.

[Chapter V]

“their estate was on too lonely. too wild, and too unproductive” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter VII]

“She stretched out her hand gracefully. and said, still with that” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter IX]

“Well. that was before my time, then the place was bought” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter X]

“nay, in a fashion more than _perculiar_; a fashion indecorous” to _peculiar_.

(“Don’t carry these petty quarrels too far” she said.) add a comma at the end of the quoted passage.

[Chapter XII]

“a _hugh_ tank for the accommodation of oil” to _huge_.

“As clearly as as if she now spoke the words” delete the third _as_.

[Chapter XIV]

“defend herself against this invective. but, rising, said” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter XIX]

“She was a very radiant and gay and lovely creature. my dear” change the period to a comma.

“She didn’t come here, I hope. Amy, for protection.” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter XX]

“the sombre personality of Ambrosia. in her dark dress” change the period to a comma.

“Yet she found herself saying, almost against her own volition;” change the semicolon to a colon.

[Chapter XXII]

(“Very well”; assented Oliver, “we’ll begin on the ground floor”) delete the semicolon and place a comma at the end of the first quoted passage.

[Chapter XXV]

“_They’r_ only standing out for a higher price” to _They’re_.

“bitterly resented by the _independen_ spirit of the Cornishmen” to _independent_.

“going to take the watch on the lighthouse. and you can go with him” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter XXVI]

“to have children. and her place in the ordinary world” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter XXVII]

“with the late dawn, the bitter, chill, the stormy winter dawn” delete the comma after _bitter_.

“bringing with her from Rome. and which had cost Oliver so much” change the period to a comma.

[Chapter XXIX]

(“Yes, yes,” they both said at once “we saw the rockets.”) add a comma after _once_.

[Epilogue]

(were hardly aware that they played it--custom, “deep as life,”) change the final comma to a period.

“as she looked at her husband. so remote and cool” change the period to a comma.

[End of text]