Chapter IV

The dinner was perfectly arranged--Ambrosia had seen to that; there was no fault in any detail. The room looked rich and handsome in the light of the brilliant candles. Ambrosia never used lamps whenever she could use candles. The furniture and the walls and the silver all gleamed alike with rich and deep and varied reflections. The lace on the cloth and on the sideboard was both fine, elegant, and impressive; the Waterford glass had a thousand facets of coloured light; the fruit was hot-house and luxurious; the wine was of the best, as was the service and the food.

Dr. Drayton had brought his sister, an elderly lady who seldom left her own house, and Mr. Spragge was full of excuses about his wife. The old Earl had not come after all, so they were but a small party--three men and three women round the circular table; but everyone, save the host, made an effort towards goodwill and courtesy.

Ambrosia felt grateful towards these three modest and genial gentlefolk who were showing such a pleasant and obliging humour--for her sake, she knew, for they none of them greatly cared for Oliver, and were all of them, like herself, doubtful about the stranger. And the situation was awkward--Ambrosia could not disguise that. So difficult to know what to talk about, so almost impossible to know _how_ to talk when one had found a subject; for Oliver sat so silent, said so little, and said that little with so ungracious an air. And the Countess Fanny had that light, cold, mocking way which seemed to dispose of every subject as trifling or obvious. She had almost an air of laughing at all of them, and, whereas she should have been the one who was shy, embarrassed, and self-conscious, in the end she was the only one who was completely self-possessed.

In brief, no one knew how to deal with her, but she appeared to know how to deal with everyone. Ambrosia wondered how she had contrived such self-control and finish in that gloomy castle outside Rome, where, she declared, she had spent all her days.

On being pressed, she admitted to having been to Rome and Florence; yes, and even to Paris. “And she is only eighteen!” thought Ambrosia, “and has already seen more of the world than I; and that is why she is able to carry this off when I can’t--I, who am nearly ten years older, and in my own house, sitting here like a fool, while she is not moved in the least!” Then Ambrosia added, in her thoughts: “Of course, it is her beauty; if one’s as beautiful as that one can do anything.”

The other three--those three elderly, quiet people from this lonely village--were, she thought, fascinated and almost embarrassed by the stranger’s beauty; clearly, they had not expected that: prettiness, perhaps, or charm, but not this definite quality of vivid beauty. “Greatly gifted,” thought Ambrosia; “very considerably dowered; rich, too--well educated, well born, and not foolish; it is rather surprising”--and she glanced at her brother--“that the girl chose Oliver.”

Ambrosia was angry with Oliver; it seemed to her unforgivable that he could not make some effort to pass over this occasion with greater agreeableness and courtesy. How inexcusable was this silence, these dark looks, these brief replies, this air of discontent and gloom; what was the matter with Oliver? The girl’s beauty forbade the conjecture that perhaps he had already repented of his rash engagement, and her courteous, smiling manner towards him forbade the suggestion that they had quarrelled on the journey. Why, then, could not Oliver behave himself better?

She looked at him keenly across the high silver epèrgne loaded with fruits, and hoped that he would catch the glance of disapproval in her eyes; but he was looking down at the cloth, and making pellets of his bread that he flicked to and fro along the lace cloth.

Oliver was quite unnecessarily good-looking: Ambrosia had always thought so. He had all the beauty there was in the family; both she and poor William had been plain compared to his dark handsomeness, and this had always irritated Ambrosia. Stupid for Oliver to be good-looking--a man like that! It made no difference at all whether he was handsome or not, unless it had made a little difference now, in his capture of the Countess Fanny. “But if he came wooing me,” thought Ambrosia, “he would not win me with those dark, sullen, scowling looks, and that air of suppressed violence!” He was a heavy, massive man with blunt features and thick, slightly curling hair, now ash-coloured on the temples. He appeared, in his sister’s eyes, very sombre in his black clothes and the carelessly-tied white choker, with his dark complexion and exactly-drawn black lines of side-whiskers on his flat ruddy cheeks. His full lips were set in petulant lines of ill-humour, and his very heavily marked brows drawn together in a slight frown--the last expression he should have worn on such an occasion, at the head of his own table.

Ambrosia had to withdraw her gaze--“Or I shall find myself disliking Oliver,” she thought; “really disliking both Oliver and his future wife; and how hateful that would be.” Yes, it would be hateful; she despised herself for the mere thought. But the thought had been there--had lingered quite definitely in her mind.

If only Luce were here! Luce, with his charm and his gaiety and high spirits! Why, life went to a different measure when Luce was about. When they were married she would see that he was not so often away. She thought that to-morrow she would go over to Lefton Park, and see the old Earl, and hear when Luce was returning. It was possible, though it was not likely, that he would let his father know before he let her know; anyhow, she could talk with someone who loved Luce as none of these loved him! Why, the three old people liked him, of course--he was popular with everyone--but they could not love him like she loved him. And as for Oliver--well Oliver did not like him. And since the Countess Fanny had chosen Oliver, it was not very likely that she would like Luce either. No, he was quite different and apart from all these people, and Ambrosia, in the recesses of her secluded mind, dwelt on these things and tried to forget the present company.

Yet she was first to admire how the young foreign girl carried off this difficult situation; how amiable she was to the three elderly people; how deferential to the clergyman; how cool and self-assured with Oliver, and how affectionately respectful towards herself--and yet all in a heartless manner that could not evoke any response from Ambrosia. “She has taught herself,” thought the elder woman, “the right manner for everybody, but it has been taught--it does not come from the heart.” And so she judged the stranger, who sat so gracefully at the table which would soon be her own table, in the house that was now so alien to her, but where she would soon be the mistress.

After dinner there was an awkward half-hour in the drawing-room, where the Countess Fanny sat on a yellow sofa and listened with an agreeable smile to the chit-chat of the doctor’s sister, and to Ambrosia’s efforts to be entertaining about the neighbourhood.

The girl appeared to have little curiosity as to her future home. She listened with a polite attention, but it was no more than a polite attention. “What is her heart in?” thought Ambrosia; “not in this place, sure enough, I think; and scarcely, I believe, in Oliver.”

“I shall like to see your scenery,” said the Countess Fanny. “I believe it is very fine and grand, and I do little landscapes in pencil which are much admired. I must show you my album, Miss Drayton, where I have some such designs which I have taken of the Italian lakes and the ruins in and round Rome. Do you not also sketch with crayons?” she asked Ambrosia.

And Ambrosia shook her head:

“I used to, when I was a girl, but I do not now.”

“You speak as if you were already old,” smiled the Countess Fanny, “but I think you are a girl still; and you are to be married, are you not?--Oliver said in the spring--the same time as myself.”

Ambrosia answered:

“Yes, I am to be married in the spring--to Luce Foxe; I hope you will like him. He is away just now, or he would have been at the ferry to meet you.”

“Of course I shall like him!” said the Countess Fanny, with her brilliant and beautiful smile, “since he has been your choice, my dear Amy. Does he live near here, and will you, when you are married, be still a neighbour?”

“The place--Lefton Park--is near here,” replied Ambrosia, “but I hope to go to London and abroad.”

“That,” said the Countess Fanny, “is where I shall never go, I believe, since Oliver says we are to spend the rest of our lives here.”

“She can’t know what she is saying!” thought Ambrosia. “She is only eighteen, and she talks so coldly of spending the rest of her life here--here in Sellar’s Mead, in Cornwall, near the Land’s End! The girl is senseless or heartless--or both!”

The guests left early; Ambrosia believed that they all felt the considerable tension in the atmosphere, for all Fanny’s ease and her own attempt at gracious hospitality; and Fanny, too, must go to bed early, under a quite reasonable plea of fatigue and excitement. She had her own maid, and refused all other ministrations. She kissed Ambrosia lightly on the cheek, and suffered Oliver to kiss her lightly on the hand; and then she was gone, leaving the brother and sister alone in the drawing-room that had been familiar to them since they could remember anything.

Ambrosia wished for no private conversations with Oliver. She really had nothing to say to him, and dreaded being involved in any argument or discussion. She knew how wearisome and tedious discussions and arguments were with Oliver, and, after all, what was there now to dispute or discuss? He had decided on his future, and she had decided on hers. There was nothing for them to do but to be as amiable as possible to each other while they had to live in the same house. The only thing that she would really have liked to say to Oliver was this: to request that he would contrive to be, during the coming winter months, more agreeable than he had been to-night.

So she began to chatter about commonplaces, and meant soon to make an excuse of retiring; but Oliver detained her. With a serious air, he asked her, when she made an attempt to rise, to keep her seat.

“I am only going to fetch my needlework,” said Ambrosia, who wished to rob the occasion of all solemnity.

But Oliver said, with some impatience, that she need not bother about her work, but must remain and listen to him.

“Dear me, Oliver! Surely you cannot have anything very important to say at this time of night! It is nearly eleven o’clock, and has been, I know, a most fatiguing day for all of us.”

“Surely not for you,” rejoined Oliver sullenly; “what have _you_ had to do, Amy, that has fatigued you so?”

“It is not what I’ve had to do, but what I’ve had to think,” replied the young woman, “that I have found fatiguing; but if you have something to say, pray say it, Oliver--do not keep me in suspense.”

“You are not making it particularly easy for me!” said her brother. “You might guess that what I have to say is about Fanny.”

Ambrosia had guessed this: she was also right in supposing that she was not making things very easy for him. She saw no reason why she should do so: Oliver had never made things easy for her.

“I was not able to explain myself in my letter,” remarked Oliver harshly; “it was, of course, obvious that I could not; also obvious, I suppose, that you should expect me to explain myself now.”

Ambrosia made a little gesture of weariness.

“Please, Oliver, do not try to explain yourself--indeed, there is no need! Why should you? You are your own master--of your thoughts, your fortunes, and your person--and you have chosen this young girl. I know nothing about her, but I can see that she is exceedingly--nay, dazzlingly--beautiful, and that should be sufficiently your excuse. I hope I shall like her--hope, even, I shall love her.”

“You don’t,” replied Oliver heavily; “you don’t like her, and I don’t think, or hope, that you will love her.”

She was annoyed that he had seen her attitude towards Fanny. How stupid and tiresome that she should have had such an attitude!

“One must not go on first impressions,” she said hastily; “it is not true to say that I don’t like her. I think she is odd and strange, but, as I say, she is so beautiful----”

Oliver interrupted.

“There is no need to repeat that, Amy--everybody can see that Fanny is beautiful,” he said sullenly and petulantly. “You must be wondering, though, why I am going to marry her. You know, and no doubt have remarked, that I am double her age; and you know, and no doubt also have remarked,” he added with some bitterness, “that she has been shut up all her life and had very little opportunity of seeing anyone save myself in the light of a suitor.”

“Naturally,” replied Ambrosia stiffly, for it seemed to her as if her brother was trying to force a quarrel, “everyone will have remarked and noticed these things. Why should you take any heed of them? You have made your choice, and I dare say nothing will influence you against it.”

“Nothing will influence me against it, naturally,” he replied at once; “but I should like to explain myself.”

“How can you possibly explain such a thing?” asked Ambrosia, raising her brows. “I could not explain why I am going to marry Luce--why should you explain why you are going to marry Fanny? It is really absurd, Oliver; you are, as I say, your own master, and you have no need to think of me--after the spring I shall be off your hands. Only, I pray you, do let us be as considerate as possible towards each other while we are shut up here. The winter is very long and very lonely at Sellar’s Mead, and we must all make the best of it.”

But Oliver would pursue the subject. His sister could perceive that he was desperately self-conscious about his marriage--terribly afraid of making a fool of himself in the eyes of his neighbours. He continued to talk at some length, with some violence and in a rambling fashion, about the Countess Fanny--how he had found her, alone and, as it were, unprotected, in the company of a most undesirable woman--a frivolous, corrupt, worldly woman, this Madame de Mailly; and of how he had fought the influence of this Madame de Mailly.

Ambrosia yawned at last, and interrupted him:

“Please don’t tell me all about it, Oliver. It’s quite apparent that you have fallen in love with the girl, that you offered yourself as a husband, and that she accepted you; and do leave it at that!”

“But you said that she was odd and queer,” persisted Oliver gloomily. “And I dare say those other three fools went away and said that she was odd and queer, and are mouthing and gossiping over her and the fact that I am going to marry her, and the fact that I brought her back, and that we are staying here together all the winter. I don’t know why you don’t marry Luce at once, Amy--then I could marry Fanny immediately.”

“But that would be hardly decent!” cried Ambrosia. “Her mother has been dead only about two months. Nay, it is impossible: an outrage on all feelings, Oliver! And as for myself and Luce, you know that all arrangements have been made for the spring, and that it would be almost impossible to alter them now.”

“Bound up in customs and convention,” said Oliver, walking up and down the room; and his sister laughed.

It was indeed a curious remark for him to have made, for he himself was a slave of customs and convention, to an almost absurd degree.

“Besides,” she said, “it would be scarcely fair on Fanny herself--an immediate marriage. She must get used to this country; she must get used to her neighbours! Let her know a little bit, Oliver, what she is letting herself in for!”

“That is not a pleasant way of putting it!” he retorted, violent at once. “‘Letting herself in for’--what do you mean, Amy?”

Ambrosia rose and shrugged her shoulders wearily.

“You know perfectly well what I mean. It is not altogether so pleasant here, is it? It is certainly not lively, and the winter is a severe test for anyone. There are hardly any women, and no girls. She must either invite company here or get used to doing without it; in either case it will take a little time and practice. Perhaps she has friends--somebody in London. I should take her there for a few weeks, if I were you, Oliver. Did not the Flimwels have some connections in town? Surely her mother knew somebody; and her family--her father’s family, I mean--I suppose they are of some pretension? Do be a little reasonable, Oliver! You don’t expect her and me and you to remain shut up here all the winter, do you, doing nothing but getting used to each other’s characters?”

“I shall _not_ take Fanny to London,” said Oliver sternly; “and don’t put any such ideas or wishes into her head, Amy. We are going to remain here till the spring, when we shall be married, and then we shall continue to remain here--settle down here for the rest of our lives; what else?”

“Exactly as you please,” said Ambrosia; “I merely gave you my advice. You will do what you wish, and I suppose you will be able to make Fanny do what you wish. As for myself, I am going away, as you know.”

“But no farther than Lefton Park.”

“A great deal farther than Lefton Park, I hope,” said Ambrosia nervously. “I intend to take Luce away.”

“Yes, you’ll take Luce--that’s it: he won’t take you. If you leave him alone he’ll stay at Lefton Park. He’s absorbed in the place, and in his lighthouse.”

“Oh, the lighthouse,” said Ambrosia, on a quick breath; “that’s just a passing whim--a caprice; you don’t suppose a man like Luce will all his life continue to be interested in the lighthouse on St. Nite’s Point?”

“I should have thought he would,” retorted Oliver; “I should have thought it would have got hold of him, and it wouldn’t be so easy for you, as you call it, to ‘take him away.’”

Ambrosia bit her lip with vexation: she was very sorry she had used that expression, “take Luce away.” How weak and trifling it sounded! And yet, how exactly it had expressed her intention and her feeling! It would be she who took Luce away from St. Nite’s--not Luce who took her!

“I must leave the room,” she thought, “or I shall quarrel! How really appalling that Oliver and I can hardly meet without quarrelling! Even now, after he has been all these months away, the first thing we stumble on is disagreement and dissension!”

She rose, shaking out the folds of the glittering bright blue dress; and, as she did so, the door opened and the Countess Fanny entered. She had forgotten her bag, she said; and the three of them began looking for this bag--a little affair of striped sarcenet with gold beads on it, Fanny described it, which had been dropped somewhere among the cushions. It could not immediately be found.

“It has my beads in it,” she explained, “my rosary.”

And Oliver, at that, rose from where he was stooping over the cushions, and asked angrily what she still did with a rosary?

“I like to say my prayers,” smiled the Countess Fanny, with a brilliant and rather meaningless smile. “May I not do so, Oliver, even though I am a Protestant?”

“Of course you will say your prayers,” he replied, “but not with beads! Amy, there is no need for us to search for this satchel if it is only the beads it contains.”

The Countess Fanny said, in the same clear, unembarrassed tones:

“It is more than the beads I wish. There is a pot of pomade there.”

Ambrosia had found the bag, and gave it to Fanny, again bidding her good night, and trying to throw some tenderness into the simple salutation.

Billowing her pale skirts about her, the Countess Fanny moved buoyantly towards the door. Oliver was opening it for her, and Ambrosia chanced to notice his expression as he looked at the girl while she passed before him. Ambrosia was shocked, was held by that expression: everything was now explained. Oliver regarded her with a greedy stare of insatiable passion; Ambrosia knew at once, with a pang, that she had never seen such a look on Luce’s face.