Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  When he went to see her on the following day he was a little surprised at her manner, which inclined more to the severe coldness of that memorable day of difficulties than to the unbending he had expected from her note. Of course he had no reason to be disappointed, and he showed his inexperience. She was compensating her conscience for the concession she had made in intimating that he might go. It was indeed a concession, but to what superior power she had yielded it behoves not inquisitive man to ask. Perhaps she thought Claudius would enjoy the trip very much, and said to herself she had no right to make him give it up.

  They read together for some time, and at last Claudius asked her, in connection with a point which arose, whether she would like to read a German book that he thought good.

  “Very much,” said she. “By the by, I am glad you have been able to arrange to go with us. I thought your engagements were going to prevent you.”

  Claudius looked at her, trying to read her thoughts, in which he failed. He might have been satisfied, but he was not. There was a short silence, and then he closed the book over his hand and spoke.

  “Countess, do you wish me to go or not?”

  Margaret raised her dark eyebrows. He had never seen her do that before. But then he had never said anything so clumsy before in his whole life, and he knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth, and his face was white in sunshine. She looked at him suddenly, a slight smile on her lips, and her eyes just the least contracted, as if she were going to say something sarcastic. But his face was so pitifully pale. She saw how his hand trembled. A great wave of womanly compassion welled up in her soul, and the smile faded and softened away as she said one word.

  “Yes.” It came from the heart, and she could not help it if it sounded kindly.

  “Then I will go,” said Claudius, hardly knowing what he said, for the blood came quickly back to his face.

  “Of course you will, I could have told you that ever so long ago,” chirped a little bullfinch in the tree overhead.

  A couple of weeks or more after the events last chronicled, the steam yacht Streak was two days out on the Atlantic, with a goodly party on board. There were three ladies — the Duke’s sister, the Countess, and Miss Skeat, the latter looking very nautical in blue serge, which sat tightly over her, like the canvas cover sewn round a bicycle when it is sent by rail. Of men there were also three — to wit, the owner of the yacht, Mr. Barker, and Dr. Claudius.

  The sea has many kinds of fish. Some swim on their sides, some swim straight, some come up to take a sniff of air, and some stay below. It is just the same with people who go to sea. Take half a dozen individuals who are all more or less used to the water, and they will behave in half a dozen different ways. One will become encrusted to the deck like a barnacle, another will sit in the cabin playing cards; a third will spend his time spinning yarns with the ship’s company, and a fourth will rush madly up and down the deck from morning till night in the pursuit of an appetite which shall leave no feat of marine digestion untried or unaccomplished. Are they not all stamped on the memory of them that go down to the sea in yachts? The little card-box and the scoring-book of the players, the deck chair and rugs of the inveterate reader, the hurried tread and irascible eye of the carnivorous passenger, and the everlasting pipe of the ocean talker, who feels time before him and the world at his feet wherein to spin yarns — has any one not seen them?

  Now, the elements on board of the Streak were sufficiently diverse to form a successful party, and by the time they were two days out on the long swell, with a gentle breeze just filling the trysails, and everything stowed, they had each fallen into the groove of sea life that was natural to him or to her. There were Barker and the Duke in the pretty smoking-room forward with the windows open and a pack of cards between them. Every now and then they stopped to chat a little, or the Duke would go out and look at the course, and make his rounds to see that every one was all right and nobody sea-sick. But Barker rarely moved, save to turn his chair and cross one leg over the other, whereby he might the more easily contemplate his little patent leather shoes and stroke his bony hands over his silk-clad ankles; for Mr. Barker considered sea-dressing, as he called it, a piece of affectation, and arrayed himself on board ship precisely as he did on land. The Duke, on the other hand, like most Englishmen when they get a chance, revelled in what he considered ease; that is to say, no two of his garments matched or appeared to have been made in the same century; he wore a flannel shirt, and was inclined to go about barefoot when the ladies were not on deck, and he adorned his ducal forehead with a red worsted cap, price one shilling.

  Margaret, as was to be expected, was the deck member, with her curiously-wrought chair and her furs and her portable bookcase; while Miss Skeat, who looked tall and finny, and sported a labyrinthine tartan, was generally to be seen entangled in the weather-shrouds near by. As for the Duke’s sister, Lady Victoria, she was plain, but healthy, and made regular circuits of the steamer, stopping every now and then to watch the green swirl of the foam by the side, and to take long draughts of salt air into her robust lungs. But of all the party there was not one on whom the change from the dry land to the leaping water produced more palpable results than on Claudius. He affected nothing nautical in dress or speech, but when the Duke saw him come on deck the first morning out, there was something about his appearance that made the yachtsman say to Barker —

  “That man has been to sea, I am positive. I am glad I asked him.”

  “All those Swedes are amphibious,” replied Barker; “they take to the water like ducks. But I don’t believe he has smelled salt water for a dozen years.”

  “They are the best sailors, at all events,” said the Duke. “I have lots of them among the men. Captain a Swede too. Let me introduce you.” They were standing on the bridge. “Captain Sturleson, my friend Mr. Barker.” And so in turn the captain was made known to every one on board; for he was an institution with the Duke, and had sailed his Grace’s yachts ever since there had been any to sail, which meant for about twenty years. To tell the truth, if it were not for those beastly logarithms, the Duke was no mean sailing-master himself, and he knew a seaman when he saw one; hence his remark about Claudius. The Doctor knew every inch of the yacht and every face in the ship’s company by the second day, and it amused the Countess to hear his occasional snatches of the clean-cut Northern tongue that sounded like English, but was yet so different.

  Obedient to her instructions, he had provided books of all sorts for the voyage, and they began to read together, foolishly imagining that, with the whole day at their disposal, they would do as much work as when they only met for an hour or two daily to accomplish a set purpose. The result of their unbounded freedom was that conversation took the place of reading. Hitherto Margaret had confined Claudius closely to the matter in hand, some instinct warning her that such an intimacy as had existed during his daily visits could only continue on the footing of severe industry she had established from the first. But the sight of the open deck, the other people constantly moving to and fro, the proper aspect of the lady-companion, just out of earshot, and altogether the appearance of publicity which the sea-life lent to their tête-à-tête hours, brought, as a necessary consequence, a certain unbending. It always seemed such an easy matter to call some third party into the conversation if it should grow too confidential. And so, insensibly, Claudius and Margaret wandered into discussions about the feelings, about love, hate, and friendship, and went deep into those topics which so often end in practical experiment. Claudius had lived little and thought much; Margaret had seen a great deal of the world, and being gifted with fine intuitions and tact, she had reasoned very little about what she saw, understanding, as she did, the why and wherefore of most actions by the pure light of feminine genius. The Doctor theorised, and it interested his companion to find facts she remembered suddenly brought directly under a neat generalisation; and before long she found herself trying to remember facts to fit his theories, a mode of go
ing in double harness which is apt to lead to remarkable but fallacious results. In the intervals of theorising Claudius indulged in small experiments. But Barker and the Duke played poker.

  Of course the three men saw a good deal of each other — in the early morning before the ladies came on deck, and late at night when they sat together in the smoking-room. In these daily meetings the Duke and Claudius had become better acquainted, and the latter, who was reticent, but perfectly simple, in speaking of himself, had more than once alluded to his peculiar position and to the unexpected change of fortune that had befallen him. One evening they were grouped as usual around the square table in the brightly-lighted little room that Barker and the Duke affected most. The fourfold beat of the screw crushed the water quickly and sent its peculiar vibration through the vessel as she sped along in the quiet night. The Duke was extended on a transom, and Claudius on the one opposite, while Barker tipped himself about on his chair at the end of the table. The Duke was talkative, in a disjointed, monosyllabic fashion.

  “Yes. I know. No end of a queer sensation, lots of money. Same thing happened to me when I came of age.”

  “Not exactly the same thing,” said Claudius; “you knew you were going to have it.”

  “No,” put in Barker. “Having money and being likely to have it are about the same as far as spending it goes. Particularly in England.”

  “I believe the whole thing is a fraud,” said the Duke in a tone of profound reflection. “Never had a cent before I came of age. Seems to me I never had any since.”

  “Spent it all in water-melon and fire-crackers, celebrating your twenty-first birthday, I suppose,” suggested Barker.

  “Spent it some way, at all events,” replied the Duke. “Now, here,” he continued, addressing Barker, “is a man who actually has it, who never expected to have it, who has got it in hard cash, and in the only way in which it is worth having — by somebody else’s work. Query — what will Claudius do with his millions?” Exhausted by this effort of speech, the Duke puffed his tobacco in silence, waiting for an answer. Claudius laughed, but said nothing.

  “I know of one thing he will do with his money. He will get married,” said Barker.

  “For God’s sake, Claudius,” said the Duke, looking serious, “don’t do that.”

  “I don’t think I will,” said Claudius.

  “I know better,” retorted Barker, “I am quite sure I shall do it myself some day, and so will you. Do you think if I am caught, you are going to escape?”

  The Duke thought that if Barker knew the Duchess, he might yet save himself.

  “You are no chicken, Barker, and perhaps you are right. If they catch you they can catch anybody,” he said aloud.

  “Well, I used to say the mamma was not born who could secure me. But I am getting old, and my nerves are shaken, and a secret presentiment tells me I shall be bagged before long, and delivered over to the tormentors.”

  “I pity you if you are,” said the Duke. “No more poker, and very little tobacco then.”

  “Not as bad as that. You are as much married as most men, but it does not interfere with the innocent delights of your leisure hours, that I can see.”

  “Ah, well — you see — I am pretty lucky. The Duchess is a domestic type of angel. Likes children and bric-à-brac and poultry, and all those things. Takes no end of trouble about the place.”

  “Why should not I marry the angelic domestic — the domestic angel, I mean?”

  “You won’t, though. Doesn’t grow in America. I know the sort of woman you will get for your money.”

  “Give me an idea.” Barker leaned back in his chair till it touched the door of the cabin, and rolled his cigar in his mouth.

  “Of course she will be the rage for the time. Eighteen or nineteen summers of earthly growth, and eighteen or nineteen hundred years of experience and calculation in a former state.”

  “Thanks, that sounds promising. Claudius, this is intended for your instruction.”

  “You will see her first at a ball, with a cartload of nosegays slung on her arms, and generally all over her. That will be your first acquaintance; you will never see the last of her.”

  “No — I know that,” said Barker gloomily.

  “She will marry you out of hand after a three months’ engagement. She will be married by Worth, and you will be married by Poole. It will be very effective, you know. No end of wedding presents, and acres of flowers. And then you will start away on your tour, and be miserable ever after.”

  “I am glad you have done,” was Barker’s comment.

  “As for me,” said Claudius, “I am of course not acquainted with the peculiarities of American life, but I fancy the Duke is rather severe in his judgment.”

  It was a mild protest against a wholesale condemnation of American marriages; but Barker and the Duke only laughed as if they understood each other, and Claudius had nothing more to say. He mentally compared the utterances of these men, doubtless grounded on experience, with the formulas he had made for himself about women, and which were undeniably the outcome of pure theory. He found himself face to face with the old difficulty, the apparent discord between the universal law and the individual fact. But, on the other hand, he could not help comparing himself with his two companions. It was not in his nature to think slightingly of other men, but he felt that they were of a totally different mould, besides belonging to a different race. He knew that however much he might enjoy their society, they had nothing in common with him, and that it was only his own strange fortune that had suddenly transported him into the very midst of a sphere where such characters were the rule and not the exception.

  The conversation languished, and Claudius left the Duke and Barker, and went towards his quarters. It was a warm night for the Atlantic, and though there was no moon, the stars shone out brightly, their reflection moving slowly up and down the slopes of the long ocean swell. Claudius walked aft, and was going to sit down for a few minutes before turning in, when he was suddenly aware of a muffled female figure leaning against the taffrail only a couple of paces from where he was. In spite of the starlight he could not distinguish the person. She was wrapped closely in a cloak and veil, as if fearing the cold. As it must be one of the three ladies who constituted the party, Claudius naturally raised his cap, but fearing lest he had chanced on the Duke’s sister, or still worse, on Miss Skeat, he did not speak. Before long, however, as he leaned against the side, watching the wake, the unknown remarked that it was a delightful night. It was Margaret’s voice, and the deep musical tones trembled on the rise and fall of the waves, as if the sounds themselves had a distinct life and beating in them. Did the dark woman know what magic lay in her most trivial words? Claudius did not care a rush whether the night were beautiful or otherwise, but when she said it was a fine evening, it sounded as if she had said she loved him.

  “I could not stay downstairs,” she said, “and so when the others went to bed I wrapped myself up and came here. Is it not too wonderful?”

  Claudius moved nearer to her.

  “I have been pent up in the Duke’s tabagie for at least two hours,” he said, “and I am perfectly suffocated.”

  “How can you sit in that atmosphere? Why don’t you come and smoke on deck?”

  “Oh! it was not only the tobacco that suffocated me to-night, it was the ideas.”

  “What ideas?” asked Margaret.

  “You have known the Duke a long time,” said he, “and of course you can judge. Or rather, you know. But to hear those two men talk is enough to make one think there is neither heaven above nor hell beneath.” He was rather incoherent.

  “Have they been attacking your favourite theories,” Margaret asked, and she smiled behind her veil; but he could not see that, and her voice sounded somewhat indifferent.

  “Oh! I don’t know,” he said, as if not wanting to continue the subject; and he turned round so as to rest his elbows on the taffrail. So he stood, bent over and looking away astern a
t the dancing starlight on the water. There was a moment’s silence.

  “Tell me,” said Margaret at last.

  “What shall I tell you, Countess?” asked Claudius.

  “Tell me what it was you did not like about their talk.”

  “It is hard to say, exactly. They were talking about women, and American marriages; and I did not like it, that is all.” Claudius straightened himself again and turned towards his companion. The screw below them rushed round, worming its angry way through the long quiet waves.

  “Barker,” said Claudius, “was saying that he supposed he would be married some day — delivered up to torture, as he expressed it — and the Duke undertook to prophesy and draw a picture of Barker’s future spouse. The picture was not attractive.”

  “Did Mr. Barker think so too?”

  “Yes. He seemed to regard the prospects of matrimony from a resigned and melancholy point of view. I suppose he might marry any one he chose in his own country, might he not?”

  “In the usual sense, yes,” answered Margaret.

  “What is the ‘usual sense’?” asked the Doctor.

  “He might marry beauty, wealth, and position. That is the usual meaning of marrying whom you please.”

  “Oh! then it does not mean any individual he pleases?”

  “Certainly not. It means that out of half a dozen beautiful, rich, and accomplished girls it is morally certain that one, at least, would take him for his money, his manners, and his accomplishments.”

  “Then he would go from one to the other until he was accepted? A charming way of doing things, upon my word!” And Claudius sniffed the night air discontentedly.

  “Oh no,” said Margaret. “He will be thrown into the society of all six, and one of them will marry him, that will be the way of it.”

  “I cannot say I discover great beauty in that social arrangement either, except that it gives the woman the choice.”