Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Believe me, I will keep any promise I make to you,” he said earnestly, and went away. Lady Victoria, who was not without tact, and had guessed that Margaret had something to say to the Doctor, managed meanwhile to keep her brother occupied by asking him questions about the exploit, and he, falling into the trap, had begun to tell the story from the beginning, speaking loud, by way of showing Claudius his appreciation. But Claudius, recking little of his laurels, went and sat in his cabin, pondering deeply. Barker, from a distance, had witnessed the conversation between Margaret and the Doctor. He came up murmuring to himself that the plot was thickening. “If Claudius makes a corner in mast-heads, there will be a bull market,” he reflected, and he also remembered that just now he was a bear. “In that case,” he continued his train of thought, “no more mast-heads.”

  “Good morning, Countess; Lady Victoria, good morning,” he said, bowing. “I would take off my hat if I could, but the Doctor has set the cap of liberty on high.” Lady Victoria and the Duke laughed, but Margaret said “Good morning” without a smile. Barker immediately abandoned the subject and talked about the weather, which is a grand topic when there is enough of it. It was clear by this time that they had passed through a violent storm, which had gone away to southward. The sea was heavy of course, but the wind had moderated, and by twelve o’clock the yacht was running between nine and ten knots, with a stiff breeze on her quarter and all sails set.

  The Duke was extremely attentive to Margaret all that day, rarely leaving her side, whether she was below or on deck; bringing her books and rugs, and adjusting her chair, and altogether performing the offices of a faithful slave and attendant. Whenever Claudius came within hail the Duke would make desperate efforts to be animated, lengthening his sentences with all the vigorous superlatives and sledge-hammer adverbs he could think of, not to mention any number of “you knows.” His efforts to be agreeable, especially when there appeared to be any likelihood of Claudius coming into the conversation, were so palpable that Margaret could not but see there was a reason for the expenditure of so much energy. She could not help being amused, but at the same time she was annoyed at what she considered a bit of unnecessary officiousness on the part of her host. However, he was such an old friend that she forgave him. But woman’s nature is impatient of control. Left to herself she would have avoided Claudius; forcibly separated from him she discovered that she wanted to speak to him. As the day wore on and the Duke’s attentions never relaxed, she grew nervous, and tried to think how she could send him away. It was no easy matter. If she asked for anything, he flew to get it and returned breathless, and of course at that very moment Claudius was just out of range. Then she called Miss Skeat, but the Duke’s eloquence redoubled, and he talked to them both at once; and at last she gave it up in despair, and said she would lie down for a while. Once safe in her stateroom, the Duke drew a long breath, and went in search of Mr. Barker. Now Mr. Barker, in consequence of the idea that had unfolded itself to his fertile brain in the darkness of night, had been making efforts to amuse Claudius all day long, with as much determination as the Duke had shown in devoting himself to the Countess, but with greater success; for Barker could be very amusing when he chose, whereas the Duke was generally most amusing when he did not wish to be so. He found them in the smoking cabin, Claudius stretched at full length with a cigarette in his teeth, and Barker seated apparently on the table, the chair, and the transom, by a clever distribution of the various parts of his body, spinning yarns of a high Western flavour about death’s-head editors and mosquitoes with brass ribs.

  The Duke was exhausted with his efforts, and refreshed himself with beer before he challenged Barker to a game.

  “To tell the truth, Duke,” he answered, “I don’t seem to think I feel like winning your money to-day. I will go and talk to the ladies, and Claudius will play with you.”

  “You won’t make much headway there,” said the Duke. “The Countess is gone to bed, and Miss Skeat and my sister are reading English history.”

  “Besides,” put in Claudius, “you know I never play.”

  “Well,” said Barker, with a sigh, “then I will play with you, and Claudius can go to sleep where he is.” They cut and dealt. But Claudius did not feel at all sleepy. When the game was well started he rose and went out, making to himself the same reflection that Margaret had made, “Why is my friend so anxious to amuse me to-day?” He seldom paid any attention to such things, but his strong, clear mind was not long in unravelling the situation, now that he was roused to thinking about it. Barker had guessed the truth, or very near it, and the Duke and he had agreed to keep Claudius and Margaret apart as long as they could.

  He went aft, and descended to the cabin. There sat Miss Skeat and Lady Victoria reading aloud, just as the Duke had said. He went through the passage and met the steward, or butler, whom he despatched to see if the Countess were in the ladies’ cabin. The rosy-cheeked, gray-haired priest of Silenus said her ladyship was there, “alone,” he added with a little emphasis. Claudius walked in, and was not disappointed. There she sat at the side of the table in her accustomed place, dark and beautiful, and his heart beat fast. She did not look up.

  “Countess,” he began timidly.

  “Oh, Doctor Claudius, is that you? Sit down.” He sat down on the transom, so that he could see the evening light fall through the port-hole above him on her side face, and as the vessel rose and fell the rays of the setting sun played strangely on her heavy hair.

  “I have not seen you all day,” she said.

  “No, Countess.” He did not know what to say to her.

  “I trust you are none the worse for your foolish performance this morning?” Her voice was even and unmodulated, not too friendly and not too cold.

  “I am, and I am not. I am unspeakably the worse in that I displeased you. Will you forgive me?”

  “I will forgive you,” in the same tone.

  “Do you mean it? Do you mean you will forgive me what I said to you that — the other night?”

  “I did not say that,” she answered, a little weariness sounding with the words. Claudius’s face fell.

  “I am sorry,” he said very simply.

  “So am I. I am disappointed in you more than I can say. You are just like all the others, and I thought you were different. Do you not understand me?”

  “Not entirely, though I will try to. Will you not tell me just what you mean to say?”

  “I think I will,” she answered, looking up, but not towards Claudius. She hesitated a moment and then continued, “We are not children, Dr. Claudius; let us speak plainly, and not misunderstand each other.” She glanced round the cabin as if to see if they were alone. Apparently she was not satisfied. “Move my chair nearer to the sofa, please,” she added; and he rose and did her bidding.

  “I have not much to say,” she went on, “but I do not want to say it before the whole ship’s company. It is this: I thought I had found in you a friend, a man who would be to me what no one has ever been — a friend; and I am disappointed, for you want to be something else. That is all, except that it must not be thought of, and you must go.”

  An Englishman would have reproached her with having given him encouragement; an Italian would have broken out into a passionate expression of his love, seeking to kindle her with his own fire. But the great, calm Northman clasped his hands together firmly on his knee and sat silent.

  “You must go—” she repeated.

  “I cannot go,” he said honestly.

  “That is all the more reason why you should go at once,” was the feminine argument with which she replied.

  “Let us go back to two days ago, and be as we were before. Will you not forget it?”

  “We cannot — you cannot, and I cannot. You are not able to take back your words or to deny them.”

  “May God forbid!” said he very earnestly. “But if you will let me be your friend, I will promise to obey you, and I will not say anything that will displease you.�
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  “You cannot,” she repeated; and she smiled bitterly.

  “But I can, and I will, if you will let me. I am very strong, and I will keep my word;” and indeed he looked the incarnation of strength as he sat with folded hands and earnest face, awaiting her reply. His words were not eloquent, but they were plain and true, and he meant them. Something in the suppressed power of his tone drove away the smile from Margaret’s face, and she looked toward him.

  “Could you?” she asked. But the door opened, and Lady Victoria entered with her book.

  “Oh!” said Lady Victoria.

  “I must go and dress,” said Claudius.

  “We will go on with the book to-morrow,” said the Countess. And he bore away a light heart.

  On the following day the Duke began to take care of the Countess, as he had done yesterday, and Barker turned on the fireworks of his conversation for the amusement of Claudius. Claudius sat quite still for an hour or more, perhaps enjoying the surprise he was going to give the Duke and Barker. As the latter finished a brilliant tale, for the veracity of which he vouched in every particular, Claudius calmly rose and threw away his cigarette.

  “That is a very good story,” he said. “Good-bye for the present. I am going to read with the Countess.” Barker was nearly “taken off his feet.”

  “Why—” he began, but stopped short. “Oh, very well. She is on deck. I saw the Duke bring up her rugs and things.” His heavy moustache seemed to uncurl itself nervously, and his jaw dropped slowly, as he watched Claudius leave the deck-cabin.

  “I wonder when they got a chance,” he said to himself.

  But Barker was not nearly so much astonished as the Duke. The latter was sitting by Margaret’s side, near the wheel, making conversation. He was telling her such a good story about a mutual friend — the son of a great chancellor of the great empire of Kakotopia — who had gambled away his wife at cards with another mutual friend.

  “And the point of the story,” said the Duke, “is that the lady did not object in the least. Just fancy, you know, we all knew her, and now she is married again to—” At this point Claudius strode up, and Margaret, who did not care to hear any more, interrupted the Duke.

  “Dr. Claudius, I have our book here. Shall we read?” The Doctor’s face flushed with pleasure. The Duke stared.

  “I will get a chair,” he said; and his long legs made short work of it.

  “Well, if you will believe it,” said the Duke, who meant to finish his story, “it was not even the man who won her at cards that she married when she was divorced. It was a man you never met; and they are living in some place in Italy.” The Duke could hardly believe his eyes when Claudius boldly marched up with his chair and planted himself on Margaret’s other side. She leaned back, looking straight before her, and turning the leaves of the book absently backwards and forwards. The Duke was evidently expected to go, but he sat fully a minute stupidly looking at Margaret. At last she spoke.

  “That was not a very nice story. How odd! I knew them both very well. Do you remember where we left off, Dr. Claudius?”

  “Page one hundred and nineteen,” answered the Doctor, who never forgot anything. This looked like business, and the Duke rose. He got away rather awkwardly. As usual, he departed to wreak vengeance on Mr. Barker.

  “Barker,” he began with emphasis, “you are an ass.”

  “I know it,” said Barker, with humility. “I have been saying it over to myself for a quarter of an hour, and it is quite true. Say it again; it does me good.”

  “Oh, that is all. If you are quite sure you appreciate the fact I am satisfied.”

  “It dawned upon me quite suddenly a few minutes ago. Claudius has been here,” said Barker.

  “He has been there too,” said the Duke. “He is there now.”

  “I suppose there is no doubt that we are talking about the same thing?”

  “I don’t know about you,” said the other. “I am talking about Claudius and Countess Margaret. They never had a chance to speak all day yesterday, and now she asks him to come and read with her. Just as I was telling no end of a jolly story too.” Mr. Barker’s wrinkle wound slowly round his mouth. He had been able to shave to-day, and the deep furrow was clearly defined.

  “Oh! she asked him to read, did she?” Then he swore, very slowly and conscientiously, as if he meant it.

  “Why the deuce do you swear like that?” asked the Duke. “If it is not true that she has refused him, you ought to be very glad.” And he stuffed a disreputable short black pipe full of tobacco.

  “Why, of course I am. I was swearing at my own stupidity. Of course I am very glad if she has not refused him.” He smiled a very unhealthy-looking smile. “See here—” he began again.

  “Well? I am seeing, as you call it.”

  “This. They must have had a talk yesterday. He was here with me, and suddenly he got up and said he was going to read with her. And you say that she asked him to read with her when he went to where you were.”

  “Called out to him half across the deck — in the middle of my story, too, and a firstrate one at that.”

  “She does not care much for stories,” said Barker; “but that is not the question. It was evidently a put-up job.”

  “Meaning a preconcerted arrangement,” said the Duke. “Yes. It was arranged between them some time yesterday. But I never left her alone until she said she was going to lie down.”

  “And I never left him until you told me she had gone to bed.”

  “She did not lie down, then,” said the Duke.

  “Then she lied up and down,” said Barker, savagely playful.

  “Ladies do not lie,” said the Duke, who did not like the word, and refused to laugh.

  “Of course. And you and I are a couple of idiots, and we have been protecting her when she did not want to be protected. And she will hate us for ever after. I am disgusted. I will drown my cares in drink. Will you please ring the bell?”

  “You had better drink apollinaris. Grog will go to your head. I never saw you so angry.” The Duke pressed the electric button.

  “I loathe to drink of the water,” said Barker, tearing off the end of a cigar with his teeth. The Duke had seen a man in Egypt who bit off the heads of black snakes, and he thought of him at that moment. The steward appeared, and when the arrangements were made, the ocean in which Barker proposed to drown his cares was found to consist of a small glass of a very diluted concoction of champagne, bitters, limes, and soda water. The Duke had some, and thought it very good.

  “It is not a question of language,” said Barker, returning to the conversation. “They eluded us and met. That is all.”

  “By her wish, apparently,” said the other.

  “We must arrange a plan of action,” said Barker.

  “Why? If she has not refused him, it is all right. We have nothing more to do with it. Let them go their own way.”

  “You are an old friend of the Countess’s, are you not?” asked the American. “Yes — very well, would you like to see her married to Claudius?”

  “Upon my word,” said the Duke, “I cannot see that I have anything to say about it. But since you ask me, I see no possible objection. He is a gentleman — has money, heaps of it — if she likes him, let her marry him if she pleases. It is very proper that she should marry again; she has no children, and the Russian estates are gone to the next heir. I only wanted to save her from any inconvenience. I did not want Claudius to be hanging after her, if she did not want him. She does. There is an end of it.” O glorious English Common Sense! What a fine thing you are when anybody gets you by the right end.

  “You may be right,” said Barker, with a superior air that meant “you are certainly wrong.” “But would Claudius be able to give her the position in foreign society—”

  “Society be damned,” said the Duke. “Do you think the widow of Alexis cannot command society? Besides, Claudius is a gentleman, and that is quite enough.”

  “I s
uppose he is,” said Mr. Barker, with an air of regret.

  “Suppose? There is no supposing about it. He is.” And the Duke looked at his friend as if he would have said, “If I, a real, palpable, tangible, hereditary duke, do not know a gentleman when I see one, what can you possibly know about it, I would like to inquire?” And that settled the matter.

  But Mr. Barker was uneasy in his mind. An idea was at work there which was diametrically opposed to the union of Claudius and Margaret, and day by day, as he watched the intimacy growing back into its old proportions, he ground his gold-filled teeth with increasing annoyance. He sought opportunities for saying and doing things that might curtail the length of those hours when Claudius sat at her side, ostensibly reading. Ostensibly? Yes — the first day or two after she had allowed him to come back to her side were days of unexampled industry and severe routine, only the most pertinent criticisms interrupting from time to time the even progress from line to line, from page to page, from paragraph to paragraph, from chapter to chapter. But soon the criticism became less close, the illustration more copious, the tongue more eloquent, and the glance less shy. The elective strength of their two hearts rose up and wrought mightily, saying, “We are made for each other, we understand each other, and these foolish mortals who carry us about in their bosoms shall not keep us apart.” And to tell the truth, the foolish mortals made very little effort. Margaret did not believe that Claudius could possibly break his plighted word, and he knew that he would die rather than forfeit his faith. And so they sat side by side with the book, ostensibly reading, actually talking, most of the day. And sometimes one or the other would go a little too near the forbidden point, and then there was a moment’s silence, and the least touch of embarrassment; and once Margaret laughed a queer little laugh at one of these stumbles, and once Claudius sighed. But they were very happy, and the faint colour that was natural to the Doctor’s clear white skin came back as his heart was eased of its burden, and Margaret’s dark cheek grew darker with the sun and the wind that she took no pains to keep from her face, though the olive flushed sometimes to a warmer hue, with pleasure — or what? She thought it was the salt breeze.