Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Barker’s father.”

  The Englishman’s face darkened, and he puffed savagely at his cigar. He had been angry with Barker the day before. Now he began to suspect him of making trouble.

  “What sort of evidence did the man want?” he asked at length.

  “Any sort of documentary evidence would do. He asked me for my certificate of birth, and I told him he could not have it. And then he went so far as to remark in a very disagreeable way that he could not authorise me to draw upon the estate until I produced evidence.”

  “Well, that is natural enough.”

  “It would have been so at first. But they had accepted the mere signature to my letter from Heidelberg as proof of my existence, and I got word in Baden in July that I might draw as much as I pleased. And now they turn upon me and say I am not myself. Something has happened. Fortunately I have not touched the money, in spite of their kind permission.”

  “There is something very odd about this, Claudius. Have you got such a thing as a birth certificate to show?”

  “Yes,” answered Claudius, after a pause. “I have everything in perfect order, my mother’s marriage and all.”

  “Then why, in Heaven’s name, can you not show it, and put all these rascally lawyers to flight?”

  “Because—” Claudius began, but he hesitated and stopped. “It is a curious story,” he said, “and it is precisely what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Is it very long?” asked the Duke; “I have not dined yet.”

  “No, it will not take long, and if you have nothing better to do we will dine together afterwards. But first there are two things I want to say. If I prove to you that I am the son of my uncle’s sister, will you tell Mr. Screw that you know it for a fact, that is, that if it had to be sworn to, you would be willing to swear to it?”

  “If you prove it to me so that I am legally sure of it, of course I will.”

  “The other thing I will ask you is, not to divulge what I shall tell you, or show you. You may imagine from my being unwilling to show these papers, even to a lawyer, when my own fortune is concerned, that I attach some importance to secrecy.”

  “You may trust me,” said the Duke; “you have my word,” he added, as if reluctantly. People whose word is to be trusted are generally slow to give it. Claudius bowed his head courteously, in acknowledgment of the plighted promise. Then he opened a trunk that stood in a corner of the room, and took from it the iron box in which he had deposited the lawyer’s letter on that evening three months before, when his destiny had roused itself from its thirty years’ slumber. He set the box on the table, and having locked the door of the room sat down opposite his guest. He took a key from his pocket.

  “You will think it strange,” he said with a smile, “that I should have taken the liberty of confiding to you my secret. But when you have seen what is there, you will perceive that you are the most fitting confidant in this country — for general reasons, of course; for I need not say there is nothing in those papers which concerns you personally.” Claudius unlocked the box and took out a few letters that were lying on the top, then he pushed the casket across the table to the Duke.

  “Will you please examine the contents for yourself?” he said. “There are only three or four papers to read — the rest are letters from my father to my mother — you may look at them if you like; they are very old.”

  All this time the Duke looked very grave. He was not accustomed to have his word of honour asked for small matters, and if this were some trivial question of an assumed name, or the like, he was prepared to be angry with Claudius. So he silently took the little strong box, and examined the contents. There were two packages of papers, two or three morocco cases that might contain jewels, and there was a string of pearls lying loose in the bottom of the casket. The Duke took the pearls curiously in his hand and held them to the light. He had seen enough of such things to know something of their value, and he knew this string might be worth anywhere from eight to ten thousand pounds. He looked graver than ever.

  “Those are beautiful pearls, Dr. Claudius,” he said; “too beautiful for a Heidelberg student to have lying about among his traps.” He turned them over and added, “The Duchess has nothing like them.”

  “They belonged to my mother,” said Claudius simply. “I know nothing of their value.”

  The Duke took the papers and untied the smaller package, which appeared to contain legal documents, while the larger seemed to be a series of letters filed in their envelopes, as they had been received.

  “My mother’s name was Maria Lindstrand,” said Claudius. He leaned back, smoking the eternal cigarette, and watched the Duke’s face.

  Before the Englishman had proceeded far he looked up at Claudius, uttering an exclamation of blank amazement. Claudius merely bent his head as if to indorse the contents of the paper, and was silent. The Duke read the papers carefully through, and examined one of them very minutely by the light. Then he laid them down with a certain reverence, as things he respected.

  “My dear Claudius—” he rose and extended his hand to the young man with a gesture that had in it much of dignity and something of pride. “My dear Claudius, I shall all my life remember that you honoured me with your confidence. I accepted it as a token of friendship, but I am now able to look upon it as a very great distinction.”

  “And I, Duke, shall never forget that you believed in me on my own merits, before you were really able to swear that I was myself.” Claudius had also risen, and their hands remained clasped a moment. Then Claudius applied himself to rearranging the contents of his box; and the Duke walked up and down the room, glancing from time to time at the Doctor. He stopped suddenly in his walk.

  “But — goodness gracious! why have you kept this a secret?” he asked, as if suddenly recollecting himself.

  “My mother,” said Claudius, “was too proud to come forward and claim what my father, but for his untimely death, would have given her in a few months. As for me, I have been contented in my life, and would have been unwilling to cause pain to any one by claiming my rights. My mother died when I was a mere child, and left these papers sealed, directing me not to open them until I should be twenty-one years old. And so when I opened them, I made up my mind to do nothing about it.”

  “It is not easy to understand you, Claudius; but I will swear to anything you like.”

  “Thank you; I am very grateful.”

  “Do not speak of that. I am proud to be of service. By the by, the present — the present incumbent is childless, I believe. He must be your father’s brother?”

  “Yes,” said Claudius. “Should he die, I would not hesitate any longer.”

  “No indeed, I hope not. It is a shame as it is.”

  “By the by,” said Claudius, who had put away his box; “why did you not go to Newport to-day? I meant to go on to-morrow and meet you there. This business had put it out of my head.”

  “Lady Victoria and the Countess both wanted to stay another day.”

  “Is the Countess ill?” asked Claudius. “Or do you think she would see me this evening?”

  “I do not think there is anything especial the matter. She will very likely see you after dinner. As for me, I am hungry; I have walked all over New York this afternoon.”

  “Very well, let us dine. You know New York, and must select the place.”

  Arm-in-arm they went away together, and the Duke introduced Claudius to the glories of Delmonico’s.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  TROUBLES NEVER COME singly; moreover, they come on horseback, and go away on foot. If Claudius had passed an unpleasant afternoon, the Countess’s day had been darkened with the shadow of a very serious difficulty. Early in the morning her maid had brought her coffee, and with it a note in a foreign hand. The maid, who was French, and possessed the usual characteristics of French maids, had exhausted her brain in trying to discover who the sender might be. But the missive was sealed with wax, and a plain “N” was all the i
mpression. So she adopted the usual expedient of busying herself in the room, while her mistress opened the note, hoping that some chance exclamation, or even perhaps an answer, might give her curiosity the food it longed for. But Margaret read and reread the note, and tore it up into very small pieces, thoughtfully; and, as an afterthought, she burned them one by one over a wax taper till nothing was left. Then she sent her maid away and fell to thinking. But that did not help her much; and the warm sun stole through the windows, and the noise in the street prevented her from sleeping, for she was unused to the sound of wheels after the long weeks at sea. And so she rang for her maid again. The maid came, bringing another note, which, she said, had been given her by “Monsieur Clodiuse;” and would there be an answer?

  It was simply a few lines to say he was going to be away all day, and that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing the Countess in Newport to-morrow. But for some reason or other Margaret was not pleased with the note, and merely said there would be no answer.

  “Madame would she dress herself to go out, or to keep the lodging?”

  Madame would not go out. Was it warm? Oh yes, it was very warm. In fact it was hébétant. Would Madame see Monsieur le Duc if he called at eleven? Monseigneur’s Monsieur Veelees had charged her to inquire of Madame. No, Madame would not see Monsieur le Duc this morning. But if any one called, Madame desired to be informed. Madame would be served. And so the toilet proceeded.

  It was not very long before some one called. There was a knock at the door of the bedroom. Clémentine left the Countess’s hair, which she was busy combing and tressing, and went to the door. It was old Vladimir, Margaret’s faithful Russian servant.

  “At this hour!” exclaimed the Countess, who was not in the best of tempers. “What does he want?”

  Vladimir ventured to make a remark in Russian, from the door, which produced an immediate effect. Margaret rose swiftly, overturning her chair and sweeping various small articles from the table in her rapid movement. She went very quickly to the door, her magnificent black hair all hanging down. She knew enough Russian to talk to the servant.

  “What did you say, Vladimir?”

  “Margareta Ivanowna” — Margaret’s father’s name had been John— “Nicolaï Alexandrewitch is here,” said Vladimir, who seemed greatly surprised. His geographical studies having been purely experimental, the sudden appearance of a Russian gentleman led him to suppose his mistress had landed in some outlying part of Russia, or at least of Europe. So she bade the old servant conduct the gentleman to her sitting-room and ask him to wait. She was not long in finishing her toilet. Before she left the room a servant of the hotel brought another box of flowers from Mr. Barker. Clémentine cut the string and opened the pasteboard shell. Margaret glanced indifferently at the profusion of roses and pink pond-lilies — a rare variety only found in two places in America, on Long Island and near Boston — and having looked, she turned to go.

  Clémentine held up two or three flowers, as if to try the effect of them on Margaret’s dress.

  “Madame would she not put some flowers in her dress?”

  No. Madame would not. Madame detested flowers. Whereat the intelligent Clémentine carefully examined the name of the sender, inscribed on a card which lay in the top of the box. Mr. Barker knew better than to send flowers anonymously. He wanted all the credit he could get. The Countess swept out of the room.

  At the door of the sitting-room she was met by a young man, who bent low to kiss her extended hand, and greeted her with a manner which was respectful indeed, but which showed that he felt himself perfectly at ease in her society.

  Nicolaï Alexandrewitch, whom we will call simply Count Nicholas, was the only brother of Margaret’s dead husband. Like Alexis, he had been a soldier in a guard regiment; Alexis had been killed at Plevna, and Nicholas had succeeded to the title and the estates, from which, however, a considerable allowance was paid to the Countess as a jointure.

  Nicholas was a handsome man of five or six and twenty, of middle height, swarthy complexion, and compact figure. His beard was very black, and he wore it in a pointed shape. His eyes were small and deep-set, but full of intelligence. He had all the manner and appearance of a man of gentle birth, but there was something more; an indescribable, undefinable air that hung about him. Many Russians have it, and the French have embodied the idea it conveys in their proverb that if you scratch a Russian you will find the Tartar. It is rather a trait of Orientalism in the blood, and it is to be noticed as much in Servians, Bulgarians, Roumanians, and even Hungarians, as in Russians. It is the peculiarity of most of these races that under certain circumstances, if thoroughly roused, they will go to any length, with a scorn of consequence which seems to the Western mind both barbarous and incomprehensible. Margaret had always liked him. He was wild; but he was a courteous gentleman, and could always be depended upon.

  “Mon cher,” said Margaret, “I need not tell you I am enchanted to see you, but what is the meaning of the things you wrote me this morning? Are you really in trouble?”

  “Hélas, yes. I am in the worst kind of trouble that exists for a Russian. I am in political trouble — and that entails everything else.”

  “Tell me all about it,” said she. “Perhaps I may help you.”

  “Ah no! you cannot help. It is not for that I am come. I have a confession to make that concerns you.”

  “Well?” said she, with a smile. She did not suppose it could be anything very bad.

  “You will be angry, of course,” he said, “but that is nothing. I have done you an injury that I cannot repair.”

  “Enfin, my dear Nicholas, tell me. I do not believe anything bad of you.”

  “You are kindness itself, and I thank you in advance. Wait till you have heard. I am ‘suspect,’ — they think I am a Nihilist I am exiled to the mines, and everything is confiscated. Voilà! Could it be worse?”

  Margaret was taken off her guard. She had herself been in more than easy circumstances at the time of her marriage, but the financial crisis in America, which occurred soon after that event, had greatly crippled her resources. She had of late looked chiefly to her jointure for all the luxuries which were so necessary to her life. To find this suddenly gone, in a moment, without the slightest preparation, was extremely embarrassing. She covered her eyes with one hand for a moment to collect her thoughts and to try and realise the extent of the disaster. Nicholas mistook the gesture.

  “You will never forgive me, I know. I do not deserve that you should. But I will do all in my power to repair the evil. I will go to Siberia if they will consider your rights to the estate.”

  Margaret withdrew her hand, and looked earnestly at the young man.

  “Forgive you?” said she. “My dear Nicholas, you do not suppose I seriously think there is anything to forgive?”

  “But it is true,” he said piteously; “in ruining me they have ruined you. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! If I only had a friend—”

  “Taisez vous donc, mon ami. It is everything most bête what you say. You have many friends, and as for me, I do not care a straw for the money. Only if I had known I would not have left Europe. Voilà tout.”

  “Ah, that is it,” said Nicholas. “I escaped the police and hurried to Baden. But you were gone. So I took the first steamer and came here. But I have waited ten days, and it was only last night I saw in the papers that you had arrived yesterday morning. And here I am.”

  Margaret rose, from a feeling that she must move about — the restless fiend that seizes energetic people in their trouble. Nicholas thought it was a sign for him to go. He took his hat.

  “Believe me—” he began, about to take his leave.

  “You are not going?” said Margaret. “Oh no. Wait, and we will think of some expedient. Besides you have not told me half what I want to know. The money is of no consequence; but what had you done to lead to such a sentence? Are you really a Nihilist?”

  “Dieu m’en garde!” said the Count devoutly. “I am a Republica
n, that is all. Seulement, our Holy Russia does not distinguish.”

  “Is not the distinction very subtle?”

  “The difference between salvation by education and salvation by dynamite; the difference between building up and tearing down, between Robespierre and Monsieur Washington.”

  “You must have been indiscreet. How could they have found it out?”

  “I was bête enough to write an article in the Russki Mir — the mildest of articles. And then some of the Nihilist agents thought I was in their interests and wanted to see me, and the police observed them, and I was at once classed as a Nihilist myself, and there was a perquisition in my house. They found some notes and a few manuscripts of mine, quite enough to suit their purpose, and so the game was up.”

  “But they did not arrest you?”

  “No. As luck would have it, I was in Berlin at the time, on leave from my regiment, for I was never suspected before in the least. And the Nihilists, who, to tell the truth, are well organised and take good care of their brethren, succeeded in passing word to me not to come back. A few days afterwards the Russian Embassy were hunting for me in Berlin. But I had got away. Sentence was passed in contempt, and I read the news in the papers on my way to Paris. There is the whole history.”

  “Have you any money?” inquired Margaret after a pause.

  “Mon Dieu! I have still a hundred napoleons. After that the deluge.”

  “By that time we shall be ready for the deluge,” said Margaret cheerfully. “I have many friends, and something may yet be done. Meanwhile do not distress yourself about me; you know I have something of my own.”

  “How can I thank you for your kindness? You ought to hate me, and instead you console!”

  “My dear friend, if I did not like you for your own sake, I would help you because you are poor Alexis’s brother.” There was no emotion in her voice at the mention of her dead husband, only a certain reverence. She had honoured him more than she had loved him.

  “Princesse, quand même,” said Nicholas in a low voice, as he raised her fingers to his lips.