Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I am going home,” she said, “and if you like I will drop you at your door.”

  Mr. Bellingham glanced at a great enamelled clock, half-hidden among flowers and fans, as they passed, and he noticed that they had not been in the house much more than three quarters of an hour. But he wisely said nothing, and waited patiently while Margaret was wrapped in her cloaks, and till the butler had told the footman, and the footman had told the other footman, and the other footman had told the page, and the page had told the policeman to call the Countess Margaret’s carriage. After which the carriage appeared, and they drove away.

  Uncle Horace chatted pleasantly about the party, admitting that he had dreamed more than he had seen of it. But Margaret said little, for the reaction was coming after the excitement she had passed through. Only when they reached Mr. Bellingham’s rooms, and he was about to leave her, she held his hand a moment and looked earnestly in his face.

  “Mr. Bellingham,” she said suddenly, “I trust you will always be my friend — will you not?” The old gentleman paused in his descent from the carriage, and took the hand she offered.

  “Indeed I will, my dear child,” he said very seriously. Then he bent his knee to the sill of the door and kissed her fingers, and was gone. No one ever resented Mr. Bellingham’s familiarity, for it was rare and honest of its kind. Besides, he was old enough to be her grandfather, in spite of his pretty speeches and his graceful actions.

  Margaret passed a sleepless night. Her anger with Mr. Barker had not been so much the mere result of the words he had spoken, though she would have resented his sneer about Claudius sharply enough under any circumstances. It was rather that to her keen intelligence, rendered still more acute by her love for the Doctor, the whole scene constituted a revelation. By that wonderful instinct which guides women in the most critical moments of their lives, she saw at last the meaning of Barker’s doings, of his silence concerning Claudius, and of his coolness with the latter before he had got rid of him. She saw Barker at the bottom of the plot to send Claudius to Europe; she saw him in all the efforts made by the Duke and Barker to keep Claudius and herself apart on board the yacht; she saw his hand in it all, and she understood for the first time that this man, whom she had of late permitted to be so much with her, was her worst enemy, while aspiring to be her lover. The whole extent of his faithlessness to Claudius came before her, as she remembered that it had doubtless been to serve the Doctor that Barker had obtained an introduction to her at Baden; that he had done everything to throw them together, devoting himself to Miss Skeat, in a manner that drove that ancient virgin to the pinnacle of bliss and despair, while leaving Claudius free field to make love to herself. And then he had suddenly turned and made up his mind that he should have her for his own wife. And her anger rose higher and hotter as she thought of it.

  Then she went over the scene of the evening at Mrs. Van Sueindell’s house — how she had not listened and not understood, until she was so suddenly roused to the consciousness of what he was saying — how she had faced him, and, in the inspiration of the moment, had boldly told him that she loved his rival. In that thought she found satisfaction, as well she might, for her love had been put to the test, and had not failed her.

  “I am glad I said it,” she murmured to herself, and fell asleep. Poor Claudius, far away over the sea, what a leap his heart would have given could he have known what she had done, and that she was glad of it.

  And Mr. Barker? He felt a little crushed when she left him there alone in the Japanese boudoir, for he knew at once that he might as well throw up the game. There was not the least chance for him any longer. He might indeed suspect that the documents Margaret spoke of were a myth, and that her declaration of the engagement was in reality the only weapon she could use in Claudius’s defence. But that did not change matters. No woman would “give herself away,” as he expressed it, so recklessly, unless she were perfectly certain. Therefore Mr. Barker went into the supper-room, and took a little champagne to steady his nerves; after which he did his best to amuse himself, talking with unusual vivacity to any young lady of his acquaintance whom he could allure from her partner for a few minutes. For he had kept himself free of engagements that evening on Margaret’s account, and now regretted it bitterly. But Mr. Barker was a great match, as has been said before, and he seldom had any difficulty in amusing himself when he felt so inclined. He had not witnessed Margaret’s departure, for, not wishing to be seen coming out of the boudoir alone, a sure sign of defeat, and being perfectly familiar with the house, he had found his way by another door, and through circuitous passages to the pantry, and thence to the supper-room; so that by the time he had refreshed himself Margaret and Mr. Bellingham had gone.

  Do people of Mr. Barker’s stamp feel? Probably not. It requires a strong organisation, either animal or intellectual, to suffer much from any shock to the affections. Englishmen, on those occasions when their passion gets the better of their caution, somewhat a rare occurrence nowadays, are capable of loving very strongly, and of suffering severely if thwarted, for they are among the most powerful races in the animal kingdom. Their whole history shows this, moulded as it has generally been by exceptional men, for the most part Irish and Scotch, in whom the highest animal and intellectual characteristics were united. Germans, in whom the intellectual faculties, and especially the imagination, predominate, are for the most part very love-sick for at least half their lives. But Americans seem to be differently organised; meaning, of course, the small class, who would like to be designated as the “aristocracy” of the country. The faculties are all awake, acute, and ready for use; but there is a lack of depth, which will rouse the perpetual wonder of future generations. While the mass of the people exhibits the strong characteristics of the Saxon, the Celtic, and the South German races, physical endurance and occasionally intellectual pre-eminence, — for, saving some peculiarities of speech, made defects merely by comparison, there are no such natural orators and statesmen in the world as are to be found in Congress; at the same time, the would-be aristocracy of the country is remarkable for nothing so much as for the very unaristocratic faculty of getting money — rarely mingling in public questions, still more rarely producing anything of merit, literary or artistic. Therefore, being so constituted that the almighty dollar crowns the edifice of their ambitions as with a coronet of milled silver, they are singularly inapt to suffer from such ills as prick the soul, which taketh no thought for the morrow, what it shall eat or what it shall drink.

  Truly, a happy people, these American aristocrats.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  WHEN MARGARET AWOKE the next morning her first impulse was to go away for a time. She was disgusted with New York, and desired nothing so much as the sensation of being free from Mr. Barker. A moment, however, sufficed to banish any such thoughts. In the first place, if she were away from the metropolis it would take just so many hours longer for the Doctor’s letters to reach her. There had been a lacuna in the correspondence of late, and it seemed to her that the letters she had received were always dated some days before the time stamped on the Heidelberg postmark. He spoke always of leaving very soon; but though he said many loving and tender things, he was silent as to his own doings. She supposed he was occupied with the important matter he described as the “other reason,” and so in the two or three short notes she wrote him she abstained from questioning any more.

  Furthermore, she reflected that however much she might wish to be away, it was most emphatically not the thing to do. On the whole, she would stay where she was.

  She was roused from her reverie by Clémentine, who entered in a halo of smiles, as though she were the bearer of good news. In the first place she had a telegram, which proved to be from Claudius, dated Berlin, and simply announcing the fact that he would sail at once. Margaret could hardly conceal her great satisfaction, and the colour came so quickly to her face as she read the flimsy bit of paper from the cable office that Clémentine made the most desperate ef
forts to get possession of it, or at least to see the signature. But Margaret kept it under her pillow for half an hour, and then burned it carefully by the taper, to Clémentine’s inexpressible chagrin.

  Meanwhile, however, there were other news in the wind, and when the artful Frenchwoman had succeeded in opening the window just so that a ray of light should fall on madam’s face, she fired her second shot.

  “Monsieur le Duc is of return, Madame,” she said, suddenly turning towards her mistress.

  “The Duke?” repeated Margaret innocently. “When did he come?”

  “Ah, Madame,” said the maid, disappointed at having produced so little effect, “it is precisely what I do not know. I come from meeting Monsieur Veelees upon the carrefour. He has prayed me to present the compliments of Monsieur le Duc and to ask at what hour Madame la Comtesse would be in disposition to see him.”

  “Ah, very well,” said the Countess. “I will get up, Clémentine.”

  “Si tôt, Madame? it is yet very morning,” argued the girl with a little show of polite surprise.

  “That is indifferent. Go, Clémentine, and tell Monsieur le Duc I will see him at once.”

  “At once, Madame? I run,” said Clémentine, going slowly to the door.

  “Enfin — when I am dressed. Don’t you understand?” said Margaret impatiently.

  “Parfaitement, Madame. I will speak with Monsieur Veelees.” And she vanished.

  It was a bright November morning, and though there had been a slight frost daring the night, it was fast vanishing before the sun. Margaret went to the window and breathed the cool air. An indescribable longing seized her to be out, among trees and plants and fresh growing things — to blow away the dark dreams of the night, the visions of Barker and Screw, and of the ballroom, and of that detestable Japanese boudoir. She hurried her toilet in a manner that completely aroused Clémentine’s vigilant suspicion.

  “Hélas,” Clémentine used to say to Willis the Duke’s servant, “Je ne lui ai jamais connu d’amant. I had pourtant much hoped of Monsieur Clodiuse.” But she never ventured such remarks when old Vladimir was at hand.

  When the Countess was dressed she went out into her little drawing-room, and found the Duke looking more sunburnt and healthy than ever, though a trifle thinner. The rough active Western life always agreed with him. He came forward with a bright smile to meet her.

  “Upon my word, how well you look!” he exclaimed as he shook hands; and indeed she was beautiful to see, for if the sleepless night had made her pale, the good news of Claudius’s coming had brought the fire to her eyes.

  “Do I?” said she. “I am glad; and you look well too. Your run on the prairies has done you good. Come,” said she, leading him to the window, “it is a beautiful day. Let us go out.”

  “By all means: but first I have some good news for you. Fitzdoggin has telegraphed me that Claudius — I mean,” he said, interrupting himself and blushing awkwardly, “I mean that it is all right, you know. They have arranged all your affairs beautifully.” Margaret looked at him curiously a moment while he spoke. Then she recognised that the Duke must have had a hand in the matter, and spoke very gratefully to him, not mentioning that she had received news direct, for she did not wish to spoil his pleasure in being the first to tell her. To tell the truth, the impulsive Englishman was rather in doubt whether he had not betrayed the Doctor’s secret, and seemed very little inclined to say anything more about it.

  “I wish,” she said at last, “that we could ride this morning. I have not been on a horse for ever so long, and I want the air.”

  “By Jove,” cried the Duke, overjoyed at the prospect of breaking an interview which seemed likely to lead him too far, “I should think so. I will send and get some horses directly. The very thing, by Jove!” And he went to the door.

  “How are you going to get anything fit to ride in New York, at such short notice?” asked Margaret, laughing at his impetuosity.

  “There’s a fellow here lends me anything in his stable when I am in New York,” he answered, half out of the room. “I’ll go myself,” he called back from the landing, and shut the door behind him. “Upon my word,” he said to himself as he lighted a cigarette in the cab, and drove away to his friend’s stable, “she is the most beautiful thing I ever saw. I almost let the cat out of the bag, just to please her. I don’t wonder Claudius is crazy about her. I will talk about the West when we are riding, and avoid the subject.” With which sage resolution his Grace seemed well satisfied. When he returned, he found Margaret clad in a marvellous habit, that reminded him of home.

  “The horses will be at the Park by the time we have driven there,” he said. “We will drive up.” He made no toilet himself, for being English and to the saddle born, he cared not a jot how he looked on horseback. In half an hour they were mounted, and walking their horses down the broad bend of the road where it enters the Central Park. Margaret asked about Lady Victoria, and the Duke, to make sure of not getting off the track, immediately began talking about the journey they had just made. But Margaret was not listening.

  “Do you know?” she said, “it is very pleasant to feel I am not poor any longer. I suppose it is a very low sentiment.”

  “Of course,” said the Duke. “Beastly thing to have no money.”

  “Do you know—” she began again, but stopped.

  “Well,” said the Duke, following her first train of thought, “it always seems to me that I have no money myself. I don’t suppose I am exactly poor, though.”

  “No,” laughed Margaret, “I was not thinking of that.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I think I will confide in you a little, for you have always been such a good friend to me. What do you know of Mr. Barker?”

  “I am sure I don’t know,” said the Englishman, taken off his guard by the question. “I have known him some time — in this sort of way,” he added vaguely.

  “I believe,” said the Countess bluntly, “that it was Mr. Barker who made all this trouble for Dr. Claudius.”

  “I believe you are right,” answered the Duke suddenly turning in his saddle and facing her. “I wonder how he could be such a brute?”

  Margaret was silent. She was astonished at the readiness with which her companion assented to her proposition. He must have known it all along, she thought.

  “What makes you think so?” he asked presently.

  “What are your reasons for believing it?” she asked, with a smile.

  “Really,” he began; then shortly, “I believe I don’t like his eyes.”

  “Last night,” said Margaret, “I was talking with him at a party. I chanced to speak of the Doctor’s coming back, and Mr. Barker laughed and sneered, and said it was ridiculous.”

  The Duke moved angrily in his saddle, making the horse he rode shake his head and plunge a little.

  “He is a brute,” he said at last.

  “Your horse?” inquired Margaret sweetly.

  “No — Barker. And pray what did you answer him? I hope you gave him a lesson for his impertinence.”

  “I told him,” said she, “that I had documents in my possession that would establish his right as well as any he could get in Germany.”

  “Barker must have been rather taken aback,” said the other in high glee. “I am glad you said that.”

  “So am I. I do not imagine I shall see much of Mr. Barker in future,” she added demurely.

  “Um! As bad as that?” The Duke was beginning to catch the drift of what Margaret was saying. She had no intention of telling him any more, however. Bitterly as she felt towards Barker, she would not allow herself the triumph of telling her friend she had refused to marry him.

  “I know it is a very womanly fancy,” she said, “but I want to ride fast, please. I want exercise.”

  “All right,” said the Duke, and they put their horses into a canter. The Countess felt safe now that her friends had returned and that Claudius had telegraphed he was about to sail. S
he felt as though her troubles were over, and as if the world were again at her feet. And as they galloped along the roads, soft in the warm sun to the horses’ feet, breathing in great draughts of good clean air, the past two months seemed to dwindle away to a mere speck in the far distance of her life, instead of being entangled with all the yesterdays of the dark season just over.

  And Claudius — the man who made all this change in her life, who had opened a new future for her — how had he passed these months, she wondered? To tell the truth, Claudius had been so desperately busy that the time had not seemed so long. If he had been labouring in any other cause than hers it would have been insupportable. But the constant feeling that all he did was for her, and to her advantage, and that at the same time she was ignorant of it all, gave him strength and courage. He had been obliged to think much, to travel far, and to act promptly; and for his own satisfaction he had kept up the illusion that he was in Heidelberg by a cunning device. He wrote constantly, and enclosed the letters to the old notary at the University, who, with Teutonic regularity, stamped and posted them. And so it was that the date of the letter, written in St. Petersburg, was always two or three days older than that of the postmark. For Claudius would not put a false date at the head of what he wrote, any more than, if Margaret had written to ask him whether he were really in Heidelberg or not, he would have deceived her in his answer. Probably he would not have answered the question at all. The letters were merely posted in Heidelberg; and Margaret had trusted him enough not to notice or be willing to comment upon the discrepancy.

  And, by dint of activity and the assistance of the persons to whom he had letters, he had succeeded in bringing the Countess’s business to a satisfactory conclusion. He found it just as Mr. Bellingham had told him. In an autocratic country, if you are to have justice at all, you will have it quickly. Moreover, it was evident to the authorities that a man coming all the way from America, and presenting such credentials as Claudius brought, deserved to be attended to at once — the more so when his whole appearance and manner were such as to create a small furore, in the Embassy circles. Claudius went everywhere, saw every one, and used every particle of influence he could obtain to further the object of his visit. And so it was that, at the end of a month or so, a special ukase provided for the payment in perpetuity to herself and her heirs for ever of the jointure-money first decreed to the Countess Margaret for life only from the estates of her late husband, Count Alexis of the Guards. This was even more than Claudius had hoped for — certainly more than Margaret had dreamt of. As for Nicholas, Claudius cared nothing what became of him, for he probably thought him a foolish Nihilist, and he knew enough of the Countess’s character to be sure she would never let her brother suffer want, whatever his faults.