Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  He was not a cultivated man, like Logotheti; he had never known a word of Latin or Greek in his life, his acquaintance with history was lacunous — to borrow a convenient Latin word — and he knew very little about the lives of interesting people long dead. He had once read part of a translation of the Iliad and had declared it to be nonsense. There never were such people, he had said, and if there had been, there was no reason for writing about them, which was a practical view of the case, if not an æsthetic one. On the other hand, he was oddly gifted in many ways and without realising it in the least. For instance, he possessed a remarkable musical ear and musical memory, which surprised and pleased even the Diva, whenever they showed themselves. He could whistle her parts almost without a fault, and much more difficult music, too.

  For everyday life he spoke like a Western farmer, and at first this had been intensely disagreeable to the daughter of the scholarly Oxford classic; but she had grown used to it quickly since she had begun to like him, till his way of putting things even amused her; and moreover, on that night by the gate of the field outside Bayreuth, she had found out that he could speak well enough, when he chose, in grave, strong words that few women could hear quite indifferently. Never, in all her acquaintance with Logotheti, had she heard from the Greek one phrase that carried such conviction of his purpose with it, as Van Torp’s few simple words had done then.

  Big natures are usually most drawn to those that are even bigger than themselves, either to love them, or to strive with them. It is the Second-Rates who take kindly to the little people, and are happy in the adulation of the small-fry.

  So Margaret was drawn away from Logotheti, the clever spoilt child of fortune, the loving, unproductive worshipper of his own Greek Muses, by the Crown-Grasper, the ruthless, uncultured hard-hitter, who had cared first for power, and had got it unhelped, but who now desired one woman, to the exclusion of all others, for his mate.

  Vaguely, the Diva remembered how, when Van Torp had asked her to walk with him on the deck of the Leofric and she had at first refused and then consented, Paul Griggs, looking on with a smile, had quoted an old French proverb: ‘A fortress that parleys, and a woman who listens, will soon surrender.’

  When she was silent after singing ‘Adelaide,’ association brought back the saying of the veteran man of letters, for Van Torp asked her if she cared to walk a little on the quiet deck, where there was a lee; and the sea air and even the chairs recalled the rest, with a little wonder, but no displeasure, nor self-contempt. Was she not her own mistress? What had any one to say, if she chose to change her mind and take the stronger man, supposing that she took either? Had Logotheti established any claim on her but that of constancy? Since that was gone, here was a man who seemed to be as much more enduring than his rival, as he was stronger in every other way. What were small refinements of speech and culture, compared with wide-reaching power? What availed it to possess in memory the passionate love-roses of Sappho’s heart, if you would not follow her to the Leucadian cliff? Or to quote torrents of Pindar’s deep-mouthed song, if you had not the constancy to run one little race to the end without swerving aside? Logotheti’s own words and epithets came back to Margaret, from many a pleasant talk in the past, and she cared for them no longer. Full of life himself, he lived half among the dead, and his waking was only a dream of pleasure; but this rough-hewn American was more alive than he, and his dreams were of the living and came true.

  When Margaret bid Van Torp good-night she pressed his hand, frankly, as she had never done before, but he took no sudden advantage of what he felt in her touch, and he returned the pressure so discreetly that she was almost disappointed, though not quite, for there was just a little something more than usual there.

  She did not disturb Lady Maud, either, when she went to her cabin, though if she had known that her beautiful neighbour was wide awake and restless, she would at least have said good-night, and asked her if she was still so very tired.

  But Lady Maud slept, too, at last, though not very long, and was the only one who appeared at breakfast to keep Van Torp company, for Margaret slept the sleep of a singer, which is deep and long as that of the healthy dormouse, and Mrs. Rushmore had her first tea and toast happily in her cheerful surroundings of pink and gilding. As for Kralinsky, his man informed Stemp and the chief steward that the Count never thought of getting up till between nine and ten o’clock, when he took a cup of chocolate and a slice or two of sponge cake in his own room before dressing. So Lady Maud and Van Torp had the yacht to themselves for some time that morning.

  ‘I fancy from what you said last night that your plan is to catch Logotheti and the Tartar girl at sea,’ said Lady Maud, when they were alone.

  ‘I supposed you’d understand,’ answered Van Torp. ‘Do you see any harm in that? It occurred to me that it might be quite a drastic form of demonstration. How does it strike you? At all low-down?’

  ‘No, frankly not!’ Lady Maud was still incensed at Logotheti’s conduct. ‘A man who does such things deserves anything that his rival can do to him. I hope you may overhaul the yacht, run alongside of her and show Margaret the two, making love to each other in Tartar on deck! That’s the least that ought to happen to him!’

  ‘Thank you. I like to hear you talk like that. Captain Brown will do his level best, I think. And now, tell me,’ he lowered his voice a little more, ’is that man Leven, or not?’

  ‘I am sure he is,’ Lady Maud answered, ‘and yet I feel as if there ought to be a little doubt still. I don’t know how to express it, for it’s rather an odd sensation.’

  ‘I should think it might be! Is there anything I can say or do? I’ll ask the man any question you suggest. I’m certain he’s not old Levi Longlegs, and if he’s not Leven, who on earth is he? That’s what I should like to know.’

  ‘I shall find out, never fear! I know I shall, because I must, if I am ever to have any peace again. I’m not a very nervous person, you know, am I? But it’s more than I can bear long, to sit opposite a man at table, again and again, as I shall have to, and not be sure whether he’s my husband, come back from the dead, or some one else!’ She paused, and her nostrils dilated a little, but Van Torp only nodded slowly and sympathetically. ‘I mean to know before I go to bed to-night,’ she said, with a little desperation in her voice. ‘I shall talk to him till I am sure of one thing or the other. At table, I cannot tell, but if we are alone together I know I can settle the question. If you see that we are talking at the other end of the deck, try to keep Mrs. Rushmore and Margaret from coming near us. Will you?’

  To Mrs. Rushmore’s amazement and Margaret’s surprise, Lady Maud made a dead set at Kralinsky all that day, an attention which he seemed to appreciate as it deserved. Before breakfast was over, Van Torp had repeated to her what Kralinsky had said about having formerly been intimate with Leven, and Lady Maud took this statement as a basis of operations for finding out just how much he knew of her own life; she judged that if he were not Leven himself, he must soon betray the fact by his ignorance.

  That was the strangest day she had ever passed. She found it very easy to talk with Kralinsky, as it always is when there has been long familiarity, even if it has been only the familiar intercourse of domestic discord. He knew many details of her life in London. That was clear after half an hour’s conversation. She alluded to the idle talk there had been about her and Van Torp; Kralinsky knew all about that and had heard, as he said, some silly story about Leven having found her with the American in certain rooms in the Temple, and about an envelope which was said to have contained over four thousand and one hundred pounds in bank-notes. He politely scouted the story as nonsense, but he had heard it, and Lady Maud knew that every word of it was true. He knew of Leven’s unsuccessful attempt to divorce her on that ground, too, and he knew the number of her house in Charles Street, Berkeley Square.

  On the other hand, there were many things of which he knew nothing, or pretended to be ignorant, such as the names of her brothers a
nd sisters, her father’s favourite pursuits and the like. But she understood very well that if he thought she suspected his identity under the disguise of his beard, and if he wished to avoid recognition, he was just the man to pretend blank ignorance of some vital matters, after admitting his acquaintance with many others. He had been very intimate with Leven, to the last, he said; Leven had always written to him very fully about his life, very wittily sometimes, but always without balance! That was it; he had no ‘balance.’ Yes, he himself had been in Petersburg when Leven was killed and had seen him on the previous day. Within a week he had made a rapid trip to New York, whence he had now just returned. He had crossed on five-day boats both going and coming, and he named them.

  ‘I am naturally interested in meeting any one who knew my husband so well,’ Lady Maud said, making a bold dash at a possibility. ‘We had many differences, as you seem to know, but I daresay that if he could come back to life and know the real truth, we should forgive each other.’

  She looked up to him with a gentle smile as she said this, for she had often felt it; and in that instant a flash of light came into his usually rather uncertain eyes. Her heart stood still; she looked at the sea again directly, for she was leaning against the rail; then she drew breath, as if from an effort. She had seen a look that could only mean recognition. Leven was alive and was standing beside her. But she had the courage to go on talking, after a moment, and she tried to change the subject, though not very adroitly.

  During the afternoon Mr. Van Torp had a revelation, sudden and clear, for he had watched Lady Maud and Kralinsky all day and had thought about them a good deal, considering how his mind was occupied with other matters even nearer to his heart than his best friend’s welfare. As soon as the revelation came upon him he rang for his own man.

  Stemp, see here!’ he began. ‘You’ve valeted around with all sorts of different-looking men. How long does it take to grow a beard like Count Kralinsky’s?’

  ‘A year, sir. Not a day less, and longer with most gentlemen. If you were thinking of it, sir — —’

  ‘You don’t believe it could be managed in three months, by taking an expert around with you to work on your face?’

  ‘That’s out of the question, sir. Gentlemen’s beards that have shaved all their lives, as I suppose you have, sir, do grow faster, but I should consider a year a short time for such a fine one as the Count’s. Indeed I should, sir.’

  ‘Do you suppose you could stick it on fresh every day, the way they do for the stage?’

  ‘Not so that it wouldn’t show in broad daylight, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s all. I wasn’t exactly thinking of trying a beard. I was only thinking — just like that. What I rang for was a cap. Got any more like this? You see I’ve managed to get a spot of ink on this one. Had it on the table when I was writing, I suppose. That’s the worst of white caps, they spot so.’

  A little later, Mr. Van Torp was looking out for a chance to speak alone with Lady Maud, and as soon as he found his opportunity, he told her what Stemp had said. Strangely enough, it had never occurred to him that such a remarkable beard as Kralinsky’s must have taken a long time to grow, and that Leven, who had none, had not left London more than three months ago. He watched the effect of this statement on his friend’s face, but to his surprise she remained grave and sad.

  ‘I cannot help it,’ she said in a tone of conviction. ‘He must be Leven, whatever Stemp tells you about his beard.’

  ‘Well, then it’s a false beard, and will come off,’ observed Mr. Van Torp, with at least equal gravity. ‘Stemp says that’s impossible, but he must be wrong, unless you are.’

  ‘It’s real,’ Lady Maud said, ‘and he is my husband. I’ve talked to him all day, and he knows things about my life that no one else could, and if there are others about which he is vague, that must be because he is pretending, and does not want to show that he knows everything.’

  Van Torp shook his head, but remained unconvinced; Lady Maud did not change her mind either, and was already debating with herself as to whether it would not be really wiser to speak out and tell Kralinsky that she had recognised him under his transparent disguise. She felt that she must know the worst, if she was ever to rest again.

  Neither Margaret nor Mrs. Rushmore had ever seen Leven, and they had not the least idea of what was really going on under their eyes. They only saw that Lady Maud was making a dead set at the Count, and if Margaret wondered whether she had misjudged her friend’s character, the elder lady had no doubt as to what was happening.

  ‘My dear child,’ she said to Margaret, ‘your friend is going to console herself. Widows of that age generally do, my dear. I myself could never understand how one could marry again. I should always feel that dear Mr. Rushmore was in the room. It quite makes me blush to think of it! Yet it is an undeniable fact that many young widows marry again. Mark my words, Margaret, your friend is going to console herself before long. If it is not this one, it will be another. My dear, I am quite positive about it.’

  When the sun went down that evening the yacht had passed Otranto and the Cape, and her course had been changed, to head her for Cape Spartivento and the Straits of Messina, having done in twenty-four hours as much as the little Italian mail-steamers do in forty-eight, and nearly half as much again as the Erinna could have done at her highest speed. As Mr. Van Torp had predicted, his engines had ‘warmed up,’ and were beating their own record. The gale made by the vessel’s way was stronger than a woman could stand in with any regard to her appearance, but as the weather continued to be calm it was from dead-ahead, and there was plenty of shelter on the promenade deck abaft the wheel-house, on condition of not going too near the rail.

  After dinner Kralinsky and Mrs. Rushmore walked a little, as on the previous evening, and Lady Maud sat with Margaret and Van Torp. But before the two walkers went off to sit down in the quiet corner they had found yesterday, Lady Maud rose, went half-way aft, and deliberately placed herself where they were obliged to pass close to her at each turn, standing and leaning against the bright white side of the engine skylight, which was as high as the wheel-house itself, and broke in aft, where the big ventilating fans were situated, making a square corner inward.

  She stood there, and as it was not very dark in the clear starlight, Kralinsky saw in passing that she followed his face with her eyes, turning her head to look at him when he was coming towards her, and turning it very slowly back again as he came near and went by. It was impossible to convey more clearly an invitation to get rid of his companion and join her, and he was the last man in the world to misunderstand it.

  But Mrs. Rushmore saw it too, and as she considered him a lion, and therefore entitled to have his own way, she made it easy for him.

  ‘My dear Count,’ she said blandly, after passing Lady Maud twice, ‘I have really had enough now, and if you will promise to finish your walk alone, I think I will go and sit with the others.’

  He left her with Margaret and Van Torp and went back to Lady Maud, who moved as he came up to her, made two steps beside him, and then suddenly slipped into the recess where the fan-house joined the engine skylight. She stood still, and he instantly ranged himself beside her. They were quite out of sight of the others, and of the bridge, and even if it had been daylight they could not have been seen except by some one coming from aft.

  ‘I want to speak to you,’ she said, in a low, steady voice. ‘Please listen quite quietly, for some of them may begin to walk again.’

  Kralinsky bent his head twice, and then inclined it towards her, to hear better what she was going to say.

  ‘It has pleased you to keep up this comedy for twenty-four hours,’ she began.

  He made a slight movement, which was natural under the circumstances.

  ‘I do not understand,’ he said, in his oily voice. ‘What comedy? I really have no — —’

  ‘Don’t go on,’ she answered, interrupting him sharply. ‘Listen to what I am going to tell you, and t
hen decide what you will do. I don’t think your decision will make very much difference to me, but it will make a difference to the world and to yourself. I saw you from a window when you brought Mr. Van Torp to the hotel in Bayreuth, and I recognised you at once. Since this afternoon I have no doubt left.’

  ‘I never saw you till last night,’ said Kralinsky, with some little surprise in his tone, and with perfect assurance.

  ‘Do you really think you can deceive me any longer?’ she asked. ‘I told you this afternoon that if you could come back from the dead, and know the whole truth, we should probably forgive each other, though we had many differences. Shall we?’ She paused a moment, and by his quick change of position she saw that he was much moved. ‘I don’t mean that we should ever go back to the old life, for we were not suited to each other from the first, you and I. You wanted to marry me because I was pretty and smart, and I married you because I wanted to be married, and you were better-looking than most men, and seemed to have what I thought was necessary — fortune and a decent position. No, don’t interrupt me. We soon found out that we did not care for each other. You went your way, and I went mine. I don’t mean to reproach you, for when I saw you were beginning to be tired of me I did nothing to keep you. I myself was tired of it already. But whatever you may have thought, I was a faithful wife. Mr. Van Torp had given me a great deal of money for my charity, and does still. I can account for it. I never used a penny of it for myself, and never shall; and he never was, and never will be, any more than a trusted friend. I don’t know why you chose to disappear when the man who had your pocket-book was killed and you were said to be dead. It’s not my business, and if you choose to go on living under another name, now that you are rich again, I shall not betray you, and few people will recognise you, at least in England, so long as you wear that beard. But you had it when we were married, and I knew you at once, and when I heard you were to be of the party here, I made up my mind at once that I would accept the invitation and come too, and speak to you as I’m speaking now. When I believed you were dead I forgave you everything, though I was glad you were gone; frankly, I did not wish you alive again, but since you are, God forbid that I should wish you dead. You owe me two things in exchange for my forgiveness: first, yours, if I treated you ungenerously or unkindly; and, secondly, you ought to take back every word you ever said to me about Mr. Van Torp, for there was not a shadow of truth in what you thought. Will you do that? I ask nothing else.’