Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Miss Skeat,” she said, when they were alone, “you have never been in America?”

  “No, dear Countess, I have never been there, and until lately I have never thought I would care to go.”

  “Would you like to go now?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed the ancient one, “I would like it of all things!”

  “I am thinking of going over next month,” said Margaret, “and of course I would like you to go with me. Do you mind the sea very much?”

  “Oh dear, no! I used to sail a great deal when I was a girl, and the Atlantic cannot be worse than our coast.”

  Miss Skeat’s assent was a matter of real importance to Margaret, for the old gentlewoman was sincerely attached to her, and Margaret would have been very unwilling to turn her faithful companion adrift, even for a time, besides the minor consideration that without a companion she would not go at all. The end of it was that by dinner-time she had made up her mind to write excuses to all the people who expected her, and to accept the Duke’s invitation. After all, it was not until next month, and she could finish the book she was reading with Claudius before that. She postponed writing to the Duke until the following day, in order to make a show of having considered the matter somewhat longer. But her resolution did not change, and in the morning she despatched a friendly little note to the effect that she found her engagements would permit her, etc. etc.

  When Margaret told Miss Skeat that they were going in one of the finest yachts afloat, with the Duke and his sister, her companion fairly crackled with joy.

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE DUKE WAS away during the day, and did not receive the Countess’s note until late in the evening. To tell the truth, he was very glad to find that she was going; but he felt there might be difficulties in the way; for, of course, he was bound to let her know the names of his remaining guests. She might hesitate when she heard that Claudius and Barker were to be of the party. After all, Barker was the companion whom the Duke wanted. He knew nothing about Claudius, but he had met enough men of all types of eccentricity not to be much surprised at him, and as the Doctor was evidently a gentleman, there was no objection. Therefore, as soon as the Duke knew of Margaret’s determination, he sallied forth, armed with her note, to find Mr. Barker. It was late, but the American was nocturnal in his habits, and was discovered by his friend in a huge cloud of tobacco smoke, examining his nails with that deep interest which in some persons betokens thought.

  “It’s all right,” said the Duke; “she will go.”

  “You don’t mean it?” said Barker, taking his legs off the sofa and wrinkling his face.

  “There you are. Note. Formal acceptance, and all the rest of it.” And he handed Margaret’s letter to Barker.

  “Well, that is pretty smart practice,” remarked the latter; “I expected you would have difficulties.”

  “Said she would take some days to make up her mind. She wrote this the same evening I called, I am sure. Just like a woman.”

  “Well, I think it’s deuced lucky, anyhow,” said Barker. “Did you tell her who was going?”

  “I told her about my sister. I have not mentioned you or your friend yet. Of course I will do that as soon as I am sure of you both.”

  “Well,” said Barker, “if you don’t mind, perhaps you might write a note to the Doctor. He might be shy of accepting an invitation by word of mouth. Do you mind?”

  “Not in the least,” said the Englishman; “give me a rag of paper and a quill, and I’ll do it now.”

  And he accordingly did it, and directed the invitation to Claudius, Phil.D., and Barker pushed it into the crack of the door leading to the apartment where the Doctor was sleeping, lest it should be forgotten.

  The next morning Claudius appeared with the Duke’s note in his hand.

  “What does this mean?” he asked. “I hardly know him at all, and here he asks me to cross the Atlantic in his yacht. I wish you would explain.”

  “Keep your hair on, my young friend,” replied Mr. Barker jocosely. “He has asked you and me because his party would not be complete without us.”

  “And who are ‘the party’?”

  “Oh, very small. Principally his sister, I believe. Hold on though, Miss Skeat is going.”

  “Miss Skeat?” Claudius anticipated some chaff from his friend, and knit his brows a little.

  “Yes; Miss Skeat and the Countess; or, perhaps I should say the Countess and Miss Skeat.”

  “Ah!” ejaculated Claudius, “any one else?”

  “Not that I know of. Will you go?”

  “It is rather sudden,” said the Doctor reflectively.

  “You must make up your mind one way or the other, or you will spoil the Duke’s arrangements.”

  “Barker,” said Claudius seriously, “do you suppose the Countess knows who are going?”

  “My dear boy,” replied the other, peeling a peach which he had impaled on a fork, “it is not likely the Duke would ask a lady to go with him without telling her who the men were to be. Be calm, however; I have observed your habits, and in two hours and twenty-three minutes your mind will be at rest.”

  “How so?”

  “It is now thirty-seven minutes past nine. Do you mean to say you have failed once for weeks past to be at the Countess’s as the clock strikes twelve?”

  Claudius was silent. It was quite true; he went there daily at the same hour; for, as appeared in the beginning of this tale, he was a regular man. But he reflected just now that the Countess would not be likely to speak of the party unless she knew that he was to be one. He had not accepted his invitation yet, and the Duke would certainly not take his acceptance as a foregone conclusion. Altogether it seemed probable that he would be kept in suspense. If he then accepted without being sure of the Countess, he was binding himself to leave her. Claudius had many things to learn yet.

  “If I were you,” said Barker, “I would write at once and say ‘Yes.’ Why can’t you do it now?”

  “Because I have not made up my mind.”

  “Well, a bird in the hand is the soul of business, as the good old proverb says. I have accepted for myself, anyhow; but I would be sorry to leave you on this side.”

  So Claudius went to the Countess as usual, and found her in her morning-room awaiting him. He bent over her hand, but as he took it he thought it was a trifle colder than usual. It might have been imagination, but he fancied her whole manner was less cordial than before. And he said to himself, “She has heard I am going, and she is annoyed, and is not glad to see me.” There was a preternatural solemnity about their conversation which neither of them could break through, and in a few minutes they both looked as though they had not smiled for years.

  Now Claudius was entirely mistaken. Margaret had not heard that he was going. If she had, she would have spoken frankly, as was her nature to do always, if she spoke at all. Margaret had accepted the Duke’s invitation, and intended to keep her word, and she had no suspicion whatever of who the other guests might be. She foresaw that such a journey would break up her acquaintance with Claudius, and she regretted it; and especially she regretted having allowed the Doctor so much intimacy and so many visits. Not that he had taken advantage of the footing on which he was received, for any signs of such a disposition on his part would have abruptly terminated the situation; he had been the very model of courtesy from the first. But she knew enough of men to perceive that this gentle homage clothed a more sincere admiration than lay at the root of the pushing attentions of some other men she had known. Therefore she made up her mind that as there were yet three weeks before sailing, after the expiration of which she would never be likely to see Claudius again, she would let him down easily, so to speak, that there might be no over-tender recollections on his part, nor any little stings of remorse on her own. He had interested her; they had spent a couple of pleasant months; she had given him no encouragement, and he was gone without a sigh: that was the way in which Countess Margaret hoped to remember Dr. Claudius by
that time next month. And so, fearing lest she might inadvertently have been the least shade too cordial, she began to be a little more severe, on this hot morning when Claudius, full of indecision, followed her out to their favourite reading-place under the trees. It was the same spot where they had sat when Barker first brought him to see her. Margaret had no particular feeling about the little nook under the trees. It was merely the most convenient place to sit and work; that was all. But to Claudius the circle of green sward represented the temple of his soul, and Margaret was to him Rune Wife and prophetess as well as divinity. In such places, and of such women, his fair-haired forefathers, bare-armed and sword-girt, had asked counsel in trouble, and song-inspiration in peace.

  Here they sat them down, she determined to do the right by him, and thinking it an easy matter; he utterly misunderstanding her. Without a smile, they set to work at their reading. They read for an hour or more, maintaining the utmost gravity, when, as luck would have it, the word “friendship” occurred in a passage of the book. Claudius paused a moment, his broad hand laid flat on the open page.

  “That is one of the most interesting and one of the most singularly misunderstood words in all languages,” he said.

  “What word?” inquired Margaret, looking up from her work, to which she had attentively applied herself while he was reading.

  “Friendship.”

  “Will you please define what it means?” said she.

  “I can define what I myself mean by it, or rather what I think I mean by it. I can define what a dozen writers have meant by it. But I cannot tell what it really means, still less what it may ultimately come to mean.”

  “You will probably be best able to explain what you mean by it yourself,” answered Margaret rather coldly. “Will you please begin?”

  “It seems to me,” Claudius began, “that the difficulty lies in the contradiction between the theory and the fact. Of course, as in all such cases, the theory loses the battle, and we are left groping for an explanation of the fact which we do not understand. Perhaps that is a little vague?” Claudius paused.

  “A little vague — yes,” said she.

  “I will try and put it more clearly. First take the fact. No one will deny that there have occasionally in the world’s history existed friendships which have stood every test and which have lasted to the very end. Such attachments have been always affairs of the heart, even between man and man. I do not think you can name an instance of a lasting friendship on a purely intellectual basis. True friendship implies the absence of envy, and the vanity of even the meanest intellect is far too great to admit of such a condition out of pure thought-sympathy.”

  “I do not see any contradiction, even admitting your last remark, which is cynical enough.” Margaret spoke indifferently, as making a mere criticism.

  “But I believe most people connect the idea of friendship, beyond ordinary liking, with intellectual sympathy. They suppose, for instance, that a man may love a woman wholly and entirely with the best kind of love, and may have at the same time a friend with whom he is in entire sympathy.”

  “And why not?” she asked.

  “Simply because he cannot serve two masters. If he is in entire sympathy with more than one individual he must sometimes not only contradict himself, as he would rightly do for one or the other alone, but he must also contradict one in favour of the other in case they disagree. In such a case he is no longer in entire sympathy with both, and either his love or his friendship must be imperfect.” Claudius looked at the Countess to see what impression he had made. She did not return his glance.

  “In other words?” was her question.

  “In other words,” he answered in a tone of conviction, “friendship is only a substitute for love, and cannot exist beside it unless lover and friend be one and the same person. Friendship purely intellectual is a fallacy, owing to the manifest imperfections of human nature. It must, then, be an affair of the heart, whatever you may define that to be, and cannot, therefore, exist at the same time with any other affair of the heart without inevitable contradiction. How often has love separated old friends, and friendship bred discord between lovers!”

  “I never heard that argument before,” said Margaret, who, to tell the truth, was surprised at the result of the Doctor’s discourse.

  “What do you think of it?” he asked.

  “I am not sure, but the point is interesting. I think you are a little vague about what an ‘affair of the heart,’ as you call it, really is.”

  “I suppose an affair of the heart to be such a situation of the feelings that the heart rules the head and the actions by the head. The prime essence of love is that it should be complete, making no reservations and allowing of no check from the reason.”

  “A dangerous state of things.”

  “Yes,” said Claudius. “When the heart gets the mastery it knows neither rest nor mercy. If the heart is good the result will be good, if it is bad the result will be evil. Real love has produced incalculably great results in the lives of individuals and in the life of the world.”

  “I suppose so,” said Margaret; “but you made out friendship to be also an ‘affair of the heart,’ so far as you believe in it at all. Is true friendship as uncalculating as true love? Does it make no reservations, and does it admit of no check from the reason?”

  “I think, as I said, that friendship is a substitute for love, second best in its nature and second best, too, in its unselfishness.”

  “Many people say love is selfishness itself.”

  “I know,” answered the Doctor, and paused as if thinking.

  “Do you not want to smoke?” asked Margaret, with a tinge of irony, “it may help you to solve the difficulty.”

  “Thank you, no,” said he, “the difficulty is solved, and it is no difficulty at all. The people who say that do not know what they are talking about, for they have never been in love themselves. Love, worth the name, is complete; and being complete, demands the whole, and is not satisfied with less than the whole any more than it is satisfied with giving less than all that it has. The selfishness lies in demanding and insisting upon having everything, while only offering rags and shreds in return; and if one may find this fault in ordinary love affairs, one may find it tenfold in ordinary friendships. Friendship may be heroic but love is godlike.”

  Margaret had become interested in spite of herself, though she had preserved the constrained manner she had first assumed. Now, however, as Claudius turned his flashing blue eyes to hers, she understood that she had allowed the conversation to go far enough, and she marvelled that on the very day when she was trying to be most unapproachable he should have said more to show what was next his heart than ever before. She did not know enough of exceptional natures like his to be aware that a touch of the curb is the very thing to rouse the fierce blood. True, he spoke generally, and even argumentatively, and his deep voice was calm enough, but there was a curious light in his eyes that dazzled her even in the mid-day sun, and she looked away.

  “I am not sure I agree with you,” she said, “but you put it very clearly. Shall we go on reading?”

  Claudius was some time in finding his place in the open book, and then went on. Again he misunderstood her, for though he could not remember saying anything he regretted, he fancied she had brought the conversation to a somewhat abrupt close. He read on, feeling very uncomfortable, and longing for one of those explanations that are impossible between acquaintances and emotional between lovers. He felt also that if he ever spoke out and told her he loved her it would be in some such situation as the present. Margaret let her needlework drop and leaned back in the long chair, staring at a very uninteresting-looking tree on the other side of the garden. Claudius read in a steady determined tone, emphasising his sentences with care, and never once taking his eyes from the book. At last, noticing how quietly he was doing his work, Margaret looked at him, not furtively or as by stealth, but curiously and thoughtfully. He was good to look at, so
strong and straight, even as he sat at ease with the book in his hand, and the quivering sunlight through the leaves played over his yellow beard and white forehead. She knew well enough now that he admired her greatly, and she hoped it would not be very hard for him when she went away. Somehow, he was still to her the professor, the student, quiet and dignified and careless of the world, as she had first known him. She could not realise Claudius as a man of wealth and power, who was as well able to indulge his fancies as the Duke himself, — perhaps more so, for the Duke’s financial affairs were the gossip of Europe, and always had been since he came of age.

  Meanwhile the Doctor reached the end of the chapter, and there was a pause. Neither spoke, and the silence was becoming awkward, when a servant came across the lawn announcing the Duke.

  “Ask his Grace to come outside,” said Margaret, and the representative of the aristocracy was striding over the green, hat in hand, a moment afterwards. Margaret put out her hand and Claudius rose. Each felt that the deus ex machinâ had arrived, and that the subject of the yachting excursion would be immediately broached.

  “Immense luck, finding you both,” remarked the Duke when he was seated.

  “We have been reading. It is so pleasant here,” said Margaret, to say something.

  “I have come to thank you for your kind note, Countess. It is extremely good of you to go in such a party, with your taste for literature and those sort of things.”

  “I am sure it is I who ought to thank you, Duke. But when are we to sail?”