Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Of course,” she answered, “the system does not pretend to the beautiful, it only aspires to the practical. If the woman is satisfied with her choice, domestic peace is assured.” She laughed.

  “Why cannot each satisfy himself or herself of the other? Why cannot the choice be mutual?”

  “It would take too long,” said she; and laughed again.

  “Very long?” asked Claudius, trying not to let his voice change. But it changed nevertheless.

  “Generally very long,” she answered in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Why should it?”

  “Because neither women nor men are so easily understood as a chapter of philosophy,” said she.

  “Is it not the highest pleasure in life, that constant, loving study of the one person one loves? Is not every anticipated thought and wish a triumph more worth living for than everything else in the wide world?” He moved close to her side. “Do you not think so too?” She said nothing.

  “I think so,” he said. “There is no pleasure like the pleasure of trying to understand what a woman wants; there is no sorrow like the sorrow of failing to do that; and there is no glory like the glory of success. It is a divine task for any man, and the greatest have thought it worthy of them.” Still she was silent; and so was he for a little while, looking at her side face, for she had thrown back the veil and her delicate profile showed clearly against the sea foam.

  “Countess,” he said at last; and his voice came and went fitfully with the breeze— “I would give my whole life’s strength and study for the gladness of foreseeing one little thing that you might wish, and of doing it for you.” His hand stole along the taffrail till it touched hers, but he did not lift his fingers from the polished wood.

  “Dr. Claudius, you would give too much,” she said; for the magic of the hour and place was upon her, and the Doctor’s earnest tones admitted of no laughing retort. She ought to have checked him then, and the instant she had spoken she knew it; but before she could speak again he had taken the hand he was already touching between both of his, and was looking straight in her face.

  “Margaret, I love you with all my soul and heart and strength.” Her hand trembled in his, but she could not take it away. Before she had answered he had dropped to his knee and was pressing the gloved fingers to his lips.

  “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeated, and his strength was as the strength of ten in that moment.

  “Dr. Claudius,” said she at last, in a broken and agitated way, “you ought not to have said this. It was not right of you.” She tried to loose her hand, but he rose to his feet still clasping it.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “forgive me!” His face was almost luminously pale. “All the ages cannot take from me this — that I have told you.”

  Margaret said never a word, but covered her head with her veil and glided noiselessly away, leaving Claudius with his white face and staring eyes to the contemplation of what he had done. And she went below and sat in her stateroom and tried to think it all over. She was angry, she felt sure. She was angry at Claudius and half angry at herself — at least she thought so. She was disappointed, she said, in the man, and she did not mean to forgive him. Besides, in a yacht, with a party of six people, where there was absolutely no escape possible, it was unpardonable. He really ought not to have done it. Did he think — did he flatter himself — that if she had expected he was going to act just like all the rest of them she would have treated him as she had? Did he fancy his well-planned declaration would flatter her? Could he not see that she wanted to consider him always as a friend, that she thought she had found at last what she had so often dreamed of — a friendship proof against passion? It was so common, so commonplace. It was worse, for it was taking a cruel advantage of the narrow limits within which they were both confined. Besides, he had taken advantage of her kindness to plan a scene which he knew would surprise her out of herself. She ought to have spoken strongly and sharply and made him suffer for his sin while he was yet red-handed. And instead, what had she done? She had merely said very meekly that “it was not right,” and had sought safety in a hasty retreat.

  She sighed wearily, and began to shake out the masses of her black hair, that was as the thickness of night spun fine. And as she drew out the thick tortoise-shell pins that bore it up, it rolled down heavily in a soft dark flood and covered her as with a garment. Then she leaned back and sighed again, and her eyes fell on a book that lay at the corner of her dressing-table, where she had left it before dinner. It was the book they had been reading, and the mark was a bit of fine white cord that Claudius had cunningly twisted and braided, sailor fashion, to keep the place. Margaret rose to her feet, and taking the book in her hand, looked at it a moment without opening it. Then she hid it out of sight and sat down again. The action had been almost unconscious, but now she thought about it, and she did not like what she had done. Angry with him and with herself, she was yet calm enough to ask why she could not bear the sight of the volume on the table. Was it possible she had cared enough about her friendship for the Doctor to be seriously distressed at its sudden termination? She hardly knew — perhaps so. So many men had made love to her, none had ever before seemed to be a friend.

  The weary and hard-worked little sentiment that we call conscience spoke up. Was she just to him? No. If she had cared even as much as that action showed, had he no right to care also? He had the right, yes; but he had been wanting in tact. He should have waited till they were ashore. Poor fellow! he looked so white, and his hands were so cold. Was he there still, looking out at the ship’s wake? Margaret, are you quite sure you never thought of him save as a friendly professor who taught you philosophy? And there was a little something that would not be silenced, and that would say — Yes, you are playing tricks with your feelings, you care for him, you almost love him. And for a moment there was a fierce struggle in the brave heart of that strong woman as she shook out her black hair and turned pale to the lips. She rose again, and went and got the book she had hidden, and laid it just where it had lain before. Then she knew, and she bowed her head till her white forehead touched the table before her, and her hands were wet as they pressed her eyelids.

  “I am very weak,” she said aloud, and proceeded with her toilet.

  “But you will be kind to him, Margaret,” said the little voice in her heart, as she laid her head on the pillow.

  “But it is my duty to be cold. I do not love him,” she argued, as the watch struck eight bells.

  Poor Saint Duty! what a mess you make of human kindness!

  Claudius was still on deck, and a wretched man he was, as his chilled hands clung to the side. He knew well enough that she was angry, though she had reproached herself with not having made it clear to him. He said to himself he ought not to have spoken, and then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that all his strength could not have kept back the words, because they were true, and because the truth must be spoken sooner or later. He was hopeless now for a time, but he did not deceive himself.

  “I am not weak. I am strong. And if my love is stronger than I what does that prove? I am glad it is, and I would not have it otherwise. It is done now and can never be undone. I am sorry I spoke to-night. I would have waited if I could. But I could not, and I should despise myself if I could. Love that is not strong enough to make a man move in spite of himself is not worth calling love. I wonder if I flattered myself she loved me? No, I am quite sure I did not. I never thought anything about it. It is enough for me that I love her, and live, and have told her so; and I can bear all the misery now, for she knows. I suppose it will begin at once. She will not speak to me. No, not that, but she will not expect me to speak to her. I will keep out of her way; it is the least I can do. And I will try and not make her life on board disagreeable. Ah, my beloved, I will never hurt you again or make you angry.”

  He said these things over and over to himself, and perhaps they comforted him a little. At eight bells the Swedish captain turne
d out, and Claudius saw him ascend the bridge, but soon he came down again and walked aft.

  “God afton, Captain,” said Claudius.

  “It is rather late to say good evening, Doctor,” replied the sailor.

  “Why, what time is it?”

  “Midnight.”

  “Well, I shall turn in.”

  “If you will take my advice,” said the captain, “you won’t leave any odds and ends lying about to-night. We shall have a dance before morning.”

  “Think so?” said Claudius indifferently.

  “Why, Doctor, where are your eyes? You are a right Svensk sailor when you are awake. You have smelled the foam in Skager Rak as well as I.”

  “Many a time,” replied the other, and looked to windward. It was true; the wind had backed to the north-east, and there was an angry little cross sea beginning to run over the long ocean swell. There was a straight black belt below the stars, and a short, quick splashing, dashing, and breaking of white crests through the night, while the rising breeze sang in the weather rigging.

  Claudius turned away and went below. He took the captain’s advice, and secured his traps and went to bed. But he could not sleep, and he said over and over to himself that he loved her, that he was glad he had told her so, and that he would stand by the result of his night’s work, through all time, — ay, and beyond time.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  LADY VICTORIA WAS not afraid of the sea. No indeed, and if her brother would go with her she would like nothing better. And Miss Skeat, too, would she like to come? Such a pity poor Margaret had a headache. She had not even come to breakfast.

  Yes, Miss Skeat would come, and the boatswain would provide them both with tarpaulins and sou’-westers, and they would go on deck for a few minutes. But Mr. Barker was so sorry he had a touch of neuralgia, and besides he knew that Claudius was on deck and would be of more use to the ladies than he could ever be. Mr. Barker had no idea of getting wet, and the sudden headache of the Countess, combined with the absence of Claudius from her side, interested him. He meant to stay below and watch the events of the morning. Piloted by the Duke, the strong English girl and the wiry old Scotch lady made their way up the companion, not without difficulty, for the skipper’s prediction was already fulfilled, and the Streak was ploughing her way through all sorts of weather at once.

  The deck was slippery and sloppy, and the sharp spray was blowing itself in jets round every available corner. The sky was of an even lead colour, but it was hard to tell at first whether it was raining or not. The Duke’s face gleamed like a wet red apple in the wind and water as he helped his sister to the leeward and anchored her among the shrouds.

  “Hullo, Claudius, you seem to like this!” he sang out, spying the tall Swede near the gangway. Claudius came towards them, holding on by the pins and cleats and benches. He looked so white that Lady Victoria was frightened.

  “You are not well, Dr. Claudius. Please don’t mind me, my brother will be back in a moment. Go below and get warm. You really look ill.”

  “Do I? I do not feel ill at all. I am very fond of this kind of weather.” And he put one arm through the shrouds and prepared for conversation under difficulties. Meanwhile the Duke brought out Miss Skeat, who rattled inside her tarpaulin, but did not exhibit the slightest nervousness, though a bit of a sea broke over the weather-bow just as she appeared.

  “Keep your eye peeled there, will you?” the Duke shouted away to the men at the wheel; whereat they grinned, and luffed a little, just enough to let the lady get across.

  “Steady!” bawled the Duke again when Miss Skeat was made fast; and the men at the wheel held her off once more, so that the spray flew up in a cloudy sheet.

  Claudius was relieved. He had expected to see Margaret come up the companion, and he had dreaded the meeting, when he would almost of necessity be obliged to help her across and touch her hand; and he inwardly blessed her wisdom in staying below. The others might have stayed there too, he thought, instead of coming up to get wet and to spoil his solitude, which was the only thing left to him to-day.

  But Claudius was not the man to betray his ill-temper at being disturbed; and after all there was something about these two women that he liked — in different ways. The English girl was so solidly enthusiastic, and the Scotch gentlewoman so severely courageous, that he felt a sort of companionable sympathy after he had been with them a few minutes.

  Lady Victoria, as previously hinted, was married, and her husband, who was in the diplomatic service, and who had prospects afterwards of coming into money and a peerage, was now absent on a distant mission. They had not been married very long, but his wife was always ready to take things cheerfully, and, since she could not accompany him, she had made up her mind to be happy without him; and the trip with her brother was “just the very thing.” Mr. Barker admired what he called her exuberant vitality, and expressed his opinion that people with a digestion like that were always having a good time. She was strong and healthy, and destined to be the mother of many bold sons, and she had a certain beauty born of a good complexion, bright eyes, and white teeth. To look at her, you would have said she must be the daughter of some robust and hardworking settler, accustomed from her youth to face rain and snow and sunshine in ready reliance on her inborn strength. She did not suggest dukes and duchesses in the least. Alas! the generation of those ruddy English boys and girls is growing rarer day by day, and a mealy-faced, over-cerebrated people are springing up, who with their children again, in trying to rival the brain-work of foreigners with larger skulls and more in them, forget that their English forefathers have always done everything by sheer strength and bloodshed, and can as easily hope to accomplish anything by skill as a whale can expect to dance upon the tight rope. They would do better, thought Lady Victoria, to give it up, to abandon the struggle for intellectual superiority of that kind. They have produced greater minds when, the mass of their countrymen were steeped in brutality, and Elizabethan surfeit of beef and ale, than they will ever produce with a twopenny-halfpenny universal education. What is the use? Progress. What is progress? Merely the adequate arrangement of inequalities — in the words of one of their own thinkers who knows most about it and troubles himself least about theories. What is the use of your “universal” education, to which nine-tenths of the population submit as to a hopeless evil, which takes bread out of their mouths and puts bran into their heads; for might they not be at work in the fields instead of scratching pothooks on a slate? At least so Lady Victoria thought.

  “You look just like a sailor,” said she to Claudius.

  “I feel like one,” he answered, “and I think I shall adopt the sea as a profession.”

  “It is such a pity,” said Miss Skeat, sternly clutching the twisted wire shroud. “I would like to see you turn pirate; it would be so picturesque — you and Mr. Barker.” The others laughed, not at the idea of Claudius sporting the black flag — for he looked gloomy enough to do murder in the first degree this morning — but the picture of the exquisite and comfort-loving Mr. Barker, with his patent-leather shoes and his elaborate travelling apparatus, leading a band of black-browed ruffians to desperate deeds of daring and blood, was novel enough to be exhilarating; and they laughed loudly. They did not understand Mr. Barker; but perhaps Miss Skeat, who liked him with an old-maidenly liking, had some instinct notion that the gentle American could be dangerous.

  “Mr. Barker would never do for a pirate,” laughed Lady Victoria; “he would be always getting his feet wet and having attacks of neuralgia.”

  “Take care, Vick,” said her brother, “he might hear you.”

  “Well, if he did? I only said he would get his feet wet. There is no harm in that, and it is clear he has neuralgia, because he says it himself.”

  “Well, of course,” said the Duke, “if that is what you mean. But he will wet his feet fast enough when there is any good reason.”

  “If you make it ‘worth his while,’ of course,” said Lady Victoria, “I hav
e no doubt of it.” She turned up her nose, for she was not very fond of Mr. Barker, and she thought poorly of the Duke’s financial enterprises in America. It was not a bit like a good old English gentleman to be always buying and selling mines and stocks and all sorts of things with queer names.

  “Look here, Vick, we won’t talk any more about Barker, if you please.”

  “Very well, then you can talk about the weather,” said she.

  “Yes,” said Claudius, “you may well do that. There is a good deal of weather to talk about.”

  “Oh, I like a storm at sea, of all things!” exclaimed Lady Victoria, forgetting all about Mr. Barker in the delicious sense of saltness and freedom one feels on the deck of a good ship running through a lively sea. She put out her face to catch the fine salt spray on her cheek. Just then a little water broke over the side abaft the gangway, and the vessel rose and fell to the sweep of a big wave. The water ran along over the flush deck, as if hunting for the scuppers, and came swashing down to the lee where the party were standing, wetting the ladies’ feet to the ankle. The men merely pulled themselves up by the ropes they held, and hung till the deck was clear again.

  “I don’t suppose it hurts you to get wet,” said the Duke to his sister, “but you would be much better under hatches while this sort of thing is going on.”

  “I think, if you will help me, I will go down and see how the Countess is,” said Miss Skeat; and Claudius detached her from the rigging and got her down the companion, but the Duke stayed with his sister, who begged for a few minutes more. Once below, Claudius felt how near he was to Margaret, who was doubtless in the ladies’ cabin. He could reach his own quarters without entering that sanctum, of course, but as he still held Miss Skeat’s arm to steady her to the door, he could not resist the temptation of putting his head through, for he knew now that she must be there. It was a large sitting-room, extending through the whole beam, with big port-holes on each side. Miss Skeat entered, and Claudius looked in.