“Good-night, Countess,” he said; “shall I have the pleasure of reading with you to-morrow?”
“Perhaps,” she answered; “if it is very fine. Fate has decreed that we should have plenty of time.” He tried to catch a glance as she left his arm, but she would not, and they were parted for the night. Barker had gone into the engine-room, now quiet and strange; the useless machinery stood still as it had been stopped when the loss of the propeller, relieving the opposition to the motor-force, allowed it to make its last frantic revolutions. The Duke and Claudius were left alone in the main cabin.
“Well,” said the Duke, “we are in for it this time, at all events.”
“We are indeed,” said Claudius; “I hope the delay will not cause you any serious inconvenience, for I suppose we shall not reach New York for a fortnight at least.”
“It will not inconvenience me at all. But I am sorry for you — for you all, I mean,” he added, fearing he had been awkward in thus addressing Claudius directly, “because it will be so very disagreeable, such an awful bore for you to be at sea so long.”
“I have no doubt we shall survive,” said the other, with a smile. “What do you say to going on deck and having a chat with Sturleson, now that all is quiet?”
“And a pipe?” said the Duke, “I am with you.” So on deck they went, and clambered along the lee to the smoking-room, without getting very wet. Sturleson was sent for, and they reviewed together the situation. The result of the inquiry was that things looked much brighter to all three. They were in a good sea-boat, well manned and provisioned, with nothing to fear from the weather, and if they were lucky they might make Sandy Hook in a week. On the other hand, they might not; but it is always well to take a cheerful view of things. People who cross the Atlantic in yachts are very different from the regular crowds that go backwards and forwards in the great lines. They are seldom in a hurry, and have generally made a good many voyages before. Perhaps the Duke himself, in his quality of host, was the most uncomfortable man on board. He did not see how the Countess and the Doctor could possibly survive being shut up together in a small vessel, for he was convinced that Barker knew all about their difficulty. If he had not liked Claudius so much, he would have been angry at him for daring to propose to this beautiful young friend of his. But then Claudius was Claudius, and even the Duke saw something in him besides his wealth which gave him a right to aspire to the highest.
“I can’t make out,” the Duke once said to Barker, “where Claudius got his manners. He never does anything the least odd; and he always seems at his ease.”
“I only know he came to Heidelberg ten years ago, and that he is about thirty. He got his manners somewhere when he was a boy.”
“Of course, there are lots of good people in Sweden,” said the Duke; “but they all have titles, just as they do in Germany. And Claudius has no title.”
“No,” said Barker pensively, “I never heard him say he had a title.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” answered the Duke. “But I have been a good deal about Sweden, and he is not in the least like a respectable Swedish burgher. Did you not tell me that his uncle, who left him all that money, was your father’s partner in business?”
“Yes, I remember once or twice hearing the old gentleman say he had a nephew. But he was a silent man, though he piled up the dollars.”
“Claudius is a silent man too,” said the Duke.
“And he has sailed into the dollars ready piled.”
But this was before the eventful day just described; and the Duke had forgotten the conversation, though he had repeated the reflections to himself, and found them true. To tell the truth, Claudius looked more like a duke than his host, for the sea air had blown away the professorial cobwebs; and, after all, it did not seem so very incongruous in the Englishman’s eyes that his handsome guest should fall in love with the Countess Margaret. Only, it was very uncomfortable; and he did not know exactly what he should do with them for the next ten days. Perhaps he ought to devote himself to the Countess, and thus effectually prevent any approaches that Claudius might meditate. Yes — that was probably his duty. He wished he might ask counsel of his sister; but then she did not know, and it seemed unfair, and altogether rather a betrayal of confidence or something — at all events, it was not right, and he would not do it. Barker might be wrong too. And so the poor Duke, muddle-headed and weary with this storm in his tea-cup, and with having his tea-cup come to grief in a real storm into the bargain, turned into his deck-cabin to “sleep on it,” thinking the morning would bring counsel.
Claudius had many things to think of too; but he was weary, for he had slept little of late, and not at all the night before; so he lay down and went over the scenes of the evening; but soon he fell asleep, and dreamed of her all the night long.
But the good yacht Streak held on her course bravely, quivering in the joy of her new-spread wings. For what hulk is so dull and pitifully modern as not to feel how much gladder a thing it is to bound along with straining shrouds and singing sails and lifting keel to the fierce music of the wind than to be ever conscious of a burning sullenly-thudding power, put in her bosom by the unartistic beast, man, to make her grind her breathless way whither he would, and whither she would not? Not the meanest mud-scow or harbour tug but would rather have a little mast and a bit of canvas in the fresh salt breeze than all the hundreds of land-born horse-powers and fire-driven cranks and rods that a haste-loving generation can cram into the belly of the poor craft. How much more, then, must the beautiful clean-built Streak have rejoiced on that night when she felt the throbbing, gnashing pain of the engines stop suddenly in her breast, and was allowed to spread her beautiful wings out to be kissed and caressed all over by her old lover, the north-east wind?
And the grand crested waves came creeping up, curling over their dark heads till they bristled with phosphorescent foam; and some of them broke angrily upward, jealous that the wind alone might touch those gleaming sails. But the wind roared at them in his wrath and drove them away, so that they sank back, afraid to fight with him; and he took the ship in his strong arms, and bore her fast and far that night, through many a heaving billow, and past many a breaking crest — far over the untrodden paths, where footsteps are not, neither the defiling hand of man.
But within were beating hearts and the breathings of life. The strong man stretched to his full length on his couch, mighty to see in his hard-earned sleep. And the beautiful woman, with parted lips and wild tossing black hair; dark cheeks flushed with soft resting; hands laid together lovingly, as though, in the quiet night, the left hand would learn at last what good work the right hand has wrought; the fringe of long eyelashes drooping with the lids, to fold and keep the glorious light safe within, and — ah yes, it is there! — the single tear still clinging to its birthplace — mortal impress of immortal suffering. Is it not always there, the jewelled sign-manual of grief?
But the good yacht Streak held on her course bravely; and the north-easter laughed and sang as he buffeted the waves from the path of his love.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DUKE WAS the first to be astir in the morning, and as soon as he opened his eyes he made up his mind that the weather was improving. The sea was still running high, but there was no sound of water breaking over the bulwarks. He emerged from his deck-cabin, and took a sniff of the morning air. A reef had been shaken out of the trysails, and the fore-topsail and jib were set. He went aft, and found the mate just heaving the patent log.
“Nine and a half, your Grace,” said the officer with a chuckle, for he was an old sailor, and hated steamers.
“That’s very fair,” remarked the owner, skating off with his bare feet over the wet deck. Then he went back to his cabin to dress.
Presently Mr. Barker’s neat person emerged from the cuddy. He looked about to see if any one were out yet, but only a party of red-capped tars were visible, swabbing the forward deck with their pendulum-like brooms, and working their way
aft in a regular, serried rank. The phalanx moved with an even stroke, and each bare foot advanced just so many inches at every third sweep of the broom, while the yellow-haired Norse ‘prentice played the hose in front of them. Mr. Barker perceived that they would overtake him before long, and he determined on flight, not forward or aft, but aloft; and he leisurely lifted himself into the main-shrouds, and climbing half-way, hooked his feet through the ratlines. In this position he took out a cigar, lighted it with a vesuvian, and, regardless of the increased motion imparted to him at his greater elevation, he began to smoke. The atmosphere below must have been very oppressive indeed to induce Mr. Barker to come up before breakfast — in fact, before eight o’clock — for the sake of smoking a solitary cigar up there by the catharpings. Mr. Barker wanted to think, for an idea had struck him during the night.
In ten minutes the parade of deck-swabbers had passed, and Claudius also appeared on deck, looking haggard and pale. He did not see Barker, for he turned, seaman-like, to the weatherside, and the try-sail hid his friend from his sight. Presently he too thought he would go aloft, for he felt cramped and weary, and fancied a climb would stretch his limbs. He went right up to the crosstrees before he espied Barker, a few feet below him on the other side. He stopped a moment in astonishment, for this sort of diversion was the last thing he had given the American credit for. Besides, as Barker was to leeward, the rigging where he was perched stood almost perpendicular, and his position must have been a very uncomfortable one. Claudius was not given to jocularity as a rule, but he could not resist such a chance for astonishing a man who imagined himself to be enjoying an airy solitude between sky and water. So he gently swung himself into the lee rigging and, leaning far down, cautiously lifted Mr. Barker’s cap from his head by the woollen button in the middle. Mr. Barker knocked the ash from his cigar with his free hand, and returned it to his mouth; he then conveyed the same hand to the top of his head, to assure himself that the cap was gone. He knew perfectly well that in his present position he could not look up to see who had played him the trick.
“I don’t know who you are,” he sang out, “but I may as well tell you my life is insured. If I catch cold, the company will make it hot for you — and no error.”
A roar of laughter from below saluted this sally, for the Duke and Sturleson had met, and had watched together the progress of the joke.
“I will take the risk,” replied Claudius, who had retired again to the crosstrees. “I am going to put it on the topmast-head, so that you may have a good look at it.”
“You can’t do it,” said Barker, turning himself round, and lying flat against the ratlines, so that he could look up at his friend.
“What’s that?” bawled the Duke from below.
“Says he will decorate the maintruck with my hat, and I say he can’t do it,” Barker shouted back.
“I’ll back Claudius, level money,” answered the Duke in stentorian tones.
“I’ll take three to two,” said Barker.
“No, I won’t. Level money.”
“Done for a hundred, then,” answered the American.
It was an unlikely thing to bet on, and Barker thought he might have given the Duke odds, instead of asking them, as he had done. But he liked to get all he could in a fair way. Having arranged his bet, he told Claudius he might climb to the mast-head if he liked, but that he, Barker, was going down so as to have a better view; and he forthwith descended. All three stood leaning back against the weather bulwarks, craning their necks to see the better. Claudius was a very large man, as has been said, and Barker did not believe it possible that he could drag his gigantic frame up the smooth mast beyond the shrouds. If it were possible, he was quite willing to pay his money to see him do it.
Claudius put the woollen cap in his pocket, and began the ascent. The steamer, as has been said, was schooner-rigged, with topsail yards on the foremast, but there were no ratlines in the main topmast shrouds, which were set about ten feet below the mast-head. To this point Claudius climbed easily enough, using his arms and legs against the stiffened ropes. A shout from the Duke hailed his arrival.
“Now comes the tug of war,” said the Duke.
“He can never do it,” said Barker confidently.
But Barker had underrated the extraordinary strength of the man against whom he was betting, and he did not know how often, when a boy, Claudius had climbed higher masts than those of the Streak. The Doctor was one of those natural athletes whose strength does not diminish for lack of exercise, and large as he was, and tall, he was not so heavy as Barker thought. Now he pulled the cap out of his pocket and held it between his teeth, as he gripped the smooth wood between his arms and hands and legs, and with firm and even motion he began to swarm up the bare pole.
“There — I told you so,” said Barker. Claudius had slipped nearly a foot back.
“He will do it yet,” said the Duke, as the climber clasped his mighty hands to the mast. He would not slip again, for his blood was up, and he could almost fancy his iron grip pressed deep into the wood. Slowly, slowly those last three feet were conquered, inch by inch, and the broad hand stole stealthily over the small wooden truck at the topmast-head till it had a firm hold — then the other, and with the two he raised and pushed his body up till the truck was opposite his breast.
“Skal to the Viking!” yelled old Sturleson, the Swedish captain, his sunburnt face glowing red with triumph as Claudius clapped the woollen cap over the mast-head.
“Well done, indeed, man!” bawled the Duke.
“Well,” said Barker, “it was worth the money, anyhow.”
There was a faint exclamation from the door of the after-cabin; but none of the three men heard it, nor did they see a horror-struck face, stony and wide-eyed, staring up at the mast-head, where the Doctor’s athletic figure swayed far out over the water with the motion of the yacht. Time had flown, and the bright sunlight streaming down into the ladies’ cabin had made Margaret long for a breath of fresh air; so that when Lady Victoria appeared, in all sorts of jersies and blue garments, fresh and ready for anything, the two had made common cause and ventured up the companion without any manly assistance. It chanced that they came out on the deck at the very moment when Claudius was accomplishing his feat, and seeing the three men looking intently at something aloft, Margaret looked too, and was horrified at what she saw. Lady Victoria caught her and held her tightly, or she would have lost her footing with the lurch of the vessel. Lady Victoria raised her eyes also, and took in the situation at a glance.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said, “he can take care of himself, no doubt. My brother used to be able to do it before he grew so big.”
Claudius descended rapidly, but almost lost his hold when he saw Margaret leaning against the taffrail. He would not have had her see him for worlds, and there she was, and she had evidently witnessed the whole affair. Before he had reached the deck, the Duke had seen her too, and hastened to her side. She was evidently much agitated.
“How can you allow such things?” she said indignantly, her dark eyes flashing at him.
“I had nothing to say about it, Countess. But he did it magnificently.”
Claudius had reached the deck, and eluding the compliments of Barker and Sturleson, hastened to the cuddy door, bowing to the ladies as he passed. He meant to beat a retreat to his cabin. But Margaret was determined to call him to account for having given her such a fright.
“Dr. Claudius,” said the voice that he loved and feared.
“Yes, Countess,” said he, steadying himself by the door as the vessel lurched.
“Will you please come here? I want to speak to you.” He moved to her side, waiting his chance between two seas. “Do you think you have a right to risk your life in such follies?” she asked, when he was close to her. The Duke and Lady Victoria were near by.
“I do not think I have risked my life, Countess. I have often done it before.”
“Do you think, then, that you have a right t
o do such things in the sight of nervous women?”
“No, Countess, I pretend to no such brutality, and I am very sincerely sorry that you should have unexpectedly seen me. I apologise most humbly to you and to Lady Victoria for having startled you;” he bowed to the Duke’s sister as he spoke, and moved to go away. He had already turned when Margaret’s face softened.
“Dr. Claudius,” she called again. He was at her side in a moment. “Please do not do it again — even if I am not there.” She looked at him; he thought it strange. But he was annoyed at the whole business, and really angry with himself. She had spoken in a low tone so that the others had not heard her.
“Countess,” said he in a voice decidedly sarcastic, “I pledge myself never in future to ascend to the mast-head of any vessel or vessels without your express permission.”
“Very well,” said she coldly; “I shall keep you to your word.” But Claudius had seen his mistake, and there was no trace of irony in his voice as he looked her steadfastly in the eyes and answered.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 37