Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Very well. I saw your friend, Mr. Horace Bellingham, this morning, and he told me all about the Countess’s troubles. In fact, they are in the newspapers by this time, but I had not read about them. He suggested that some personal friend of the Countess had better proceed to headquarters at once, and see about it; so I said I would go; and he gave me some introductions. They are probably good ones; but he advised me to come to you and get one for your ambassador.”

  “Anything Uncle Horace advises is right, you know,” said his Grace, speaking with his mouth full. “He knows no end of people everywhere,” he added pensively, when he had swallowed.

  “Very well, I will go; but I am glad you approve.”

  “But what the deuce are you going to do about that fortune of yours?” asked the other suddenly. “Don’t you think we had better go down and swear to you at once? I may not be here when you get back, you know.”

  “No; that would not suit my arrangements,” answered Claudius. “I would rather not let it be known for what purpose I had gone. Do you understand? I am going ostensibly to Heidelberg to get my papers from the University, and so, with all thanks, I need not trouble you.” The Duke looked at him for a moment.

  “What a queer fellow you are, Claudius,” he said at last. “I should think you would like her to know.”

  “Why? Suppose that I failed, what a figure I should cut, to be sure.” Claudius preferred to attribute to his vanity an action which was the natural outcome of his love.

  “Well, that is true,” said the Duke; “but I think you are pretty safe for all that. Have some breakfast — I forgot all about it.”

  “No, thanks. Are you going to Newport to-day? I would like to see something outside of New York before I go back.”

  “By all means. Better go at once — all of us in a body. I know the Countess is ready, and I am sure I am.”

  “Very good. I will get my things together. One word — please do not tell them I am going; I will do it myself.

  “All right,” answered the Duke; and Claudius vanished. “He says ‘them,’” soliloquised the Englishman, “but he means ‘her.’”

  Claudius found on his table a note from Mr. Screw. This missive was couched in formal terms, and emitted a kind of phosphorescent wrath. Mr. Screw’s dignity was seriously offended by the summary ejectment he had suffered at the Doctor’s hands on the previous day. He gave the Doctor formal notice that his drafts would not be honoured until the executors were satisfied concerning his identity; and he solemnly and legally “regretted the position Dr. Claudius had assumed towards those whose sacred duty it was to protect the interests of Dr. Claudius.” The cunning repetition of name conveyed the idea of two personages, the claimant and the real heir, in a manner that did not escape the Doctor. Since yesterday he had half regretted having lost his temper; and had he known that Screw had been completely duped by Mr. Barker, Claudius would probably have apologised to the lawyer. Indeed, he had a vague suspicion, as the shadow of a distant event, that Barker was not altogether clear of the business; and the fact that the latter had shown so little surprise on hearing of his friend’s sudden return to Europe had aroused the Doctor’s imagination, so that he found himself piecing together everything he could remember to show that Barker had an interest of some kind in removing him from the scene. Nevertheless, the burden of responsibility for the annoyance he was now suffering seemed to rest with Screw, and Screw should be taught a great lesson; and to that end Claudius would write a letter. It was clear he was still angry.

  The Doctor sat down to write; and his strong, white fingers held the pen with unrelenting determination to be disagreeable. His face was set like a mask, and ever and anon his blue eyes gleamed scornfully. And this is what he said —

  “SIR — Having enjoyed the advantage of your society, somewhat longer than I could have wished, during yesterday afternoon, I had certainly not hoped for so early a mark of your favour and interest as a letter from you of to-day’s date. As for your formal notice to me that my drafts will not be honoured in future, I regard it as a deliberate repetition of the insulting insinuation conveyed to me by your remarks during your visit. You are well aware that I have not drawn upon the estate in spite of your written authorisation to do so. I consider your conduct in this matter unworthy of a person professing the law, and your impertinence is in my opinion only second to the phenomenal clumsiness you have displayed throughout. As I fear that your ignorance of your profession may lead you into some act of folly disastrous to yourself, I will go so far as to inform you that on my return from Europe, two months hence, your proceedings as executor for the estate of the late Gustavus Lindstrand will be subjected to the severest scrutiny. In the meantime, I desire no further communications from you.

  CLAUDIUS.”

  This remarkable epistle was immediately despatched by messenger to Pine Street; and if Mr. Screw had felt himself injured before, he was on the verge of desperation when he read Claudius’s polemic. He repeated to himself the several sentences, which seemed to breathe war and carnage in their trenchant brevity; and he thought that even if he had been guilty of any breach of trust, he could hardly have felt worse. He ran his fingers through his thick yellow-gray hair, and hooked his legs in and out of each other as he sat, and bullied his clerks within an inch of their lives. Then, to get consolation, he said to himself that Claudius was certainly an impostor, or he would not be so angry, or go to Europe, or refuse any more communications. In the midst of his rage, Mr. Barker the younger opportunely appeared in the office of Messrs. Screw and Scratch, prepared to throw any amount of oil upon the flames.

  “Well?” said Mr. Barker interrogatively, as he settled the flower in his gray coat, and let the paper ribband of the “ticker” run through his other hand, with its tale of the tide of stocks. Yellow Mr. Screw shot a lurid glance from his brassy little eyes.

  “You’re right, sir — the man’s a humbug.”

  “Who?” asked Barker, in well-feigned innocence.

  “Claudius. It’s my belief he’s a liar and a thief and a damned impostor, sir. That’s my belief, sir.” He waxed warm as he vented his anger.

  “Well, I only suggested taking precautions. I never said any of these things,” answered Barker, who had no idea of playing a prominent part in his own plot. “Don’t give me any credit, Mr. Screw.”

  “Now, see here, Mr. Barker; I’m talking to you. You’re as clever a young man as there is in New York. Now, listen to me; I’m talking to you,” said Mr. Screw excitedly. “That man turned me out of his house — turned me out of doors, sir, yesterday afternoon; and now he writes me this letter; look here, look at it; read it for yourself, can’t you? And so he makes tracks for Europe, and leaves no address behind. An honest man isn’t going to act like that, sir — is he, now?”

  “Not much,” said Barker, as he took the letter. He read it through twice, and gave it back. “Not much,” he repeated. “Is it true that he has drawn no money?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose it is,” answered Screw reluctantly, for this was the weak point in his argument. “However, it would be just like such a leg to make everything sure in playing a big game. You see he has left himself the rear platform, so he can jump off when his car is boarded.”

  “However,” said Barker sententiously, “I must say it is in his favour. What we want are facts, you know, Mr. Screw. Besides, if he had taken anything, I should have been responsible, because I accepted him abroad as the right man.”

  “Well, as you say, there is nothing gone — not a red. So if he likes to get away, he can; I’m well rid of him.”

  “Now that’s the way to look at it. Don’t be so down in the mouth, sir; it will all come straight enough.” Barker smiled benignly, knowing it was all crooked enough at present.

  “Well, I’m damned anyhow,” said Mr. Screw, which was not fair to himself, for he was an honest man, acting very properly according to his lights. It was not his fault if Barker deceived him, and if that hot-livered Swede
was angry.

  “Never mind,” answered Barker, rather irrelevantly; “I will see him before he sails, and tell you what I think about it. He is dead sure to give himself away, somehow, before he gets off.”

  “Well, sail in, young man,” said Screw, biting off the end of a cigar. “I don’t want to see him again, you can take your oath.”

  “All right; that settles it. I came about something else, though. I know you can tell me all about this suit against the Western Union, can’t you?”

  So the two men sat in their arm-chairs and talked steadily, as only Americans can talk, without showing any more signs of fatigue than if they were snoring; and it cost them nothing. If the Greeks of the time of Pericles could be brought to life in America, they would be very like modern Americans in respect of their love of talking and of their politics. Terrible chatterers in the market-place, and great wranglers in the council — the greatest talkers living, but also on occasion the greatest orators, with a redundant vivacity of public life in their political veins, that magnifies and inflames the diseases of the parts, even while it gives an unparalleled harmony to the whole. The Greeks had more, for their activity, hampered by the narrow limits of their political sphere, broke out in every variety of intellectual effort, carried into every branch of science and art. In spite of the whole modern school of impressionists, æsthetes, and aphrodisiac poets, the most prominent features of Greek art are its intellectuality, its well-reasoned science, and its accurate conception of the ideal. The resemblance between Americans of to-day and Greeks of the age of Pericles does not extend to matters of art as yet, though America bids fair to surpass all earlier and contemporary nations in the progressive departments of science. But as talkers they are pre-eminent, these rapid business men with their quick tongues and their sharp eyes and their millions.

  When Barker left Screw he had learned a great deal about the suit of which he inquired, but Screw had learned nothing whatever about Claudius.

  As for the Doctor, as soon as he had despatched his letter he sent to secure a passage in Wednesday’s steamer, and set himself to prepare his effects for the voyage, as he only intended returning from Newport in time to go on board. He was provided with money enough, for before leaving Germany he had realised the whole of his own little fortune, not wishing to draw upon his larger inheritance until he should feel some necessity for doing so. He now felt no small satisfaction in the thought that he was independent of Mr. Screw and of every one else. It would have been an easy matter, he knew, to clear up the whole difficulty in twenty-four hours, by simply asking the Duke to vouch for him; and before hearing of Margaret’s trouble he had had every intention of pursuing that course. But now that he was determined to go to Russia in her behalf, his own difficulty, if he did not take steps for removing it, furnished him with an excellent excuse for the journey, without telling the Countess that he was going for the sole purpose of recovering her fortune, as he otherwise must have told her. Had he known the full extent of Barker’s intentions he might have acted differently, but as yet his instinct against that ingenious young gentleman was undefined and vague.

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE CLIFF AT Newport — the long winding path that follows it from the great beach to the point of the island, always just above the sea, hardly once descending to it, as the evenly-gravelled path, too narrow for three, though far too broad for two, winds by easy curves through the grounds, and skirts the lawns of the million-getters who have their tents and their houses therein — it is a pretty place. There the rich men come and seethe in their gold all summer; and Lazarus comes to see whether he cannot marry Dives’s daughter. And the choleric architect, dissatisfied with the face of Nature, strikes her many a dread blow, and produces an unhealthy eruption wherever he strikes, and calls the things he makes houses. Here also, on Sunday afternoon, young gentlemen and younger ladies patrol in pairs, and discourse of the most saccharine inanities, not knowing what they shall say, and taking no thought, for obvious reasons. And gardeners sally forth in the morning and trim the paths with strange-looking instruments — the earth-barbers, who lather and shave and clip Nature into patterns, and the world into a quincunx.

  It is a pretty place. There is nothing grand, not even anything natural in Newport, but it is very pretty for all that. For an artificial place, destined to house the most artificial people in the world during three months of the year, it is as pleasing as it can be in a light-comedy-scenery style. Besides, the scenery in Newport is very expensive, and it is impossible to spend so much money without producing some result. It cost a hundred thousand to level that lawn there, and Dives paid the money cheerfully. Then there is Croesus, his neighbour, who can draw a cheque for a hundred millions if he likes. His house cost him a pot of money. And so they build themselves a landscape, and pare off the rough edges of the island, and construct elegant landing-stages, and keep yachts, and make to themselves a fashionable watering-place; until by dint of putting money into it, they have made it remarkable among the watering-places of the world, perhaps the most remarkable of all.

  But there are times when the cliff at Newport is not an altogether flippant bit of expensive scene-painting, laid out for the sole purpose of “effect.” Sometimes in the warm summer nights the venerable moon rises stately and white out of the water; the old moon, that is the hoariest sinner of us all, with her spells and enchantments and her breathing love-beams, that look so gently on such evil works. And the artist-spirits of the night sky take of her silver as much as they will, and coat with it many things of most humble composition, so that they are fair to look upon. And they play strange pranks with faces of living and dead. So when the ruler of the darkness shines over poor, commonplace Newport, the aspect of it is changed, and the gingerbread abominations wherein the people dwell are magnified into lofty palaces of silver, and the close-trimmed lawns are great carpets of soft dark velvet; and the smug-faced philistine sea, that the ocean would be ashamed to own for a relation by day, breaks out into broken flashes of silver and long paths of light. All this the moonlight does, rejoicing in its deception.

  There is another time, too, when Newport is no longer commonplace, when that same sea, which never seems to have any life of its own, disgorges its foggy soul over the land. There is an ugly odour as of musty salt-water in men’s nostrils, and the mist is heavy and thick to the touch. It creeps up to the edge of the cliff, and greedily clings to the wet grass, and climbs higher and over the lawns, and in at the windows of Dives’s dining-room, and of Croesus’s library, with its burden of insiduous mould. The pair of trim-built flirtlings, walking so daintily down the gravel path, becomes indistinct, and their forms are seen but as the shadows of things dead — treading on air, between three worlds. The few feet of bank above the sea, dignified by the name of cliff, fall back to a gaping chasm, a sheer horror of depths, misty and unfathomable. Onward slides the thick cloud, and soon the deep-mouthed monotone of the fog-horns in the distance tells it is in the bay. There is nothing commonplace about the Newport cliff in a fog; it is wild enough and dreary enough then, for the scene of a bad deed. You might meet the souls of the lost in such a fog, hiding before the wrath to come.

  Late on Tuesday afternoon Claudius and Margaret had taken their way towards the cliff, a solitary couple at that hour on a week-day. Even at a distance there was something about their appearance that distinguished them from ordinary couples. Claudius’s great height seemed still more imposing now that he affected the garb of civilisation, and Margaret had the air of a woman of the great world in every movement of her graceful body, and in every fold of her perfect dress. American women, when they dress well, dress better than any other women in the world; but an American woman who has lived at the foreign courts is unapproachable. If there had been any one to see these two together on Tuesday afternoon, there would have been words of envy, malice, and hatred. As it was, they were quite alone on the cliff walk.

  Margaret was happy; there was light in her eyes, and a faint
warm flush on her dark cheek. A closed parasol hung from her hand, having an ivory handle carved with an “M” and a crown — the very one that three months ago had struck the first spark of their acquaintance from the stones of the old Schloss at Heidelberg — perhaps she had brought it on purpose. She was happy still, for she did not know that Claudius was going away, though he had brought her out here, away from every one, that he might tell her. But they had reached the cliff and had walked some distance in the direction of the point, and yet he spoke not. Something tied his tongue, and he would have spoken if he could, but his words seemed too big to come out. At last they came to a place where a quick descent leads from the path down to the sea. A little sheltered nook of sand and stones is there, all irregular and rough, like the lumps in brown sugar, and the lazy sea splashed a little against some old pebbles it had known for a long time, never having found the energy to wash them away. The rocks above overhung the spot, so that it was entirely shielded from the path, and the rocks below spread themselves into a kind of seat. Here they sat them down, facing the water — towards evening — not too near to each other, not too far, — Margaret on the right, Claudius on the left. And Claudius punched the little pebbles with his stick after he had sat down, wondering how he should begin. Indeed it did not seem easy. It would have been easier if he had been less advanced, or further advanced, in his suit. Most people never jump without feeling, at the moment of jumping, that they could leap a little better if they could “take off” an inch nearer or further away.

  “Countess,” said the Doctor at last, turning towards her with a very grave look in his face, “I have something to tell you, and I do not know how to say it.” He paused, and Margaret looked at the sea, without noticing him, for she half fancied he was on the point of repeating his former indiscretion and saying he loved her. Would it be an indiscretion now? She wondered what she should say, what she would say, if he did — venture. Would she say “it was not right” of him now? In a moment Claudius had resolved to plunge boldly at the truth.