So when he had concluded the affair he hastened to Berlin, telegraphing from thence the news of his immediate return. In less than a fortnight, at all events, he ought to be in New York. The thought gave him infinite relief; for, since he had finished his business in Petersburg, the reaction which in strong natures is very sure to follow a great effort, for the very reason that strong natures tax their powers to the utmost, recklessly, began to make itself felt. It seemed to him, as he looked back, that he had heard so little from her. Not that he complained; for he was fully sensible of her goodness in writing at all, and he treasured her letters as things sacred, even to the envelopes, and whatsoever had touched her hand. But he felt keenly that he was in total ignorance of her doings; and one or two references to Barker troubled him. He too had his suspicions that the scheming American had been concerned in the sudden fit of caution developed by Messrs. Screw and Scratch. He too had suspected that his quondam friend had been insincere, and that everything was not as it should be. But he was neither so wise as Margaret, who would have told him not to soil his hands with pitch, nor so supremely indifferent as the Duke, who would have said that since he had got the money it didn’t matter in the least if Barker were a brute or not. On the contrary, Claudius promised himself to sift the evidence; and if he discovered that Barker was guilty of any double-dealing, he would simply break his neck. And as Claudius thought of it, his teeth set, and he looked capable of breaking any number of necks, then and there.
But for all his wrath and his suspicions, the real cause of Barker’s strange behaviour never presented itself to his mind. It never struck him that Barker could aspire to Margaret’s hand; and he merely concluded that the young man had laid a plot for getting his money. If any one had related to Claudius the scene which took place at Mrs. Van Sueindell’s the very night when he sent his telegram, he would have laughed the story to scorn in perfect good faith, for he could not have believed it possible. Nor, believing it, would he have cared. And so he rushed across Europe, and never paused till he had locked himself into his stateroom on board the steamer, and had begun a long letter to Margaret. He knew that he would see her as soon as a letter could reach her, but that made no difference. He felt impelled to write, and he wrote — a letter so tender and loving and rejoicing that were it to appear in these pages no lover would ever dare write to his lady again, lest she chide him for being less eloquent than Claudius, Phil.D. of Heidelberg. And he wrote on and on for many days, spending most of his time in that way.
Meanwhile, the Duke and Margaret cantered in the Park, and talked of all kinds of things; or rather, the Duke talked, and Margaret thought of Claudius. Before they returned, however, she had managed to let the Duke know that the Doctor was on his way back; whereat the Englishman rejoiced loudly. Perhaps he would have given a great deal to know whether they were engaged, to be married; but still Margaret gave no sign. It was far from her thoughts; and the fact had only presented itself in that form to her on the spur of the moment, the preceding evening, as likely to prove a crushing blow at once to Mr. Barker’s plotting and Mr. Barker’s matrimonial views. But while the Duke talked, she was thinking. And as the situation slowly unfolded its well-known pictures to her mind, she suddenly saw it all in a different light.
“I must be mad,” she thought. “Barker will tell every one; and the Duke ought not to know it except from me!”
“Speaking of Dr. Claudius—” she began; the Duke was at that moment talking earnestly about the Pueblo Indians, but that was of no importance. “Speaking of the Doctor, you ought to know — I would rather that no one else told you — we are going to be married.”
The Duke was so much surprised — not so much at the information as at her manner of imparting it — that he pulled up short. Seeing him stop, she stopped also.
“Are you very much astonished?” she asked, pushing the gray veil up to her hat, and looking at him smilingly out of her deep, dark eyes. The Duke spoke no word, but leapt from his horse, which he left standing in the middle of the path, surprised into docility by the sudden desertion. There were a few wild-flowers growing by the road, which here led through a wooded glade of the Park; they were the flowers called Michaelmas daisies, which bloom until November in America. He picked a great handful of them, and came running back.
“Let me be the first to congratulate you, my dear friend,” he said, standing bareheaded at her stirrup, and offering the flowers with a half-bashful smile that sat strangely on a man of his years. It was a quick, impulsive action, such as no one could have expected from him who did not know him intimately well — and few could boast that they did. Margaret was touched by his look and manner.
“Thanks,” she said, bending over her saddle-bow, and taking the daisies as he held them up to her. “Yes, you are the first — to congratulate me,” which was true. He still stood looking at her, and his hand would hardly let go the flowers where his fingers touched hers. His face grew pale, then ashy-white and he steadied himself against her horse’s neck.
“What is the matter? are you ill? have you hurt yourself?” asked Margaret in real alarm, for he looked as though he were going to faint, and it was a full minute since he had come back to her from the roadside. Then he made a great effort and collected himself, and the next instant he had dashed after his horse, which was wandering away towards the trees.
“I did feel queer for a minute,” he said when he was once more in the saddle and by her side. “I dare say it is the heat. It’s a very hot day, now I think of it. Would you allow me a cigarette? I hate to smoke in public, you know, but it will make me all right again.” Margaret assented, of course, to the request; it was morning, in the recesses of the Park, and nobody would see. But she looked strangely at him for a minute, wondering what could have produced his sudden dizziness.
They rode more slowly towards the entrance of the Park, and the Countess’s thoughts did not wander again. She talked to her companion on every subject he broached, showing interest in all he said, and asking questions that she knew would please him. But the latter part of the ride seemed long, and the drive home interminable, for Margaret was in haste to be alone. She was not sure that the Duke’s manner had changed since he had turned so strangely pale, but she fancied he spoke as if making an effort. However, they reached the hotel at last, and separated.
“Thanks, so much,” she said; “it has been such a delightful morning.”
“It has indeed,” said he, “and — let me congratulate you once more. Claudius is a gentleman in every way, and — I suppose he is as worthy of you as any one could be,” he added quickly, in a discontented voice, and turned away, hat in hand. She stood looking after him a moment.
“I wonder,” she said to herself as she entered her room and closed the door. “Poor man! it is not possible, though. I must be dreaming. Ah me! I am always dreaming now, it seems to me;” and she sank down in a chair to wait for Clémentine.
And so it is that some women go through life making far more victims than they know of. There are some honest men who will not speak, unless they have a right to, and who are noble enough to help those who have a right. The Duke had known Margaret ever since she had married Alexis, as has been said. Whether he had loved her or not is a question not so easily answered. Certain it is that when she told him she was going to be married to Claudius he turned very pale, and did not recover the entire use of his mind for a whole day.
Nevertheless, during the succeeding fortnight he devoted himself sedulously to Margaret’s amusement, and many were the things that he and she and Lady Victoria, and the incomparable Miss Skeat, who always enjoyed everything, planned and carried out together. Margaret did not shun society or shut herself up, and more than once she saw Barker in the street and in the crowds at parties. The houses in America are so small that parties are always crowded. But he had the good sense to avoid her, and she was not troubled by any communication from him. Clémentine, indeed, wondered that so few flowers came, for a day or two, and old
Vladimir pondered on the probable fate of Mr. Barker, who, he supposed, had been sent to Canada in chains for some political offence, seeing that he called no longer. But these faithful servitors could not ask questions, and sources of information they had none. Barker, however, as Margaret had anticipated, had been active in spreading the news of her engagement; for, before very long, callers were plenty, and flowers too, and many were the congratulations that poured in. Then she saw the wisdom of having informed the Duke of her position before any officious acquaintance could do it for her. The Duke, indeed, saw very few people in New York, for he hated to be “entertained,” but he knew a great many men slightly, and some one of them would probably have obliged him with the information.
One morning as he and the Countess were about to drive up to the Park for their daily ride, which had become an institution, the servant presented a card, saying the gentleman was anxious to see her ladyship at once, if possible. The card was that of Mr. Screw, of Screw and Scratch.
“Very well,” said the Countess, who was pulling on her gloves, and holding her riding-stick under one arm as she did so. “Ask him to come up.” The Duke moved to withdraw.
“Don’t go, please,” said Margaret; and so he remained. A moment later Mr. Screw’s yellow head and small eyes appeared at the door.
“The Countess Margaret?” he inquired deferentially.
“Yes. Mr. Screw, I believe?”
“The same, Madam. A — pardon me, but — I desired to speak with you alone,” stammered the lawyer, seeing that the Duke did not move.
“I have asked the — this gentleman, who is my friend, to remain,” said Margaret calmly. “You may speak freely. What is your business with me, sir?” She motioned him to a chair, and he sat down opposite her, hat in hand. He would have liked to hook his legs into each other and put his hands into his pockets, but he was too well bred for that. At last he took courage.
“Frankly, Madam, I have come to discharge a moral duty, and I will speak plainly. I am informed on credible authority that you are engaged to marry a gentleman, calling himself Dr. Claudius — a — a tall man — fair beard?”
“Your information is correct, Mr. Screw,” said Margaret haughtily, “I am engaged to be married to Dr. Claudius.”
“As one of the executors of the late Mr. Gustavus Lindstrand, deceased,” proceeded Mr. Screw slowly, “I feel it my duty, as an honest man, to inform you that there are serious doubts as to whether the gentleman who calls himself Dr. Claudius is Dr. Claudius at all. The person in question disappeared two months ago, and has not been heard of since, as far as I can make out. I have no interest in the matter as far as it concerns yourself, as you may well imagine, but I have thought it right to warn you that the gentleman whom you have honoured with a promise of marriage has not established his claim to be the person he represents himself.”
Margaret, who, after the first words, had foreseen what Mr. Screw had come to say, and who believed that very respectable and honest man to be concerned in the plot against Claudius, was naturally angry, but she had the good sense to do the right thing.
“Mr. Screw,” she said in her commanding voice, icily, “I am deeply indebted to you for your interference. Nevertheless, I am persuaded that the gentleman to whom I am engaged is very really and truly the person he represents himself to be. A fact of which my friend here will probably be able to persuade you without difficulty.” And she forthwith left the room. The Duke turned upon the lawyer.
“Look here, Mr. Screw,” he said sharply, “I am the — well, never mind my name, you can find out from the people downstairs. I am an English gentleman, and I know who Dr. Claudius is. I knew his father; I brought him to this country in my yacht. I am prepared to go into court this minute and swear to the identity of the gentleman you are slandering. Slandering, sir! Do you hear me?” The ducal anger was hot. “And except for the fact that Dr. Claudius will be here to speak for himself the day after to-morrow morning, I would take you into court now by main force and make you hear me swear to him. Do you hear me, sir?”
“My dear sir,” began Mr. Screw, who was somewhat taken aback by this burst of wrath.
“Don’t call me ‘your dear sir,’” said the nobleman, moving towards Screw.
“Sir, then,” continued the other, who had not an idea to whom he was speaking, and perhaps would not have cared had he known, being such an honest man, “I cannot conceive why, if you are so certain, you have not come forward before, instead of allowing your friend to go to Europe in order to procure evidence he might have obtained here.”
“I am not going to argue with you,” said the Duke. “Dr. Claudius would have gone to Europe in any case, if that is any satisfaction to you. What did you come here for?”
“Because I thought it right to warn an unsuspecting lady of her danger,” answered Mr. Screw boldly.
“Is that true? Do you really believe Claudius is not Claudius?” asked the Duke, coming close to the lawyer and looking him in the eyes.
“Certainly, I believe him to be an impostor,” said the other returning his gaze fearlessly.
“I suppose you do,” said the Duke, tolerably satisfied. “Now then, who sent you here?”
“No one sent me,” answered Screw with some pride. “I am not in the habit of being sent, as you call it. It was in the course of a conversation I had with Mr. Barker, the other day—”
“I thought so,” interrupted the Englishman. “I thought Mr. Barker was at the bottom of it. Will you please to deliver a message to Mr. Barker, with my compliments?” Screw nodded solemnly, as under protest.
“Then be kind enough to tell him from me that he is a most infernal blackguard. That if he attempts to carry this abominable plot any further I will post him at every one of his clubs as a liar and a cheat, and — and that he had better keep out of my way. As for you, sir, I would advise you to look into his character, for I perceive that you are an honest man.”
“I am obliged to you, sir,” said Mr. Screw, with something of a sneer. “But who are you, pray, that ventures to call my clients by such ugly names?”
“There is my card — you can see for yourself,” said the Duke. Screw read it. His anger was well roused by this time.
“We have small respect for titles in this country, my Lord Duke,” said he stiffly. “The best thing I can say is what you said to me, that you impress me as being an honest man. Nevertheless you may be mistaken.”
“That is a matter which will be decided the day after to-morrow,” said the other. “Meanwhile, in pursuance of what I said, I thank you very sincerely indeed” — Mr. Screw smiled grimly— “no, I am in earnest, I really thank you, on behalf of the Countess Margaret, for the honourable part you have endeavoured to perform towards her; and I beg your pardon for having mistaken you, and supposed you were in the plot. But give my message to Mr. Barker — it is actionable, of course, and he may take action upon it, if he likes. Good-morning, sir.”
“Good-morning,” said Screw shortly, somewhat pacified by the Duke’s frank apology.
“I think I settled him,” said the peer to Margaret, as they got into the cab that was to drive them to the Park. And they cantered away in royal spirits.
CHAPTER XX.
WHATEVER REASON MAY say, whatever certainty we may feel, the last hours of waiting for an ocean steamer are anxious ones. The people at the office may assure us twenty times that they feel “no anxiety whatever” — that is their stock phrase; our friends who have crossed the ocean twice a year for a score of years may tell us that any vessel may be a few hours, nay, a few days, behind her reckoning; it may seem madness to entertain the least shadow of a doubt — and yet, until the feet we love are on the wharf and the dear glad hands in ours, the shadow of an awful possibility is over us, the dreadful consciousness of the capacity of the sea.
The Duke, who, but for his anxiety to see the end, would have long since been on his way to England, had taken every precaution to ascertain the date of the ship’s arriv
al. He took it for granted that Claudius would sail in the Cunard steamer, and he found out the vessel which sailed next after the Doctor had telegraphed. Then he made arrangements to be informed so soon as she was sighted, determined to go down in the Custom-House tug and board her at the Quarantine, that he might have the satisfaction of being first to tell Claudius all there was to be told.
“The day after to-morrow,” he had said to Margaret, “we may safely expect him,” and he watched, with a sort of dull pleasure, the light that came into her eyes when she heard the time was so near.
The first disappointment — alas, it was only the first — came on the evening before the appointed day. The Duke received a note from the office to the effect that late arrivals having reported very heavy weather, it was feared that the steamer might be delayed some hours. He at once inquired for the Countess, but found to his annoyance that both she and his sister had gone to the theatre. He had been out when they went, and so they had taken Miss Skeat as a sort of escort, and were doubtless enjoying themselves mightily. It was necessary, however, that Margaret should know the news of the delay before she went to bed, for it would have been cruel to allow her to wake in the morning with the assurance that Claudius might arrive at any moment.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 53