"Why should not I marry the angelic domestic—the domestic angel, I mean?"

"You won't, though. Doesn't grow in America. I know the sort of woman you will get for your money."

"Give me an idea." Barker leaned back in his chair till it touched the door of the cabin, and rolled his cigar in his mouth.

"Of course she will be the rage for the time. Eighteen or nineteen summers of earthly growth, and eighteen or nineteen hundred years of experience and calculation in a former state."

"Thanks, that sounds promising. Claudius, this is intended for your instruction."

"You will see her first at a ball, with a cartload of nosegays slung on her arms, and generally all over her. That will be your first acquaintance; you will never see the last of her."

"No—I know that," said Barker gloomily.

"She will marry you out of hand after a three months' engagement. She will be married by Worth, and you will be married by Poole. It will be very effective, you know. No end of wedding presents, and acres of flowers. And then you will start away on your tour, and be miserable ever after."

"I am glad you have done," was Barker's comment.

"As for me," said Claudius, "I am of course not acquainted with the peculiarities of American life, but I fancy the Duke is rather severe in his judgment."

It was a mild protest against a wholesale condemnation of American marriages; but Barker and the Duke only laughed as if they understood each other, and Claudius had nothing more to say. He mentally compared the utterances of these men, doubtless grounded on experience, with the formulas he had made for himself about women, and which were undeniably the outcome of pure theory. He found himself face to face with the old difficulty, the apparent discord between the universal law and the individual fact. But, on the other hand, he could not help comparing himself with his two companions. It was not in his nature to think slightingly of other men, but he felt that they were of a totally different mould, besides belonging to a different race. He knew that however much he might enjoy their society, they had nothing in common with him, and that it was only his own strange fortune that had suddenly transported him into the very midst of a sphere where such characters were the rule and not the exception.

The conversation languished, and Claudius left the Duke and Barker, and went towards his quarters. It was a warm night for the Atlantic, and though there was no moon, the stars shone out brightly, their reflection moving slowly up and down the slopes of the long ocean swell. Claudius walked aft, and was going to sit down for a few minutes before turning in, when he was suddenly aware of a muffled female figure leaning against the taffrail only a couple of paces from where he was. In spite of the starlight he could not distinguish the person. She was wrapped closely in a cloak and veil, as if fearing the cold. As it must be one of the three ladies who constituted the party, Claudius naturally raised his cap, but fearing lest he had chanced on the Duke's sister, or still worse, on Miss Skeat, he did not speak. Before long, however, as he leaned against the side, watching the wake, the unknown remarked that it was a delightful night. It was Margaret's voice, and the deep musical tones trembled on the rise and fall of the waves, as if the sounds themselves had a distinct life and beating in them. Did the dark woman know what magic lay in her most trivial words? Claudius did not care a rush whether the night were beautiful or otherwise, but when she said it was a fine evening, it sounded as if she had said she loved him.

"I could not stay downstairs," she said, "and so when the others went to bed I wrapped myself up and came here. Is it not too wonderful?"

Claudius moved nearer to her.

"I have been pent up in the Duke's tabagie for at least two hours," he said, "and I am perfectly suffocated."

"How can you sit in that atmosphere? Why don't you come and smoke on deck?"

"Oh! it was not only the tobacco that suffocated me to-night, it was the ideas."

"What ideas?" asked Margaret.

"You have known the Duke a long time," said he, "and of course you can judge. Or rather, you know. But to hear those two men talk is enough to make one think there is neither heaven above nor hell beneath." He was rather incoherent.

"Have they been attacking your favourite theories," Margaret asked, and she smiled behind her veil; but he could not see that, and her voice sounded somewhat indifferent.

"Oh! I don't know," he said, as if not wanting to continue the subject; and he turned round so as to rest his elbows on the taffrail. So he stood, bent over and looking away astern at the dancing starlight on the water. There was a moment's silence.

"Tell me," said Margaret at last.

"What shall I tell you, Countess?" asked Claudius.

"Tell me what it was you did not like about their talk."

"It is hard to say, exactly. They were talking about women, and American marriages; and I did not like it, that is all." Claudius straightened himself again and turned towards his companion. The screw below them rushed round, worming its angry way through the long quiet waves.

"Barker," said Claudius, "was saying that he supposed he would be married some day—delivered up to torture, as he expressed it—and the Duke undertook to prophesy and draw a picture of Barker's future spouse. The picture was not attractive."

"Did Mr. Barker think so too?"

"Yes. He seemed to regard the prospects of matrimony from a resigned and melancholy point of view. I suppose he might marry any one he chose in his own country, might he not?"

"In the usual sense, yes," answered Margaret.

"What is the 'usual sense'?" asked the Doctor.

"He might marry beauty, wealth, and position. That is the usual meaning of marrying whom you please."

"Oh! then it does not mean any individual he pleases?"

"Certainly not. It means that out of half a dozen beautiful, rich, and accomplished girls it is morally certain that one, at least, would take him for his money, his manners, and his accomplishments."

"Then he would go from one to the other until he was accepted? A charming way of doing things, upon my word!" And Claudius sniffed the night air discontentedly.

"Oh no," said Margaret. "He will be thrown into the society of all six, and one of them will marry him, that will be the way of it."

"I cannot say I discover great beauty in that social arrangement either, except that it gives the woman the choice."

"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 turned 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 have 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.

There was Margaret, looking much as usual, her face turned a little from him as she lay in a huge arm-chair. She could not see him as she was, and his heart beat furiously as he looked at the face he loved best of all others.

Margaret spoke to Miss Skeat without turning her head, for she was working at some of her eternal needlework.

"Have you had a good time? How did you get down?"

"Such an airing," answered the lady-companion, who was divesting herself of her wraps, "and Dr Claudius—"

The last was lost to the Doctor's ear, for he withdrew his head and beat a hasty retreat. Miss Skeat also stopped speaking suddenly, for as she mentioned his name she looked naturally towards the door, supposing him to be standing there, and she just saw his head disappear from between the curtains. Margaret turned her eyes and saw Miss Skeat's astonishment.

"Well, what about Dr. Claudius?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," said Miss Skeat, "you asked me how I got down, and I was going to say Dr. Claudius gave me his arm, and I thought he had come in here with me."

Neither Miss Skeat nor Claudius had noticed Mr. Barker, who was ensconced on a corner transom, with his nails and a book to amuse himself with. He saw the whole thing: how the Doctor put his white face and dripping beard through the curtains, and suddenly withdrew it at the mention of his name, and how Miss Skeat held her peace about having seen it too. He reflected that something had happened, that Miss Skeat knew all about it, and that she was a discreet woman. He wondered what it could be. Claudius would not look like that unless something were wrong, he thought, and he would certainly come back in five minutes if everything were right. He had not seen him at breakfast. He took out his watch softly and let it drop on his book, face upwards. Meanwhile he talked to the two ladies about the weather, and listened to Miss Skeat's rapturous account of the spray and the general slipperiness of the upper regions. When five minutes were elapsed he put his watch back and said he thought he would try it himself, as he fancied the fresh air would do him good. So he departed, and obtained a pair of sea-boots and an oilskin, which he contemplated with disgust, and put on with resolution. He wanted to find the Duke, and he wanted to see Claudius; but he wanted them separately.

Mr. Barker cautiously put his head out of the cuddy door and espied the Duke and his sister. This was not exactly what he wanted, and he would have retired, but at that moment Lady Victoria caught sight of him, and immediately called out to him not to be afraid, as it was much smoother now. But Mr. Barker's caution had proceeded from other causes, and being detected, he put a bold face on it, stepped on the deck and slammed the door behind him. Lady Victoria was somewhat surprised to see him tread the slippery deck with perfect confidence and ease, for she thought he was something of a "duffer." But Barker knew how to do most things more or less, and he managed to bow and take off his sou'wester with considerable grace in spite of the rolling. Having obtained permission to smoke, he lighted a cigar, crooked one booted leg through the iron rail, and seated himself on the bulwark, where, as the steamer lurched, he seemed to be in a rather precarious position. But there was a sort of cat-like agility in his wiry frame, that bespoke unlimited powers of balancing and holding on.

"I thought there were more of you," he began, addressing Lady Victoria. "You seem to be having quite a nice time here."

"Yes."

"I wish I had come up sooner; the atmosphere downstairs is very oppressive."

"I thought you had neuralgia," said Lady Victoria.

"So I had. But that kind of neuralgia comes and goes very suddenly. Where is the giant of the North?"

"Dr. Claudius? He went down with Miss Skeat, and when he came up again he said he would go forward," answered she, giving the nautical pronunciation to the latter word.

"Oh, I see him," cried Barker, "there he is, just going up the bridge. By Jove! what a height he looks."

"Yes," put in the Duke, "he is rather oversparred for a nor'-easter, eh? Rather be your size, Barker, for reefing tawpsels;" and the Englishman laughed.

"Well," said Barker, "when I first knew him he used to wear a balustrade round his neck to keep from being dizzy. I wouldn't care to have to do that. I think I will go and have a look too." And leaving his companions to laugh at his joke, Mr. Barker glided easily from the rail, and began his journey to the bridge, which he accomplished without any apparent difficulty. When he had climbed the little ladder he waved his hand to the Duke and his sister, who screamed something complimentary in reply; and then he spoke to Claudius who was standing by the skipper, his legs far apart, and both his hands on the railing.

"Is that you, Barker?" asked Claudius; "you are well disguised this morning."

"Claudius," said the other, "what on earth is the row?" The captain was on the other side of the Doctor, and could not hear in the wind.

"What row?" asked Claudius. Barker knew enough of his friend by this time to be aware that roundabout methods of extracting information were less likely to be successful than a point-blank question.

"Don't pretend ignorance," said he. "You look like a ghost, you are so pale, and when you put your head through the curtains a quarter of an hour ago, I thought you were one. And you have not been near the Countess this morning, though you have never been away from her before since we weighed anchor. Now, something has happened, and if I can do anything, tell me, and I will do it, right away." It is a good old plan, that one of trying to satisfy one's curiosity under pretence of offering assistance. But Claudius did not trouble himself about such things; he wanted no help from any one, and never had; and if he meant to tell, nothing would prevent him, and if he did not mean to tell, no power would make him.

"Since you have found it out, Barker, something has happened, as you say; and thanks for your offer of help, but I cannot tell you anything more about it."

"I think you are unwise."

"Perhaps."

"I might help you a great deal, for I have some natural tact."

"Yes."

"Besides, you know I am as secret as the grave."

"Quite so."

"I introduced you to the Countess, too."

"I know it."

"And I should be very sorry indeed to think that my action should have had any evil consequences."

"I am sure you would."

"Then, my dear fellow, you must really take me a little more into your confidence, and let me help you," said Barker, in the tone of an injured man.

"Perhaps I ought," said Claudius.

"Then why will you not tell me what has happened now?"

"Because I won't," said Claudius, turning sharply on Barker, and speaking in a voice that seemed to make the railings shake. He was evidently on the point of losing his temper, and Barker repented him too late of his attempt to extract the required information. Now he changed his tone.

"Excuse me, Claudius, I did not mean to offend you."

"You did not offend me at all, Barker. But please—do not ask me any more questions about it." Claudius was perfectly calm again.

"No indeed, my dear fellow, I would not think of it;—and I don't seem to think that I should advise anybody else to," he added mentally. He made up his mind that it must be something very serious, or Claudius, who was so rarely excited, would hardly have behaved as he had done. He made a few remarks about the weather, which had certainly not improved since morning; and then, resolving that he would find out what was the matter before he was much older, he glided down the ladder and went aft. Lady Victoria had disappeared, and her brother was trying to light a short black pipe.

"Duke," Barker began, "what the deuce is the matter with Claudius this morning?"

"Don't know, I'm sure. My sister thinks it is very odd."

"Well, if you don't know, I don't either, but I can make a pretty good guess."

The Duke's vesuvian was sputtering in the spray and wind, and he got a good light before he answered.

"I'll take six to four he marries her, at all events."

"I don't go in for playing it as low down as that on my friends," said Barker virtuously, "or I would take you in hundreds. You must be crazy. Can't you see he has shown up and is sold? Bah! it's all over, as sure as you're born."

"Think that's it?" said the other, much interested. "You may be right. Glad you would not bet, anyhow."

"Of course that's it. The idiot has proposed to her here, on board, and she has refused him, and now he has to face the fury of the elements to keep out of her way."

"Upon my soul, it looks like it," said the Duke. "He won't stay on the bridge much longer if this lasts, though."

"You had best ask your sister," answered Barker. "Women always know those things first. What do you say to a game? It is beastly dirty weather to be on the deck watch." And so they pushed forward to the smoking-room, just before the bridge, and settled themselves for the day with a pack of cards and a box of cigars.

As Margaret had not put in an appearance at breakfast, which was a late and solid meal on board, and as there was no other regular congregation of the party until dinner, for each one lunched as he or she pleased, it was clear that the Countess and Claudius would not be brought together until the evening. Margaret was glad of this for various reasons, some definable and others vague. She felt that she must have misjudged Claudius a little, and she was glad to see that her exhibition of displeasure on the previous night had been sufficient to keep him away. Had he been as tactless as she had at first thought, he would surely have sought an early opportunity of speaking to her alone, and the rest of the party were so much used to seeing them spend their mornings together that such an opportunity would not have been lacking, had he wished it. And if he had misunderstood her words and manner—well, if he had not thought they were meant as a decisive check, he would have followed her there and then, last night, when she left him. She felt a little nervous about his future conduct, but for the present she was satisfied, and prepared herself for the inevitable meeting at dinner with a certain feeling of assurance. "For," said she, "I do not love him in the least, and why should I be embarrassed?"

Not so poor Claudius, who felt the blood leave his face and rush wildly to his heart, as he entered the saloon where the party were sitting down to dinner. The vessel was rolling heavily, for the sea was running high under the north-easter, and dinner would be no easy matter. He knew he must sit next to her and help her under all the difficulties that arise under the circumstances. It would have been easy, too, for them both to see that the eyes of the other four were upon them, had either of them suspected it. Claudius held himself up to the full of his great height and steadied every nerve of his body for the meeting. Margaret belonged to the people who do not change colour easily, and when she spoke, even the alert ear of Mr. Barker opposite could hardly detect the faintest change of tone. And yet she bore the burden of it, for she spoke first.

"How do you do, Dr. Claudius?"

"Thank you, well. I was sorry to hear you had a headache to-day. I hope you are better."

"Thanks, yes; much better." They all sat down, and it was over.

The conversation was at first very disjointed, and was inclined to turn on small jokes about the difficulty of dining at an angle of forty-five degrees. The weather was certainly much heavier than it had been in the morning, and the Duke feared they would have a longer passage than they had expected, but added that they would be better able to judge to-morrow at twelve. Claudius and Margaret exchanged a few sentences, with tolerable tact and indifference; but, for some occult reason, Mr. Barker undertook to be especially lively and amusing, and after the dinner was somewhat advanced he launched out into a series of stories and anecdotes which served very well to pass the time and to attract notice to himself. As Mr. Barker was generally not very talkative at table, though frequently epigrammatic, his sudden eloquence was calculated to engage the attention of the party. Claudius and Margaret were glad of the rattling talk that delivered them from the burden of saying anything especial, and they both laughed quite naturally at Barker's odd wit. They were grateful to him for what he did, and Claudius entertained some faint hope that he might go on in the same strain for the rest of the voyage. But Margaret pondered these things. She saw quickly that Barker had perceived that some embarrassment existed, and was spending his best strength in trying to make the meal a particularly gay one. But she could not understand how Barker could have found out that there was any difficulty. Had Claudius been making confidences? It would have been very foolish for him to do so, and besides, Claudius was not the man to make confidences. He was reticent and cold as a rule, and Barker had more than once confessed to the Countess that he knew very little of Claudius's previous history, because the latter "never talked," and would not always answer questions. So she came to the conclusion that Barker only suspected something, because the Doctor had not been with her during the day. And so she laughed, and Claudius laughed, and they were well satisfied to pay their social obolus in a little well-bred and well-assumed hilarity.

So the dinner progressed, in spite of the rolling and pitching; for there was a good deal of both, as the sea ran diagonally to the course, breaking on the starboard quarter. They had reached the dessert, and two at least of the party were congratulating themselves on the happy termination of the meal, when, just as the Duke was speaking, there was a heavy lurch, and a tremendous sea broke over their heads. Then came a fearful whirring sound that shook through every plate and timber and bulkhead, like the sudden running down of mammoth clock-work, lasting some twenty seconds; then everything was quiet again save the sea, and the yacht rolled heavily to and fro.

Every one knew that there had been a serious accident, but no one moved from the table. The Duke sat like a rock in his place and finished what he was saying, though no one noticed it. Miss Skeat clutched her silver fruit-knife till her knuckles shone again, and she set her teeth. Mr. Barker, who had a glass of wine in the "fiddle" before him, took it out when the sea struck and held it up steadily to save it from being spilled; and Lady Victoria, who was not the least ashamed of being startled, cried out—

"Goodness gracious!" and then sat holding to the table and looking at her brother.

Margaret and Claudius were sitting next each other on one side of the table. By one of those strange, sympathetic instincts, that only manifest themselves in moments of great danger, they did the same thing at the same moment. Claudius put out his left hand and Margaret her right, and those two hands met just below the table and clasped each other, and in that instant each turned round to the other and looked the other in the face. What that look told man knoweth not, but for one instant there was nothing in the world for Margaret but Claudius. As for him, poor man, he had long known that she was the whole world to him, his life and his death.

It was very short, and Margaret quickly withdrew her hand and looked away. The Duke was the first to speak.

"I do not think it is anything very serious," said he. "If you will all sit still, I will go and see what is the matter." He rose and left the saloon.

"I don't fancy there is any cause for anxiety," said Barker. "There has probably been some slight accident to the machinery, and we shall be off again in an hour. I think we ought to compliment the ladies on the courage they have shown; it is perfectly wonderful." And Mr. Barker smiled gently round the table. Lady Victoria was palpably scared and Miss Skeat was silent. As for Margaret, she was confused and troubled. The accident of her seizing Claudius's hand, as she had done, was a thousand times more serious than any accident to the ship. The Doctor could not help stealing a glance at her, but he chimed in with Barker in praising the coolness of all three ladies. Presently the Duke came back. He had been forward by a passage that led between decks to the engine-room, where he had met the captain. The party felt reassured as the ruddy face of their host appeared in the doorway.

"There is nothing to fear," he said cheerfully. "But it is a horrid nuisance, all the same."

"Tell us all about it," said Lady Victoria.

"Well—we have lost our means of locomotion. We have carried away our propeller."

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Barker.

"Do? There is nothing to be done. We must sail for it. I am dreadfully sorry."

"It is not your fault," said Claudius.

"Well, I suppose not. It happens even to big steamers."

"And shall we sail all the way to New York?" asked his sister, who was completely reassured. "I think it will be lovely." Miss Skeat also thought sailing much more poetic than steaming.

"I think we must hold a council of war," said the master. "Let us put it to the vote. Shall we make for Bermuda, which is actually nearer, but which is four or five days' from New York, or shall we go straight and take our chance of a fair wind?"

"If you are equally willing to do both, why not let the ladies decide?" suggested Barker.

"Oh no," broke in the Countess, "it will be much more amusing to vote. We will write on slips of paper and put them in a bag."

"As there are five of you I will not vote," said the Duke, "for we might be three on a side, you know."

So they voted, and there were three votes for New York and two for Bermuda.

"New York has it," said the Duke, who counted, "and I am glad, on the whole, for it is Sturleson's advice." Barker had voted for New York, and he wondered who the two could have been who wanted to go to Bermuda. Probably Miss Skeat and Lady Victoria. Had the Countess suspected that those two would choose the longer journey and out-vote her, if the decision were left to the ladies?

Meanwhile there had been heavy tramping of feet on the deck, as the men trimmed the sails. She could only go under double-reefed trysails and fore-staysail for the present, and it was no joke to keep her head up while the reefs were taken in. It was blowing considerably more than half a gale of wind, and the sea was very heavy. Soon, however, the effect of the sails made itself felt; the yacht was a good sea-boat, and when she fairly heeled over on the port-tack and began to cut the waves again, the ladies downstairs agreed that sailing was much pleasanter and steadier than steam, and that the next time they crossed in a yacht they would like to sail all the way. But in spite of their courage, and notwithstanding that they were greatly reassured by the explanations of Mr. Barker, who made the nature of the accident quite clear to them, they had been badly shaken, and soon retired to their respective staterooms. In the small confusion of getting to their feet to leave the cabin it chanced that Claudius found himself helping Margaret to the door. The recollection of her touch and look when the accident happened was strong in him yet and gave him courage.

"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 to 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.

"Believe me, I will keep any promise I make to you," he said earnestly, and went away. Lady Victoria, who was not without tact, and had guessed that Margaret had something to say to the Doctor, managed meanwhile to keep her brother occupied by asking him questions about the exploit, and he, falling into the trap, had begun to tell the story from the beginning, speaking loud, by way of showing Claudius his appreciation. But Claudius, recking little of his laurels, went and sat in his cabin, pondering deeply. Barker, from a distance, had witnessed the conversation between Margaret and the Doctor. He came up murmuring to himself that the plot was thickening. "If Claudius makes a corner in mast-heads, there will be a bull market," he reflected, and he also remembered that just now he was a bear. "In that case," he continued his train of thought, "no more mast-heads."

"Good morning, Countess; Lady Victoria, good morning," he said, bowing. "I would take off my hat if I could, but the Doctor has set the cap of liberty on high." Lady Victoria and the Duke laughed, but Margaret said "Good morning" without a smile. Barker immediately abandoned the subject and talked about the weather, which is a grand topic when there is enough of it. It was clear by this time that they had passed through a violent storm, which had gone away to southward. The sea was heavy of course, but the wind had moderated, and by twelve o'clock the yacht was running between nine and ten knots, with a stiff breeze on her quarter and all sails set.

The Duke was extremely attentive to Margaret all that day, rarely leaving her side, whether she was below or on deck; bringing her books and rugs, and adjusting her chair, and altogether performing the offices of a faithful slave and attendant. Whenever Claudius came within hail the Duke would make desperate efforts to be animated, lengthening his sentences with all the vigorous superlatives and sledge-hammer adverbs he could think of, not to mention any number of "you knows." His efforts to be agreeable, especially when there appeared to be any likelihood of Claudius coming into the conversation, were so palpable that Margaret could not but see there was a reason for the expenditure of so much energy. She could not help being amused, but at the same time she was annoyed at what she considered a bit of unnecessary officiousness on the part of her host. However, he was such an old friend that she forgave him. But woman's nature is impatient of control. Left to herself she would have avoided Claudius; forcibly separated from him she discovered that she wanted to speak to him. As the day wore on and the Duke's attentions never relaxed, she grew nervous, and tried to think how she could send him away. It was no easy matter. If she asked for anything, he flew to get it and returned breathless, and of course at that very moment Claudius was just out of range. Then she called Miss Skeat, but the Duke's eloquence redoubled, and he talked to them both at once; and at last she gave it up in despair, and said she would lie down for a while. Once safe in her stateroom, the Duke drew a long breath, and went in search of Mr. Barker. Now Mr. Barker, in consequence of the idea that had unfolded itself to his fertile brain in the darkness of night, had been making efforts to amuse Claudius all day long, with as much determination as the Duke had shown in devoting himself to the Countess, but with greater success; for Barker could be very amusing when he chose, whereas the Duke was generally most amusing when he did not wish to be so. He found them in the smoking cabin, Claudius stretched at full length with a cigarette in his teeth, and Barker seated apparently on the table, the chair, and the transom, by a clever distribution of the various parts of his body, spinning yarns of a high Western flavour about death's-head editors and mosquitoes with brass ribs.

The Duke was exhausted with his efforts, and refreshed himself with beer before he challenged Barker to a game.

"To tell the truth, Duke," he answered, "I don't seem to think I feel like winning your money to-day. I will go and talk to the ladies, and Claudius will play with you."

"You won't make much headway there," said the Duke. "The Countess is gone to bed, and Miss Skeat and my sister are reading English history."

"Besides," put in Claudius, "you know I never play."

"Well," said Barker, with a sigh, "then I will play with you, and Claudius can go to sleep where he is." They cut and dealt. But Claudius did not feel at all sleepy. When the game was well started he rose and went out, making to himself the same reflection that Margaret had made, "Why is my friend so anxious to amuse me to-day?" He seldom paid any attention to such things, but his strong, clear mind was not long in unravelling the situation, now that he was roused to thinking about it. Barker had guessed the truth, or very near it, and the Duke and he had agreed to keep Claudius and Margaret apart as long as they could.

He went aft, and descended to the cabin. There sat Miss Skeat and Lady Victoria reading aloud, just as the Duke had said. He went through the passage and met the steward, or butler, whom he despatched to see if the Countess were in the ladies' cabin. The rosy-cheeked, gray-haired priest of Silenus said her ladyship was there, "alone," he added with a little emphasis. Claudius walked in, and was not disappointed. There she sat at the side of the table in her accustomed place, dark and beautiful, and his heart beat fast. She did not look up.

"Countess," he began timidly.

"Oh, Doctor Claudius, is that you? Sit down." He sat down on the transom, so that he could see the evening light fall through the port-hole above him on her side face, and as the vessel rose and fell the rays of the setting sun played strangely on her heavy hair.

"I have not seen you all day," she said.

"No, Countess." He did not know what to say to her.

"I trust you are none the worse for your foolish performance this morning?" Her voice was even and unmodulated, not too friendly and not too cold.

"I am, and I am not. I am unspeakably the worse in that I displeased you. Will you forgive me?"

"I will forgive you," in the same tone.

"Do you mean it? Do you mean you will forgive me what I said to you that—the other night?"

"I did not say that," she answered, a little weariness sounding with the words. Claudius's face fell.

"I am sorry," he said very simply.

"So am I. I am disappointed in you more than I can say. You are just like all the others, and I thought you were different. Do you not understand me?"

"Not entirely, though I will try to. Will you not tell me just what you mean to say?"

"I think I will," she answered, looking up, but not towards Claudius. She hesitated a moment and then continued, "We are not children, Dr. Claudius; let us speak plainly, and not misunderstand each other." She glanced round the cabin as if to see if they were alone. Apparently she was not satisfied. "Move my chair nearer to the sofa, please," she added; and he rose and did her bidding.

"I have not much to say," she went on, "but I do not want to say it before the whole ship's company. It is this: I thought I had found in you a friend, a man who would be to me what no one has ever been—a friend; and I am disappointed, for you want to be something else. That is all, except that it must not be thought of, and you must go."

An Englishman would have reproached her with having given him encouragement; an Italian would have broken out into a passionate expression of his love, seeking to kindle her with his own fire. But the great, calm Northman clasped his hands together firmly on his knee and sat silent.

"You must go—" she repeated.

"I cannot go," he said honestly.

"That is all the more reason why you should go at once," was the feminine argument with which she replied.

"Let us go back to two days ago, and be as we were before. Will you not forget it?"

"We cannot—you cannot, and I cannot. You are not able to take back your words or to deny them."

"May God forbid!" said he very earnestly. "But if you will let me be your friend, I will promise to obey you, and I will not say anything that will displease you."

"You cannot," she repeated; and she smiled bitterly.

"But I can, and I will, if you will let me. I am very strong, and I will keep my word;" and indeed he looked the incarnation of strength as he sat with folded hands and earnest face, awaiting her reply. His words were not eloquent, but they were plain and true, and he meant them. Something in the suppressed power of his tone drove away the smile from Margaret's face, and she looked toward him.

"Could you?" she asked. But the door opened, and Lady Victoria entered with her book.

"Oh!" said Lady Victoria.

"I must go and dress," said Claudius.

"We will go on with the book to-morrow," said the Countess. And he bore away a light heart.

On the following day the Duke began to take care of the Countess, as he had done yesterday, and Barker turned on the fireworks of his conversation for the amusement of Claudius. Claudius sat quite still for an hour or more, perhaps enjoying the surprise he was going to give the Duke and Barker. As the latter finished a brilliant tale, for the veracity of which he vouched in every particular, Claudius calmly rose and threw away his cigarette.

"That is a very good story," he said. "Good-bye for the present. I am going to read with the Countess." Barker was nearly "taken off his feet."

"Why—" he began, but stopped short. "Oh, very well. She is on deck. I saw the Duke bring up her rugs and things." His heavy moustache seemed to uncurl itself nervously, and his jaw dropped slowly, as he watched Claudius leave the deck-cabin.

"I wonder when they got a chance," he said to himself.

But Barker was not nearly so much astonished as the Duke. The latter was sitting by Margaret's side, near the wheel, making conversation. He was telling her such a good story about a mutual friend—the son of a great chancellor of the great empire of Kakotopia—who had gambled away his wife at cards with another mutual friend.

"And the point of the story," said the Duke, "is that the lady did not object in the least. Just fancy, you know, we all knew her, and now she is married again to—" At this point Claudius strode up, and Margaret, who did not care to hear any more, interrupted the Duke.

"Dr. Claudius, I have our book here. Shall we read?" The Doctor's face flushed with pleasure. The Duke stared.

"I will get a chair," he said; and his long legs made short work of it.

"Well, if you will believe it," said the Duke, who meant to finish his story, "it was not even the man who won her at cards that she married when she was divorced. It was a man you never met; and they are living in some place in Italy." The Duke could hardly believe his eyes when Claudius boldly marched up with his chair and planted himself on Margaret's other side. She leaned back, looking straight before her, and turning the leaves of the book absently backwards and forwards. The Duke was evidently expected to go, but he sat fully a minute stupidly looking at Margaret. At last she spoke.

"That was not a very nice story. How odd! I knew them both very well. Do you remember where we left off, Dr. Claudius?"

"Page one hundred and nineteen," answered the Doctor, who never forgot anything. This looked like business, and the Duke rose. He got away rather awkwardly. As usual, he departed to wreak vengeance on Mr. Barker.

"Barker," he began with emphasis, "you are an ass."

"I know it," said Barker, with humility. "I have been saying it over to myself for a quarter of an hour, and it is quite true. Say it again; it does me good."

"Oh, that is all. If you are quite sure you appreciate the fact I am satisfied."

"It dawned upon me quite suddenly a few minutes ago. Claudius has been here," said Barker.

"He has been there too," said the Duke. "He is there now."

"I suppose there is no doubt that we are talking about the same thing?"

"I don't know about you," said the other. "I am talking about Claudius and Countess Margaret. They never had a chance to speak all day yesterday, and now she asks him to come and read with her. Just as I was telling no end of a jolly story too." Mr. Barker's wrinkle wound slowly round his mouth. He had been able to shave to-day, and the deep furrow was clearly defined.

"Oh! she asked him to read, did she?" Then he swore, very slowly and conscientiously, as if he meant it.

"Why the deuce do you swear like that?" asked the Duke. "If it is not true that she has refused him, you ought to be very glad." And he stuffed a disreputable short black pipe full of tobacco.

"Why, of course I am. I was swearing at my own stupidity. Of course I am very glad if she has not refused him." He smiled a very unhealthy-looking smile. "See here—" he began again.

"Well? I am seeing, as you call it."

"This. They must have had a talk yesterday. He was here with me, and suddenly he got up and said he was going to read with her. And you say that she asked him to read with her when he went to where you were."

"Called out to him half across the deck—in the middle of my story, too, and a firstrate one at that."

"She does not care much for stories," said Barker; "but that is not the question. It was evidently a put-up job."

"Meaning a preconcerted arrangement," said the Duke. "Yes. It was arranged between them some time yesterday. But I never left her alone until she said she was going to lie down."

"And I never left him until you told me she had gone to bed."

"She did not lie down, then," said the Duke.

"Then she lied up and down," said Barker, savagely playful.

"Ladies do not lie," said the Duke, who did not like the word, and refused to laugh.

"Of course. And you and I are a couple of idiots, and we have been protecting her when she did not want to be protected. And she will hate us for ever after. I am disgusted. I will drown my cares in drink. Will you please ring the bell?"

"You had better drink apollinaris. Grog will go to your head. I never saw you so angry." The Duke pressed the electric button.

"I loathe to drink of the water," said Barker, tearing off the end of a cigar with his teeth. The Duke had seen a man in Egypt who bit off the heads of black snakes, and he thought of him at that moment. The steward appeared, and when the arrangements were made, the ocean in which Barker proposed to drown his cares was found to consist of a small glass of a very diluted concoction of champagne, bitters, limes, and soda water. The Duke had some, and thought it very good.

"It is not a question of language," said Barker, returning to the conversation. "They eluded us and met. That is all."

"By her wish, apparently," said the other.

"We must arrange a plan of action," said Barker.

"Why? If she has not refused him, it is all right. We have nothing more to do with it. Let them go their own way."

"You are an old friend of the Countess's, are you not?" asked the American. "Yes—very well, would you like to see her married to Claudius?"

"Upon my word," said the Duke, "I cannot see that I have anything to say about it. But since you ask me, I see no possible objection. He is a gentleman—has money, heaps of it—if she likes him, let her marry him if she pleases. It is very proper that she should marry again; she has no children, and the Russian estates are gone to the next heir. I only wanted to save her from any inconvenience. I did not want Claudius to be hanging after her, if she did not want him. She does. There is an end of it." O glorious English Common Sense! What a fine thing you are when anybody gets you by the right end.

"You may be right," said Barker, with a superior air that meant "you are certainly wrong." "But would Claudius be able to give her the position in foreign society—"

"Society be damned," said the Duke. "Do you think the widow of Alexis cannot command society? Besides, Claudius is a gentleman, and that is quite enough."

"I suppose he is," said Mr. Barker, with an air of regret.

"Suppose? There is no supposing about it. He is." And the Duke looked at his friend as if he would have said, "If I, a real, palpable, tangible, hereditary duke, do not know a gentleman when I see one, what can you possibly know about it, I would like to inquire?" And that settled the matter.

But Mr. Barker was uneasy in his mind. An idea was at work there which was diametrically opposed to the union of Claudius and Margaret, and day by day, as he watched the intimacy growing back into its old proportions, he ground his gold-filled teeth with increasing annoyance. He sought opportunities for saying and doing things that might curtail the length of those hours when Claudius sat at her side, ostensibly reading. Ostensibly? Yes—the first day or two after she had allowed him to come back to her side were days of unexampled industry and severe routine, only the most pertinent criticisms interrupting from time to time the even progress from line to line, from page to page, from paragraph to paragraph, from chapter to chapter. But soon the criticism became less close, the illustration more copious, the tongue more eloquent, and the glance less shy. The elective strength of their two hearts rose up and wrought mightily, saying, "We are made for each other, we understand each other, and these foolish mortals who carry us about in their bosoms shall not keep us apart." And to tell the truth, the foolish mortals made very little effort. Margaret did not believe that Claudius could possibly break his plighted word, and he knew that he would die rather than forfeit his faith. And so they sat side by side with the book, ostensibly reading, actually talking, most of the day. And sometimes one or the other would go a little too near the forbidden point, and then there was a moment's silence, and the least touch of embarrassment; and once Margaret laughed a queer little laugh at one of these stumbles, and once Claudius sighed. But they were very happy, and the faint colour that was natural to the Doctor's clear white skin came back as his heart was eased of its burden, and Margaret's dark cheek grew darker with the sun and the wind that she took no pains to keep from her face, though the olive flushed sometimes to a warmer hue, with pleasure—or what? She thought it was the salt breeze.

"How well those two look!" exclaimed Lady Victoria once to Mr. Barker.

"I have seen Claudius look ghastly," said Barker, for he thought they looked too "well" altogether.

"Yes; do you remember one morning—I think it was the day before, or the day after, the accident? I thought he was going to faint."

"Perhaps he was sea-sick," suggested Barker.

"Oh no, we were a week out then, and he was never ill at all from the first."

"Perhaps he was love-sick," said the other, willing to be spiteful.

"How ridiculous! To think of such a thing!" cried the stalwart English girl; for she was only a girl in years despite her marriage. "But really," she continued, "if I were going to write a novel I would put those two people in it, they are so awfully good-looking. I would make all my heroes and heroines beautiful if I wrote books."

"Then I fear I shall never be handed down to posterity by your pen, Lady Victoria," said Barker, with a smile.

"No," said she, eyeing him critically, "I don't think I would put you in my book. But then, you know, I would not put myself in it either."

"Ah," grinned Mr. Barker, "the book would lose by that, but I should gain."

"How?" asked her ladyship.

"Because we should both be well out of it," said he, having reached his joke triumphantly. But Lady Victoria did not like Mr. Barker, or his jokes, very much. She once said so to her brother. She thought him spiteful.

"Well, Vick," said her brother good-naturedly, "I daresay you are right. But he amuses me, and he is very square on settling days."

* * * * *

Meanwhile Lady Victoria was not mistaken—Mr. Barker was spiteful; but she did not know that she was the only member of the party to whom he ventured to show it, because he thought she was stupid, and because it was such a relief to say a vicious thing now and then. He devoted himself most assiduously to Miss Skeat, since Margaret would not accept his devotion to her, and indeed had given him little chance to show that he would offer it. The days sped fast for some of the party, slowly for others, and pretty much as they did anywhere else for the Duke, who was in no especial hurry to arrive in New York. His affairs were large enough to keep, and he had given himself plenty of time. But nevertheless his affairs were the object in view; and though he did not like to talk about those things, even with Barker, the fate of Claudius and Margaret as compared with the larger destinies of the Green Swash Mining Company were as the humble and unadorned mole-hill to the glories of the Himalaya. People had criticised the Duke's financial career in England. Why had he sold that snuffbox that Marie Therese gave to his ancestor when—well, you know when? Why had he converted those worm-eaten manuscripts, whereon were traced many valuable things in a variety of ancient tongues, into coin of the realm? And why had he turned his Irish estates into pounds, into shillings, yea, and into pence. Pence—just think of it! He had sold his ancestral lands for pence; that was what it came to. These and many other things the scoffers scoffed, with a right good-will. But none save the Duke could tell how many broad fields of ripening grain, and vine-clad hills, and clean glistening miles of bright rail, and fat ore lands sodden with wealth of gold and silver and luscious sulphurets—none save the Duke could tell how much of these good things the Duke possessed in that great land beyond the sea, upon which if England were bodily set down it would be as hard to find as a threepenny bit in a ten-acre field. But the Duke never told. He went about his business quietly, for he said in his heart, "Tush! I have children to be provided for; and if anything happens to the old country, I will save some bacon for them in the new, and they may call themselves dukes or farmers as far as I am concerned; but they shall not lack a few hundred thousand acres of homestead in the hour of need, neither a cow or two or a pig."

The breeze held well, on the whole, and old Sturleson said they were having a wonderful run, which was doubtless an effort on the part of nature to atone for the injury she had done. But the days flew by, and yet they were not at their voyage's end. At last, as they sat sunning themselyes in the fair September weather, Sturleson came to them, his bright quadrant, with its coloured glasses sticking out in all directions, in his hand, and told the Duke he thought that by to-morrow afternoon they would sight the Hook. The party were all together, as it happened, and there was a general shout, in which, however, Claudius joined but faintly. He longed for contrary winds, and he wished that Sandy Hook and all its appurtenances, including New York and the United States, would sink gently down to the bottom of the sea. He knew, and Sturleson had told him, that with unfavourable weather they might be at sea a month, and he was one of the two who voted to go to Bermuda when the accident occurred.

That evening, as the sun was going down to his tossing bed of golden waves, all canopied with softest purple, Margaret stood leaning over the taffrail. Every stitch of canvas was out—topsails, gaff-topsails, staysails, and jibs—and the good yacht bounded with a will to the bright west. But the dark woman looked astern to where the billows rolled together, forgetting what precious burden they had borne. Claudius stole to her side and stood a moment looking at her face.

"So it is over," he said at last.

"Nearly over. It has been very pleasant," said she.

"It has been more than pleasant. It has been divine—for me."

"Hush!" said Margaret softly; "remember." There was silence, save for the rushing of the rudder through the dark-blue foam. Again Claudius spoke, softly, and it seemed to her that the voice was not his, but rather that it came up mystically from the water below.

"Are you sorry it is over?" he asked—or the voice of the mighty deep welling up with its burden of truth.

"Yes, I am very sorry," she answered, whether she would or no. The sun sank down, and the magic after-glow shone in the opposite sky, tinging ship and sails and waves.

"I am very sorry too," he said; and he sighed and looked astern eastwards, and thought of the golden hours he had spent on that broad track stretching away behind. Margaret leaned down, resting her chin on her hands, and presently she unfolded them, and her fingers stole upwards and covered her face, and she bent her head. There was a mighty beating in Claudius's breast, and a thousand voices in the air cried to him to speak and to say what was in his heart to say. But he would not, for he had given the woman at his side the promise of his faith. At last she looked up and turned toward him. They were alone on the deck in the faintness of the gathering twilight.

"Claudius, you have kept your promise truly and well. Keep it—keep it always." She held out her ungloved hand.

"Always, my queen and my lady," and he kissed the white fingers once.

"Hullo!" shouted the Duke, emerging from the cuddy. "Upon my word! Why, it's dinner time."



CHAPTER X.

How they left the good yacht Streak, and how they bade a hearty farewell to that old sea lion Captain Sturleson, and how they went through the hundred and one formalities of the custom-house, and the thousand and one informalities of its officials, are matters of interest indeed, but not of history. There are moments in a man's existence when the act of conveying half a dozen sovereigns to the pocket of that stern monitor of good faith, the brass-buttoned custom-house officer with the tender conscience, is of more importance to salvation than women's love or the Thirty-nine Articles. All this they did. Nor were they spared by the great tormentor of the West, who bristleth with the fretful quill, whose ears surround us in the night-time, and whose voice is as the voice of the charmer, the reporter of the just and the unjust, but principally of the latter. And Mr. Barker made an appointment with the Duke, and took a tender farewell of the three ladies, and promised to call on Claudius in the afternoon, and departed. But the rest of the party went to a famous old hotel much affected by Englishmen, and whose chief recommendation in their eyes is that there is no elevator, so that they can run upstairs and get out of breath, and fancy themselves at home. Of course their apartments had been secured, and had been waiting for them a week, and the Countess was glad to withdraw for the day into the sunny suite over the corner that was hers. As for Miss Skeat, she went to the window and stayed there, for America was quite different from what she had fancied. Claudius descended to the lower regions, and had his hair cut; and the cook and the bar-keeper and the head "boots," or porter, as he called himself, all came and looked in at the door of the barber's shop, and stared at the huge Swede. And the barber walked reverently round him with scissors and comb, and they all agreed that Claudius must be Mr. Barnum's new attraction, except the head porter—no relation of an English head porter—who thought it was "Fingal's babby, or maybe the blessed Sint Pathrick himself." And the little boy who brushed the frequenters of the barber's shop could not reach to Claudius's coat collar, so that the barber had to set a chair for him, and so he climbed up.

The Duke retired also to the depths of his apartments, and his servant arrayed him in the purple and stove-pipe of the higher civilisation. And before long each of the ladies received a large cardboard box full of fresh-cut flowers, sent by Mr. Barker of course; and the Duke, hearing of this from his man, sent "his compliments to Lady Victoria, and would she send him a rose for his coat?" So the Duke sallied forth on foot, and the little creases in his clothes showed that he had just arrived. But he did not attract any attention, for the majority of the population of New York have "just arrived." Besides, he had not far to go. He had a friend in town who lived but a few steps from the hotel, and his first move on arriving was generally to call there.

Claudius waited a short time to see whether Mr. Barker would come; but as Claudius rarely waited for anybody, he soon grew impatient, and squeezing himself into a cab, told the driver to take him to Messrs. Screw and Scratch in Pine Street. He was received with deference, and treated as his position demanded. Would he like to see Mr. Silas B. Barker senior? Very natural that he should want to make the acquaintance of his relative's old friend and partner. Mr. Screw was out, yes—but Mr. Scratch would accompany him. No trouble at all. Better "go around right off," as Mr. Barker would probably go to Newport by the boat that evening. So they went "around right away," and indeed it was a circular journey. Down one elevator, through a maze of corridors, round crowded corners, through narrow streets, Claudius ploughing his way through billows of curbstone brokers, sad and gay, messenger-boys, young clerks, fruit vendors, disreputable-looking millionaires and gentlemanly-looking scamps, newspaper-boys, drunken Irishmen, complacent holders of preferred, and scatterbrained speculators in wild-cat, an atmosphere of tobacco smoke, dust, melons, and unintelligible jargon—little Mr. Scratch clinging to his client's side, nodding furiously at every other face he saw, and occasionally shouting a word of outlandish etymology, but of magic import. Claudius almost thought it would be civil to offer to carry the little man, but when he saw how deftly Mr. Scratch got in a foot here and an elbow there, and how he scampered over any little bit of clear pavement, the Doctor concluded his new acquaintance was probably used to it. More elevators, more passages, a glass door, still bearing the names "Barker and Lindstrand," and they had reached their destination.

The office was on the second floor, with large windows looking over the street; there were several people in the room they first entered, and the first person Claudius saw was Mr. Barker junior, his friend.

"Well," said Barker, "so you have found us out. That's right. I was coming round to see you afterwards, for I did not suppose you would like to face 'the street' alone. Father," he said, turning to a thickset man with white hair and bushy eyebrows, "this is Dr. Claudius, Mr. Lindstrand's nephew."

The old gentleman looked up keenly into Claudius's face, and smiled pleasantly as he put out his hand. He said a few words of cordial welcome, and seemed altogether a sturdy, hearty, hardworking man of business—rather a contrast to his son. He hoped that Claudius would come on to Newport with Silas, as he wanted to have a long talk with him. The old gentleman was evidently very busy, and his son took Claudius in charge.

"What is that?" asked the Doctor, looking curiously at a couple of wheels that unwound unceasingly long strips of white paper. The paper passed through a small instrument, and came out covered with unintelligible signs, coiling itself in confusion into a waste-basket below.

"That has driven more men to desperation, ruin, and drink, than all the other evils of humanity put together," said Barker. "That is the ticker."

"I perceive that it ticks," said Claudius. And Barker explained how every variation in the market was instantly transmitted to every place of business, to every club, and to many private houses in New York, by means of a simple arrangement of symbols—how "Gr. S." meant Green Swash, and "N.P. pr." "North Pacific, preferred," and many other things. Claudius thought it an ingenious contrivance, but said it must be very wearing on the nerves.

"It is the pulse of New York," said Barker. "It is the croupier calling out from morning till night 'trente-sept, rouge, impair,' and then 'Messieurs faites votre jeu—le jeu est fait.' When stock goes down you buy, when it goes up you sell. That is the whole secret."

"I think it is very like gambling," said Claudius.

"So it is. But we never gamble here, though we have a ticker to see what other people are doing. Besides, it tells you everything. Horse-racing, baseball, steamers, births, deaths, and marriages; corn, wheat, tobacco, and cotton. Nobody can live here without a ticker."

And after this they went out into the street again, and Mr. Scratch took off his hat to Claudius, which is the highest token of unusual esteem and respect of which "the street" is capable, and in a moment the heels of his boots were seen disappearing into the dense crowd. Claudius and Barker walked on, and crossed Broadway; a few steps farther, and the Doctor was brought face to face with the triumph of business over privacy—the elevated railway. He had caught a glimpse of portions of it in the morning, but had supposed the beams and trestles to be scaffoldings for buildings. He stood a few moments in profound thought, contemplating and comprehending this triumph of wheels.

"It is a great invention," he said quietly. And when they were seated in the long airy car, he looked out of the window, and asked whether the people in the first stories of the houses did not find it very disagreeable to have trains running by their windows all day.

"The social and municipal economy of New York," explained Mr. Barker, "consists in one-third of the population everlastingly protesting against the outrageous things done by the other two-thirds. One-third fights another third, and the neutral third takes the fees of both parties. All that remains is handed over to the deserving poor."