"You flatter me. But I would rather have your advice, if that is what you call 'dictating.' I am not exactly a fool, but then, I am not very wise either."

"No one is very wise, and we are all fools compared to some people," said Mr. Bellingham. "If anybody wanted a figurehead for a new Ship of Fools, I sometimes think a portrait of myself would be singularly appropriate. There are times when I should fix upon a friend for the purpose. Mermaid—half fish—figurehead, half man, half fool. That's a very good idea."

"Very good—for the friend. Meanwhile, you know, it is I who am going on the errand. If you do not make it clear to me it will be a fool's errand."

"It is perfectly clear, my dear sir," insisted Mr. Bellingham. "You go to St. Petersburg; you get an audience—you can do that by means of the letters; you lay the matter before the Czar, and request justice. Either you get it or you do not. That is the beauty of an autocratic country."

"How about a free country?" asked Claudius.

"You don't get it," replied his host grimly. Claudius laughed a cloud of smoke into the air.

"Why is that?" he asked idly, hoping to launch Mr. Bellingham into further aphorisms and paradoxes.

"Men are everywhere born free, but they—"

"Oh," said Claudius, "I want to know your own opinion about it."

"I have no opinion; I only have experience," answered the other. "At any rate in an autocratic country there is a visible, tangible repository of power to whom you can apply. If the repository is in the humour you will get whatever you want done, in the way of justice or injustice. Now in a free country justice is absorbed into the great cosmic forces, and it is apt to be an expensive incantation that wakes the lost elementary spirit. In Russia justice shines by contrast with the surrounding corruption, but there is no mistake about it when you get it. In America it is taken for granted everywhere, and the consequence is that, like most things that are taken for granted, it is a myth. Rousseau thought that in a republic like ours there would be no more of the 'chains' he was so fond of talking about. He did not anticipate a stagnation of the national moral sense. An Englishman who has made a study of these things said lately that the Americans had retained the forms of freedom, but that the substance had suffered considerably."

"Who said that?" asked Claudius.

"Mr. Herbert Spencer. He said it to a newspaper reporter in New York, and so it was put into the papers. It is the truest thing he ever said, but no one took any more notice of it than if he had told the reporter it was a very fine day. They don't care. Tell the first man you meet down town that he is a liar; he will tell you he knows it. He will probably tell you you are another. We are all alike here. I'm a liar myself in a small way—there's a club of us, two Americans and one Englishman."

"You are the frankest person I ever met, Mr. Bellingham," said Claudius, laughing.

"Some day I will write a book," said Mr. Bellingham, rising and beginning to tramp round the room. "I will call it—by the way, we were talking about Petersburg. You had better be off."

"I am going, but tell me the name of the book before I go."

"No, I won't; you would go and write it yourself, and steal my thunder." Uncle Horace's eyes twinkled, and a corruscation of laugh-wrinkles shot like sheet-lightning over his face. He disappeared into a neighbouring room, leaving a trail of white smoke in his wake, like a locomotive. Presently he returned with a Bullinger Guide in his hand.

"You can sail on Wednesday at two o'clock by the Cunarder," he said. "You can go to Newport to-day, and come back by the boat on Tuesday night, and be ready to start in the morning." Mr. Bellingham prided himself greatly on his faculty for making combinations of times and places.

"How about those letters, Mr. Bellingham?" inquired Claudius, who had no idea of going upon his expedition without proper preparations.

"I will write them," said Uncle Horace, "I will write them at once," and he dived into an address-book and set to work. His pen was that of the traditional ready-writer, for he wrote endless letters, and his correspondence was typical of himself—the scholar, the wanderer, and the Priest of Buddha by turns, and sometimes all at once. For Mr. Bellingham was a professed Buddhist and a profound student of Eastern moralities, and he was a thorough scholar in certain branches of the classics. The combination of these qualities, with the tact and versatile fluency of a man of the world, was a rare one, and was a source of unceasing surprise to his intimates. At the present moment he was a diplomatist, since he could not be a diplomat, and to his energetic suggestion and furtherance of the plan he had devised the results which this tale will set forth are mainly due.

Claudius sat upon the sofa watching the old gentleman, and wondering how it was that a stranger should so soon have assumed the position of an adviser, and with an energy and good sense, too, which not only disarmed resistance, but assubjugated the consent of the advised. Life is full of such things. Man lives quietly like a fattening carp in some old pond for years, until some idle disturber comes and pokes up the mud with a stick, and the poor fish is in the dark. Presently comes another destroyer of peace, less idle and more enterprising, and drains away the water, carp and all, and makes a potato-garden of his old haunts. So the carp makes a new study of life under altered circumstances in other waters; and to pass the time he wonders about it all. It happens even to men of masterful character, accustomed to directing events. An illness takes such a man out of his sphere for a few months. He comes back and finds his pond turned into a vegetable-garden and his ploughed field into a swamp; and then for a time he is fain to ask advice and take it, like any other mortal. So Claudius, who felt himself in an atmosphere new to him, and had tumbled into a very burning bush of complications, had fallen in with Mr. Horace Bellingham, a kind of professional bone-setter, whose province was the reduction of society fractures, speaking medically. And Mr. Bellingham, scenting a patient, and moreover being strongly attracted to him on his own merits, had immediately broached the subject of the Nihilist Nicholas, drawing the conclusion that the man of the emergency was Claudius, and Claudius only. And the bold Doctor weighed the old gentleman's words, and by the light of what he felt he knew that Uncle Horace was right. That if he loved Margaret his first duty was to her, and that first duty was her welfare. No messenger could or would be so active in her interests as himself; and in his anxiety to serve her he had not thought it strange that Mr. Bellingham should take it for granted he was ready to embark on the expedition. He thought of that later, and wondered at the boldness of the stranger's assumption, no less than at the keenness of his wit. Poor Claudius! anybody might see he was in love.

"There; I think that will draw sparks," said Mr. Bellingham, as he folded the last of his letters and put them all in a great square envelope. "Put those in your pocket and keep your powder dry."

"I am really very grateful to you," said Claudius. Uncle Horace began to tramp round the room again, emitting smoky ejaculations of satisfaction. Presently he stopped in front of his guest and turned his eyes up to Claudius's face without raising his head. It gave him a peculiar expression.

"It is a very strange thing," he said, "but I knew at once that you had a destiny, the first time I saw you. I am very superstitious; I believe in destiny."

"So would I if I thought one could know anything about it. I mean in a general way," answered Claudius, smiling.

"Is generalisation everything?" asked Mr. Bellingham sharply, still looking at the young man. "Is experience to be dismissed as empiricism, with a sneer, because the wider rule is lacking?"

"No. But so long as only a few occupy themselves in reducing empiric knowledge to a scientific shape they will not succeed, at least in this department. To begin with, they have not enough experience among them to make rules from."

"But they contribute. One man will come who will find the rule. Was Tycho Brahe a nonentity because he was not Kepler? Was Van Helmont nothing because he was not Lavoisier? Yet Tycho Brahe was an empiric—he was the last of the observers of the concrete, if you will allow me the phrase. He was scientifically the father of Kepler."

"That is very well put," said Claudius. "But we were talking of destiny. You are an observer."

"I have very fine senses," replied Mr. Bellingham. "I always know when anybody I meet is going to do something out of the common run. You are."

"I hope so," said Claudius, laughing. "Indeed I think I am beginning already."

"Well, good luck to you," said Mr. Bellingham, remembering that he had missed one engagement, and was on the point of missing another. He suddenly felt that he must send Claudius away, and he held out his hand. There was nothing rough in his abruptness. He would have liked to talk with Claudius for an hour longer had his time permitted. Claudius understood perfectly. He put the letters in his pocket, and with a parting shake of the hand he bade Mr. Horace Bellingham good-morning, and good-bye; he would not trouble him again, he said, before sailing. But Mr. Bellingham went to the door with him.

"Come and see me before you go—Wednesday morning; I am up at six, you know. I shall be very glad to see you. I am like the Mexican donkey that died of congojas ajenas—died of other people's troubles. People always come to me when they are in difficulties." The old gentleman stood looking after Claudius as he strode away. Then he screwed up his eyes at the sun, sneezed with evident satisfaction, and disappeared within, closing the street door behind him.

"Some day I will write my memoirs," he said to himself, as he sat down.

Claudius was in a frame of mind which he would have found it hard to describe. The long conversation with Mr. Bellingham had been the first intimation he had received of Margaret's disaster, and the same interview had decided him to act at once in her behalf—in other words, to return to Europe immediately, after a week's stay in New York, leaving behind all that was most dear to him. This resolution had formed itself instantaneously in his mind, and it never occurred to him, either then or later, that he could have done anything else in the world. It certainly did not occur to him that he was doing anything especially praiseworthy in sacrificing his love to its object, in leaving Margaret for a couple of months, and enduring all that such a separation meant, in order to serve her interests more effectually. He knew well enough what he was undertaking—the sleepless nights, the endless days, the soul-compelling heaviness of solitude, and the deadly sinking at the heart, all which he should endure daily for sixty days—he could not be back before that. He knew it all, for he had suffered it all, during those four and twenty hours on the yacht that followed his first wild speech of love. But Claudius's was a knightly soul, and when he served he served wholly, without reservation. Had the dark-browed Countess guessed half the nobleness of purpose her tall lover carried in his breast, who knows but she might have been sooner moved herself. But how could she know? She suspected, indeed, that he was above his fellows, and she never attributed bad motives to his actions, as she would unhesitatingly have done with most men; for she had learned lessons of caution in her life. Who steals hearts steals souls, wherefore it behoves woman to look that the lock be strong and the key hung high. Claudius thought so too, and he showed it in every action, though unconsciously enough, for it was a knowledge natural and not acquired, an instinctive determination to honour where honour was due. Call it Quixotism if need be. There is nothing ridiculous in the word, for there breathes no truer knight or gentler soul than Cervantes's hero in all the pages of history or romance. Why cannot all men see it? Why must an infamous world be ever sneering at the sight, and smacking its filthy lips over some fresh gorge of martyrs? Society has non-suited hell to-day, lest peradventure it should not sleep o' nights.

Thomas Carlyle, late of Chelsea, knew that. How he hit and hammered and churned in his wrath, with his great cast-iron words. How the world shrieked when he wound his tenacious fingers in the glory of her golden hair and twisted and wrenched and twisted till she yelled for mercy, promising to be good, like a whipped child. There is a story told of him which might be true.

It was at a dinner-party, and Carlyle sat silent, listening to the talk of lesser men, the snow on his hair and the fire in his amber eyes. A young Liberal was talking theory to a beefy old Conservative, who despised youth and reason in an equal degree.

"The British people, sir," said he of the beef, "can afford to laugh at theories."

"Sir," said Carlyle, speaking for the first time during dinner, "the French nobility of a hundred years ago said they could afford to laugh at theories. Then came a man and wrote a book called the Social Contract. The man was called Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and his book was a theory, and nothing but a theory. The nobles could laugh at his theory; but their skins went to bind the second edition of his book[1]."

[Footnote 1: There was a tannery of human skins at Meudon during the Revolution.]

Look to your skin, world, lest it be dressed to morocco and cunningly tooled with gold. There is much binding yet to be done.

Claudius thought neither of the world nor of Mr. Carlyle as he walked back to the hotel; for he was thinking of the Countess Margaret, to the exclusion of every other earthly or unearthly consideration. But his thoughts were sad, for he knew that he was to leave her, and he knew also that he must tell her so. It was no easy matter, and his walk slackened, till, at the corner of the great thoroughfare, he stood still, looking at a poor woman who ground a tuneless hand-organ. The instrument of tympanum torture was on wheels, and to the back of it was attached a cradle. In the cradle was a dirty little baby, licking its fist and listening with conscientious attention to the perpetual trangle-tringle-jangle of the maternal music. In truth the little thing could not well listen to anything else, considering the position in which it was placed. Claudius stood staring at the little caravan, halted at the corner of the most aristocratic street in New York, and his attention was gradually roused to comprehend what he saw. He reflected that next to being bound on the back of a wild horse, like Mazeppa, the most horrible fate conceivable must be that of this dirty baby, put to bed in perpetuity on the back of a crazy grind-organ. He smiled at the idea, and the woman held out a battered tin dish with one hand, while the other in its revolution ground out the final palpitating squeaks of "Ah, che la morte ognora." Claudius put his hand into his pocket and gave the poor creature a coin.

"You are encouraging a public nuisance," said a thin gentlemanly voice at his elbow. Claudius looked down and saw Mr. Barker.

"Yes," said the Doctor, "I remember a remark you once made to me about the deserving poor in New York—it was the day before yesterday, I think. You said they went to the West."

"Talking of the West, I suppose you will be going there yourself one of these days to take a look at our 'park'—eh?"

"No, I am going East."

"To Boston, I suppose?" inquired the inquisitive Barker. "You will be very much amused with Boston. It is the largest village in the United States."

"I am not going to Boston," said Claudius calmly.

"Oh! I thought when you said you were going East you meant—"

"I am going to sail for Europe on Wednesday," said the Doctor, who had had time to reflect that he might as well inform Barker of his intention. Mr. Barker smiled grimly under his moustache.

"You don't mean that?" he said, trying to feign astonishment and disguise his satisfaction. It seemed too good to be true. "Going so soon? Why, I thought you meant to spend some time."

"Yes, I am going immediately," and Claudius looked Barker straight in the face. "I find it is necessary that I should procure certain papers connected with my inheritance."

"Well," said Barker turning his eyes another way, for he did not like the Doctor's look, "I am very sorry, any way. I suppose you mean to come back soon?"

"Very soon," answered Claudius. "Good-morning, Barker."

"Good morning. I will call and see you before you sail. You have quite taken my breath away with this news." Mr. Barker walked quickly away in the direction of Elevated Road. He was evidently going down town.

"Strange," thought Claudius, "that Barker should take the news so quietly. I think it ought to have astonished him more." Leaving the organ-grinder, the dirty baby, and the horse-cars to their fate, Claudius entered the hotel. He found the Duke over a late breakfast, eating cantelopes voraciously. Cantelopes are American melons, small and of sickly appearance, but of good vitality and unearthly freshness within, a joy to the hot-stomached foreigner. Behold also, his Grace eateth the cantelope and hath a cheerful countenance. Claudius sat down at the table, looking rather gloomy.

"I want you to give me an introduction to the English Ambassador in Petersburg. Lord Fitzdoggin, I believe he is."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the peer; "what for?"

"I am going there," answered Claudius with his habitual calm, "and I want to know somebody in power."

"Oh! are you going?" asked the Duke, suddenly grasping the situation. He afterwards took some credit to himself for having been so quick to catch Claudius's meaning.

"Yes. I sail on Wednesday."

"Tell me all about it," said the Duke, who recovered his equanimity, and plunged a knife into a fresh cantelope at the same moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All right," answered the Duke; and Claudius vanished. "He says 'them,'" soliloquised the Englishman, "but he means 'her.'"

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

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

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

CLAUDIUS."

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

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

"You're right, sir—the man's a humbug."

"Who?" asked Barker, in well-feigned innocence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am obliged to go away very suddenly," he said; and his voice trembled violently.

Margaret's face lost colour in answer, and she resisted an impulse to turn and meet his eyes. She would have liked to, but she felt his look on her, and she feared lest, looking once, she should look too long.

"Must you go away?" she asked with a good deal of self-possession.

"Yes, I fear I must. I know I must, if I mean to remain here afterwards. I would rather go at once and be done with it." He still spoke uncertainly, as if struggling with some violent hoarseness in his throat.

"Tell me why you must go," she said imperiously. Claudius hesitated a moment.

"I will tell you one of the principal reasons of my going," he said. "You know I came here to take possession of my fortune, and I very naturally relied upon doing so. Obviously, if I do not obtain it I cannot continue to live in the way I am now doing, on the slender resources which have been enough for me until now."

"Et puis?" said the Countess, raising her eyebrows a little.

"Et puis," continued the Doctor, "these legal gentlemen find difficulty in persuading themselves that I am myself—that I am really the nephew of Gustavus Lindstrand, deceased."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Margaret. "And so to please them you are going away. And who will get your money, pray?"

"I will get it," answered Claudius, "for I will come back as soon as I have obtained the necessary proofs of my identity from Heidelberg."

"I never heard of anything so ridiculous," said Margaret hotly. "To go all that distance for a few papers. As if we did not all know you! If you are not Dr. Claudius, who are you? Why, Mr. Barker went to Heidelberg on purpose to find you."

"Nevertheless, Messrs. Screw and Scratch doubt me. Here is their letter—the last one. Will you look at it?" and Claudius took an envelope from his pocket-book. He was glad to have come over to the argumentative tack, for his heart was very sore, and he knew what the end must be.

"No." The Countess turned to him for the first time, with an indescribable look in her face, between anger and pain. "No, I will not read it."

"I wish you would," said Claudius, "you would understand better." Something in his voice touched a sympathetic chord.

"I think I understand," said the Countess, looking back at the sea, which was growing dim and indistinct before her. "I think you ought to go."

The indistinctness of her vision was not due to any defect in her sight. The wet fog was rising like a shapeless evil genius out of the sluggish sea, rolling heavily across the little bay to the lovers' beach, with its swollen arms full of blight and mildew. Margaret shivered at the sight of it, and drew the lace thing she wore closer to her throat. But she did not rise, or make any sign that she would go.

"What is the other reason for your going?" she asked at length.

"What other reason?"

"You said your inheritance, or the evidence you require in order to obtain it, was one of the principal reasons for your going. I suppose there is another?"

"Yes, Countess, there is another reason, but I cannot tell you now what it is."

"I have no right to ask, of course," said Margaret,—"unless I can help you," she added, in her soft, deep voice.

"You have more right than you think, far more right," answered Claudius. "And I thank you for the kind thought of help. It is very good of you." He turned towards her, and leaned upon his hand as he sat. Still the fog rolled up, and the lifeless sea seemed overshed with an unctuous calm. They were almost in the dark on their strip of beach, and the moisture was already clinging in great, thick drops to their clothes, and to the rocks where they sat. Still Claudius looked at Margaret, and Margaret looked at the narrow band of oily water still uncovered by the mist.

"When are you going?" she asked slowly, as if hating to meet the answer.

"To-night," said Claudius, still looking earnestly at her. The light was gone from her eyes, and the flush had long sunk away to the heart whence it had come.

"To-night?" she repeated, a little vaguely.

"Yes," he said, and waited; then after a moment, "Shall you mind when I am gone?" He leaned towards her, earnestly looking into her face.

"Yes," said Margaret, "I shall be sorry." Her voice was kind, and very gentle. Still she did not look at him. Claudius held out his right hand, palm upward, to meet hers.

"Shall you mind much?" he asked earnestly, with intent eyes. She met his hand and took it.

"Yes, I shall be very sorry." Claudius slipped from the rock where he was sitting, and fell upon one knee before her, kissing the hand she gave as though it had been the holy cross. He looked up, his face near hers, and at last he met her eyes, burning with a startled light under the black brows, contrasting with the white of her forehead, and face, and throat. He looked one moment.

"Shall you really mind very much?" he asked a third time, in a strange, lost voice. There was no answer, only the wet fog all around, and those two beautiful faces ashy pale in the mist, and very near together. One instant so—and then—ah, God! they have cast the die at last, for he has wound his mighty arms about her, and is passionately kissing the marble of her cheek.

"My beloved, my beloved, I love you—with, all my heart, and with all my soul, and with all my strength"—but she speaks no word, only her arms pass his and hang about his neck, and her dark head lies on his breast; and could you but see her eyes, you would see also the fair pearls that the little god has formed deep down in the ocean of love—the lashes thereof are wet with sudden weeping. And all around them the deep, deaf fog, thick and muffled as darkness, and yet not dark.

"Ugh!" muttered the evil genius of the sea, "I hate lovers; an' they drown not, they shall have a wet wooing." And he came and touched them all over with the clamminess of his deathly hand, and breathed upon them the thick, cold breath of his damp old soul. But he could do nothing against such love as that, and the lovers burned him and laughed him to scorn.

She was very silent as she kissed him and laid her head on his breast. And he could only repeat what was nearest, the credo of his love, and while his arms were about her they were strong, but when he tried to take them away, they were as tremulous as the veriest aspen.

The great tidal wave comes rolling in, once in every lifetime that deserves to be called a lifetime, and sweeps away every one of our landmarks, and changes all our coast-line. But though the waters do not subside, yet the crest of them falls rippling away into smoothness after the first mad rush, else should we all be but shipwrecked mariners in the sea of love. And so, after a time, Margaret drew away from Claudius gently, finding his hands with hers as she moved, and holding them.

"Come," said she, "let us go." They were her first words, and Claudius thought the deep voice had never sounded so musical before. But the words, the word "go," sounded like a knell on his heart. He had forgotten that he must sail on the morrow. He had forgotten that it was so soon over.

They went away, out of the drizzling fog and the mist, and the evil sea-breath, up to the cliff walk and so by the wet lanes homewards, two loving, sorrowing hearts, not realising what had come to them, nor knowing what should come hereafter, but only big with love fresh spoken, and hot with tears half shed.

"Beloved," said Claudius as they stood together for the last time in the desolation of the great, dreary, hotel drawing-room—for Claudius was going—"beloved, will you promise me something?"

Margaret looked down as she stood with her clasped hands on his arm.

"What is it I should promise you—Claudius?" she asked, half hesitating.

Claudius laid his hand tenderly—tenderly, as giants only can be tender, on the thick black hair, as hardly daring, yet loving, to let it linger there.

"Will you promise that if you doubt me when I am gone, you will ask of the Duke the 'other reason' of my going?"

"I shall not doubt you," answered Margaret, looking proudly up.

"God bless you, my beloved!"—and so he went to sea again.



CHAPTER XVI.

When Mr. Barker, who had followed the party to Newport, called on the Countess the following morning, she was not visible, so he was fain to content himself with scribbling a very pressing invitation to drive in the afternoon, which he sent up with some flowers, not waiting for an answer. The fact was that Margaret had sent for the Duke at an early hour—for her—and was talking with him on matters of importance at the time Barker called. Otherwise she would very likely not have refused to see the latter.

"I want you to explain to me what they are trying to do to make Dr. Claudius give up his property," said Margaret, who looked pale and beautiful in a morning garment of nondescript shape and of white silken material. The Duke was sitting by the window, watching a couple of men preparing to get into a trim dogcart. To tell the truth, the dogcart and the horse were the objects of interest. His Grace was not aware that the young men were no less personages than young Mr. Hannibal Q. Sniggins and young Mr. Orlando Van Sueindell, both of New York, sons of the "great roads." Either of these young gentlemen could have bought out his Grace; either of them would have joyfully licked his boots; and either of them would have protested, within the sacred precincts of their gorgeous club in New York, that he was a conceited ass of an Englishman. But his Grace did not know this, or he would certainly have regarded them with more interest. He was profoundly indifferent to the character of the people with whom he had to do, whether they were catalogued in the "book of snobs" or not. It is generally people who are themselves snobs who call their intimates by that offensive epithet, attributing to them the sin they fall into themselves. The Duke distinguished between gentlemen and cads, when it was a question of dining at the same table, but in matters of business he believed the distinction of no importance. He came to America for business purposes, and he took Americans as he found them. He thought they were very good men of business, and when it came to associating with them on any other footing, he thought some of them were gentlemen and some were not—pretty much as it is everywhere else. So he watched the young men getting into their dogcart, and he thought the whole turn-out looked "very fit."

"Really," he began, in answer to the Countess's question, "—upon my word, I don't know much about it. At least, I suppose not."

"Oh, I thought you did," said Margaret, taking up a book and a paper-cutter. "I thought it must be something rather serious, or he would not have been obliged to go abroad to get papers about it."

"Well, you know, after all, he—aw—" the Duke reddened—"he—well yes, exactly so."

"Yes?" said Margaret interrogatively, expecting something more.

"Exactly," said the Duke, still red, but determined not to say anything. He had not promised Claudius not to say he could have vouched for him, had the Doctor stayed; but he feared that in telling Margaret this, he might be risking the betrayal of Claudius's actual destination. It would not do, however.

"I really do not understand just what you said," said Margaret, looking at him.

"Ah! well, no. I daresay I did not express myself very clearly. What was your question, Countess?"

"I asked who it was who was making so much trouble for the Doctor;" said Margaret calmly.

"Oh, I was sure I could not have understood you. It's the executors and lawyer people, who are not satisfied about his identity. It's all right, though."

"Of course. But could no one here save him the trouble of going all the way back to Germany?"

The Duke grew desperate. He was in a corner where he must either tell a lie of some sort or let the cat out of the bag. The Duke was a cynical and worldly man enough, perhaps, as the times go, but he did not tell lies. He plunged.

"My dear Countess," he said, facing towards her and stroking his whiskers, "I really know something about Dr. Claudius, and I will tell you all I am at liberty to tell; please do not ask me anything else. Claudius is really gone to obtain papers from Heidelberg as well as for another purpose which I cannot divulge. The papers might have been dispensed with, for I could have sworn to him."

"Then the other object is the important one," said the Countess pensively. The Duke was silent. "I am greatly obliged to you," Margaret continued, "for what you have told me."

"I will tell you what I can do," said the Englishman after a pause, during which an unusual expression in his face seemed to betoken thought. "I am going to the West for a couple of months to look after things, and of course accidents may happen. Claudius may have difficulty in getting what he wants, and I am the only man here who knows all about him. He satisfied me of his identity. I will, if you like, sign a statement vouching for him, and leave it in your hands in case of need. It is all I can do."

"In my hands?" exclaimed Margaret, drawing herself up a little. "And why in my hands, Duke?" The Duke got very red indeed this time, and hesitated. He had put his foot into it through sheer goodness of heart and a desire to help everybody.

"Aw—a—the—the fact is, Countess," he got out at last, "the fact is, you know, Claudius has not many friends here, and I thought you were one of them. My only desire is—a—to serve him."

Margaret had quickly grasped the advantage to Claudius, if such a voucher as the Duke offered were kept in pickle as a rod for his enemies.

"You are right," said she, "I am a good friend of Dr. Claudius, and I will keep the paper in case of need."

The Duke recovered his equanimity.

"Thank you," said he. "I am a very good friend of his, and I thank you on his behalf, as I am sure he will himself. There's one of our Foreign Office clerks here for his holiday; I will get him to draw up the paper as he is an old friend of mine—in fact, some relation, I believe. By Jove! there goes Barker." The latter exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of the man he named on the opposite side of the avenue, in conversation with the two young gentlemen whom the Duke had already noticed as preparing to mount their dogcart.

"Oh," said Margaret indifferently, in response to the exclamation.

"Yes," said the Duke, "it is he. I thought he was in New York."

"No," said the Countess, "he has just called. It was his card they brought me just as you came. He wants me to drive with him this afternoon."

"Indeed. Shall you go?"

"I think so—yes," said she.

"Very well. I will take my sister with me," said the Duke. "I have got something very decent to drive in." Margaret laughed at the implied invitation.

"How you take things for granted," said she. "Did you really think I would have gone with you?"

"Such things have happened," said the Duke good-humouredly, and went away. Not being in the least a ladies' man, he was very apt to make such speeches occasionally. He had a habit of taking it for granted that no one refused his invitations.

At four o'clock that afternoon Silas B. Barker junior drew up to the steps of the hotel in a very gorgeous conveyance, called in America a T-cart, and resembling a mail phaeton in build. From the high double box Mr. Barker commanded and guided a pair of showy brown horses, harnessed in the most approved philanthropic, or rather philozooic style; no check-rein, no breeching, no nothing apparently, except a pole and Mr. Barker's crest. For Mr. Barker had a crest, since he came from Salem, Massachusetts, and the bearings were a witch pendant, gules, on a gallows sinister, sable. Behind him sat the regulation clock-work groom, brought over at considerable expense from the establishment of Viscount Plungham, and who sprang to the ground and took his place at the horses' heads as soon as Barker had brought them to a stand. Then Barker, arrayed in a new hat, patent-leather boots, a very long frock-coat, and a very expensive rose, descended lightly from his chariot and swiftly ascended the steps, seeming to tread half on air and half on egg-shells. And a few minutes later he again appeared, accompanied by the Countess Margaret, looking dark and pale and queenly. A proud man was dandy Silas as he helped her to her place, and going to the other side, got in and took the ribbands. Many were the glances that shot from the two edges of the road at the unknown beauty whom Silas drove by his side, and obsequious were the bows of Silas's friends as they passed. Even the groggy old man who drives the water-cart on Bellevue Avenue could scarce forbear to cheer as she went by.

And so they drove away, side by side. Barker knew very well that Claudius had taken his leave the day before, and to tell the truth, he was a good deal surprised that Margaret should be willing to accept this invitation. He had called to ask her, because he was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet at any time, much less when he was laying siege to a woman. For with women time is sometimes everything. And being of a reasonable mind, when Mr. Barker observed that he was surprised, he concluded that there must be some good reason for his astonishment, and still more that there must be some very good reason why Margaret should accept his first invitation to a tete-a-tete afternoon. From one reflection to another, he came at last to the conclusion that she must be anxious to learn some details concerning the Doctor's departure, from which again he argued that Claudius had not taken her into his confidence. The hypothesis that she might be willing to make an effort with him for Claudius's justification Mr. Barker dismissed as improbable. And he was right. He waited, therefore, for her to broach the subject, and confined himself, as they drove along, to remarks about the people they passed, the doings of the Newport summer, concerning which he had heard all the gossip during the last few hours, the prospect of Madame Patti in opera during the coming season, horses, dogs, and mutual friends—all the motley array of subjects permissible, desultory, and amusing. Suddenly, as they bowled out on an open road by the sea, Margaret began.

"Why has Dr. Claudius gone abroad," she asked, glancing at Barker's face, which remained impenetrable as ever. Barker changed his hold on the reins, and stuck the whip into the bucket by his side before he answered.

"They say he has gone to get himself sworn to," he said rather slowly, and with a good show of indifference.

"I cannot see why that was necessary," answered Margaret calmly "It seems to me we all knew him very well."

"Oh, nobody can understand lawyers," said Barker, and was silent, knowing how strong a position silence was, for she could know nothing more about Claudius without committing herself to a direct question. Barker was in a difficult position. He fully intended later to hint that Claudius might never return at all. But he knew too much to do anything of the kind at present, when the memory of the Doctor was fresh in the Countess's mind, and when, as he guessed, he himself was not too high in her favour. He therefore told a bit of the plain truth which could not be cast in his teeth afterwards, and was silent.

It was a good move, and Margaret was fain to take to some other subject of conversation, lest the pause should seem long. They had not gone far before the society kaleidoscope was once more in motion, and Barker was talking his best. They rolled along, passing most things on the road, and when they came to a bit of hill, he walked his horses, on pretence of keeping them cool, but in reality to lengthen the drive and increase his advantage, if only by a minute and a hairbreadth. He could see he was amusing her, as he drew her away from the thing that made her heavy, and sketched, and crayoned, and photographed from memory all manner of harmless gossip—he took care that it should be harmless—and such book-talk as he could command, with such a general sprinkling of sentimentalism, ready made and easy to handle, as American young men affect in talking to women.

Making allowance for the customs of the country, they were passing a very innocently diverting afternoon; and Margaret, though secretly annoyed at finding that Barker would not talk about Claudius, or add in any way to her information, was nevertheless congratulating herself upon the smooth termination of the interview. She had indeed only accepted the invitation in the hope of learning something more about Claudius and his "other reason." But she also recognised that, though Barker were unwilling to speak of the Doctor, he might have made himself very disagreeable by taking advantage of the confession of interest she had volunteered in asking so direct a question. But Barker had taken no such lead, and never referred to Claudius in all the ramblings of his polite conversation.

He was in the midst of a description of Mrs. Orlando Van Sueindell's last dinner-party, which he had unfortunately missed, when his browns, less peaceably disposed than most of the lazy bean-fed cattle one sees on the Newport avenue, took it into their heads that it would be a joyous thing to canter down a steep place into the sea. The road turned, with a sudden dip, across a little neck of land separating the bay from the harbour, and the descent was, for a few yards, very abrupt. At this point, then, the intelligent animals conceived the ingenious scheme of bolting, with that eccentricity of device which seems to characterise overfed carriage-horses. In an instant they were off, and it was clear there would be no stopping them—from a trot to a break, from a canter to a gallop, from a gallop to a tearing, breakneck, leave-your-bones-behind-you race, all in a moment, down to the sea.

Barker was not afraid, and he did what he could. He was not a strong man, and he knew himself no match for the two horses, but he hoped by a sudden effort, repeated once or twice, to scare the runaways into a standstill, as is sometimes possible. Acting immediately on his determination, as he always did, he wound one hand in each rein, and half rising from his high seat, jerked with all his might. Margaret held her breath.

But alas for the rarity of strength in saddlers' work! The off-rein snapped away like a thread just where the buckle leads half of it over to the near horse, and the strain on the right hand being thus suddenly removed, the horses' heads were jerked violently to the left, and they became wholly unmanageable. Barker was silent, and instantly dropped the unbroken rein. As for Margaret, she sat quite still, holding to the low rail-back of her seat, and preparing for a jump. They were by this time nearly at the bottom of the descent, and rapidly approaching a corner where a great heap of rocks made the prospect hideous. To haul the horses over to the left would have been destruction, as the ground fell away on that side to a considerable depth down to the rocks below. Then Barker did a brave thing.

"If I miss him, jump off to the right," he cried; and in a moment, before Margaret could answer or prevent him, he had got over the dashboard, and was in mid-air, a strange figure, in his long frock-coat and shiny hat. With a bold leap—and the Countess shivered as she saw him flying in front of her—he alighted on the back of the off horse, almost on his face, but well across the beast for all that. Light and wiry, a mere bundle of nerves dressed up, Mr. Barker was not to be shaken off, and, while the animal was still plunging, he had caught the flying bits of bridle, and was sawing away, right and left, with the energy of despair. Between its terror at being suddenly mounted by some one out of a clear sky, so to say, and the violent wrenching it was getting from Barker's bony little hands, the beast decided to stop at last, and its companion, who was coming in for some of the pulling too, stopped by sympathy, with a series of snorts and plunges. Barker still clung to the broken rein, leaning far over the horse's neck so as to wind it round his wrist; and he shouted to Margaret to get out, which she immediately did; but, instead of fainting away, she came to the horses' heads and stood before them, a commanding figure that even a dumb animal would not dare to slight—too much excited to speak yet, but ready to face anything.

A few moments later the groom, whose existence they had both forgotten, came running down to them, with a red face, and dusting his battered hat on his arm as he came. He had quietly slipped off behind, and had been rolled head over heels for his pains, but had suffered no injury. Then Barker got off. He was covered with dust, but his hat was still on his head, and he did not look as though he had been jumping for his life. Margaret turned to him with genuine gratitude and admiration, for he had borne himself as few men could or would have done.

"You have saved my life," she said, "and I am very grateful. It was very brave of you." And she held out her hand to meet his, now trembling violently from the fierce strain.

"Oh, not at all; it was really nothing," he said, bowing low. But the deep wrinkle that scored Barker's successes in life showed plainly round his mouth. He knew what his advantage was, and he had no thought of the danger when he reflected on what he had gained. Not he! His heart, or the organ which served him in place of one, was full of triumph. Had he planned the whole thing with the utmost skill and foresight he could not have succeeded better. Such a victory! and the very first day after Claudius's departure—Ye gods! what luck!

And so it came to pass that by the time the harness had been tied together and the conveyance got without accident as far as the first stable on the outskirts of the town, where it was left with the groom, Barker had received a goodly meed of thanks and praise. And when Margaret proposed that they should walk as far as the hotel, Barker tried a few steps and found he was too lame for such exercise, his left leg having been badly bruised by the pole of the carriage in his late exploit; which injury elicited a further show of sympathy from Margaret. And when at last he left her with a cab at the door of her hotel, he protested that he had enjoyed a very delightful drive, and went away in high spirits. Margaret, in her gratitude for such an escape, and in unfeigned admiration of Barker's daring and coolness, was certainly inclined to think better of him than she had done for a long time. Or perhaps it would be truer to say that he was more in her thoughts than he had been; for, in the reign of Claudius, Barker had dwindled to a nearly insignificant speck in the landscape, dwarfed away to nothing by the larger mould and stronger character of the Swede.

Margaret saw the Duke in the evening. He gave her a document, unsealed, in a huge envelope, bidding her keep it in a safe place, for the use of their mutual friend, in case he should need it. She said she would give it to Claudius when he came back; and then she told the Duke about her drive with Barker and the accident. The Duke looked grave.

"Of course," he said, "I introduced Barker to you, and it would seem very odd if I were to warn you against him now. All the same, Countess, I have had the honour of being your friend for some time, and I must say I have sometimes regretted that I brought him to your house." He reddened a little after he had spoken, fearing she might have misunderstood him. "I wish," he added, to make things clearer, "that I could have brought you Claudius without Barker." Then he reddened still more, and wished he had said nothing. Margaret raised her eyebrows. Perhaps she could have wished as much herself, but she dropped the subject.

"When are you coming back from the West, Duke," she asked, busying herself in arranging some books on her table. The hotel sitting-room was so deadly dreary to the eye that she was trying to make it look as if it had not been lately used as a place of burial.

"It may be two months before I am here again. A—about the time Claudius comes over, I should think."

"And when do you go?"

"Next week, I think."

"I wish you were going to stay," said Margaret simply, "or Lady Victoria. I shall be so lonely."

"You will have Miss Skeat," suggested his Grace.

"Oh, it's not that," said she. "I shall not be alone altogether, for there is poor Nicholas, you know. I must take care of him; and then I suppose some of these people will want to amuse me, or entertain me—not that they are very entertaining; but they mean well. Besides, my being mixed up in a Nihilist persecution adds to my social value." The Duke, however, was not listening, his mind being full of other things—what there was of it, and his heart had long determined to sympathise with Margaret in her troubles; so there was nothing more to be said.

"Dear me," thought Miss Skeat, "what a pity! They say she might have had the Duke when she was a mere child—and to think that she should have refused him! So admirably suited to each other!" But Miss Skeat, as she sat at the other end of the room trying to find "what it was that people saw so funny" in the Tramp Abroad, was mistaken about her patroness and the very high and mighty personage from the aristocracy. The Duke was much older than Margaret, and had been married before he had ever seen her. It was only because they were such good friends that the busybodies said they had just missed being man and wife.

But when the Duke was gone, Margaret and Miss Skeat were left alone, and they drew near each other and sat by the table, the elder lady reading aloud from a very modern novel. The Countess paid little attention to what she heard, for she was weary, and it seemed as though the evening would never end. Miss Skeat's even and somewhat monotonous voice produced no sensation of drowsiness to-night, as it often did, though Margaret's eyes were half-closed and her fingers idle. She needed rest, but it would not come, and still her brain went whirling through the scenes of the past twenty-four hours, again and again recurring to the question "Why is he gone?" unanswered and yet ever repeated, as the dreadful wake-song of the wild Irish, the "Why did he die?" that haunts the ear that has once heard it for weeks afterwards.

She tried to reason, but there was no reason. Why, why, why? He was gone with her kiss on his lips and her breath in his. She should have waited till he came back from over the sea before giving him what was so very precious. More than once, as she repeated the words he had spoken at parting, she asked herself whether she doubted him after all, and whether it would not be wiser to speak to the Duke. But then, the latter so evidently believed in Claudius that it comforted her to think of his honest faith, and she would dismiss every doubt again as vain and wearying. But still the eternal question rang loudly in her soul's ears, and the din of the inquisitive devil that would not be satisfied deafened her so that she could not hear Miss Skeat. Once or twice she moved her head nervously from side to side, as it rested on the back of the chair, and her face was drawn and pale, so that Miss Skeat anxiously asked whether she were in any pain, but Margaret merely motioned to her companion to continue reading, and was silent. But Miss Skeat grew uneasy, feeling sure that something was the matter.

"Dear Countess," she said, "will you not retire to rest? I fear that this horrid accident has shaken you. Do go to bed, and I will come and read you to sleep." Her voice sounded kindly, and Margaret's fingers stole out till they covered Miss Skeat's bony white ones, with the green veins and the yellowish lights between the knuckles.

Miss Skeat, at this unusual manifestation of feeling, laid down the book she held in her other hand, and settled her gold-rimmed glasses over her long nose. Then her eyes beamed across at Margaret, and a kindly, old-fashioned smile came into her face that was good to see, and as she pressed the hot young hand in hers there was a suspicion of motherliness in her expression that would have surprised a stranger. For Miss Skeat did not look motherly at ordinary times.

"Poor child!" said she softly. Margaret's other hand went to her eyes and hid them from sight, and her head sank forward until it touched her fingers, where they joined Miss Skeat's.

"I am so unhappy to-night," murmured Margaret, finding at last, in the evening hours, the sympathy she had longed for all day. Miss Skeat changed her own position a little so as to be nearer to her.

"Poor child!" repeated Miss Skeat almost in a whisper, as she bent down to the regal head that lay against her hand, smoothing the thick hair with her worn fingers. "Poor child, do you love him so very dearly?" She spoke almost inaudibly, and her wrinkled eyelids were wet. But low as was her voice, Margaret heard, and moved her head in assent, without lifting it from the table.

Ah yes—she loved him very, very much. But she could not bear to confess it, for all that, and a moment afterwards she was sitting upright again in her chair, feeling that she had weathered the first storm. Her companion, who was not ignorant of her ways, contented herself then with patting Margaret's hand caressingly during the instant it remained in her own, before it was drawn away. There was a world of kindness and of gentle humanity in the gaunt gentlewoman's manner, showing that the heart within was not withered yet. Then Miss Skeat flattened the book before her with the paper-cutter, and began to read. Reading aloud had become to her a second nature, and whether she had liked it or not at first, she had learned to do it with perfect ease and indifference, neither letting her voice drag languidly and hesitatingly when she was tired, nor falling into that nerve-rending fault of readers who vainly endeavour to personate the characters in dialogue, and to give impressiveness in the descriptive portions. She never made a remark, or asked her hearer's opinion. If the Countess was in the humour to sleep, the reading was soporific; if she desired to listen, she felt that her companion was not trying to bias her judgment by the introduction of dramatic intonation and effect. With an even, untiring correctness of utterance, Miss Skeat read one book just as she read another—M. Thiers or Mr. Henry James, Mark Twain or a Parliamentary Report—it was all one to her. Poor Miss Skeat!

But to Margaret the evening seemed long and the night longer, and many days and evenings and nights afterwards. Not that she doubted, but that she thought—well—perhaps she thought she ought to doubt. Some cunning reader of face and character, laughing and making love by turns, had once told her she had more heart than head. Every woman knows she ought to seem flattered at being considered a "person of heart," and yet every woman cordially hates to be told so. And, at last, Margaret began to wonder whether it were true. Should she have admitted she loved a man who left her a moment afterwards in order to make a voyage of two months for the mere furthering of his worldly interest? But then—he told her he was going before he kissed her. What could be the "other reason"?



CHAPTER XVII.

It is not to be supposed that a man of Barker's character would neglect the signal advantage he had gained in being injured, or at least badly bruised, while attempting to save Margaret from destruction. That he had really saved her was a less point in his favour than that he had barked his shins in so doing. The proverbial relationship between pity and love is so exceedingly well known that many professional love-makers systematically begin their campaigns by endeavouring to move the compassion of the woman they are attacking. Occasionally they find a woman with whom pity is akin to scorn instead of to love—and then their policy is a failure.

The dark Countess was no soft-hearted Saxon maiden, any more than she was a cold-blooded, cut-throat American girl, calculating her romance by the yard, booking her flirtations by double-entry and marrying at compound interest, with the head of a railway president and the heart of an Esquimaux. She was rather one of those women who are ever ready to sympathise from a naturally generous and noble nature, but who rarely give their friendship and still more seldom their love. They marry, sometimes, where there is neither. They marry—ye gods! why do people marry, and what reasons will they not find for marrying? But such women, if they are wedded where their heart is not, are generally very young; far too young to know what they are doing; and though there be little inclination to the step, it always turns out that they had at least a respect for the man. Margaret had been married to Count Alexis because it was in every way such a plausible match, and she was only eighteen then, poor thing. But Alexis was such an uncommonly good fellow that she had honestly tried to love him, and had not altogether failed. At least she had never had any domestic troubles, and when he was shot at Plevna, in 1876, she shed some very genuine tears and shut herself away from the world for a long time. But though her sorrow was sincere, it was not profound, and she knew it from the first, never deceiving herself with the idea that she could not marry again. She had sustained many a siege, however, both before her husband's untimely death and since; and though a stranger to love, she was no novice in love-making. Indeed few women are; certainly no beautiful women.

Margaret, then, though a pure-hearted and brave lady, was of the world, understanding the wiles thereof; and so, when Mr. Barker began to come regularly to see her, and when she noticed how very long the slight lameness he had incurred from the runaway accident seemed to last, and when she observed how cunningly he endeavoured to excite her sympathy towards him, she began to suspect that he meant something more than a mere diversion for himself. He spoke so feelingly of his lonely position in the world; to accentuate which, he spoke of his father without any feeling whatever. He represented himself as so drearily lonely and friendless in this hard-hearted, thorny world. Quite a little lamb was Silas, leaving shreds of his pure white wool rent off and clinging to the briars of his solitary life-journey. He was very patient in his sufferings, he said, for he so keenly felt that coarser natures could not suffer as he did; that troubles glided from their backs like water from the feathers of the draggled but happy goose, whereas on his tender heart they struck deep like a fiery rain. Was it not Danty who told of those poor people who were exposed to the molten drizzle? Ah yes! Danty knew, of course, for he had been a great sufferer. What a beautiful, yet sad, word is that, "to suffer"! How gentle and lovely to suffer without complaint! Had the Countess ever thought of it? To suffer silently—and long—(here Silas cast a love-sick glance out of his small dark eyes)—with the hope of gaining an object infinitely far removed, but—(another glance)—infinitely beautiful and worth obtaining. Oh! Silas would suffer for ever in such a hope! There was nothing Silas would not do that was saintly that he might gain heaven.

After a time, Margaret, who disliked this kind of talk intensely, began to look grave, an omen which Barker did not fail to interpret to his advantage, for it is a step gained when a woman begins to be serious. Only a man ignorant of Margaret's real character, and incapable of appreciating it, could have been so deceived in this case. She had felt strongly that Barker had saved her life, and that he had acted with a boldness and determination on that occasion which would have merited her admiration even had it not commanded her gratitude. But she was really grateful, and, wishing to show it, could devise no better plan than to receive his visits and to listen politely to his conversation.

One day, late in the afternoon, they were sitting together over a cup of tea, and Barker was pouring out his experiences, or what he was pleased to call by that name, for they were not genuine. Not that his own existence would have been a dull or uninteresting chapter for a rainy afternoon, for Barker had led a stirring life of its kind. But as it was necessary to strike the pathetic key, seeing that Claudius had the heroic symphony to himself, Barker embroidered skilfully a little picture in which he appeared more sinned against than sinning, inasmuch as he had been called upon to play the avenging angel. He had succeeded, he admitted, in accomplishing his object, which in his opinion had been a justifiable one, but it had left a sore place in his heart, and he had never quite recovered from the pain it had given him to give so much pain—wholesome pain indeed, but what of that?—to another.

"It was in New York, some years ago," he said. "A friend of mine, such a dear good fellow, was very much in love with a reigning beauty, a Miss—; well, you will guess the name. She threw him over, after a three months' engagement, in the most heartless manner, and he was so broken-hearted that he drank himself to death in six months at the club. He died there one winter's evening under very painful circumstances."

"A noble end," said Margaret, scornfully. "What a proud race we Americans are!" Barker sighed skilfully and looked reproachfully at Margaret.

"Poor chap!" he ejaculated, "I saw him die. And that night," continued Mr. Barker, with a mournful impressiveness, "I determined that the woman who had caused so much unhappiness should be made to know what unhappiness is. I made up my mind that she should suffer what my friend had suffered. I knew her very well,—in fact she was a distant connection; so I went to her at a ball at the Van Sueindells'. I had engaged her to dance the German[2], and had sent her some very handsome roses. I had laid my plan already, and after a little chaff and a few turns I challenged her to a set flirtation. 'Let us swear,' I said, 'to be honest, and let us make a bet of a dozen pairs of gloves. If one of us really falls in love, he or she must acknowledge it and pay the gloves.' It was agreed, for she was in great spirits that night, and laughed at the idea that she could ever fall in love with me—poor me! who have so little that is attractive. At first she thought it was only a joke, but as I began to visit her regularly and to go through all the formalities of love-making, she became interested. We were soon the talk of the town, and everybody said we were going to be married. Still the engagement did not come out, and people waited, open-mouthed, wondering what next. At last I thought I was safe, and so, the first chance I had at a party in Newport, I made a dead set at a new beauty just arrived from the South—I forget where. The other—the one with whom I was betting—was there, and I watched her. She lost her temper completely, and turned all sorts of colours. Then I knew I had won, and so I went back to her and talked to her for the rest of the evening, explaining that the other young lady was a sister of a very dear friend of mine.

[Footnote 2: American for the cotillon.]

"The next day I called on my beauty, and throwing myself at her feet, I declared myself vanquished. The result was just as I expected. She burst into tears and put her arms round my neck, and said it was she who lost, for she really loved me though she had been too proud to acknowledge it. Then I calmly rose and laughed. 'I do not care for you in the least,' I said; 'I only said so to make you speak. I have won the gloves.' She broke down completely, and went abroad a few days afterwards. And so I avenged my friend."

There was a pause when Barker had finished his tale. He sipped his tea, and Margaret rose slowly and went to the window.

"Don't you think that is a very good story, Countess?" he asked. "Don't you think I was quite right?" Still no answer. Margaret rang the bell, and old Vladimir appeared.

"Mr. Barker's carriage," said she; then, recollecting herself, she repeated the order in Russian, and swept out of the room without deigning to look at the astonished young man, standing on the hearthrug with his tea-cup in his hand. How it is that Vladimir succeeds in interpreting his mistress's orders to the domestics of the various countries in which she travels is a mystery not fathomed, for in her presence he understands only the Slav tongue. But however that may be, a minute had not elapsed before Mr. Barker was informed by another servant that his carriage was at the door. He turned pale as he descended the steps.

You have carried it too far, Mr. Barker. That is not the kind of story that a lady of Countess Margaret's temper will listen to; for when you did the thing you have told her—if indeed you ever did it, which is doubtful—you did a very base and unmanly thing. It may not be very nice to act as that young lady did to your friend; but then, just think how very much worse it would have been if she had married him from a sense of duty, and made him feel it afterwards. Worse? Ay, worse than a hundred deaths. You are an ass, Barker, with your complicated calculations, as the Duke has often told you; and now it is a thousand to one that you have ruined yourself with the Countess. She will never take your view that it was a justifiable piece of revenge; she will only see in it a cruel and dastardly deception, practised on a woman whose only fault was that, not loving, she discovered her mistake in time. A man should rejoice when a woman draws back from an engagement, reflecting what his life might have been had she not done so.

But Barker's face was sickly with disappointment as he drove away, and he could hardly collect himself enough to determine what was best to be done. However, after a time he came to the conclusion that a letter must be written of humble apology, accompanied by a few very expensive flowers, and followed after a week's interval by a visit. She could not mean to break off all acquaintance with him for so slight a cause. She would relent and see him again, and then he would put over on the other tack. He had made a mistake—very naturally, too—because she was always so reluctant to give her own individual views about anything. A mistake could be repaired, he thought, without any serious difficulty.

And so the next morning Margaret received some flowers and a note, a very gentlemanly note, expressive of profound regret that anything he could have said, and so forth, and so forth. And Margaret, whose strong temper sometimes made her act hastily, even when acting rightly, said to herself that she had maltreated the poor little beast, and would see him if he called again. That was how she expressed it, showing that to some extent Barker had succeeded in producing a feeling of pity in her mind—though it was a very different sort of pity from what he would have wished. Meanwhile Margaret returned to New York, where she saw her brother-in-law occasionally, and comforted him with the assurance that when his hundred napoleons were at an end, she would take care of him. And Nicholas, who was a gentleman, like his dead brother, proud and fierce, lived economically in a small hotel, and wrote magazine articles describing the state of his unhappy country.

Then Barker called and was admitted, Miss Skeat being present, and his face expressed a whole volume of apology, while he talked briskly of current topics; and so he gradually regained the footing he had lost. At all events he thought so, not knowing that though Margaret might forgive she could never forget; and that she was now forewarned and forearmed in perpetuity against any advance Barker might ever make.

One day the mail brought a large envelope with an English postage stamp, addressed in a strong, masculine hand, even and regular, and utterly without adornment, but yet of a strikingly peculiar expression, if a handwriting may be said to have an expression.

"CUNARD S.S. Servia, Sept. 15th.

"My Beloved Lady—Were it not for the possibility of writing to you, this voyage would be an impossible task to me; and even as it is, the feeling that what I write must travel away from you for many days before it travels towards you again makes me half suspect it is a mockery after all. After these wonderful months of converse it seems incredible that I should be thus taken out of your hearing and out of the power of seeing you. That I long for a sight of your dear face, that I hunger for your touch and for your sweet voice, I need not tell you or further asseverate. I am constantly looking curiously at the passengers, vainly thinking that you must appear among them. The sea without you is not the sea, any more than heaven would be heaven were you not there.

"I cannot describe to you, my dear lady, how detestable the life on board is to me. I loathe the people with their inane chatter, and the idiotic children, and the highly-correct and gentlemanly captain, all equally. The philistine father, the sea-sick mother, the highly-cultured daughter, and the pipe-smoking son, are equally objects of disgust. When I go on deck the little children make a circle round me, because I am so big, and the sailors will not let me go on to forecastle under three shillings—which I paid cheerfully, however, because I can be alone there and think of you, without being contemplated as an object of wonder by about two hundred idiots. I have managed to rig a sort of table in my cabin at last, and here I sit, under the dubious light of the port-hole, wishing it would blow, or that we might meet an iceberg, or anything, to scare the people into their dens and leave me a little open-air solitude.

"It seems so strange to be writing to you. I never wrote anything but little notes in the old days at Baden, and now I am writing what promises to be a long letter, for we cannot be in under six days, and in all that time there is nothing else I can do—nothing else I would do, if I could. And yet it is so different. Perhaps I am incoherent, and you will say, different from what? It is different from what it used to be, before that thrice-blessed afternoon in the Newport fog.