Doctor Claudius, A True Story

  CHAPTER XV.

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

  It is a pretty place. There is nothing grand, not even anything naturalin Newport, but it is very pretty for all that. For an artificial place,destined to house the most artificial people in the world during threemonths of the year, it is as pleasing as it can be in alight-comedy-scenery style. Besides, the scenery in Newport is veryexpensive, and it is impossible to spend so much money without producingsome result. It cost a hundred thousand to level that lawn there, andDives paid the money cheerfully. Then there is Croesus, his neighbour,who can draw a cheque for a hundred millions if he likes. His house costhim a pot of money. And so they build themselves a landscape, and pareoff 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 remarkableamong the watering-places of the world, perhaps the most remarkable ofall.

  But there are times when the cliff at Newport is not an altogetherflippant bit of expensive scene-painting, laid out for the sole purposeof "effect." Sometimes in the warm summer nights the venerable moonrises stately and white out of the water; the old moon, that is thehoariest sinner of us all, with her spells and enchantments and herbreathing love-beams, that look so gently on such evil works. And theartist-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 theyare fair to look upon. And they play strange pranks with faces of livingand dead. So when the ruler of the darkness shines over poor,commonplace Newport, the aspect of it is changed, and the gingerbreadabominations wherein the people dwell are magnified into lofty palacesof silver, and the close-trimmed lawns are great carpets of soft darkvelvet; and the smug-faced philistine sea, that the ocean would beashamed to own for a relation by day, breaks out into broken flashes ofsilver and long paths of light. All this the moonlight does, rejoicingin its deception.

  There is another time, too, when Newport is no longer commonplace, whenthat same sea, which never seems to have any life of its own, disgorgesits foggy soul over the land. There is an ugly odour as of mustysalt-water in men's nostrils, and the mist is heavy and thick to thetouch. It creeps up to the edge of the cliff, and greedily clings to thewet grass, and climbs higher and over the lawns, and in at the windowsof Dives's dining-room, and of Croesus's library, with its burden ofinsiduous mould. The pair of trim-built flirtlings, walking so daintilydown the gravel path, becomes indistinct, and their forms are seen butas 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, fallback to a gaping chasm, a sheer horror of depths, misty andunfathomable. Onward slides the thick cloud, and soon the deep-mouthedmonotone of the fog-horns in the distance tells it is in the bay. Thereis nothing commonplace about the Newport cliff in a fog; it is wildenough and dreary enough then, for the scene of a bad deed. You mightmeet the souls of the lost in such a fog, hiding before the wrath tocome.

  Late on Tuesday afternoon Claudius and Margaret had taken their waytowards the cliff, a solitary couple at that hour on a week-day. Even ata distance there was something about their appearance that distinguishedthem from ordinary couples. Claudius's great height seemed still moreimposing now that he affected the garb of civilisation, and Margaret hadthe air of a woman of the great world in every movement of her gracefulbody, and in every fold of her perfect dress. American women, when theydress well, dress better than any other women in the world; but anAmerican woman who has lived at the foreign courts is unapproachable. Ifthere 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, theywere quite alone on the cliff walk.

  Margaret was happy; there was light in her eyes, and a faint warm flushon her dark cheek. A closed parasol hung from her hand, having an ivoryhandle carved with an "M" and a crown--the very one that three monthsago had struck the first spark of their acquaintance from the stones ofthe 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 mighttell her. But they had reached the cliff and had walked some distance inthe direction of the point, and yet he spoke not. Something tied histongue, and he would have spoken if he could, but his words seemed toobig to come out. At last they came to a place where a quick descentleads from the path down to the sea. A little sheltered nook of sand andstones 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 knownfor a long time, never having found the energy to wash them away. Therocks above overhung the spot, so that it was entirely shielded from thepath, and the rocks below spread themselves into a kind of seat. Herethey sat them down, facing the water--towards evening--not too near toeach other, not too far,--Margaret on the right, Claudius on the left.And Claudius punched the little pebbles with his stick after he had satdown, wondering how he should begin. Indeed it did not seem easy. Itwould have been easier if he had been less advanced, or furtheradvanced, in his suit. Most people never jump without feeling, at themoment 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 verygrave look in his face, "I have something to tell you, and I do not knowhow to say it." He paused, and Margaret looked at the sea, withoutnoticing him, for she half fancied he was on the point of repeating hisformer indiscretion and saying he loved her. Would it be an indiscretionnow? She wondered what she should say, what she would say, if hedid--venture. Would she say "it was not right" of him now? In a momentClaudius had resolved to plunge boldly at the truth.

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

  Margaret's face lost colour in answer, and she resisted an impulse toturn and meet his eyes. She would have liked to, but she felt his lookon 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 spokeuncertainly, as if struggling with some violent hoarseness in histhroat.

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

  "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 verynaturally relied upon doing so. Obviously, if I do not obtain it Icannot continue to live in the way I am now doing, on the slenderresources 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 difficultyin persuading themselves that I am myself--that I am really the nephewof Gustavus Lindstrand, deceased."

  "What nonsense!" exclaimed Mar
garet. "And so to please them you aregoing away. And who will get your money, pray?"

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

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

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

  "No." The Countess turned to him for the first time, with anindescribable look in her face, between anger and pain. "No, I will notread 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 togo."

  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 sluggishsea, rolling heavily across the little bay to the lovers' beach, withits swollen arms full of blight and mildew. Margaret shivered at thesight of it, and drew the lace thing she wore closer to her throat. Butshe 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 toobtain it, was one of the principal reasons for your going. I supposethere is another?"

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

  "I have no right to ask, of course," said Margaret,--"unless I can helpyou," 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 fogrolled up, and the lifeless sea seemed overshed with an unctuous calm.They were almost in the dark on their strip of beach, and the moisturewas already clinging in great, thick drops to their clothes, and to therocks where they sat. Still Claudius looked at Margaret, and Margaretlooked 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 wasgone from her eyes, and the flush had long sunk away to the heart whenceit had come.

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

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

  "Yes," said Margaret, "I shall be sorry." Her voice was kind, and verygentle. 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 hishand and took it.

  "Yes, I shall be very sorry." Claudius slipped from the rock where hewas sitting, and fell upon one knee before her, kissing the hand shegave as though it had been the holy cross. He looked up, his face nearhers, and at last he met her eyes, burning with a startled light underthe 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 thosetwo beautiful faces ashy pale in the mist, and very near together. Oneinstant so--and then--ah, God! they have cast the die at last, for hehas wound his mighty arms about her, and is passionately kissing themarble of her cheek.

  "My beloved, my beloved, I love you--with all my heart, and with all mysoul, and with all my strength"--but she speaks no word, only her armspass 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 thatthe little god has formed deep down in the ocean of love--the lashesthereof are wet with sudden weeping. And all around them the deep, deaffog, thick and muffled as darkness, and yet not dark.

  "Ugh!" muttered the evil genius of the sea, "I hate lovers; an' theydrown not, they shall have a wet wooing." And he came and touched themall over with the clamminess of his deathly hand, and breathed upon themthe thick, cold breath of his damp old soul. But he could do nothingagainst such love as that, and the lovers burned him and laughed him toscorn.

  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, andwhile his arms were about her they were strong, but when he tried totake them away, they were as tremulous as the veriest aspen.

  The great tidal wave comes rolling in, once in every lifetime thatdeserves to be called a lifetime, and sweeps away every one of ourlandmarks, and changes all our coast-line. But though the waters do notsubside, yet the crest of them falls rippling away into smoothness afterthe first mad rush, else should we all be but shipwrecked mariners inthe sea of love. And so, after a time, Margaret drew away from Claudiusgently, finding his hands with hers as she moved, and holding them.

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

  They went away, out of the drizzling fog and the mist, and the evilsea-breath, up to the cliff walk and so by the wet lanes homewards, twoloving, sorrowing hearts, not realising what had come to them, norknowing 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 thedesolation of the great, dreary, hotel drawing-room--for Claudius wasgoing--"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 lingerthere.

  "Will you promise that if you doubt me when I am gone, you will ask ofthe 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.