CHAPTER XVI.
When Mr. Barker, who had followed the party to Newport, called on theCountess the following morning, she was not visible, so he was fain tocontent himself with scribbling a very pressing invitation to drive inthe afternoon, which he sent up with some flowers, not waiting for ananswer. The fact was that Margaret had sent for the Duke at an earlyhour--for her--and was talking with him on matters of importance at thetime Barker called. Otherwise she would very likely not have refused tosee 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 andbeautiful in a morning garment of nondescript shape and of white silkenmaterial. The Duke was sitting by the window, watching a couple of menpreparing to get into a trim dogcart. To tell the truth, the dogcart andthe horse were the objects of interest. His Grace was not aware that theyoung men were no less personages than young Mr. Hannibal Q. Snigginsand young Mr. Orlando Van Sueindell, both of New York, sons of the"great roads." Either of these young gentlemen could have bought out hisGrace; either of them would have joyfully licked his boots; and eitherof them would have protested, within the sacred precincts of theirgorgeous 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 regardedthem with more interest. He was profoundly indifferent to the characterof the people with whom he had to do, whether they were catalogued inthe "book of snobs" or not. It is generally people who are themselvessnobs who call their intimates by that offensive epithet, attributing tothem the sin they fall into themselves. The Duke distinguished betweengentlemen 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 hefound them. He thought they were very good men of business, and when itcame to associating with them on any other footing, he thought some ofthem were gentlemen and some were not--pretty much as it is everywhereelse. So he watched the young men getting into their dogcart, and hethought the whole turn-out looked "very fit."
"Really," he began, in answer to the Countess's question, "--upon myword, I don't know much about it. At least, I suppose not."
"Oh, I thought you did," said Margaret, taking up a book and apaper-cutter. "I thought it must be something rather serious, or hewould 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, hemight be risking the betrayal of Claudius's actual destination. It wouldnot do, however.
"I really do not understand just what you said," said Margaret, lookingat him.
"Ah! well, no. I daresay I did not express myself very clearly. What wasyour question, Countess?"
"I asked who it was who was making so much trouble for the Doctor;" saidMargaret calmly.
"Oh, I was sure I could not have understood you. It's the executors andlawyer 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 theway back to Germany?"
The Duke grew desperate. He was in a corner where he must either tell alie of some sort or let the cat out of the bag. The Duke was a cynicaland worldly man enough, perhaps, as the times go, but he did not telllies. He plunged.
"My dear Countess," he said, facing towards her and stroking hiswhiskers, "I really know something about Dr. Claudius, and I will tellyou 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 foranother purpose which I cannot divulge. The papers might have beendispensed with, for I could have sworn to him."
"Then the other object is the important one," said the Countesspensively. The Duke was silent. "I am greatly obliged to you," Margaretcontinued, "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 betokenthought. "I am going to the West for a couple of months to look afterthings, and of course accidents may happen. Claudius may have difficultyin getting what he wants, and I am the only man here who knows all abouthim. He satisfied me of his identity. I will, if you like, sign astatement 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 whyin _my_ hands, Duke?" The Duke got very red indeed this time, andhesitated. He had put his foot into it through sheer goodness of heartand 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 oneof them. My only desire is--a--to serve him."
Margaret had quickly grasped the advantage to Claudius, if such avoucher as the Duke offered were kept in pickle as a rod for hisenemies.
"You are right," said she, "I am a good friend of Dr. Claudius, and Iwill 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 youon his behalf, as I am sure he will himself. There's one of our ForeignOffice clerks here for his holiday; I will get him to draw up the paperas he is an old friend of mine--in fact, some relation, I believe. ByJove! there goes Barker." The latter exclamation was caused by thesudden appearance of the man he named on the opposite side of theavenue, in conversation with the two young gentlemen whom the Duke hadalready 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 theybrought me just as you came. He wants me to drive with him thisafternoon."
"Indeed. Shall you go?"
"I think so--yes," said she.
"Very well. I will take my sister with me," said the Duke. "I have gotsomething very decent to drive in." Margaret laughed at the impliedinvitation.
"How you take things for granted," said she. "Did you really think Iwould have gone with you?"
"Such things have happened," said the Duke good-humouredly, and wentaway. Not being in the least a ladies' man, he was very apt to make suchspeeches occasionally. He had a habit of taking it for granted that noone refused his invitations.
At four o'clock that afternoon Silas B. Barker junior drew up to thesteps of the hotel in a very gorgeous conveyance, called in America aT-cart, and resembling a mail phaeton in build. From the high double boxMr. Barker commanded and guided a pair of showy brown horses, harnessedin the most approved philanthropic, or rather philozooic style; nocheck-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 agallows sinister, sable. Behind him sat the regulation clock-work groom,brought over at considerable expense from the establishment of ViscountPlungham, 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, anda very expensive rose, descended lightly from his chariot and swiftlyascended the steps, seeming to tread half on air and half on egg-shells.And a few minutes later he again appeared, accompanied by the CountessMargaret, looking dark and pale and queenly. A proud man was dandy Silasas he helped her to her place, and going to the other side, got in andtook the ribbands. Many were the glances that shot from the two edges ofthe road at the unknown beauty whom Silas drove by his side, andobsequious were the bows of Silas's friends as they passed. Even thegrog
gy old man who drives the water-cart on Bellevue Avenue could scarceforbear to cheer as she went by.
And so they drove away, side by side. Barker knew very well thatClaudius had taken his leave the day before, and to tell the truth, hewas a good deal surprised that Margaret should be willing to accept thisinvitation. He had called to ask her, because he was not the man to letthe grass grow under his feet at any time, much less when he was layingsiege to a woman. For with women time is sometimes everything. And beingof a reasonable mind, when Mr. Barker observed that he was surprised, heconcluded that there must be some good reason for his astonishment, andstill more that there must be some very good reason why Margaret shouldaccept his first invitation to a _tete-a-tete_ afternoon. From onereflection to another, he came at last to the conclusion that she mustbe anxious to learn some details concerning the Doctor's departure, fromwhich again he argued that Claudius had not taken her into hisconfidence. The hypothesis that she might be willing to make an effortwith him for Claudius's justification Mr. Barker dismissed asimprobable. And he was right. He waited, therefore, for her to broachthe subject, and confined himself, as they drove along, to remarks aboutthe people they passed, the doings of the Newport summer, concerningwhich he had heard all the gossip during the last few hours, theprospect 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 bythe sea, Margaret began.
"Why has Dr. Claudius gone abroad," she asked, glancing at Barker'sface, which remained impenetrable as ever. Barker changed his hold onthe reins, and stuck the whip into the bucket by his side before heanswered.
"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 "Itseems 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 nothingmore about Claudius without committing herself to a direct question.Barker was in a difficult position. He fully intended later to hint thatClaudius might never return at all. But he knew too much to do anythingof the kind at present, when the memory of the Doctor was fresh in theCountess's mind, and when, as he guessed, he himself was not too high inher favour. He therefore told a bit of the plain truth which could notbe cast in his teeth afterwards, and was silent.
It was a good move, and Margaret was fain to take to some other subjectof conversation, lest the pause should seem long. They had not gone farbefore the society kaleidoscope was once more in motion, and Barker wastalking 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 pretenceof keeping them cool, but in reality to lengthen the drive and increasehis advantage, if only by a minute and a hairbreadth. He could see hewas amusing her, as he drew her away from the thing that made her heavy,and sketched, and crayoned, and photographed from memory all manner ofharmless gossip--he took care that it should be harmless--and suchbook-talk as he could command, with such a general sprinkling ofsentimentalism, ready made and easy to handle, as American young menaffect in talking to women.
Making allowance for the customs of the country, they were passing avery innocently diverting afternoon; and Margaret, though secretlyannoyed at finding that Barker would not talk about Claudius, or add inany way to her information, was nevertheless congratulating herself uponthe smooth termination of the interview. She had indeed only acceptedthe invitation in the hope of learning something more about Claudius andhis "other reason." But she also recognised that, though Barker wereunwilling to speak of the Doctor, he might have made himself verydisagreeable by taking advantage of the confession of interest she hadvolunteered in asking so direct a question. But Barker had taken no suchlead, and never referred to Claudius in all the ramblings of his politeconversation.
He was in the midst of a description of Mrs. Orlando Van Sueindell'slast dinner-party, which he had unfortunately missed, when his browns,less peaceably disposed than most of the lazy bean-fed cattle one seeson the Newport avenue, took it into their heads that it would be ajoyous 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 fromthe harbour, and the descent was, for a few yards, very abrupt. At thispoint, then, the intelligent animals conceived the ingenious scheme ofbolting, with that eccentricity of device which seems to characteriseoverfed carriage-horses. In an instant they were off, and it was clearthere would be no stopping them--from a trot to a break, froma 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 strongman, and he knew himself no match for the two horses, but he hoped by asudden effort, repeated once or twice, to scare the runaways into astandstill, as is sometimes possible. Acting immediately on hisdetermination, as he always did, he wound one hand in each rein, andhalf rising from his high seat, jerked with all his might. Margaret heldher breath.
But alas for the rarity of strength in saddlers' work! The off-reinsnapped away like a thread just where the buckle leads half of it overto the near horse, and the strain on the right hand being thus suddenlyremoved, the horses' heads were jerked violently to the left, and theybecame wholly unmanageable. Barker was silent, and instantly dropped theunbroken rein. As for Margaret, she sat quite still, holding to the lowrail-back of her seat, and preparing for a jump. They were by this timenearly at the bottom of the descent, and rapidly approaching a cornerwhere a great heap of rocks made the prospect hideous. To haul thehorses over to the left would have been destruction, as the ground fellaway on that side to a considerable depth down to the rocks below. ThenBarker 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 thedashboard, and was in mid-air, a strange figure, in his long frock-coatand shiny hat. With a bold leap--and the Countess shivered as she sawhim 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 andwiry, a mere bundle of nerves dressed up, Mr. Barker was not to beshaken off, and, while the animal was still plunging, he had caught theflying bits of bridle, and was sawing away, right and left, with theenergy of despair. Between its terror at being suddenly mounted by someone out of a clear sky, so to say, and the violent wrenching it wasgetting from Barker's bony little hands, the beast decided to stop atlast, and its companion, who was coming in for some of the pulling too,stopped by sympathy, with a series of snorts and plunges. Barker stillclung to the broken rein, leaning far over the horse's neck so as towind it round his wrist; and he shouted to Margaret to get out, whichshe immediately did; but, instead of fainting away, she came to thehorses' heads and stood before them, a commanding figure that even adumb animal would not dare to slight--too much excited to speak yet, butready 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 haton his arm as he came. He had quietly slipped off behind, and had beenrolled head over heels for his pains, but had suffered no injury. ThenBarker got off. He was covered with dust, but his hat was still on hishead, 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 hadborne himself as few men could or would have done.
"You have saved my life," she said, "and I am very grateful. It was verybrave of you." And she held out her hand to meet his, now tremblingviolently from the fierce strain.
"Oh, not at all; it was really nothing," he said, bowing low. But thedeep wrinkle that scored Barker's successes in life showed plainly roundhis mouth. He knew what his advantage was, and he had no thought of thedanger when he reflected on what he had gained. Not he! Hi
s heart, orthe organ which served him in place of one, was full of triumph. Had heplanned the whole thing with the utmost skill and foresight he could nothave succeeded better. Such a victory! and the very first day afterClaudius's departure--Ye gods! what luck!
And so it came to pass that by the time the harness had been tiedtogether and the conveyance got without accident as far as the firststable on the outskirts of the town, where it was left with the groom,Barker had received a goodly meed of thanks and praise. And whenMargaret proposed that they should walk as far as the hotel, Barkertried a few steps and found he was too lame for such exercise, his leftleg having been badly bruised by the pole of the carriage in his lateexploit; which injury elicited a further show of sympathy fromMargaret. And when at last he left her with a cab at the door of herhotel, he protested that he had enjoyed a very delightful drive, andwent away in high spirits. Margaret, in her gratitude for such anescape, and in unfeigned admiration of Barker's daring and coolness, wascertainly inclined to think better of him than she had done for a longtime. Or perhaps it would be truer to say that he was more in herthoughts than he had been; for, in the reign of Claudius, Barker haddwindled to a nearly insignificant speck in the landscape, dwarfed awayto 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 oftheir mutual friend, in case he should need it. She said she would giveit to Claudius when he came back; and then she told the Duke about herdrive with Barker and the accident. The Duke looked grave.
"Of course," he said, "I introduced Barker to you, and it would seemvery 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 sayI have sometimes regretted that I brought him to your house." Hereddened a little after he had spoken, fearing she might havemisunderstood him. "I wish," he added, to make things clearer, "that Icould have brought you Claudius without Barker." Then he reddened stillmore, and wished he had said nothing. Margaret raised her eyebrows.Perhaps she could have wished as much herself, but she dropped thesubject.
"When are you coming back from the West, Duke," she asked, busyingherself in arranging some books on her table. The hotel sitting-room wasso deadly dreary to the eye that she was trying to make it look as if ithad not been lately used as a place of burial.
"It may be two months before I am here again. A--about the time Claudiuscomes over, I should think."
"And when do you go?"
"Next week, I think."
"I wish you were going to stay," said Margaret simply, "or LadyVictoria. 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, forthere is poor Nicholas, you know. I must take care of him; and then Isuppose some of these people will want to amuse me, or entertain me--notthat they are very entertaining; but they mean well. Besides, my beingmixed up in a Nihilist persecution adds to my social value." The Duke,however, was not listening, his mind being full of other things--whatthere was of it, and his heart had long determined to sympathise withMargaret in her troubles; so there was nothing more to be said.
"Dear me," thought Miss Skeat, "what a pity! They say she might have hadthe Duke when she was a mere child--and to think that she should haverefused him! So admirably suited to each other!" But Miss Skeat, as shesat at the other end of the room trying to find "what it was that peoplesaw so funny" in the _Tramp Abroad_, was mistaken about her patronessand the very high and mighty personage from the aristocracy. The Dukewas much older than Margaret, and had been married before he had everseen her. It was only because they were such good friends that thebusybodies said they had just missed being man and wife.
But when the Duke was gone, Margaret and Miss Skeat were left alone, andthey drew near each other and sat by the table, the elder lady readingaloud from a very modern novel. The Countess paid little attention towhat she heard, for she was weary, and it seemed as though the eveningwould never end. Miss Skeat's even and somewhat monotonous voiceproduced no sensation of drowsiness to-night, as it often did, thoughMargaret's eyes were half-closed and her fingers idle. She needed rest,but it would not come, and still her brain went whirling through thescenes of the past twenty-four hours, again and again recurring to thequestion "Why is he gone?" unanswered and yet ever repeated, as thedreadful wake-song of the wild Irish, the "Why did he die?" that hauntsthe ear that has once heard it for weeks afterwards.
She tried to reason, but there was no reason. Why, why, why? He was gonewith her kiss on his lips and her breath in his. She should have waitedtill he came back from over the sea before giving him what was so veryprecious. More than once, as she repeated the words he had spoken atparting, she asked herself whether she doubted him after all, andwhether it would not be wiser to speak to the Duke. But then, the latterso evidently believed in Claudius that it comforted her to think of hishonest faith, and she would dismiss every doubt again as vain andwearying. But still the eternal question rang loudly in her soul's ears,and the din of the inquisitive devil that would not be satisfieddeafened her so that she could not hear Miss Skeat. Once or twice shemoved her head nervously from side to side, as it rested on the back ofthe chair, and her face was drawn and pale, so that Miss Skeatanxiously asked whether she were in any pain, but Margaret merelymotioned to her companion to continue reading, and was silent. But MissSkeat grew uneasy, feeling sure that something was the matter.
"Dear Countess," she said, "will you not retire to rest? I fear thatthis horrid accident has shaken you. Do go to bed, and I will come andread you to sleep." Her voice sounded kindly, and Margaret's fingersstole out till they covered Miss Skeat's bony white ones, with the greenveins and the yellowish lights between the knuckles.
Miss Skeat, at this unusual manifestation of feeling, laid down the bookshe held in her other hand, and settled her gold-rimmed glasses over herlong 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 shepressed the hot young hand in hers there was a suspicion of motherlinessin her expression that would have surprised a stranger. For Miss Skeatdid not look motherly at ordinary times.
"Poor child!" said she softly. Margaret's other hand went to her eyesand hid them from sight, and her head sank forward until it touched herfingers, where they joined Miss Skeat's.
"I am so unhappy to-night," murmured Margaret, finding at last, in theevening hours, the sympathy she had longed for all day. Miss Skeatchanged her own position a little so as to be nearer to her.
"Poor child!" repeated Miss Skeat almost in a whisper, as she bent downto the regal head that lay against her hand, smoothing the thick hairwith her worn fingers. "Poor child, do you love him so very dearly?" Shespoke almost inaudibly, and her wrinkled eyelids were wet. But low aswas her voice, Margaret heard, and moved her head in assent, withoutlifting it from the table.
Ah yes--she loved him very, very much. But she could not bear to confessit, for all that, and a moment afterwards she was sitting upright againin her chair, feeling that she had weathered the first storm. Hercompanion, who was not ignorant of her ways, contented herself then withpatting Margaret's hand caressingly during the instant it remained inher own, before it was drawn away. There was a world of kindness and ofgentle humanity in the gaunt gentlewoman's manner, showing that theheart within was not withered yet. Then Miss Skeat flattened the bookbefore her with the paper-cutter, and began to read. Reading aloud hadbecome to her a second nature, and whether she had liked it or not atfirst, she had learned to do it with perfect ease and indifference,neither letting her voice drag languidly and hesitatingly when she wastired, nor falling into that nerve-rending fault of readers who vainlyendeavour to personate the characters in dialogue, and to giveimpressiveness in the descriptive portions. She never made a remark, orasked 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 hercompanion was not trying to bias her judgment by the introduction ofdramatic intonation and effect. With an even, untiring correctness ofutterance, Miss Skeat read one book just as she read another--M. Thiersor Mr. Henry James, Mark Twain or a Parliamentary Report--it was all oneto her. Poor Miss Skeat!
But to Margaret the evening seemed long and the night longer, and manydays and evenings and nights afterwards. Not that she doubted, but thatshe thought--well--perhaps she thought she ought to doubt. Some cunningreader of face and character, laughing and making love by turns, hadonce told her she had more heart than head. Every woman knows she oughtto seem flattered at being considered a "person of heart," and yet everywoman cordially hates to be told so. And, at last, Margaret began towonder whether it were true. Should she have admitted she loved a manwho left her a moment afterwards in order to make a voyage of two monthsfor the mere furthering of his worldly interest? But then--he told herhe was going before he kissed her. What could be the "other reason"?