Doctor Claudius, A True Story Part 23

Woe to Mr. Silas B. Barker junior if he came in the Duke's way that evening!

"I suppose he is coming to dinner?" said the Duke after a pause, during which his anger had settled into a comfortable ferocity.

"No," said Lady Victoria; "he sent some flowers and a note of regret."

"Well--I am glad of that. Would you like to go for a drive, Vick?"

"Yes, of all things. I have not been here since I was married"--which was about eighteen months, but she had already caught that matronly phrase--"and I want to see what they have been doing to the Park."

"All right. We'll take Claudius, if he is anywhere about the place."

"Of course," said Lady Victoria. And so the brother and sister prepared to soothe their ruffled feelings by making much of the man who was "a gentleman." But they were right, for Claudius was all they thought him, and a great deal more too, as they discovered in the sequel.

Having driven in the Park, the Duke insisting that Claudius should sit in the place of honour with Lady Victoria, and having criticised to their satisfaction the few equipages they met--for it was too early for New York--they went back to their hotel, and dispersed to dress for dinner. The Duke, as he had told his sister, had invited his friend to dine. They all sat together waiting his arrival. Punctual to the moment, the door opened, and Mr. Horace Bellingham beamed upon the a.s.sembled party. Ay, but he was a sight to do good to the souls of the hungry and thirsty, and of the poor, and in misery!

He requires description, not that any pen can describe him, but no one ever saw him who did not immediately wish to try. He was short, decidedly; but a broad deep chest and long powerful arms had given him many an advantage over taller adversaries in strange barbarous lands. He was perfectly bald, but that must have been because Nature had not the heart to cover such a wonderful cranium from the admiring gaze of phrenologists. A sweeping moustache and a long imperial of snowy white sat well on the ruddy tan of his complexion, and gave him an air at once martial and diplomatic. He was dressed in the most perfect of London clothes, and there were superb diamonds in his s.h.i.+rt, while a priceless sapphire sparkled, in a plain gold setting, on his broad, brown hand. He is the only man of his time who can wear precious stones without vulgarity. He moves like a king and has the air of the old school in every gesture. His dark eyes are brighter than his diamonds, and his look, for all his white beard and seventy years, is as young and fresh as the rose he wears in his coat.

There are some people who turn gray, but who do not grow h.o.a.ry, whose faces are furrowed but not wrinkled, whose hearts are sore wounded in many places, but are not dead. There is a youth that bids defiance to age, and there is a kindness which laughs at the world's rough usage.

These are they who have returned good for evil, not having learned it as a lesson of righteousness, but because they have no evil in them to return upon others. Whom the G.o.ds love die young, and they die young because they never grow old. The poet, who at the verge of death said this, said it of, and to, this very man.

The Duke went through the introductions, first to the Countess, then to Miss Skeat, then to his sister, and last of all to Claudius, who had been intently watching the newcomer. Mr. Bellingham paused before Claudius, and looked up in a way peculiarly his own, without raising his head. He had of course heard in New York of the strange fortune that had befallen Claudius on the death of the well-known Mr. Lindstrand, and now he stood a minute trying to take the measure of the individual before him, not in the least overcome by the physical proportions of the outer man, but struck by the intellectual face and forehead that surmounted such a tower of strength.

"I was in Heidelberg myself--a student," said he, his face lighting up with coming reminiscences, "but that was long before you were born, fifty years ago."

"I fancy it is little changed," said Claudius.

"I would like to go back to the Badischer Hof. I remember once--" but he broke off short and turned to the Countess, and sat down beside her. He knew all her people in America and her husband's people abroad. He immediately began telling her a story of her grandmother, with a _verve_ and graphic spirit that enchanted Margaret, for she liked clever old men. Besides he is not old. It is not so long since--well, it is a long story. However, in less than one minute the a.s.sembled guests were listening to the old-time tale of Margaret's ancestress, and the waiter paused breathless on the threshold to hear the end, before he announced dinner.

There are two very different ways of dining--dining with Mr. Bellingham, and dining without him. But for those who have dined with him, all other prandial arrangements are an empty sham. At least so Claudius said to Margaret in an aside, when they got to the fruit. And Margaret, who looked wonderfully beautiful with a single band of gold through her black hair, laughed her a.s.sent, and said it was hopeless for the men of this day to enter the lists against the veterans of the _ancien regime_.

And Claudius was not in the least hurt by the comparison, odious though it would have been to Mr. Barker, had he been there. Claudius had plenty of vanity, but it did not a.s.sume the personal type. Some people call a certain form of vanity pride. It is the same thing on a larger scale.

Vanity is to pride what nervousness is to nerve, what morbid conscience is to manly goodness, what the letter of the law is to the spirit.

Before they rose from the table, Mr. Bellingham proposed that they should adjourn to Newport on the following day. He said it was too early to be in New York and that Newport was still gay; at all events, the weather promised well, and they need not stay more than twenty-four hours unless they pleased. The proposition was carried unanimously, the Duke making a condition that he should be left in peace and not "entertained in a handsome manner by the _elite_ of our Newport millionaires"--as the local papers generally have it. Lady Victoria would not have objected to the operation of "being entertained" by Newport, for it amused her to see people, but of course she would enjoy herself very well without it. She always enjoyed herself, even when she went for a walk in the rain on a slippery Yorks.h.i.+re road, all bundled up in waterproofs and hoods and things for her poor people--she enjoyed it all.

As for Claudius, he knew that if he went to Newport he must of necessity stay with the Barkers, but as he had not yet learned to look at Mr.

Barker in the light of a rival, he thought this would be rather convenient than otherwise. The fact that he would be within easy reach of Margaret was uppermost in his mind.

During the last two days his relations with her had been of the happiest. There was an understanding between them, which took the place of a great deal of conversation. Claudius felt that his error in speaking too boldly had been retrieved, if not atoned for, and that henceforward his position was a.s.sured. He was only to be a friend, it was true, but he still felt that from friends.h.i.+p to love was but a step, and that the time would come. He thought of the mighty wooings of the heroes of his Northern home, and he felt in him their strength and their constancy. What were other men that he should think of them? He was her accepted friend of all others. She had said she hoped to find in him what she had never found before; and were not her words "always, always!" still ringing in his ears? She had found it then in him, this rare quality of friends.h.i.+p; she had found more,--a man who was a friend and yet a lover, but who could curb the strong pa.s.sion to the semblance and docility of the gentler feeling. And when at last she should give the long-desired sign, the single glance that bids love speak, she would find such a lover as was not even dreamt of among the G.o.ds of the Greeks, nor yet among berserk heroes of ice and storm and battle. He felt to-day that he could endure to the end, for the end was worthy all endurance.

And now he sat by her side and looked down into her face when she spoke, and they laughed together. Verily was Claudius the proudest man in all earth's quarters, and his blue eyes flashed a deep fire, and his nostrils expanded with the breath of a victory won. Mr. Bellingham, on the other side of the table, sparkled with a wit and grace that were to modern table-talk what a rare flagon of old madeira, crusted with years, but br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the imperishable strength and perfume of eternal youth, might be to a gaudily-ticketed bottle of California champagne, effervescent, machine-made, cheap, and nasty. And his glance comprehended the pair, and loved them. He thought they were like a picture of the North and of the South; and the thought called up memories in his brave old breast of a struggle that shook the earth to her foundations, and made him think of problems yet unsolved. He sat in his place silent for some minutes, and the broad brown hand stroked the snowy beard in deep thought, so that the conversation flagged, and the Duke began to talk about the voyage. But Mr. Bellingham took his br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.s, filled with the wine that ripened in the sun when he himself was but a little boy, and he held it a moment to the light; the juice was clearer now than it had been that day sixty years, and the hand that held the goblet was as a hand of iron for strength and steadiness, though the dark fingers might have plucked the grapes on the day they were pressed. And with an old-time motion he carried it to his lips, then paused one instant, then drank it slowly, slowly to the last drop. It was a toast, but the speech was unspoken, and none knew to whom or to what he drained the measure. In a little time he began to speak again; the conversation turned upon mutual friends in England, and the dinner was at an end.

But all through the evening Claudius never left Margaret's side. He felt that he was bridging over the difference between life at sea and life on land--that he was a.s.serting his right to maintain in a drawing-room the privileges he had gained on the deck of the _Streak_.

And Margaret, moreover, was especially friendly to-night, for she too felt the difference, and recognised that, after all, life on sh.o.r.e is the freer. There are certain conventionalities of a drawing-room that a man is less likely to break through, more certain to remember, than the unwritten rules of cruising etiquette. Most men who have led a free life are a little less likely to make love under the restraint of a white tie than they are when untrammelled by restraints of dress, which always imply some restraint of freedom.

At least Margaret thought so. And Claudius felt it, even though he would not acknowledge it. They talked about the voyage; about what they had said and done, about the accident, and a hundred other things. There is a moment in acquaintance, in friends.h.i.+p, and in love, when two people become suddenly aware that they have a common past. Days, weeks, or months have been spent in conversation, in reading, perhaps in toil and danger, and they have not thought much about it. But one day they wake up to the fact that these little or great things bind them, as forming the portion of their lives that have touched; and as they talk over the incidents they remember they feel unaccountably drawn to each other by the past. Margaret and Claudius knew this on the first evening they spent together on sh.o.r.e. The confusion of landing, the custom-house, the strange quarters in the great hotel--all composed a drop-curtain shutting off the ocean scene, and ending thus an episode of their life-drama. A new act was beginning for them, and they both knew how much might depend on the way in which it was begun, and neither dared plan how it should end. At all events, they were not to be separated yet, and neither antic.i.p.ated such a thing.

Little by little their voices dropped as they talked, and they recked little of the others, as the dark cheek of the woman flushed with interest, and the blue light shone in the man's eyes. Their companions on the voyage were well used to seeing them thus together, and hardly noticed them, but Mr. Bellingham's bright eyes stole a glance from time to time at the beautiful pair in their corner, and the stories of youth and daring and love, that he seemed so full of this evening, flashed with an unwonted brilliancy. He made up his mind that the two were desperately, hopelessly, in love, and he had taken a fancy to Claudius from the first. There was no reason why they should not be, and he loved to build up romances, always ending happily, in his fertile imagination.

But at last it was "good-night." Mr. Bellingham was not the man to spend the entire evening in one house, and he moved towards Margaret, hating to disturb the couple, but yet determined to do it. He rose, therefore, still talking, and, as the Duke rose also, cleverly led him round the chairs until within speaking distance of Margaret, who was still absorbed in her conversation. Then, having finished the one thread, he turned round.

"By the by, Countess," he said, "I remember once--" and he told a graceful anecdote of Margaret's grandmother, which delighted every one, after which he bowed, like a young lover of twenty, to each of the three ladies, and departed.

The party dispersed, the Duke and Claudius for half an hour's chat and a cigar, and the ladies to their rooms. But Claudius and Margaret lingered one moment in their corner, standing.

"Has it been a happy day for you?" he asked, as she gave her hand.

"Yes, it has been happy. May there be many like it!" she answered.

"There shall be," said Claudius; "good-night, Countess."

"Good-night--good-night, Claudius."

The Duke waited fully ten minutes for the Doctor. It was the second time she had spoken his name without the formality of a prefix, and Claudius stood where she left him, thinking. There was nothing so very extraordinary in it, after all, he thought. Foreign women, especially Russians, are accustomed to omit any t.i.tle or prefix, and to call their intimate friends by their simple names, and it means nothing. But her voice was so wonderful. He never knew his name sounded so sweet before--the consonants and vowels, like the swing and fall of a deep silver bell in perfect cadence. "A little longer," thought Claudius, "and it shall be hers as well as mine." He took a book from the table absently, and had opened it when he suddenly recollected the Duke, put it down and left the room.

Soon a noiseless individual in a white waistcoat and a dress-coat put his head in at the door, advanced, straightened the chairs, closed the book the Doctor had opened, put the gas out and went away, shutting the door for the night, and leaving the room to its recollections. What sleepless nights the chairs and heavy-gilt gla.s.ses and gorgeous carpets of a hotel must pa.s.s, puzzling over the fragments of history that are enacted in their presence!

CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Barker's urgent engagement up town that evening must have been to meet some one; but considering that the individual he might be supposed to be awaiting did not come, he showed a remarkable degree of patience.

He went to a certain quiet club and ordered, with the utmost care, a meal after his own heart--for one; and though several members hailed him and greeted him on his return, he did not seem particularly interested in what they had to say, but sat solitary at his small square table with its exquisite service; and when he had eaten, and had finished his modest pint of Pommery Sec, he drank his coffee and smoked his own cigars in undisturbed contemplation of the soft-tinted wall-paper, and in calm, though apparently melancholy, enjoyment of the gentle light that pervaded the room, and of the sweet evening breeze that blew in from the trees of Madison Square, so restful after the dust and discomfort of the hot September day.

Whoever it was that he awaited did not come, and yet Mr. Barker exhibited no sign of annoyance. He went to another room, and sat in a deep arm-chair with a newspaper which he did not read, and once he took a sc.r.a.p of paper from his pocket and made a short note upon it with a patent gold pencil. It was a very quiet club, and Mr. Barker seemed to be its quietest member. And well he might be, for he had made up his mind on a grave point. He had determined to marry.

He had long known it must come, and had said to himself more than once that "to every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late;" but being human, he had put off the evil day, having always thought that it must, of necessity, be evil. But now it was different. What he had said to the Duke, and what the Duke had said to him, that evening on the yacht when they were talking about marriage, was exactly what he had always expected to occur. The day, he said, must come when the enterprising mamma will get the better of Silas B. Barker junior. The girl of the season, with her cartload of bouquets slung all over her, her neat figure, her pink-and-white complexion and her matchless staying powers in a ballroom, will descend upon the devoted victim Barker, beak and talons, like the fish-hawk on the poor, simple minnow innocently disporting itself in the crystal waters of happiness. There will be wedding presents, and a breakfast, and a journey, and a prospect of everlasting misery. All these things, thought he, must come to every man in time, unless he is a saint, or an author, or has no money, and therefore they must come to me; but now it was different. If there is to be any fis.h.i.+ng, he thought, I will be the hawk, and the minnow may take its chance of happiness. Why should the minnow not be happy? I am a hawk; well--but I am a very good hawk.

But these reflections were not what occupied his mind as he sat with his second cigar in the reading-room of his quiet club. These things he had elaborated in his brain at least three days ago, and they had now taken the form of a decision, against which there could be no appeal, because it was pleasant to the _ego_ of Mr Barker. Judgments of that sort he never reversed. He had fully determined to be the hawk, he had picked out his minnow, and he was meditating the capture of his prey. A great many people do as much as that, and discover too late that what they have taken for a minnow is an alligator, or a tartar, or a salamander, or some evil beast that is too much for their powers. This was what Mr.

Barker was afraid of, and this was what he wished to guard against.

Unfortunately he was a little late in the selection of his victim, and he knew it. He had determined to marry the Countess Margaret.

He knew perfectly well that Claudius had determined upon the very same thing, and he knew that Claudius was intimate, to say the least of it, with the woman he loved. But Barker had made up his mind that Claudius had been refused, and had accepted the Platonic position offered him by the Countess, merely because he had not the strength to leave her. "Just like the vanity of a fellow like that," he argued, "not to be willing to believe himself beaten." He had drawn the whole situation in his mind entirely to his own satisfaction. If Claudius could only be removed, any other man would have as good a chance. The other man is Barker--therefore, remove Claudius at once. Remove him! Away with him!

Let his place know him no more!

Mr. Barker sat unmoved in his chair; but he contemplated the nail on the middle finger of his left hand with absorbed interest, even bringing it nearer the light in order to obtain a better view.

He was one of those men who are seldom altogether unprepared. His mind was of the Napoleonic order, on a very small scale; with him to think of the end was to plan the means, and in the days that had followed the memorable night wherein the idea had struck him that he might marry the Countess in the teeth of Dr. Claudius, a project had grown up in his mind whereby he hoped now to effect his purpose. Perhaps the scheme had developed unconsciously, as often happens with persons whose lives are spent in planning. Perhaps he fondly hoped--for he was not without vanity--that he might yet win the Countess fairly, and had only contemplated his plot as a possibility. Be that as it may, from the moment he realised that a plan of action was necessary he also realised that the plan was ready, and he determined to put it into execution. It was an unfair plan he meditated, bad from the root up, and he knew it; but he did not hesitate on that account. Silas B. Barker junior had not enough conscience to make it an object for him to deceive himself as to the morality of his actions. A year or two since he would perhaps have defended himself in a general way by saying it was arrogance for a man to set himself up as any better than his surroundings. But between a year or two ago and this September evening there was set a gulf, represented by a couple of transactions in the "street," over which there was small joy in heaven and very little on earth.

Fair or unfair, it would be so much easier if Claudius were out of the way. It would simplify Mr. Barker's campaign so much; and, besides, it was so easy a matter to remove him, for a time at least. How? Why, simply by a.s.serting that Claudius was not Claudius, that he was not the late Mr. Lindstrand's nephew, that he had no right to the fortune, and that if he wished to save himself trouble he had better return immediately to Heidelberg and resume his duties as a private lecturer in the University. It was easy enough! Who was there to show that Claudius was Claudius? There was nothing but the attestation of a wretched Heidelberg notary, who might easily have been persuaded to swear a little in consideration of a large bribe.

Besides, reflected Mr. Barker, the real Dr. Claudius was dead. He died about eight months ago; no doubt it was in the newspapers at the time, and a newspaper could certainly be found which should contain a notice of his death. Therefore, if the real Dr. Claudius were dead this Dr.

Claudius was a sham, an impostor, a man obtaining money by personating the dead--in short, a criminal. However, it might not be necessary to proceed with all the rigour of the law, and he might be quietly sent back to Germany.

Of course Mr. Barker was responsible in some measure for having introduced this villain to the Countess and to the Duke. But how could Mr. Barker, a creature of sunny, lamb-like innocence, be expected to know an impostor at first sight? Claudius had acted his part so very well, you know, and Barker had been deceived by his apparent frankness; he had not even made any inquiries in Heidelberg, but had simply gone to the address his father had given him. Of course, also, the pretender had adopted the obvious expedient of taking the dead man's lodgings; had installed himself there, and called himself "Dr. Claudius." n.o.body in America had ever seen the real Dr. Claudius; none of the yachting party had any means of knowing whether he were what he pretended to be or not; the only person who vouched for him was Silas B. Barker junior. And if Silas B. Barker junior would not vouch for him any longer, who would, pray? Obviously, no one.

"Dukes are very pretty things," said Mr. Barker; "and to know them intimately is a special grace. But they cannot swear to what they do not know anything about, any more than other people." And he lit another cigar, and looked at the clock, an old-fas.h.i.+oned black-marble timepiece with gilded hands. It wanted half an hour of midnight, and Mr. Barker's solitude had lasted since seven or thereabouts. Some one entered the room, bidding good-night to some one else at the door. Mr. Barker turned his eyes, and, recognising a friend, he smiled a wrinkled smile.