Doctor Claudius, A True Story

The Duke was away during the day, and did not receive the Countess's note until late in the evening. To tell the truth, he was very glad to find that she was going; but he felt there might be difficulties in the way; for, of course, he was bound to let her know the names of his remaining guests. She might hesitate when she heard that Claudius and Barker were to be of the party. After all, Barker was the companion whom the Duke wanted. He knew nothing about Claudius, but he had met enough men of all types of eccentricity not to be much surprised at him, and as the Doctor was evidently a gentleman, there was no objection. Therefore, as soon as the Duke knew of Margaret's determination, he sallied forth, armed with her note, to find Mr. Barker. It was late, but the American was nocturnal in his habits, and was discovered by his friend in a huge cloud of tobacco smoke, examining his nails with that deep interest which in some persons betokens thought.

"It's all right," said the Duke; "she will go."

"You don't mean it?" said Barker, taking his legs off the sofa and wrinkling his face.

"There you are. Note. Formal acceptance, and all the rest of it." And he handed Margaret's letter to Barker.

"Well, that is pretty smart practice," remarked the latter; "I expected you would have difficulties."

"Said she would take some days to make up her mind. She wrote this the same evening I called, I am sure. Just like a woman."

"Well, I think it's deuced lucky, anyhow," said Barker. "Did you tell her who was going?"

"I told her about my sister. I have not mentioned you or your friend yet. Of course I will do that as soon as I am sure of you both."

"Well," said Barker, "if you don't mind, perhaps you might write a note to the Doctor. He might be shy of accepting an invitation by word of mouth. Do you mind?"

"Not in the least," said the Englishman; "give me a rag of paper and a quill, and I'll do it now."

And he accordingly did it, and directed the invitation to Claudius, Phil.D., and Barker pushed it into the crack of the door leading to the apartment where the Doctor was sleeping, lest it should be forgotten.

The next morning Claudius appeared with the Duke's note in his hand.

"What does this mean?" he asked. "I hardly know him at all, and here he asks me to cross the Atlantic in his yacht. I wish you would explain."

"Keep your hair on, my young friend," replied Mr. Barker jocosely. "He has asked you and me because his party would not be complete without us."

"And who are 'the party'?"

"Oh, very small. Principally his sister, I believe. Hold on though, Miss Skeat is going."

"Miss Skeat?" Claudius anticipated some chaff from his friend, and knit his brows a little.

"Yes; Miss Skeat and the Countess; or, perhaps I should say the Countess and Miss Skeat."

"Ah!" ejaculated Claudius, "any one else?"

"Not that I know of. Will you go?"

"It is rather sudden," said the Doctor reflectively.

"You must make up your mind one way or the other, or you will spoil the Duke's arrangements."

"Barker," said Claudius seriously, "do you suppose the Countess knows who are going?"

"My dear boy," replied the other, peeling a peach which he had impaled on a fork, "it is not likely the Duke would ask a lady to go with him without telling her who the men were to be. Be calm, however; I have observed your habits, and in two hours and twenty-three minutes your mind will be at rest."

"How so?"

"It is now thirty-seven minutes past nine. Do you mean to say you have failed once for weeks past to be at the Countess's as the clock strikes twelve?"

Claudius was silent. It was quite true; he went there daily at the same hour; for, as appeared in the beginning of this tale, he was a regular man. But he reflected just now that the Countess would not be likely to speak of the party unless she knew that he was to be one. He had not accepted his invitation yet, and the Duke would certainly not take his acceptance as a foregone conclusion. Altogether it seemed probable that he would be kept in suspense. If he then accepted without being sure of the Countess, he was binding himself to leave her. Claudius had many things to learn yet.

"If I were you," said Barker, "I would write at once and say 'Yes.' Why can't you do it now?"

"Because I have not made up my mind."

"Well, a bird in the hand is the soul of business, as the good old proverb says. I have accepted for myself, anyhow; but I would be sorry to leave you on this side."

So Claudius went to the Countess as usual, and found her in her morning-room awaiting him. He bent over her hand, but as he took it he thought it was a trifle colder than usual. It might have been imagination, but he fancied her whole manner was less cordial than before. And he said to himself, "She has heard I am going, and she is annoyed, and is not glad to see me." There was a preternatural solemnity about their conversation which neither of them could break through, and in a few minutes they both looked as though they had not smiled for years.

Now Claudius was entirely mistaken. Margaret had not heard that he was going. If she had, she would have spoken frankly, as was her nature to do always, if she spoke at all. Margaret had accepted the Duke's invitation, and intended to keep her word, and she had no suspicion whatever of who the other guests might be. She foresaw that such a journey would break up her acquaintance with Claudius, and she regretted it; and especially she regretted having allowed the Doctor so much intimacy and so many visits. Not that he had taken advantage of the footing on which he was received, for any signs of such a disposition on his part would have abruptly terminated the situation; he had been the very model of courtesy from the first. But she knew enough of men to perceive that this gentle homage clothed a more sincere admiration than lay at the root of the pushing attentions of some other men she had known. Therefore she made up her mind that as there were yet three weeks before sailing, after the expiration of which she would never be likely to see Claudius again, she would let him down easily, so to speak, that there might be no over-tender recollections on his part, nor any little stings of remorse on her own. He had interested her; they had spent a couple of pleasant months; she had given him no encouragement, and he was gone without a sigh: that was the way in which Countess Margaret hoped to remember Dr. Claudius by that time next month. And so, fearing lest she might inadvertently have been the least shade too cordial, she began to be a little more severe, on this hot morning when Claudius, full of indecision, followed her out to their favourite reading-place under the trees. It was the same spot where they had sat when Barker first brought him to see her. Margaret had no particular feeling about the little nook under the trees. It was merely the most convenient place to sit and work; that was all. But to Claudius the circle of green sward represented the temple of his soul, and Margaret was to him Rune Wife and prophetess as well as divinity. In such places, and of such women, his fair-haired forefathers, bare-armed and sword-girt, had asked counsel in trouble, and song-inspiration in peace.

Here they sat them down, she determined to do the right by him, and thinking it an easy matter; he utterly misunderstanding her. Without a smile, they set to work at their reading. They read for an hour or more, maintaining the utmost gravity, when, as luck would have it, the word "friendship" occurred in a passage of the book. Claudius paused a moment, his broad hand laid flat on the open page.

"That is one of the most interesting and one of the most singularly misunderstood words in all languages," he said.

"What word?" inquired Margaret, looking up from her work, to which she had attentively applied herself while he was reading.

"Friendship."

"Will you please define what it means?" said she.

"I can define what I myself mean by it, or rather what I think I mean by it. I can define what a dozen writers have meant by it. But I cannot tell what it really means, still less what it may ultimately come to mean."

"You will probably be best able to explain what you mean by it yourself," answered Margaret rather coldly. "Will you please begin?"

"It seems to me," Claudius began, "that the difficulty lies in the contradiction between the theory and the fact. Of course, as in all such cases, the theory loses the battle, and we are left groping for an explanation of the fact which we do not understand. Perhaps that is a little vague?" Claudius paused.

"A little vague—yes," said she.

"I will try and put it more clearly. First take the fact. No one will deny that there have occasionally in the world's history existed friendships which have stood every test and which have lasted to the very end. Such attachments have been always affairs of the heart, even between man and man. I do not think you can name an instance of a lasting friendship on a purely intellectual basis. True friendship implies the absence of envy, and the vanity of even the meanest intellect is far too great to admit of such a condition out of pure thought-sympathy."

"I do not see any contradiction, even admitting your last remark, which is cynical enough." Margaret spoke indifferently, as making a mere criticism.

"But I believe most people connect the idea of friendship, beyond ordinary liking, with intellectual sympathy. They suppose, for instance, that a man may love a woman wholly and entirely with the best kind of love, and may have at the same time a friend with whom he is in entire sympathy."

"And why not?" she asked.

"Simply because he cannot serve two masters. If he is in entire sympathy with more than one individual he must sometimes not only contradict himself, as he would rightly do for one or the other alone, but he must also contradict one in favour of the other in case they disagree. In such a case he is no longer in entire sympathy with both, and either his love or his friendship must be imperfect." Claudius looked at the Countess to see what impression he had made. She did not return his glance.

"In other words?" was her question.

"In other words," he answered in a tone of conviction, "friendship is only a substitute for love, and cannot exist beside it unless lover and friend be one and the same person. Friendship purely intellectual is a fallacy, owing to the manifest imperfections of human nature. It must, then, be an affair of the heart, whatever you may define that to be, and cannot, therefore, exist at the same time with any other affair of the heart without inevitable contradiction. How often has love separated old friends, and friendship bred discord between lovers!"

"I never heard that argument before," said Margaret, who, to tell the truth, was surprised at the result of the Doctor's discourse.

"What do you think of it?" he asked.

"I am not sure, but the point is interesting. I think you are a little vague about what an 'affair of the heart,' as you call it, really is."

"I suppose an affair of the heart to be such a situation of the feelings that the heart rules the head and the actions by the head. The prime essence of love is that it should be complete, making no reservations and allowing of no check from the reason."

"A dangerous state of things."

"Yes," said Claudius. "When the heart gets the mastery it knows neither rest nor mercy. If the heart is good the result will be good, if it is bad the result will be evil. Real love has produced incalculably great results in the lives of individuals and in the life of the world."

"I suppose so," said Margaret; "but you made out friendship to be also an 'affair of the heart,' so far as you believe in it at all. Is true friendship as uncalculating as true love? Does it make no reservations, and does it admit of no check from the reason?"

"I think, as I said, that friendship is a substitute for love, second best in its nature and second best, too, in its unselfishness."

"Many people say love is selfishness itself."

"I know," answered the Doctor, and paused as if thinking.

"Do you not want to smoke?" asked Margaret, with a tinge of irony, "it may help you to solve the difficulty."

"Thank you, no," said he, "the difficulty is solved, and it is no difficulty at all. The people who say that do not know what they are talking about, for they have never been in love themselves. Love, worth the name, is complete; and being complete, demands the whole, and is not satisfied with less than the whole any more than it is satisfied with giving less than all that it has. The selfishness lies in demanding and insisting upon having everything, while only offering rags and shreds in return; and if one may find this fault in ordinary love affairs, one may find it tenfold in ordinary friendships. Friendship may be heroic but love is godlike."

Margaret had become interested in spite of herself, though she had preserved the constrained manner she had first assumed. Now, however, as Claudius turned his flashing blue eyes to hers, she understood that she had allowed the conversation to go far enough, and she marvelled that on the very day when she was trying to be most unapproachable he should have said more to show what was next his heart than ever before. She did not know enough of exceptional natures like his to be aware that a touch of the curb is the very thing to rouse the fierce blood. True, he spoke generally, and even argumentatively, and his deep voice was calm enough, but there was a curious light in his eyes that dazzled her even in the mid-day sun, and she looked away.

"I am not sure I agree with you," she said, "but you put it very clearly. Shall we go on reading?"

Claudius was some time in finding his place in the open book, and then went on. Again he misunderstood her, for though he could not remember saying anything he regretted, he fancied she had brought the conversation to a somewhat abrupt close. He read on, feeling very uncomfortable, and longing for one of those explanations that are impossible between acquaintances and emotional between lovers. He felt also that if he ever spoke out and told her he loved her it would be in some such situation as the present. Margaret let her needlework drop and leaned back in the long chair, staring at a very uninteresting-looking tree on the other side of the garden. Claudius read in a steady determined tone, emphasising his sentences with care, and never once taking his eyes from the book. At last, noticing how quietly he was doing his work, Margaret looked at him, not furtively or as by stealth, but curiously and thoughtfully. He was good to look at, so strong and straight, even as he sat at ease with the book in his hand, and the quivering sunlight through the leaves played over his yellow beard and white forehead. She knew well enough now that he admired her greatly, and she hoped it would not be very hard for him when she went away. Somehow, he was still to her the professor, the student, quiet and dignified and careless of the world, as she had first known him. She could not realise Claudius as a man of wealth and power, who was as well able to indulge his fancies as the Duke himself,—perhaps more so, for the Duke's financial affairs were the gossip of Europe, and always had been since he came of age.

Meanwhile the Doctor reached the end of the chapter, and there was a pause. Neither spoke, and the silence was becoming awkward, when a servant came across the lawn announcing the Duke.

"Ask his Grace to come outside," said Margaret, and the representative of the aristocracy was striding over the green, hat in hand, a moment afterwards. Margaret put out her hand and Claudius rose. Each felt that the deus ex machinâ had arrived, and that the subject of the yachting excursion would be immediately broached.

"Immense luck, finding you both," remarked the Duke when he was seated.

"We have been reading. It is so pleasant here," said Margaret, to say something.

"I have come to thank you for your kind note, Countess. It is extremely good of you to go in such a party, with your taste for literature and those sort of things."

"I am sure it is I who ought to thank you, Duke. But when are we to sail?"

"About the tenth of next month, I should say. Will that be convenient?"

Margaret turned to Claudius.

"Do you think we can finish our book by the tenth, Dr. Claudius?"

"If not," broke in the Duke, "there is no reason why you should not finish it on board. We shall have lovely weather."

"Oh no!" said Margaret, "we must finish it before we start. I could not understand a word of it alone."

"Alone?" inquired the Duke. "Ah! I forgot. Thought he had told you. I have asked Dr. Claudius to give us the pleasure of his company."

"Oh, indeed!" said Margaret. "That will be very nice." She did not look as if she thought so, however. Her expression was not such as led the Duke to believe she was pleased, or Claudius to think she would like his going. To tell the truth, she was annoyed for more than one reason. She thought the Duke, although he was such an old friend, should have consulted her before making up the list of men for the party. She was annoyed with Claudius because he had not told her he was going, when he really thought she knew it, and was displeased at it. And most of all, she was momentarily disconcerted at being thus taken off her guard. Besides, the Duke must have supposed she liked Claudius very much, and he had perhaps contrived the whole excursion in order to throw them together. Her first impulse was to change her mind and not go after all.

Meanwhile Claudius was much astonished at the turn things had taken. Margaret had known nothing about the invitation to the Doctor after all, and her coldness this morning must be attributed to some other cause. But now that she did know she looked less pleased than ever. She did not want him. The Doctor was a proud man in his quiet way, and he was, moreover, in love, not indeed hopelessly as yet, for love is never wholly irrevocable until it has survived the crucial test, attainment of its object; but Claudius loved, and he knew it. Consequently his pride revolted at the idea of thrusting himself where he was not wanted, and his love forbade him to persecute the woman he worshipped. He also said to himself, "I will not go." He had not yet accepted the invitation.

"I had intended to write to you this afternoon," he said, turning to the Duke. "But since it is my good fortune to be able to thank you in person for your kind invitation, let me do so now."

"I hope you are going," said the Duke.

"I fear," answered Claudius, "that I shall be prevented from joining you, much as I would like to do so. I have by no means decided to abandon my position in Heidelberg."

Neither Margaret nor the Duke were in the least prepared for this piece of news. The Duke was taken aback at the idea that any human being could refuse such an invitation. Following on his astonishment that Margaret should not be delighted at having the Doctor on board, the intelligence that the Doctor did not want to go at all threw the poor man into the greatest perplexity. He had made a mistake somewhere, evidently; but where or how he could not tell.

"Barker," he said to himself, "is an ass. He has made me muff the whole thing." However, he did not mean to give up the fight.

"I am extremely sorry to hear you say that, Dr. Claudius," he said aloud, "and I hope you will change your mind, if I have to send you an invitation every day until we sail. You know one does not ask people on one's yacht unless one wants them very much, and we want you. It is just like asking a man to ride your favourite hunter; you would not ask him unless you meant it, for fear he would." The Duke seldom made so long a speech, and Claudius felt that the invitation was really genuine, which gave his wounded pride a pleasant little respite from its aches. He was grateful, and he said so. Margaret was silent and plied her needle, planning how she might escape the party if Claudius changed his mind and went, and how she could with decency leave herself the option of going if he remained. She did not intend to give people any farther chance of pairing her off with Claudius or any one else whom they thought she fancied, and she blamed herself for having given people even the shadow of an idea that such officious party-making would please her.

Claudius rose to go. The position was not tenable any longer, and it was his only course. The Countess bade him good morning with more cordiality than she had displayed as yet; for, in spite of her annoyance, she would have been sorry to wound his feelings. The change of tone at first gave Claudius a thrill of pleasure, which gave way to an increased sense of mortification as he reflected that she was probably only showing that she was glad to be rid of him—a clumsy, manlike thought, which his reason would soon get the better of. So he departed.

There was silence for some minutes after he had gone, for Margaret and the Englishman were old friends, and there was no immediate necessity for making conversation. At last he spoke with a certain amount of embarrassment.

"I ought to have told you before that I had asked those two men."

"Who is the other?" she inquired without looking up.

"Why, Barker, his friend."

"Oh, of course! But it would have been simpler to have told me. It made it rather awkward, for of course Dr. Claudius thought I knew he was asked and wondered why I did not speak of it. Don't you see?" she raised her eyes as she put the question.

"It was idiotic of me, and I am very sorry. Please forgive me."

"As he is not going, it does not make any difference, of course, and so I forgive you."

Considering that Barker had suggested the party, that it was Barker whom the Duke especially wanted to amuse him on the trip, that Barker had proposed Margaret and Claudius, and that, finally, the whole affair was a horrid mess, the Duke did not see what he could have done. But he knew it was good form to be penitent whenever it seemed to be expected, and he liked Margaret well enough to hope that she would go. He did not care very much for the society of women at any time. He was more or less married when he was at home, which was never for long together, and when he was away he preferred the untrammelled conversational delights of a foreign green-room to the twaddle of the embassies or to the mingled snobbery and philistinism produced by the modern fusion of the almighty dollar and the ancienne noblesse.

And so he was in trouble just now, and his one idea was to submit to everything the Countess might say, and then to go and "give it" to Mr. Barker for producing so much complication. But Margaret had nothing more to say about the party, and launched out into a discussion of the voyage. She introduced a cautious "if" in most of her sentences. "If I go I would like to see Madeira," and "if we join you, you must take care of Miss Skeat, and give her the best cabin," etc. etc. The Duke wisely abstained from pressing his cause, or asking why she qualified her plans. At last he got away, after promising to do every conceivable and inconceivable thing which she should now or at any future time evolve from the depths of her inventive feminine consciousness.

"By the way, Duke," she called after him, as he went over the, lawn, "may I take old Vladimir if I go?"

"If you go," he answered, moving back a step or two, "you may bring all the Imperial Guards if you choose, and I will provide transports for those that the yacht won't hold."

"Thanks; that is all," she said laughing, and the stalwart peer vanished through the house. The moment he was gone Margaret dropped her work and lay back in her long chair to think. The heavy lids half closed over her dark eyes, and the fingers of her right hand slowly turned round and round the ring she wore upon her left. Miss Skeat was upstairs reading Lord Byron's Corsair in anticipation of the voyage. Margaret did not know this, or the thought of the angular and well-bred Scotchwoman bounding over the glad waters of the dark blue sea would have made her smile. As it was, she looked serious.

"I am sorry," she thought to herself. "It was nice of him to say he would not go."

Meanwhile the strong-legged nobleman footed it merrily towards Barker's hotel. It was a good two miles, and the Duke's ruddy face shone again under the August sun. But the race characteristic was strong in him, and he liked to make himself unnecessarily hot; moreover he was really fond of Barker, and now he was going to pitch into him, as he said to himself, so it was indispensable to keep the steam up. He found his friend as usual the picture of dried-up coolness, so to say. Mr. Barker never seemed to be warm, but he never seemed to feel cold either, and at this moment, as he sat in a half-lighted room, clad in a variety of delicate gray tints, with a collar that looked like fresh-baked biscuit ware, and a pile of New York papers and letters beside him, he was refreshing to the eye.

"Upon my word, Barker, you always look cool," said the Duke, as he sat himself down in an arm-chair, and passed his handkerchief round his wrists. "I would like to know how you do it."

"To begin with, I do not rush madly about in the sun in the middle of the day. That may have something to do with it."

The Duke sneezed loudly, from the mingled dust and sunshine he had been inhaling.

"And then I don't come into a cold room and catch cold, like you. Here I sit in seclusion and fan myself with the pages of my newspapers as I turn them over."

"You have got us all into the deuce of a mess with your confounded coolness," said the Duke after a pause, during which he had in vain searched all his pockets for his cigar-case. Barker had watched him, and pushed an open box of Havanas across the table. But the Duke was determined to be sulky, and took no notice of the attention. The circular wrinkle slowly furrowed its way round Barker's mouth, and his under jaw pushed forward. It always amused him to see sanguine people angry. They looked so uncomfortable, and "gave themselves away" so recklessly.

"If you won't smoke, have some beer," he suggested. But his Grace fumed the redder.

"I don't understand how a man of your intelligence, Barker, can go and put people into such awkward positions," he said. "I think it is perfectly idiotic."

"Write me down an ass, by all means," said Barker calmly; "but please explain what you mean. I told you not to buy in the Green Swash Mine, and now I suppose you have gone and done it, because I said it might possibly be active some day."

"I have been to see the Countess this morning," said the Duke, beating the dust from his thick walking-boot with his cane.

"Ah!" said Barker, without any show of interest. "Was she at home?"

"I should think so," said the Duke. "Very much at home, and Dr. Claudius was there too."

"Oh! so you are jealous of Claudius, are you?" The ducal wrath rose.

"Barker, you are insufferably ridiculous."

"Duke, you had much better go to bed," returned his friend.

"Look here, Barker—"

"Do not waste your vitality in that way," said the American. "I wish I had half of it. It quite pains me to see you. Now I will put the whole thing clearly before you as I suppose it happened, and you shall tell me if it is my fault or not, and whether, after all, it is such a very serious matter. Countess Margaret did not know that Claudius was going, and did not speak of the trip. Claudius thought she was angry, and when you arrived and let the cat out of the bag the Countess thought you were trying to amuse yourself by surprising her, and she was angry too. Then they both made common cause and would have nothing more to do with you, and told you to go to the devil, and at this moment they are planning to remain here for the next forty or fifty years, and are sending off a joint telegram to Professor Immanuel Spencer, or whatever his name is, to hurry up and get some more books ready for them to read. I am glad you have not bought Green Swash, though, really." There was a pause, and the Duke glared savagely at the cigar-box.

"Is your serene highness satisfied that I know all about it?" asked Barker at last.

"No, I am not. And I am not serene. She says she will go, and Claudius says he won't. And it is entirely your fault."

"It is not of any importance what he says, or whether it is my fault or not. If you had bestirred yourself to go and see her at eleven before Claudius arrived it would not have happened. But he will go all the same; never fear. And the Countess will persuade him too, without our doing anything in the matter."

"You would not have thought so if you had seen the way she received the news that he was invited," grumbled the Duke.

"If you associated more with women you would understand them better," replied the other.

"I dare say." The Englishman was cooler, and at last made up his mind to take one of Mr. Barker's cigars. When he had lit it, he looked across at his friend. "How do you expect to manage it?" he inquired.

"If you will write a simple little note to the Countess, and say you are sorry there should have been any misunderstanding, and if you and I leave those two to themselves for ten days, even if she invites us to dinner, they will manage it between them, depend upon it. They are in love, you know perfectly well."

"I suppose they are," said the Duke, as if he did not understand that kind of thing. "I think I will have some curaçao and potass;" and he rang the bell.

"That's not half a bad idea," he said when he was refreshed. "I begin to think you are not so idiotic as I supposed."

"Waal," said Barker, suddenly affecting the accents of his native shore, "I ain't much on the drivel this journey anyhow." The Duke laughed; he always laughed at Americanisms.

"I guess so," said the Duke, trying ineffectually to mimic his friend. Then he went on in his natural voice, "I have an idea."

"Keep it," said Barker; "they are scarce."

"No; seriously. If we must leave them alone, why—why should we not go down and look at the yacht?"

"Not bad at all. As you say, we might go round and see how she looks. Where is she?"

"Nice."

So the one went down and the other went round, but they went together, and saw the yacht, and ran over to Monte Carlo, and had a good taste of the dear old green-table, now that they could not have it in Baden any longer. And they enjoyed the trip, and were temperate and well dressed and cynical, after their kind. But Claudius stayed where he was.

The daily reading proceeded as usual after Barker's departure, but neither Margaret nor Claudius mentioned the subject of the voyage. Margaret was friendly, and sometimes seemed on the point of relapsing into her old manner, but she always checked herself. What the precise change was it would be hard to say. Claudius knew it was very easy to feel the difference, but impossible to define it. As the days passed, he knew also that his life had ceased to be his own; and, with the chivalrous wholeness of purpose that was his nature, he took his soul and laid it at her feet, for better for worse, to do with as she would. But he knew the hour was not come yet wherein he should speak; and so he served her in silence, content to feel the tree of life growing within him, which should one day overshadow them both with its sheltering branches. His service was none the less whole and devoted because it had not yet been accepted.

One evening, nearly a week after they had been left to themselves, Claudius was sitting over his solitary dinner in the casino restaurant when a note was brought to him, a large square envelope of rough paper, and he knew the handwriting. He hesitated to open it, and, glancing round the brilliantly-lighted restaurant, involuntarily wondered if any man at all those tables were that moment in such suspense as he. He thought it was probably an intimation that she was going away, and that he was wanted no longer. Then, for the first time in many days, he thought of his money. "And if she does," he said half aloud, "shall I not follow? Shall not gold command everything save her heart, and can I not win that for myself?" And he took courage and quietly opened the note.

and her full name signed at the end. The hot blood turned his white forehead red as Claudius finished reading. He could not believe his eyes, and the room swam for a moment; for he was very much in love, this big Swede. Then he grew pale again and quite calm, and read the note over. Novels indeed! What did he know about novels? He would ask her plainly if she wanted his company on the yacht or no. He would say, "Shall I come? or shall I stay behind?" Claudius had much to learn from Mr. Barker before he was competent to deal with women. But then Claudius would have scorned the very expression "to deal" with them; theirs to command, his to obey—there was to be no question of dealing. Only in his simple heart he would like to know in so many words what the commands were; and that is sometimes a little hard, for women like to be half understood before they speak, and the grosser intellect of man seldom more than half understands them after they have spoken.

A note requires an answer, and Claudius made the usual number of failures. When one has a great deal more to say than one has any right to say, and when at the same time one is expected to say particularly little, it is very hard to write a good note. All sorts of ideas creep in and express themselves automatically. A misplaced plural for a singular, a superlative adjective where the vaguer comparative belongs; the vast and immeasurable waste of weary years that may lie between "dear" and "dearest," the gulf placed between "sincerely yours, John Smith," and "yours, J.S.," and "your J.," until the blessed state is reached wherein the signature is omitted altogether, and every word bears the sign-manual of the one woman or one man who really exists for you. What a registering thermometer of intimacy exists in notes, from the icy zero of first acquaintance to the raging throb of boiling blood-heat! So Claudius, after many trials, arrived at the requisite pitch of absolute severity, and began his note, "My dear Countess Margaret," and signed it, "very obediently yours," which said just what was literally true; and he stated that he would immediately proceed to carry out the Countess's commands, and make a list in which nothing should be wanting that could contribute to her amusement.

When he went to see her on the following day he was a little surprised at her manner, which inclined more to the severe coldness of that memorable day of difficulties than to the unbending he had expected from her note. Of course he had no reason to be disappointed, and he showed his inexperience. She was compensating her conscience for the concession she had made in intimating that he might go. It was indeed a concession, but to what superior power she had yielded it behoves not inquisitive man to ask. Perhaps she thought Claudius would enjoy the trip very much, and said to herself she had no right to make him give it up.

They read together for some time, and at last Claudius asked her, in connection with a point which arose, whether she would like to read a German book that he thought good.

"Very much," said she. "By the by, I am glad you have been able to arrange to go with us. I thought your engagements were going to prevent you."

Claudius looked at her, trying to read her thoughts, in which he failed. He might have been satisfied, but he was not. There was a short silence, and then he closed the book over his hand and spoke.

"Countess, do you wish me to go or not?"

Margaret raised her dark eyebrows. He had never seen her do that before. But then he had never said anything so clumsy before in his whole life, and he knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth, and his face was white in sunshine. She looked at him suddenly, a slight smile on her lips, and her eyes just the least contracted, as if she were going to say something sarcastic. But his face was so pitifully pale. She saw how his hand trembled. A great wave of womanly compassion welled up in her soul, and the smile faded and softened away as she said one word.

"Yes." It came from the heart, and she could not help it if it sounded kindly.

"Then I will go," said Claudius, hardly knowing what he said, for the blood came quickly back to his face.

"Of course you will, I could have told you that ever so long ago," chirped a little bullfinch in the tree overhead.

A couple of weeks or more after the events last chronicled, the steam yacht Streak was two days out on the Atlantic, with a goodly party on board. There were three ladies—the Duke's sister, the Countess, and Miss Skeat, the latter looking very nautical in blue serge, which sat tightly over her, like the canvas cover sewn round a bicycle when it is sent by rail. Of men there were also three—to wit, the owner of the yacht, Mr. Barker, and Dr. Claudius.

The sea has many kinds of fish. Some swim on their sides, some swim straight, some come up to take a sniff of air, and some stay below. It is just the same with people who go to sea. Take half a dozen individuals who are all more or less used to the water, and they will behave in half a dozen different ways. One will become encrusted to the deck like a barnacle, another will sit in the cabin playing cards; a third will spend his time spinning yarns with the ship's company, and a fourth will rush madly up and down the deck from morning till night in the pursuit of an appetite which shall leave no feat of marine digestion untried or unaccomplished. Are they not all stamped on the memory of them that go down to the sea in yachts? The little card-box and the scoring-book of the players, the deck chair and rugs of the inveterate reader, the hurried tread and irascible eye of the carnivorous passenger, and the everlasting pipe of the ocean talker, who feels time before him and the world at his feet wherein to spin yarns—has any one not seen them?

Now, the elements on board of the Streak were sufficiently diverse to form a successful party, and by the time they were two days out on the long swell, with a gentle breeze just filling the trysails, and everything stowed, they had each fallen into the groove of sea life that was natural to him or to her. There were Barker and the Duke in the pretty smoking-room forward with the windows open and a pack of cards between them. Every now and then they stopped to chat a little, or the Duke would go out and look at the course, and make his rounds to see that every one was all right and nobody sea-sick. But Barker rarely moved, save to turn his chair and cross one leg over the other, whereby he might the more easily contemplate his little patent leather shoes and stroke his bony hands over his silk-clad ankles; for Mr. Barker considered sea-dressing, as he called it, a piece of affectation, and arrayed himself on board ship precisely as he did on land. The Duke, on the other hand, like most Englishmen when they get a chance, revelled in what he considered ease; that is to say, no two of his garments matched or appeared to have been made in the same century; he wore a flannel shirt, and was inclined to go about barefoot when the ladies were not on deck, and he adorned his ducal forehead with a red worsted cap, price one shilling.

Margaret, as was to be expected, was the deck member, with her curiously-wrought chair and her furs and her portable bookcase; while Miss Skeat, who looked tall and finny, and sported a labyrinthine tartan, was generally to be seen entangled in the weather-shrouds near by. As for the Duke's sister, Lady Victoria, she was plain, but healthy, and made regular circuits of the steamer, stopping every now and then to watch the green swirl of the foam by the side, and to take long draughts of salt air into her robust lungs. But of all the party there was not one on whom the change from the dry land to the leaping water produced more palpable results than on Claudius. He affected nothing nautical in dress or speech, but when the Duke saw him come on deck the first morning out, there was something about his appearance that made the yachtsman say to Barker—

"That man has been to sea, I am positive. I am glad I asked him."

"All those Swedes are amphibious," replied Barker; "they take to the water like ducks. But I don't believe he has smelled salt water for a dozen years."

"They are the best sailors, at all events," said the Duke. "I have lots of them among the men. Captain a Swede too. Let me introduce you." They were standing on the bridge. "Captain Sturleson, my friend Mr. Barker." And so in turn the captain was made known to every one on board; for he was an institution with the Duke, and had sailed his Grace's yachts ever since there had been any to sail, which meant for about twenty years. To tell the truth, if it were not for those beastly logarithms, the Duke was no mean sailing-master himself, and he knew a seaman when he saw one; hence his remark about Claudius. The Doctor knew every inch of the yacht and every face in the ship's company by the second day, and it amused the Countess to hear his occasional snatches of the clean-cut Northern tongue that sounded like English, but was yet so different.

Obedient to her instructions, he had provided books of all sorts for the voyage, and they began to read together, foolishly imagining that, with the whole day at their disposal, they would do as much work as when they only met for an hour or two daily to accomplish a set purpose. The result of their unbounded freedom was that conversation took the place of reading. Hitherto Margaret had confined Claudius closely to the matter in hand, some instinct warning her that such an intimacy as had existed during his daily visits could only continue on the footing of severe industry she had established from the first. But the sight of the open deck, the other people constantly moving to and fro, the proper aspect of the lady-companion, just out of earshot, and altogether the appearance of publicity which the sea-life lent to their tête-à-tête hours, brought, as a necessary consequence, a certain unbending. It always seemed such an easy matter to call some third party into the conversation if it should grow too confidential. And so, insensibly, Claudius and Margaret wandered into discussions about the feelings, about love, hate, and friendship, and went deep into those topics which so often end in practical experiment. Claudius had lived little and thought much; Margaret had seen a great deal of the world, and being gifted with fine intuitions and tact, she had reasoned very little about what she saw, understanding, as she did, the why and wherefore of most actions by the pure light of feminine genius. The Doctor theorised, and it interested his companion to find facts she remembered suddenly brought directly under a neat generalisation; and before long she found herself trying to remember facts to fit his theories, a mode of going in double harness which is apt to lead to remarkable but fallacious results. In the intervals of theorising Claudius indulged in small experiments. But Barker and the Duke played poker.

Of course the three men saw a good deal of each other—in the early morning before the ladies came on deck, and late at night when they sat together in the smoking-room. In these daily meetings the Duke and Claudius had become better acquainted, and the latter, who was reticent, but perfectly simple, in speaking of himself, had more than once alluded to his peculiar position and to the unexpected change of fortune that had befallen him. One evening they were grouped as usual around the square table in the brightly-lighted little room that Barker and the Duke affected most. The fourfold beat of the screw crushed the water quickly and sent its peculiar vibration through the vessel as she sped along in the quiet night. The Duke was extended on a transom, and Claudius on the one opposite, while Barker tipped himself about on his chair at the end of the table. The Duke was talkative, in a disjointed, monosyllabic fashion.

"Yes. I know. No end of a queer sensation, lots of money. Same thing happened to me when I came of age."

"Not exactly the same thing," said Claudius; "you knew you were going to have it."

"No," put in Barker. "Having money and being likely to have it are about the same as far as spending it goes. Particularly in England."

"I believe the whole thing is a fraud," said the Duke in a tone of profound reflection. "Never had a cent before I came of age. Seems to me I never had any since."

"Spent it all in water-melon and fire-crackers, celebrating your twenty-first birthday, I suppose," suggested Barker.

"Spent it some way, at all events," replied the Duke. "Now, here," he continued, addressing Barker, "is a man who actually has it, who never expected to have it, who has got it in hard cash, and in the only way in which it is worth having—by somebody else's work. Query—what will Claudius do with his millions?" Exhausted by this effort of speech, the Duke puffed his tobacco in silence, waiting for an answer. Claudius laughed, but said nothing.

"I know of one thing he will do with his money. He will get married," said Barker.

"For God's sake, Claudius," said the Duke, looking serious, "don't do that."

"I don't think I will," said Claudius.

"I know better," retorted Barker, "I am quite sure I shall do it myself some day, and so will you. Do you think if I am caught, you are going to escape?"

The Duke thought that if Barker knew the Duchess, he might yet save himself.

"You are no chicken, Barker, and perhaps you are right. If they catch you they can catch anybody," he said aloud.

"Well, I used to say the mamma was not born who could secure me. But I am getting old, and my nerves are shaken, and a secret presentiment tells me I shall be bagged before long, and delivered over to the tormentors."

"I pity you if you are," said the Duke. "No more poker, and very little tobacco then."

"Not as bad as that. You are as much married as most men, but it does not interfere with the innocent delights of your leisure hours, that I can see."

"Ah, well—you see—I am pretty lucky. The Duchess is a domestic type of angel. Likes children and bric-à-brac and poultry, and all those things. Takes no end of trouble about the place."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claudius moved nearer to her.

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

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

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

"What ideas?" asked Margaret.

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

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

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

"Tell me," said Margaret at last.

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

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

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

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

"Did Mr. Barker think so too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course," she answered, "the system does not pretend to the beautiful, it only aspires to the practical. If the woman is satisfied with her choice, domestic peace is assured." She laughed.

"Why cannot each satisfy himself or herself of the other? Why cannot the choice be mutual?"

"It would take too long," said she; and laughed again.

"Very long?" asked Claudius, trying not to let his voice change. But it changed nevertheless.

"Generally very long," she answered in a matter-of-fact way.

"Why should it?"

"Because neither women nor men are so easily understood as a chapter of philosophy," said she.

"Is it not the highest pleasure in life, that constant, loving study of the one person one loves? Is not every anticipated thought and wish a triumph more worth living for than everything else in the wide world?" He moved close to her side. "Do you not think so too?" She said nothing.

"I think so," he said. "There is no pleasure like the pleasure of trying to understand what a woman wants; there is no sorrow like the sorrow of failing to do that; and there is no glory like the glory of success. It is a divine task for any man, and the greatest have thought it worthy of them." Still she was silent; and so was he for a little while, looking at her side face, for she had thrown back the veil and her delicate profile showed clearly against the sea foam.

"Countess," he said at last; and his voice came and went fitfully with the breeze—"I would give my whole life's strength and study for the gladness of foreseeing one little thing that you might wish, and of doing it for you." His hand stole along the taffrail till it touched hers, but he did not lift his fingers from the polished wood.

"Dr. Claudius, you would give too much," she said; for the magic of the hour and place was upon her, and the Doctor's earnest tones admitted of no laughing retort. She ought to have checked him then, and the instant she had spoken she knew it; but before she could speak again he had taken the hand he was already touching between both of his, and was looking straight in her face.

"Margaret, I love you with all my soul and heart and strength." Her hand trembled in his, but she could not take it away. Before she had answered he had dropped to his knee and was pressing the gloved fingers to his lips.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he repeated, and his strength was as the strength of ten in that moment.

"Dr. Claudius," said she at last, in a broken and agitated way, "you ought not to have said this. It was not right of you." She tried to loose her hand, but he rose to his feet still clasping it.

"Forgive me," he said, "forgive me!" His face was almost luminously pale. "All the ages cannot take from me this—that I have told you."

Margaret said never a word, but covered her head with her veil and glided noiselessly away, leaving Claudius with his white face and staring eyes to the contemplation of what he had done. And she went below and sat in her stateroom and tried to think it all over. She was angry, she felt sure. She was angry at Claudius and half angry at herself—at least she thought so. She was disappointed, she said, in the man, and she did not mean to forgive him. Besides, in a yacht, with a party of six people, where there was absolutely no escape possible, it was unpardonable. He really ought not to have done it. Did he think—did he flatter himself—that if she had expected he was going to act just like all the rest of them she would have treated him as she had? Did he fancy his well-planned declaration would flatter her? Could he not see that she wanted to consider him always as a friend, that she thought she had found at last what she had so often dreamed of—a friendship proof against passion? It was so common, so commonplace. It was worse, for it was taking a cruel advantage of the narrow limits within which they were both confined. Besides, he had taken advantage of her kindness to plan a scene which he knew would surprise her out of herself. She ought to have spoken strongly and sharply and made him suffer for his sin while he was yet red-handed. And instead, what had she done? She had merely said very meekly that "it was not right," and had sought safety in a hasty retreat.

She sighed wearily, and began to shake out the masses of her black hair, that was as the thickness of night spun fine. And as she drew out the thick tortoise-shell pins that bore it up, it rolled down heavily in a soft dark flood and covered her as with a garment. Then she leaned back and sighed again, and her eyes fell on a book that lay at the corner of her dressing-table, where she had left it before dinner. It was the book they had been reading, and the mark was a bit of fine white cord that Claudius had cunningly twisted and braided, sailor fashion, to keep the place. Margaret rose to her feet, and taking the book in her hand, looked at it a moment without opening it. Then she hid it out of sight and sat down again. The action had been almost unconscious, but now she thought about it, and she did not like what she had done. Angry with him and with herself, she was yet calm enough to ask why she could not bear the sight of the volume on the table. Was it possible she had cared enough about her friendship for the Doctor to be seriously distressed at its sudden termination? She hardly knew—perhaps so. So many men had made love to her, none had ever before seemed to be a friend.

The weary and hard-worked little sentiment that we call conscience spoke up. Was she just to him? No. If she had cared even as much as that action showed, had he no right to care also? He had the right, yes; but he had been wanting in tact. He should have waited till they were ashore. Poor fellow! he looked so white, and his hands were so cold. Was he there still, looking out at the ship's wake? Margaret, are you quite sure you never thought of him save as a friendly professor who taught you philosophy? And there was a little something that would not be silenced, and that would say—Yes, you are playing tricks with your feelings, you care for him, you almost love him. And for a moment there was a fierce struggle in the brave heart of that strong woman as she shook out her black hair and turned pale to the lips. She rose again, and went and got the book she had hidden, and laid it just where it had lain before. Then she knew, and she bowed her head till her white forehead touched the table before her, and her hands were wet as they pressed her eyelids.

"I am very weak," she said aloud, and proceeded with her toilet.

"But you will be kind to him, Margaret," said the little voice in her heart, as she laid her head on the pillow.

"But it is my duty to be cold. I do not love him," she argued, as the watch struck eight bells.

Poor Saint Duty! what a mess you make of human kindness!

Claudius was still on deck, and a wretched man he was, as his chilled hands clung to the side. He knew well enough that she was angry, though she had reproached herself with not having made it clear to him. He said to himself he ought not to have spoken, and then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that all his strength could not have kept back the words, because they were true, and because the truth must be spoken sooner or later. He was hopeless now for a time, but he did not deceive himself.

"I am not weak. I am strong. And if my love is stronger than I what does that prove? I am glad it is, and I would not have it otherwise. It is done now and can never be undone. I am sorry I spoke to-night. I would have waited if I could. But I could not, and I should despise myself if I could. Love that is not strong enough to make a man move in spite of himself is not worth calling love. I wonder if I flattered myself she loved me? No, I am quite sure I did not. I never thought anything about it. It is enough for me that I love her, and live, and have told her so; and I can bear all the misery now, for she knows. I suppose it will begin at once. She will not speak to me. No, not that, but she will not expect me to speak to her. I will keep out of her way; it is the least I can do. And I will try and not make her life on board disagreeable. Ah, my beloved, I will never hurt you again or make you angry."

He said these things over and over to himself, and perhaps they comforted him a little. At eight bells the Swedish captain turned out, and Claudius saw him ascend the bridge, but soon he came down again and walked aft.

"God afton, Captain," said Claudius.

"It is rather late to say good evening, Doctor," replied the sailor.

"Why, what time is it?"

"Midnight."

"Well, I shall turn in."

"If you will take my advice," said the captain, "you won't leave any odds and ends lying about to-night. We shall have a dance before morning."

"Think so?" said Claudius indifferently.

"Why, Doctor, where are your eyes? You are a right Svensk sailor when you are awake. You have smelled the foam in Skager Rak as well as I."

"Many a time," replied the other, and looked to windward. It was true; the wind had backed to the north-east, and there was an angry little cross sea beginning to run over the long ocean swell. There was a straight black belt below the stars, and a short, quick splashing, dashing, and breaking of white crests through the night, while the rising breeze sang in the weather rigging.

Claudius turned away and went below. He took the captain's advice, and secured his traps and went to bed. But he could not sleep, and he said over and over to himself that he loved her, that he was glad he had told her so, and that he would stand by the result of his night's work, through all time,—ay, and beyond time.