Troubles never come singly; moreover, they come on horseback, and go
away on foot. If Claudius had passed an unpleasant afternoon, the
Countess's day had been darkened with the shadow of a very serious
difficulty. Early in the morning her maid had brought her coffee, and
with it a note in a foreign hand. The maid, who was French, and
possessed the usual characteristics of French maids, had exhausted her
brain in trying to discover who the sender might be. But the missive was
sealed with wax, and a plain "N" was all the impression. So she adopted
the usual expedient of busying herself in the room, while her mistress
opened the note, hoping that some chance exclamation, or even perhaps an
answer, might give her curiosity the food it longed for. But Margaret
read and reread the note, and tore it up into very small pieces,
thoughtfully; and, as an afterthought, she burned them one by one over a
wax taper till nothing was left. Then she sent her maid away and fell to
thinking. But that did not help her much; and the warm sun stole through
the windows, and the noise in the street prevented her from sleeping,
for she was unused to the sound of wheels after the long weeks at sea.
And so she rang for her maid again. The maid came, bringing another
note, which, she said, had been given her by "Monsieur Clodiuse;" and
would there be an answer?
It was simply a few lines to say he was going to be away all day, and
that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing the Countess in Newport
to-morrow. But for some reason or other Margaret was not pleased with
the note, and merely said there would be no answer.
"Madame would she dress herself to go out, or to keep the lodging?"
Madame would not go out. Was it warm? Oh yes, it was very warm. In fact
it was _hébétant_. Would Madame see Monsieur le Duc if he called at
eleven? Monseigneur's Monsieur Veelees had charged her to inquire of
Madame. No, Madame would not see Monsieur le Duc this morning. But if
any one called, Madame desired to be informed. Madame would be served.
And so the toilet proceeded.
It was not very long before some one called. There was a knock at the
door of the bedroom. Clémentine left the Countess's hair, which she was
busy combing and tressing, and went to the door. It was old Vladimir,
Margaret's faithful Russian servant.
"At this hour!" exclaimed the Countess, who was not in the best of
tempers. "What does he want?"
Vladimir ventured to make a remark in Russian, from the door, which
produced an immediate effect. Margaret rose swiftly, overturning her
chair and sweeping various small articles from the table in her rapid
movement. She went very quickly to the door, her magnificent black hair
all hanging down. She knew enough Russian to talk to the servant.
"What did you say, Vladimir?"
"Margareta Ivanowna"--Margaret's father's name had been John--"Nicolaï
Alexandrewitch is here," said Vladimir, who seemed greatly surprised.
His geographical studies having been purely experimental, the sudden
appearance of a Russian gentleman led him to suppose his mistress had
landed in some outlying part of Russia, or at least of Europe. So she
bade the old servant conduct the gentleman to her sitting-room and ask
him to wait. She was not long in finishing her toilet. Before she left
the room a servant of the hotel brought another box of flowers from Mr.
Barker. Clémentine cut the string and opened the pasteboard shell.
Margaret glanced indifferently at the profusion of roses and pink
pond-lilies--a rare variety only found in two places in America, on Long
Island and near Boston--and having looked, she turned to go.
Clémentine held up two or three flowers, as if to try the effect of them
on Margaret's dress.
"Madame would she not put some flowers in her dress?"
No. Madame would not. Madame detested flowers. Whereat the intelligent
Clémentine carefully examined the name of the sender, inscribed on a
card which lay in the top of the box. Mr. Barker knew better than to
send flowers anonymously. He wanted all the credit he could get. The
Countess swept out of the room.
At the door of the sitting-room she was met by a young man, who bent low
to kiss her extended hand, and greeted her with a manner which was
respectful indeed, but which showed that he felt himself perfectly at
ease in her society.
Nicolaï Alexandrewitch, whom we will call simply Count Nicholas, was the
only brother of Margaret's dead husband. Like Alexis, he had been a
soldier in a guard regiment; Alexis had been killed at Plevna, and
Nicholas had succeeded to the title and the estates, from which,
however, a considerable allowance was paid to the Countess as a
jointure.
Nicholas was a handsome man of five or six and twenty, of middle height,
swarthy complexion, and compact figure. His beard was very black, and he
wore it in a pointed shape. His eyes were small and deep-set, but full
of intelligence. He had all the manner and appearance of a man of gentle
birth, but there was something more; an indescribable, undefinable air
that hung about him. Many Russians have it, and the French have embodied
the idea it conveys in their proverb that if you scratch a Russian you
will find the Tartar. It is rather a trait of Orientalism in the blood,
and it is to be noticed as much in Servians, Bulgarians, Roumanians, and
even Hungarians, as in Russians. It is the peculiarity of most of these
races that under certain circumstances, if thoroughly roused, they will
go to any length, with a scorn of consequence which seems to the Western
mind both barbarous and incomprehensible. Margaret had always liked him.
He was wild; but he was a courteous gentleman, and could always be
depended upon.
"Mon cher," said Margaret, "I need not tell you I am enchanted to see
you, but what is the meaning of the things you wrote me this morning?
Are you really in trouble?"
"Hélas, yes. I am in the worst kind of trouble that exists for a
Russian. I am in political trouble--and that entails everything else."
"Tell me all about it," said she. "Perhaps I may help you."
"Ah no! you cannot help. It is not for that I am come. I have a
confession to make that concerns you."
"Well?" said she, with a smile. She did not suppose it could be anything
very bad.
"You will be angry, of course," he said, "but that is nothing. I have
done you an injury that I cannot repair."
"Enfin, my dear Nicholas, tell me. I do not believe anything bad of
you."
"You are kindness itself, and I thank you in advance. Wait till you have
heard. I am 'suspect,'--they think I am a Nihilist I am exiled to the
mines, and everything is confiscated. Voilà! Could it be worse?"
Margaret was taken off her guard. She had herself been in more than easy
circumstances at the time of her marriage, but the financial crisis in
America, which occurred soon after that event, had greatly crippled her
resources. She had of late looked chiefly to her jointure for all the
luxuries which were so necessary to her life. To find this suddenly
gone, in a moment, without the slightest preparation, was extremely
embarrassing. She covered her eyes with one hand for a moment to collect
her thoughts and to try and realise the extent of the disaster. Nicholas
mistook the gesture.
"You will never forgive me, I know. I do not deserve that you should.
But I will do all in my power to repair the evil. I will go to Siberia
if they will consider your rights to the estate."
Margaret withdrew her hand, and looked earnestly at the young man.
"Forgive you?" said she. "My dear Nicholas, you do not suppose I
seriously think there is anything to forgive?"
"But it is true," he said piteously; "in ruining me they have ruined
you. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! If I only had a friend--"
"Taisez vous donc, mon ami. It is everything most bête what you say. You
have many friends, and as for me, I do not care a straw for the money.
Only if I had known I would not have left Europe. Voilà tout."
"Ah, that is it," said Nicholas. "I escaped the police and hurried to
Baden. But you were gone. So I took the first steamer and came here. But
I have waited ten days, and it was only last night I saw in the papers
that you had arrived yesterday morning. And here I am."
Margaret rose, from a feeling that she must move about--the restless
fiend that seizes energetic people in their trouble. Nicholas thought it
was a sign for him to go. He took his hat.
"Believe me--" he began, about to take his leave.
"You are not going?" said Margaret. "Oh no. Wait, and we will think of
some expedient. Besides you have not told me half what I want to know.
The money is of no consequence; but what had you done to lead to such a
sentence? Are you really a Nihilist?"
"Dieu m'en garde!" said the Count devoutly. "I am a Republican, that is
all. Seulement, our Holy Russia does not distinguish."
"Is not the distinction very subtle?"
"The difference between salvation by education and salvation by
dynamite; the difference between building up and tearing down, between
Robespierre and Monsieur Washington."
"You must have been indiscreet. How could they have found it out?"
"I was bête enough to write an article in the _Russki Mir_--the mildest
of articles. And then some of the Nihilist agents thought I was in their
interests and wanted to see me, and the police observed them, and I was
at once classed as a Nihilist myself, and there was a perquisition in my
house. They found some notes and a few manuscripts of mine, quite enough
to suit their purpose, and so the game was up."
"But they did not arrest you?"
"No. As luck would have it, I was in Berlin at the time, on leave from
my regiment, for I was never suspected before in the least. And the
Nihilists, who, to tell the truth, are well organised and take good care
of their brethren, succeeded in passing word to me not to come back. A
few days afterwards the Russian Embassy were hunting for me in Berlin.
But I had got away. Sentence was passed in contempt, and I read the news
in the papers on my way to Paris. There is the whole history."
"Have you any money?" inquired Margaret after a pause.
"Mon Dieu! I have still a hundred napoleons. After that the deluge."
"By that time we shall be ready for the deluge," said Margaret
cheerfully. "I have many friends, and something may yet be done.
Meanwhile do not distress yourself about me; you know I have something
of my own."
"How can I thank you for your kindness? You ought to hate me, and
instead you console!"
"My dear friend, if I did not like you for your own sake, I would help
you because you are poor Alexis's brother." There was no emotion in her
voice at the mention of her dead husband, only a certain reverence. She
had honoured him more than she had loved him.
"Princesse, quand même," said Nicholas in a low voice, as he raised her
fingers to his lips.
"Leave me your address before you go. I will write as soon as I have
decided what to do." Nicholas scratched the name of a hotel on his card.
When he was gone Margaret sank into a chair. She would have sent for
Claudius--Claudius was a friend--but she recollected his note, and
thought with some impatience that just when she needed him most he was
away. Then she thought of Lady Victoria, and she rang the bell. But Lady
Victoria had gone out with her brother, and they had taken Miss Skeat.
Margaret was left alone in the great hotel. Far off she could hear a
door shut or the clatter of the silver covers of some belated breakfast
service finding its way up or down stairs. And in the street the eternal
clatter and hum and crunch, and crunch and hum and clatter of men and
wheels; the ceaseless ring of the tram-cars stopping every few steps to
pick up a passenger, and the jingle of the horses' bells as they moved
on. It was hot--it was very hot. Clémentine was right, it was
_hébétant_, as it can be in New York in September. She bethought herself
that she might go out and buy things, that last resource of a rich woman
who is tired and bored.
Buy things! She had forgotten that she was ruined. Well, not quite that,
but it seemed like it. It would be long before she would feel justified
in buying anything more for the mere amusement of the thing. She tried
to realise what it would be like to be poor. But she failed entirely, as
women of her sort always do. She was brave enough if need be; if it must
come, she had the courage to be poor. But she had not the skill to paint
to herself what it would be like. She could not help thinking of
Claudius. It would be so pleasant just now to have him sitting there by
her side, reading some one of those wise books he was so fond of.
It was so hot. She wished something would happen. Poor Nicholas! He need
not have been so terribly cut up about the money. Who is there? It was
Vladimir. Vladimir brought a card. Yes, she would see the gentleman.
Vladimir disappeared, and a moment after ushered in Mr. Horace
Bellingham, commonly known as "Uncle Horace."
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Bellingham," said Margaret, who had
conceived a great liking for the old gentleman on the previous evening,
and who would have welcomed anybody this morning.
Mr. Bellingham made a bow of the courtliest, most _ancien-régime_ kind.
He had ventured to bring her a few flowers. Would she accept them? They
were only three white roses, but there was more beauty in them than in
all Mr. Barker's profusion. Margaret took them, and smelled them, and
fastened them at her waist, and smiled a divine smile on the bearer.
"Thank you, so much," said she.
"No thanks," said he; "I am more than repaid by your appreciation;" and
he rubbed his hands together and bowed again, his head a little on one
side, as if deprecating any further acknowledgment. Then he at once
began to talk a little, to give her time to select her subject if she
would; for he belonged to a class of men who believe it their duty to
talk to women, and who do not expect to sit with folded hands and be
amused. To such men America is a revelation of social rest. In America
the women amuse the men, and the men excuse themselves by saying that
they work hard all day, and cannot be expected to work hard all the
evening. It is evidently a state of advanced civilisation,
incomprehensible to the grosser European mind--a state where talking to
a woman is considered to be hard work. Or--in fear and trembling it is
suggested--is it because they are not able to amuse their womankind? Is
their refusal a _testimonium paupertatis ingenii_? No--perish the
thought! It may have been so a long time ago, in the Golden Age. This is
not the Golden Age; it is the Age of Gold. Messieurs! faites votre jeu!
By degrees it became evident that Margaret wanted to talk about Russia,
and Mr. Bellingham humoured her, and gave her a good view of the
situation, and told anecdotes of the Princess Dolgorouki, and drew the
same distinction between Nihilists and Republicans that Count Nicholas
had made an hour earlier in the same room. Seeing she was so much
interested, Mr. Bellingham took courage to ask a question that had
puzzled him for some time. He stroked his snowy beard, and hesitated
slightly.
"Pardon me, if I am indiscreet, Madam," he said at last, "but I read in
the papers the other day that a nobleman of your name--a Count Nicholas,
I think--had landed in New York, having escaped the clutches of the
Petersburg police, who wanted to arrest him as a Nihilist. Was he--was
he any relation of yours?"
"He is my brother-in-law," said Margaret, rather startled at seeing the
point to which she had led the conversation. But she felt a strong
sympathy for Mr. Bellingham, and she was glad to be able to speak on the
subject to any one. She stood so much in need of advice; and, after all,
if the story was in the papers it was public property by this time. Mr.
Bellingham was a perfect diplomatist, and, being deeply interested, he
had soon learned all the details of the case by heart.
"It is very distressing," he said gravely. But that was all. Margaret
had had some faint idea that he might offer to help her--it was absurd,
of course--or at least that he might give her some good advice. But that
was not Mr. Bellingham's way of doing things. If he intended to do
anything, the last thing he would think of would be to tell her of his
intention. He led the conversation away, and having rounded it neatly
with a couple of anecdotes of her grandmother, he rose to go, pleading
an engagement. He really had so many appointments in a day that he
seldom kept more than half of them, and his excuse was no polite
invention. He bowed himself out, and when he was gone Margaret felt as
though she had lost a friend.
She wearied of the day--so long, so hot, and so unfortunate. She tried a
book, and then she tried to write a letter, and then she tried to think
again. It seemed to her that there was so little to think about, for she
had a hopeless helpless consciousness that there was nothing to be done
that she could do. She might have written to her friends in
Petersburg--of course she would do that, and make every possible
representation. But all that seemed infinitely far off, and could be
done as well to-morrow as to-day. At last Lady Victoria came back, and
at sight of her Margaret resolved to confide in her likewise. She had so
much common sense, and always seemed able to get at the truth.
Therefore, in the afternoon Margaret monopolised Lady Victoria and
carried her off, and they sat together with their work by the open
window, and the Countess was "not at home."
In truth, a woman of the world in trouble of any kind could not do
better than confide in Lady Victoria. She is so frank and honest that
when you talk to her your trouble seems to grow small and your heart
big. She has not a great deal of intellect; but, then, she has a great
deal of common sense. Common sense is, generally speaking, merely a
dislike of complications, and a consequent refusal on the part of the
individual to discover them. People of vivid imagination delight in
magnifying the difficulties of life by supposing themselves the centre
of much scheming, plotting, and cheap fiction. They cheerfully give
their time and their powers to the study of social diplomacy. It is
reserved for people intellectually very high or very low in the scale to
lead a really simple life. The average mind of the world is terribly
muddled on most points, and altogether beside itself as regards its
individual existence; for a union of much imagination, unbounded vanity,
and unfathomable ignorance can never take the place of an intellect,
while such a combination cannot fail to destroy the blessed _vis
inertiæ_ of the primitive fool, who only sees what is visible, instead
of evolving the phantoms of an airy unreality from the bottomless abyss
of his own so-called consciousness. Fortunately for humanity, the
low-class unimaginative mind predominates in the world, as far as
numbers are concerned; and there are enough true intellects among men to
leaven the whole. The middle class of mind is a small class, congregated
together chiefly within the boundaries of a very amusing institution
calling itself "society." These people have scraped and varnished the
aforesaid composition of imagination, ignorance, and vanity, into a
certain conventional thing which they mendaciously term their
"intelligence," from a Latin verb _intelligo_, said to mean "I
understand." It is a poor thing, after all the varnishing. It is neither
hammer nor anvil; it cannot strike, and, if you strike it, dissolution
instantly takes place, after which the poor driveller is erroneously
said to have "lost his mind," and is removed to an asylum. It is curious
that the great majority of lunatics should be found in "society."
Society says that all men of genius are more or less mad; but it is a
notable fact that very few men of genius have ever been put in
madhouses, whereas the society that calls those men crazy is always
finding its way there. It takes but little to make a lunatic of poor
Lady Smith-Tompkins. Poor thing! you know she is so very "high-strung,"
such delicate sensibilities! She has an _idée fixe_--so very sad. Ah
yes! that is it. She never had an idea before, and now that she has one
she cannot get rid of it, and it will kill her in time.
Now people whose intellect is of a low class are not disturbed with
visions of all that there is to be known, nor with a foolish desire to
appear to know it. On the other hand, they are perfectly capable of
understanding what is honourable or dishonourable, mean or generous, and
they are very tenacious of these principles, believing that in the
letter of the law is salvation. They are not vain of qualities and
powers not theirs; and, consequently, when they promise, they promise
what they are able to perform. Occasionally such characters appear in
"society,"--rare creatures, in whom a pernicious education has not
spoiled the simplicity and honesty which is their only virtue. They fall
naturally into the position of confessors to the community, for the
community requires confessors of some sort. In them confides the
hardened sinner bursting with evil deeds and the accumulation of petty
naughtiness. To them comes the beardless ass, simpering from his first
adventure, and generally "afraid he has compromised" the mature woman of
the world, whom he has elected to serve, desiring to know what he ought
to do about it. To them, too, comes sometimes the real sufferer with his
or her little tale of woe, hesitatingly told, half hinted, hoping to be
wholly understood. They are good people, these social confessors, though
they seldom give much advice. Nevertheless, it is such a help to tell
one's story and hear how it sounds!
Lady Victoria was not a woman of surpassing intellect; perhaps she had
no intellect at all. She belonged to the confessors above referred to.
She was the soul of honour, of faith, and of secrecy. People were always
making confidences to her, and they always felt the better for
it--though she herself could not imagine why. And so even Margaret came
and told her troubles. Only, as Margaret was really intelligent, she did
not hesitate or make any fuss about telling, when once she had made up
her mind. The story was, indeed, public property by this time, and Lady
Victoria was sure to know it all before long from other people. When
Margaret had finished, she laid down her work and looked out of the
window, waiting.
"I need not tell you I am sorry," said Lady Victoria. "You know that, my
dear. But what will you do? It will be so very awkward for you, you
know."
"I hardly can tell yet--what would you do in my place?"
"Let me see," said the English girl. "What would I do? You must have a
Russian minister here somewhere. I think I would send for him, if I were
you."
"But it takes so long--so dreadfully long, to get anything done in that
way," said Margaret. And they discussed the point in a desultory
fashion. Of course Lady Victoria's suggestion was the simplest and most
direct one. She was quite certain that Margaret would get her rights
very soon.
"Of course," said she, "they must do it. It would be so unjust not to."
She looked at Margaret with a bright smile, as if there was no such
thing as injustice in the world. But the Countess looked grave; and as
she leaned back in her deep arm-chair by the window, with half-closed
eyes, it was easy to see she was in trouble. She needed help and
sympathy and comfort. She had never needed help before, and it was not a
pleasant sensation to her; perhaps she was dissatisfied when she
realised whose help of all others she would most gladly accept. At least
it would be most pleasant that he should offer it. "He"--has it come to
that? Poor Margaret! If "he" represented a sorrow instead of a
happiness, would you confide that too to Lady Victoria? Or would you
feel the least shadow of annoyance because you miss him to-day? Perhaps
it is only habit. You have schooled yourself to believe you ought to do
without him, and you fancy you ought to be angry with yourself for
transgressing your rule. But what avails your schooling against the
little god? He will teach you a lesson you will not forget. The day is
sinking. The warm earth is drinking out its cup of sunlight to the
purple dregs thereof. There is great colour in the air, and the clouds
are as a trodden wine-press in the west. The old sun, the golden bowl of
life, is touching earth's lips, and soon there will be none of the wine
of light left in him. She will drink it all. Yet your lover tarries,
Margaret, and comes not.
Margaret and Lady Victoria agreed they would dine together. Indeed,
Margaret had a little headache, for she was weary. They would dine
together, and then read something in the evening--quite alone; and so
they did. It was nearly nine o'clock when the servant announced Claudius
and the Duke. The latter, of course, knew nothing about Margaret's
troubles, and was in high spirits. As for Claudius, his momentary
excitement, caused by Mr. Screw's insinuations, had long since passed
away, and he was as calm as ever, meditating a graphic description of
his day's excursion to Greenwood Cemetery for Margaret's benefit. It was
a lugubrious subject, but he well knew how to make his talk interesting.
It is the individual, not the topic, that makes the conversation; if a
man can talk well, graveyards are as good a subject as the last novel,
and he will make tombstones more attractive than scandal.
No one could have told from Claudius's appearance or conversation that
night that there was anything in the world to cloud his happiness. He
talked to the woman he loved with a serene contempt for everything else
in the world--a contempt, too, which was not assumed. He was perfectly
happy for the nonce, and doubly so in that such a happy termination to a
very long day was wholly unexpected. He had thought that he should find
the party gone from New York on his return from Greenwood, and this bit
of good luck seemed to have fallen to him out of a clear sky. Margaret
was glad to see him too; she was just now in that intermediate frame of
mind during which a woman only reasons about a man in his absence. The
moment he appears, the electric circuit is closed and the quiescent
state ceases. She was at the point when his coming made a difference
that she could feel; when she heard his step her blood beat faster, and
she could feel herself turning a shade paler. Then the heavy lids would
droop a little to hide what was in her dark eyes, and there were many
voices in her ear, as though the very air cried _gloria_, while her
heart answered _in excelsis_. But when he was come the gentle tale
seemed carried on, as from the hour of his last going; and while he
stayed life seemed one long day.
She had struggled hard, but in her deepest thoughts she had foreseen the
termination. It is the instinct of good women to fight against love--he
comes in such a questionable shape. A good woman sees a difference
between being in love and loving--well knowing that there is passion
without love, but no love without passion. She feels bound in faith to
set up a tribunal in her heart, whereby to judge between the two; but
very often judge and jury and prisoner at the bar join hands, and swear
eternal friendship on the spot. Margaret had feared lest this Northern
wooer, with his mighty strength and his bold eyes, should lead her
feelings whither her heart would not. Sooner than suffer that, she would
die. And yet there is a whole unspoken prophecy of love in every human
soul, and his witness is true.
All this evening they sat side by side, welding their bonds. Each had a
secret care, but each forgot it utterly. Claudius would not have deigned
to think of his own troubles when he was with her; and she never once
remembered how, during that morning, she had longed to tell him all
about her brother-in-law. They talked of all sorts of things, and they
made up their minds to go to Newport the next day.
Miss Skeat asked whether Newport was as romantic as Scarborough.