"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.
CHAPTER XIV.
There were odours of Russian cigarettes in Mr. Horace Bellingham's room, and two smokers were industriously adding to the fragrant cloud. One was the owner of the dwelling himself, and the other was Claudius. He sat upon the sofa that stood between the two windows of the room, which was on the ground floor, and looked out on the street. The walls were covered with pictures wherever they were not covered with books, and there was not an available nook or corner unfilled with scraps of bric-à-brac, photographs, odds and ends of reminiscence, and all manner of things characteristic to the denizen of the apartment. The furniture was evidently calculated more for comfort than display, and if there was an air of luxury pervading the bachelor's quiet rez-de-chaussée, it was due to the rare volumes on the shelves and the good pictures on the walls, rather than to the silk or satin of the high-art upholsterer, or the gilding and tile work of the modern decorator, who ravages upon beauty as a fungus upon a fruit tree. Whatever there was in Mr. Bellingham's rooms was good; much of it was unique, and the whole was harmonious. Rare editions were bound by famous binders, and if the twopenny-halfpenny productions of some little would-be modern poet, resplendent with vellum and æsthetic greenliness of paper, occasionally found their way to the table, they never travelled as far as the shelves. Mr. Bellingham had fools enough about him to absorb his spare trash.
On this particular occasion the old gentleman was seated in an arm-chair at his table, and Claudius, as aforesaid, had established himself upon the sofa. He looked very grave and smoked thoughtfully.