When Barker left Screw he had learned a great deal about the suit of which he inquired, but Screw had learned nothing whatever about Claudius.
As for the Doctor, as soon as he had despatched his letter he sent to secure a passage in Wednesday's steamer, and set himself to prepare his effects for the voyage, as he only intended returning from Newport in time to go on board. He was provided with money enough, for before leaving Germany he had realised the whole of his own little fortune, not wishing to draw upon his larger inheritance until he should feel some necessity for doing so. He now felt no small satisfaction in the thought that he was independent of Mr. Screw and of every one else. It would have been an easy matter, he knew, to clear up the whole difficulty in twenty-four hours, by simply asking the Duke to vouch for him; and before hearing of Margaret's trouble he had had every intention of pursuing that course. But now that he was determined to go to Russia in her behalf, his own difficulty, if he did not take steps for removing it, furnished him with an excellent excuse for the journey, without telling the Countess that he was going for the sole purpose of recovering her fortune, as he otherwise must have told her. Had he known the full extent of Barker's intentions he might have acted differently, but as yet his instinct against that ingenious young gentleman was undefined and vague.
CHAPTER XV.
The cliff at Newport—the long winding path that follows it from the great beach to the point of the island, always just above the sea, hardly once descending to it, as the evenly-gravelled path, too narrow for three, though far too broad for two, winds by easy curves through the grounds, and skirts the lawns of the million-getters who have their tents and their houses therein—it is a pretty place. There the rich men come and seethe in their gold all summer; and Lazarus comes to see whether he cannot marry Dives's daughter. And the choleric architect, dissatisfied with the face of Nature, strikes her many a dread blow, and produces an unhealthy eruption wherever he strikes, and calls the things he makes houses. Here also, on Sunday afternoon, young gentlemen and younger ladies patrol in pairs, and discourse of the most saccharine inanities, not knowing what they shall say, and taking no thought, for obvious reasons. And gardeners sally forth in the morning and trim the paths with strange-looking instruments—the earth-barbers, who lather and shave and clip Nature into patterns, and the world into a quincunx.
It is a pretty place. There is nothing grand, not even anything natural in Newport, but it is very pretty for all that. For an artificial place, destined to house the most artificial people in the world during three months of the year, it is as pleasing as it can be in a light-comedy-scenery style. Besides, the scenery in Newport is very expensive, and it is impossible to spend so much money without producing some result. It cost a hundred thousand to level that lawn there, and Dives paid the money cheerfully. Then there is Croesus, his neighbour, who can draw a cheque for a hundred millions if he likes. His house cost him a pot of money. And so they build themselves a landscape, and pare off the rough edges of the island, and construct elegant landing-stages, and keep yachts, and make to themselves a fashionable watering-place; until by dint of putting money into it, they have made it remarkable among the watering-places of the world, perhaps the most remarkable of all.
But there are times when the cliff at Newport is not an altogether flippant bit of expensive scene-painting, laid out for the sole purpose of "effect." Sometimes in the warm summer nights the venerable moon rises stately and white out of the water; the old moon, that is the hoariest sinner of us all, with her spells and enchantments and her breathing love-beams, that look so gently on such evil works. And the artist-spirits of the night sky take of her silver as much as they will, and coat with it many things of most humble composition, so that they are fair to look upon. And they play strange pranks with faces of living and dead. So when the ruler of the darkness shines over poor, commonplace Newport, the aspect of it is changed, and the gingerbread abominations wherein the people dwell are magnified into lofty palaces of silver, and the close-trimmed lawns are great carpets of soft dark velvet; and the smug-faced philistine sea, that the ocean would be ashamed to own for a relation by day, breaks out into broken flashes of silver and long paths of light. All this the moonlight does, rejoicing in its deception.
There is another time, too, when Newport is no longer commonplace, when that same sea, which never seems to have any life of its own, disgorges its foggy soul over the land. There is an ugly odour as of musty salt-water in men's nostrils, and the mist is heavy and thick to the touch. It creeps up to the edge of the cliff, and greedily clings to the wet grass, and climbs higher and over the lawns, and in at the windows of Dives's dining-room, and of Croesus's library, with its burden of insiduous mould. The pair of trim-built flirtlings, walking so daintily down the gravel path, becomes indistinct, and their forms are seen but as the shadows of things dead—treading on air, between three worlds. The few feet of bank above the sea, dignified by the name of cliff, fall back to a gaping chasm, a sheer horror of depths, misty and unfathomable. Onward slides the thick cloud, and soon the deep-mouthed monotone of the fog-horns in the distance tells it is in the bay. There is nothing commonplace about the Newport cliff in a fog; it is wild enough and dreary enough then, for the scene of a bad deed. You might meet the souls of the lost in such a fog, hiding before the wrath to come.
Late on Tuesday afternoon Claudius and Margaret had taken their way towards the cliff, a solitary couple at that hour on a week-day. Even at a distance there was something about their appearance that distinguished them from ordinary couples. Claudius's great height seemed still more imposing now that he affected the garb of civilisation, and Margaret had the air of a woman of the great world in every movement of her graceful body, and in every fold of her perfect dress. American women, when they dress well, dress better than any other women in the world; but an American woman who has lived at the foreign courts is unapproachable. If there had been any one to see these two together on Tuesday afternoon, there would have been words of envy, malice, and hatred. As it was, they were quite alone on the cliff walk.
Margaret was happy; there was light in her eyes, and a faint warm flush on her dark cheek. A closed parasol hung from her hand, having an ivory handle carved with an "M" and a crown—the very one that three months ago had struck the first spark of their acquaintance from the stones of the old Schloss at Heidelberg—perhaps she had brought it on purpose. She was happy still, for she did not know that Claudius was going away, though he had brought her out here, away from every one, that he might tell her. But they had reached the cliff and had walked some distance in the direction of the point, and yet he spoke not. Something tied his tongue, and he would have spoken if he could, but his words seemed too big to come out. At last they came to a place where a quick descent leads from the path down to the sea. A little sheltered nook of sand and stones is there, all irregular and rough, like the lumps in brown sugar, and the lazy sea splashed a little against some old pebbles it had known for a long time, never having found the energy to wash them away. The rocks above overhung the spot, so that it was entirely shielded from the path, and the rocks below spread themselves into a kind of seat. Here they sat them down, facing the water—towards evening—not too near to each other, not too far,—Margaret on the right, Claudius on the left. And Claudius punched the little pebbles with his stick after he had sat down, wondering how he should begin. Indeed it did not seem easy. It would have been easier if he had been less advanced, or further advanced, in his suit. Most people never jump without feeling, at the moment of jumping, that they could leap a little better if they could "take off" an inch nearer or further away.