Doctor Claudius, A True Story

by F. Marion Crawford

Mr. Bellingham glanced at a great enamelled clock, half-hidden among flowers and fans, as they passed, and he noticed that they had not been in the house much more than three quarters of an hour. But he wisely said nothing, and waited patiently while Margaret was wrapped in her cloaks, and till the butler had told the footman, and the footman had told the other footman, and the other footman had told the page, and the page had told the policeman to call the Countess Margaret's carriage. After which the carriage appeared, and they drove away.

Uncle Horace chatted pleasantly about the party, admitting that he had dreamed more than he had seen of it. But Margaret said little, for the reaction was coming after the excitement she had passed through. Only when they reached Mr. Bellingham's rooms, and he was about to leave her, she held his hand a moment and looked earnestly in his face.

"Mr. Bellingham," she said suddenly, "I trust you will always be my friend—will you not?" The old gentleman paused in his descent from the carriage, and took the hand she offered.

"Indeed I will, my dear child," he said very seriously. Then he bent his knee to the sill of the door and kissed her fingers, and was gone. No one ever resented Mr. Bellingham's familiarity, for it was rare and honest of its kind. Besides, he was old enough to be her grandfather, in spite of his pretty speeches and his graceful actions.

Margaret passed a sleepless night. Her anger with Mr. Barker had not been so much the mere result of the words he had spoken, though she would have resented his sneer about Claudius sharply enough under any circumstances. It was rather that to her keen intelligence, rendered still more acute by her love for the Doctor, the whole scene constituted a revelation. By that wonderful instinct which guides women in the most critical moments of their lives, she saw at last the meaning of Barker's doings, of his silence concerning Claudius, and of his coolness with the latter before he had got rid of him. She saw Barker at the bottom of the plot to send Claudius to Europe; she saw him in all the efforts made by the Duke and Barker to keep Claudius and herself apart on board the yacht; she saw his hand in it all, and she understood for the first time that this man, whom she had of late permitted to be so much with her, was her worst enemy, while aspiring to be her lover. The whole extent of his faithlessness to Claudius came before her, as she remembered that it had doubtless been to serve the Doctor that Barker had obtained an introduction to her at Baden; that he had done everything to throw them together, devoting himself to Miss Skeat, in a manner that drove that ancient virgin to the pinnacle of bliss and despair, while leaving Claudius free field to make love to herself. And then he had suddenly turned and made up his mind that he should have her for his own wife. And her anger rose higher and hotter as she thought of it.

Then she went over the scene of the evening at Mrs. Van Sueindell's house—how she had not listened and not understood, until she was so suddenly roused to the consciousness of what he was saying—how she had faced him, and, in the inspiration of the moment, had boldly told him that she loved his rival. In that thought she found satisfaction, as well she might, for her love had been put to the test, and had not failed her.

"I am glad I said it," she murmured to herself, and fell asleep. Poor Claudius, far away over the sea, what a leap his heart would have given could he have known what she had done, and that she was glad of it.

And Mr. Barker? He felt a little crushed when she left him there alone in the Japanese boudoir, for he knew at once that he might as well throw up the game. There was not the least chance for him any longer. He might indeed suspect that the documents Margaret spoke of were a myth, and that her declaration of the engagement was in reality the only weapon she could use in Claudius's defence. But that did not change matters. No woman would "give herself away," as he expressed it, so recklessly, unless she were perfectly certain. Therefore Mr. Barker went into the supper-room, and took a little champagne to steady his nerves; after which he did his best to amuse himself, talking with unusual vivacity to any young lady of his acquaintance whom he could allure from her partner for a few minutes. For he had kept himself free of engagements that evening on Margaret's account, and now regretted it bitterly. But Mr. Barker was a great match, as has been said before, and he seldom had any difficulty in amusing himself when he felt so inclined. He had not witnessed Margaret's departure, for, not wishing to be seen coming out of the boudoir alone, a sure sign of defeat, and being perfectly familiar with the house, he had found his way by another door, and through circuitous passages to the pantry, and thence to the supper-room; so that by the time he had refreshed himself Margaret and Mr. Bellingham had gone.

Do people of Mr. Barker's stamp feel? Probably not. It requires a strong organisation, either animal or intellectual, to suffer much from any shock to the affections. Englishmen, on those occasions when their passion gets the better of their caution, somewhat a rare occurrence nowadays, are capable of loving very strongly, and of suffering severely if thwarted, for they are among the most powerful races in the animal kingdom. Their whole history shows this, moulded as it has generally been by exceptional men, for the most part Irish and Scotch, in whom the highest animal and intellectual characteristics were united. Germans, in whom the intellectual faculties, and especially the imagination, predominate, are for the most part very love-sick for at least half their lives. But Americans seem to be differently organised; meaning, of course, the small class, who would like to be designated as the "aristocracy" of the country. The faculties are all awake, acute, and ready for use; but there is a lack of depth, which will rouse the perpetual wonder of future generations. While the mass of the people exhibits the strong characteristics of the Saxon, the Celtic, and the South German races, physical endurance and occasionally intellectual pre-eminence,—for, saving some peculiarities of speech, made defects merely by comparison, there are no such natural orators and statesmen in the world as are to be found in Congress; at the same time, the would-be aristocracy of the country is remarkable for nothing so much as for the very unaristocratic faculty of getting money—rarely mingling in public questions, still more rarely producing anything of merit, literary or artistic. Therefore, being so constituted that the almighty dollar crowns the edifice of their ambitions as with a coronet of milled silver, they are singularly inapt to suffer from such ills as prick the soul, which taketh no thought for the morrow, what it shall eat or what it shall drink.

Truly, a happy people, these American aristocrats.