CHAPTER VII.
THE EDUCATION OF KALLIOPÉ.
Before the meal was over, Danaë became aware that the number of the spectators was increased. Prince and Princess Theophanis had come in quietly, and were watching the children as they ate.
“Not a bad little chap, is he?” said Maurice at last.
His wife shrugged her shoulders. “Not a bad-looking child, certainly. But no look of race about him.”
Danaë understood the tone, if not the words, and bristled angrily in Janni’s defence. But the Prince was speaking again. “You wouldn’t like us to take charge of him, I suppose, Eirene, as Zoe and Wylie have their own?”
“Maurice!” She turned upon him with poignant reproach. “To take Constantine’s place?”
“No, nonsense! No one could ever take Con’s place. But I thought it might be an interest for you, to have a child about the house.”
“What interest could there be for me in any ordinary child like that? He would not be a descendant of John Theophanis.”
The name caught Danaë’s attention, and she looked up so sharply that Wylie noticed it. “What do you know of John Theophanis, Kalliopé?” he asked her in Greek.
“He was the great Roman Emperor, lord, the blessed martyr from whom the Lord Romanos is descended,” she replied. Princess Theophanis turned quickly.
“The Lord Romanos!” she cried. “Girl, that upstart can only trace his descent from the Emperor’s daughter. Here in this room are the true descendants of John Theophanis, my husband and his sister descended from his elder son, I from the younger. And this child—” her voice grew harsh—“is the sole representative of the line in his generation. Do you understand? Tell me what I have said.”
“That you are all descended from John Theophanis, lady,” said Danaë sullenly, “and that this child is his rightful heir.” But her hands were on Janni’s shoulders, though her defiant eyes wandered from little Harold’s face to that of the Princess.
“My dear Eirene!” said Zoe, laughing uncomfortably, for there was a sense of something electric in the atmosphere. “Is it really necessary to require a confession of the Theophanis faith from every wretched servant-girl who comes into the house? What does it signify whether she believes in our claims or not?”
“If you are inclined to belittle your child’s rights, Zoe, I am not,” said the Princess coldly. Evidently her husband felt the moment was not propitious for urging his wishes, for the matter dropped. But when Zoe and her husband were alone together, Wylie showed that he had not forgotten it.
“That girl has some closer association with the name of John Theophanis than merely her Prince’s descent, Zoe,” he said. “Find out all you can about her—without letting her see that you are cross-questioning her, if possible. I don’t know what to make of her.”
“But what is there suspicious about her, Graham? She seems devoted to the child.”
“Yes, but the whole thing is so queer. I had better tell you exactly what we know of her.” He related the story of their first meeting, and mentioned the points which had struck him at various times as suspicious, his wife listening with close attention.
“But I don’t see how it fits in,” she said at last. “If she is a spy, why hamper herself with the child?”
“That’s what Maurice said. And then it struck him afterwards—I don’t want to frighten you, Zoe—that there might be some design against Harold. But I don’t see it. Still, surely the very purposelessness of bringing a baby with her would tend to make her less likely to be suspected?”
“But what design could there be against Harold? Graham, what have you heard? You must tell me.”
“My dear girl, I have heard nothing. It is simply that there were the usual rumours in Therma that Romanos was trying to negociate a royal alliance, and I suppose it is possible that the interested parties might wish to get rid of any other aspirants to the throne.”
“By kidnapping Harold?” She paused in sheer horror, then laughed. “You mean that they hope to deceive me by leaving that poor little shrimp in his place? I think that is really rather far-fetched. At any rate, I promise you that Linton and I will keep a very wide-open eye on Janni and his nurse, and if any wiles can get the truth out of her, it shall come to light. Then you still think Prince Romanos is not to be trusted?”
“His whole manner was most unsatisfactory. Putting off and putting off, slipping out of things and drawing red herrings across the trail. Of course, if the story of the projected Scythian marriage is true, one can understand it——”
Zoe interrupted him. “I don’t think you need be afraid of that, Graham. Think how long the rumours have been going on. Besides—I can’t give you my authority, because it was told me in confidence—but I have every reason to believe that no such marriage can possibly take place.”
“Then the mystery is deeper than ever—unless he is coquetting with the idea in the hope of getting some good out of it. But in that case he ought to let us into the secret. What are you to do with a man who won’t play fair to his own side?”
“But suppose you disapproved of the secret? It seems to me that he is very wise—from his own point of view. But it is horribly tiresome, of course—not being able to trust him, I mean. Oh, Graham, what about Eirene’s girdle? Were you able to get it back?”
“No, unfortunately. Everything seemed all right and above-board. The wall might never have been disturbed since the day she hid the thing, but there was merely an empty hole. And one can’t help remembering, you know, that the Scythian Imperial family would do anything to lay their hands on the Girdle of Isidora. But then, according to you, there’s nothing in that idea——”
“Nothing at all, I firmly believe. But I think Prince Romanos is capable of a good deal in other ways—which makes me not at all anxious to have a tool of his in the house. So I shall watch pretty keenly to catch Kalliopé tripping.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, might I speak to you a minute?” said Linton on the threshold, and Zoe joined her. She had a heap of little clothes on her arm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I thought I should like you just to see these. They are what was just taken off of that little boy Johnny. That nurse of his is singing him to sleep now—a thing I never have allowed in my nursery, nor never will—and he as naughty as possible, a fine contrast to Master Harold; so I’ve put his bed in her room.”
“But the things look very nice, Linton—and very clean,” said Zoe, fingering them in some perplexity.
“That’s just it, ma’am. Look at the stuff—and the trimmings. And all English-made—leastways European, as they call it. It’s my belief, ma’am, that child has been stolen, and from a good home, too.”
Zoe gasped. The variety of explanations of which Kalliopé and her proceedings were capable was becoming bewildering. Under Linton’s stern eye she recovered herself quickly.
“Well, Linton, we must take great care of him, and make sure that she does not carry him away anywhere else, while we watch the papers and see if any child has been lost. I will talk to Kalliopé, and try to find out something more about her, but we must be careful not to let her see she is suspected.”
Unfortunately, Linton was not a person who found it easy to disguise her feelings, when they were of an unflattering character. Her whole demeanour, to Danaë’s quick eye, was instinct with suspicion, and the girl improved the opportunity given her by the night to put her defences in order. The next morning, while Linton was busy in the nursery, Zoe came as usual to sit on the wide verandah when her house-keeping duties were done, to look after Harold, and naturally found Danaë there, keeping an eye on both children. After trying in vain to lead up to things gradually, she asked a direct question.
“Why does Janni wear European clothes, Kalliopé?”
The girl turned with a flash of bright eyes and white teeth. “I wondered when you would notice it, my lady. My sister was in the service of a great Frank lady before her marriage, and the lady has always sent Jannaki the clothes that her own little boy has outgrown.”
“He must grow very fast. The clothes look nearly new.”
“So much the better for Janni, my lady.”
“Why do you call Janni ‘my little lord’—kyriaki mou?” asked Zoe, changing the conversation abruptly.
“But I don’t, lady. Why should I?”
“You called him so to me last night.” Zoe’s voice had hardened, imperceptibly to herself. Danaë gave her one glance out of her black eyes, then laughed confusedly.
“It was only foolishness, lady. Does he not wear the little lord’s clothes? And we are proud of a first-born son in—” she had all but said “in Strio,” but substituted just in time—“in the islands. He is often called the little lord by the women.”
“Then you do come from the islands? Why did you tell my husband you had never been there?”
“Because I never have, my lady. I have always lived in Therma, but my family come from the islands. I suppose that is why that wretch Petros sought us out,” she added hardily. “Being island-born himself, doubtless he wished to hear the island-talk again.”
Zoe reflected for a moment. The explanation was glib enough, but it did not altogether satisfy her. “Do you always tell the truth, Kalliopé?” she asked boldly.
“O my lady, I never told a lie in my life!” replied the unblushing Danaë, with virtuous indignation. Her hostess abandoned the unpromising field of inquiry, and began to talk about the children.
“They are very much of an age,” she said.
“But the Lord Harold is much fatter,” said Danaë politely, yet with an air that implied size was by no means everything.
“How well you have caught his name, Kalliopé! Have you ever heard it before?” Danaë’s eyes were uncomprehending, but she declined to give herself away by answering, and Zoe went on. “His first name is Maurice, after my brother, but we could not have two Maurices, so we called him Harold, after a dear friend of ours who nearly lost his life in trying to help us in Hagiamavra. Sometimes we call him Childe Harold, to distinguish him. You have heard of Byron’s poem?”
Any other Greek girl would have kindled to enthusiasm at the name of Byron, but Danaë remained woefully perplexed, though she muttered, in a hopeless attempt to save appearances, that she knew the poem well. Then, perceiving that she had made a blunder, she dashed into a bold confidence.
“Lady, I will tell you a great secret. I feared at first, but now I know that I can trust you, since you received my Jannaki kindly, and gave him a place with your own child. Once I told the Lord Theophanis that the child was greater than he seemed, which made him laugh, and doubtless the Lord Glafko believed I was speaking falsely. But it is true. Janni is not my sister’s child. Her boy died, and this is the son of the great Frank lady in whose house my sister served, as I told you.”
Danaë stopped suddenly. In the Lady Zoe’s eyes there was a look of dawning comprehension. Was it possible that the scandals agitating Therma had reached her ears, and that she was within an inch of guessing the truth? The girl plunged wildly into further invention. “He was her youngest child, lady, and she had children enough before. She desired to make a long journey with the great lord her husband, and they did not wish to take the child, for they were to be away for two whole years. So she sent for my sister to Czarigrad, and entrusted the little lord to her, with money for his food and clothes, and started with her husband. That was how the little lord came to us.”
“And how long ago was this?”
Danaë embarked on elaborate calculations with the aid of her fingers. “Eight—nine weeks, my lady.”
“But you told me you had been with him from his birth!”
“Well—almost from his birth, lady,” conceded Danaë pleasantly.
“And where is his mother now?”
“I know not, my lady. How can I tell?”
“But were you not to write to her?”
“Nay, my lady. Who of us could write?”
“But she could not leave her child without making some arrangement—What is her name?”
“That also I know not, lady mine. My sister knew.”
“But this is absurd! No one could have been so mad. What about the money she paid to your sister?”
“It was hidden somewhere in the house, lady. Perhaps my brother-in-law found it, or Petros.”
“Does Petros know anything about the Frank lady?”
“I cannot tell, my lady. Why should he?”
Zoe gave up her questioning for the moment in despair. “Then all that you told me about the clothes was false?”
“Well, it was not quite true, my lady.”
“But I thought you never told lies? If you say different things on different days, which am I to believe?”
This seemed a new idea to Danaë, and she pondered it. “Whichever pleases you best, lady,” she said at last.
“But what I want is the truth. Can’t you understand, Kalliopé, that I prefer an unpleasant truth to a pleasant falsehood?”
“You may think so now, my lady, but you do not know,” said Danaë in a tone which clearly promised Zoe immunity from unpleasant truths so far as it lay with her.
“I can’t make anything of her!” Zoe told her husband afterwards. “She is very pretty, and she seems to have taken a fancy to me, but I am beginning to think you can’t believe a word she says.”
“Her flights of fancy are certainly surprising,” agreed Wylie.
“Yes; as if any mother could be so unnatural! But meanwhile, who is the child, and what are we to do about him? And another thing, Graham: I don’t believe the story of the Frank lady a bit. There is a great likeness between Kalliopé and the child—I have seen it several times. They both remind me of some one else, too, but I can’t think who it is. It is most mysterious.”
“Well, the likeness—if it is not a mere imagination of yours—makes it probable that the tale of the Frank lady is only invented to add to the child’s importance. Otherwise——”
“You think we ought to put the whole thing into the hands of the Therma police?”
“Not while she tells a different story every day. I still think that it’s to the secret police we owe her presence here at all. Therefore I should say wait a little, and see if we can arrive at any residuum of truth by the time her invention is exhausted.”
“But it’s so dreadful to feel that everything one asks her leads her to tell fresh falsehoods!” lamented Zoe. “She doesn’t seem to have an idea that it’s wrong.”
This was quite true. That falsehood should be a sin—as bad as eating meat on a fast-day, or neglecting to salute an icon—was absolutely incomprehensible to Danaë. Moreover, the fact that her new acquaintances so regarded it did not in the least raise them in her estimation. She thought of them, not as occupying a pinnacle of lofty if austere morality, but as fools, and the impression was deepened by a conversation she held with Linton, who laboured faithfully to awaken her to a sense of her lamentable moral condition. They had been watching from the verandah the stream of claimants and suppliants who sought the presence of Prince Theophanis every morning, and Danaë remarked on this accessibility. So far as she could see, his guards let them enter impartially in the order of their coming, and no one obtained first place by means of a bribe.
“Well, I should think not!” cried Linton, in vigorous if colloquial Greek. “Colonel Wylie would have something to say to any man who took a bribe.”
“Do the Prince and the Lord Glafko divide the presents that are brought, or does the Prince keep them all?” asked Danaë.
“Presents? what presents?”
“The presents that they will not suffer the guards to take.”
Linton snorted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, my girl. Neither the Prince nor my master have anything to do with presents. What is needed for the household is honestly bought and paid for, and the people are beginning to understand it.”
Danaë laughed. “The great ones take their commission on the taxes, then?”
“You seem to think the Roumis are still here, Kalliopé. The taxes are collected by the Therma Government, and the Prince merely sees that it’s done. And little enough gratitude he gets for all his work, and the peace and order the Colonel keeps with his police. This tumble-down old place, and nothing more.”
“You would have me believe that this is all kept up upon nothing?” with open incredulity.
“The Prince spends out of his own pocket to do it.”
Danaë laughed freely. “That is very fine—to talk about. The money returns to him somehow, of course. He is laying up a great store—or the ladies spend it upon jewels.”
“My lady’s jewels could be bought with a hundred-pound note any day,” said Linton indignantly. “The Princess has a better show, but they came to her from her own family. And the one thing she prizes most of all has been stolen, and she can’t get it back—a waistband with pictures of saints all over it.”
“These English people are mad,” was Danaë’s inconsequent rejoinder. “Or else you must think I am, to expect me to believe such things. I am not a child, to be deceived with fairy tales.”
She left Linton rather abruptly, and went to play with the children. It was disquieting to remember that she had brought the Girdle of Isidora under the roof of the person who considered herself its rightful owner. On the night of her arrival, she had hidden it cunningly, with the Lady’s unfinished letter, inside her mattress, and now as soon as she could steal away, she went to make sure that it was safe. She would have liked to make Zoe an accomplice by entrusting it to her, but something told her that in that case the Princess Eirene would very quickly receive it again, and she pushed it sadly back into its hiding-place.
“I could bear to see my own lady wearing it,” she said to herself, “but not the evil-eyed one.”
For ever since her first sight of Eirene, Danaë had been convinced that she regarded little Harold with an evil eye. It was quite natural, since he stood in her own son’s place, but it was also strongly to be resisted. For several days Linton and her mistress were perplexed by the overpowering smell of garlic which hung about Harold. Garlic was a forbidden delicacy in the nursery, and when Danaë felt an irresistible craving for it, she was obliged to seek the hospitality of the kitchen. But Harold’s hair and pinafores were strongly scented, and the smell was obvious in the room itself. It was Wylie who at last discovered a clove of garlic placed on the lintel of the door, and Zoe, watching while Linton was out of the way, caught Danaë rubbing the child’s head and shoulders with it. The offender was impenitent.
“It is to avert the evil eye,” she said. “Everyone knows it is the best thing—almost infallible.”
“You are never to do it in future,” said Zoe.
“Then the Lord Harold will pine away and die, my lady.”
“Nonsense! I won’t have it, do you hear?”
“As you will, lady,” reluctantly. “But at least I will say Skordon! skordon! [garlic] whenever the Lady Eirene comes in. I will do what I can, though that is not nearly so much good.”
It was in the faint hope of breaking Danaë of some of her superstitions that Zoe began to teach her to read. She would not have suspected in the girl any desire for such an accomplishment, if she had not caught her poring diligently over a torn newspaper held upside down. Linton could read, and therefore Danaë owed it to herself to pretend to be able to do so. She received her mistress’s offer without enthusiasm.
“Of course I could read as well as anyone when I was a child, but I have forgotten it,” she observed airily.
But when the lessons had continued some few days, she astonished Zoe by looking up and remarking, “I told you a lie the other day, my lady. I never got beyond theta at school.”
“Then you were at school, Kalliopé? Where?”
“Only for a week, lady—in Tortolana.”
“Tortolana? But that is one of the islands—near Strio?”
“Yes, my lady.” Danaë looked up smiling, and then realised the admission she had made. She grew crimson to the very tips of her ears as she bent over the book again, and Zoe bemoaned herself afterwards to her husband.
“Oh, Graham, I thought she was getting a little more truthful, and now I find she has been deceiving us all this time, and never meant to confess it! But if she does come from the islands, Petros may be her uncle after all, and there may not be a word of truth in any of her stories. What is one to believe?”
“What is one to do, rather?” said Wylie.
“Yes, about Janni. If his poor mother should be looking for him!—and yet there is nothing in any of the papers about a lost child. And if she is away on a journey, it is no good putting a notice in a Therma paper——”
“None whatever. But think, if she gets anxious because of getting no news, she will put the matter into the hands of the Therma police, and a reward will be offered for tidings of the little chap. You must remember that our friend Petros knows where he is, and I think we may be quite sure he won’t be backward in claiming that reward if it is offered. So don’t worry yourself.”
CHAPTER VIII.
ROOTED IN DISHONOUR.
Yes, Petros knew where she and Janni were, and the recollection caused grievous anxiety to Danaë. She could not believe that he would sit down meekly under the defeat she had inflicted on him, and his continued silence, as time went on, became ominous. How he could have accounted to Prince Romanos for the complete disappearance of his son and the nurse-girl was a mystery, and so was the Prince’s acquiescence in it. Even if Janni was not to be acknowledged as heir, his father would surely wish to have him brought up under his own eye, and in this case Petros would presumably be sent to fetch him away without unnecessary publicity.
“Lady”—desperation drove Danaë at last to appeal to her mistress—“if the thrice accursed Petros came hither and demanded my little lord and me, would you give us up to him?”
Zoe looked at her searchingly. “Why should he, Kalliopé? What right has he over you?”
“None, my lady; none whatever. His fathers were the dirt beneath the feet of ours.”
Zoe frowned, but the fear of embarking the girl upon a fresh venture of falsehood kept her from asking further questions. “If he has no authority over you, Kalliopé, and is not sent by anyone who has, the Prince would certainly not give you up to him.”
For the present Danaë’s anxiety was relieved. Her brother’s interest in Janni could not be admitted unless he had decided to acknowledge him publicly, and her own father was the only other person whose authority she owned. But Prince Christodoridi was not in the least likely to leave his island fastnesses for the sake of anything so unimportant as a daughter, and if Petros should have the hardihood to produce a letter from him—well, Danaë would deny its authenticity and everything he alleged, let him assert it as much as he liked. From which it is evident that her views of truth had not yet reached a very high standard.
Confiding in the moral support of her hosts, and in the material protection of the guards who, under Wylie’s orders, patrolled the approaches to the Konak night and day, Danaë permitted herself to regard her position as practically a permanency, and to plan how she might best take advantage of it. She looked back with something like contempt on the little savage who had left Strio on a barbaric mission of vengeance, and was inclined to plume herself on having deliberately made use of her father’s plottings to overthrow his own schemes with regard to her. How keen had been her insight into human nature when she sought help from Prince Theophanis and Glafko, how shrewd her cunning in hiding her identity and taking a humble place on the outskirts of their circle! For already she was in a fair way to realise the ambitions which her father had crushed down with such a heavy hand, and Strio had no place—or at best a very minor one, in her dreams for the future. She was almost inclined to regret the promise, in strict accordance with local etiquette, which she had obtained from Prince Christodoridi, that in no case should Angeliké be married before her. The regret was not due to any pity for poor Angeliké, who had none of the consolations of change of scene she herself was enjoying, but to the conviction that if Angeliké was permanently sundered, not only from Narkissos Smaragdopoulos but from all possible suitors, she would make things so unpleasant at home that her father would be driven in self-defence to recall his elder daughter and provide both with husbands forthwith. But there would be considerable difficulty in the way of his finding her, and in the meantime things might happen that would prevent her returning to Strio at all—save as a “European” lady with no intention of remaining there.
In Danaë’s own opinion, she was now well on the way to becoming “European.” Was she not learning to read, and making valiant efforts at reproducing deltas and epsilons whenever she could find a blank wall and a piece of blackened stick? Then in manners she was conscientiously modelling herself upon Zoe, much assisted by Linton, who had formed the habit, after hearing of her connection with the islands, of alluding to her as a “fisher-girl,” and excusing her lapses from strict propriety for that reason. In Danaë’s former world, great ladies as well as fisher-girls had stormed when they were angry, over-eaten themselves on feast-days, and spent long hours of leisure in gossiping and eating sweets, but things were different here. Some effort towards self-restraint began to show itself, and was warmly encouraged by Zoe, without any idea of the motives which were actuating the girl, and with a disconcerting blindness towards her “European” aspirations. When Danaë received her first month’s wages, and her mistress suggested that a little attention to her wardrobe was advisable, two whole days of sulks followed the prompt thwarting of her desire to buy European clothes. Zoe’s horror at the suggestion she could not understand, not realising in the least what a picture she made in her Greek dress, with her splendid hair hanging down almost to her knees in the two thick plaits which now replaced the multitude of tiny braids which had taken hours to do. But Linton, who was a Philistine of the Philistines, and disapproved of national costumes as theatrical, used to allow her to put on one of her gowns when her mistress was out, and Danaë would sweep about in it, admiring the trailing folds over her shoulder, and bitterly resentful of her own short skirts. Otherwise she was submissive enough, embroidering herself an apron in the characteristic Strio pattern, and adding what coins remained over to the store that decorated her cap.
It was not often that the girl’s self-complacency over the improvement in herself was disturbed, but however resolutely she might put it behind her, it was not possible entirely to forget the tragedy in which she had borne a part. Assure herself as she might that Janni was perfectly happy, and far healthier than he had been at Therma, she could not escape occasional rude reminders that his present position of dependence on his father’s enemies was due to her. On Sunday afternoons it was Zoe’s habit to come into the nursery and read aloud to Linton, whose eyes were not as good as they had been, but who did not like to be reminded of the fact. True to her desire for Danaë’s moral advancement, the good woman herself suggested that the reading should be in Greek, and Danaë listened with more or less edification. One day, however, she rose suddenly from fanning the children as they slept on the divan, and knelt down beside Zoe.
“Lady, is it true what that book says—that what is done can never be undone?”
“A thing done can never be as though it had not been, Kalliopé. But what sort of thing——?”
“But not if one goes on pilgrimage, my lady—to Jerusalem, even? to bathe in the Jordan? If one gives crowns and jewels to the icons——?”
“Nothing can undo a wrong once committed, Kalliopé. We may repent of it, and it may be forgiven, but not even God Himself can take away the consequences.”
“But if it was atoned for, lady mine, and—and forgotten? Can one never say, ‘That is done with’? May it rise up at any time to torment one?”
“That is our punishment. But, Kalliopé—” Zoe looked into the girl’s face and took the hands which were clasping her knees—“you can have no such terrible thing in your life, my dear child. But if you are planning anything of the kind, then stop. It is as you say, one can never get away from it.”
“It is so; it is so.” Danaë rose and wrung her hands. “It returns, and one cannot escape it. The Furies pursue even those who had least——” She checked herself hastily, but the tears rolled down her face as she went slowly out of the room. Before her eyes, as vividly as though it lay before her feet, she saw the rigid form of Janni’s mother prone upon the grass in her red gown, with the deeper red spreading beneath her.
But when Zoe and Linton saw her again, the fit of remorse had gone by. She was as unconcerned and impenetrable as if she had not a care in the world—as different as possible from the girl whose mental agony had impressed them both with the misgiving that there might after all be a dark shadow in her past. They watched her with lynx-eyes for a time, jealous lest the faintest contamination should approach Harold, and the next time Zoe found that Danaë had told her an untruth—now a less frequent occurrence than at first—she spoke sharply and without reflection.
“Take care, Kalliopé. I cannot keep you in the nursery unless you tell the truth.”
“Why, my lady? What will you do with me?” asked Danaë, with much interest.
“Send you to help in the kitchen, I suppose,” said Zoe reluctantly, thinking how unsuitable such a fate would be for the brilliant creature before her. The girl’s face darkened with passion.
“You would send my little lord to the kitchen?” she cried.
“Of course not. He stays here.”
“He stays nowhere without me, my lady. If you try to separate us, I shall take him in my arms and run away again as I did before. I will never give him up.”
“This is absurd, Kalliopé. He is no relation of yours, as you have often told me, and you have no rights over him. Until his own parents claim him, we are his guardians, and must do our best for him.”
Danaë was trembling with anger. “He is mine,” she controlled her lips sufficiently to say. “I saved him when his mother was killed——”
“His mother? Oh, Kalliopé, you said she was abroad!”
“I am mad! I know not what I say!” cried Danaë furiously. “If you take away my little lord, you take away my heart, my soul. But he shall not be taken away!”
“I don’t want to take him away. I should be miserable if I had to separate you. But if it was necessary for his good and Harold’s? How could I leave them in charge of a person who didn’t tell the truth?”
“But I always tell the truth unless I can’t help it.” In her anxiety Danaë condescended to excuse herself.
“Which means unless it is inconvenient, or dangerous, or humiliating. But that’s just it, Kalliopé. You must learn to tell the truth without fear of consequences. You would like to see Janni grow up brave and truthful, like an English boy—like what I hope Harold will be?”
“I should not like to see him grow up a fool,” said Danaë smartly. Then she was frightened by what she had said. “O, my lady, you are right, and I am very ungrateful. Make my little lord what you please; it can only be good. And I will try to mould myself as you wish, but do not talk of separating me from him, for he is my very life.”
The instinctive suppleness of the Greek nature revolted Zoe, but she said no more, hoping that the girl felt more than she would allow. As a matter of fact, Danaë was consoling herself with the reflection that once Janni had received a general education suitable to his birth—such as he would gain in Harold’s company—it would be quite easy to add any little extra polish in which he might be deficient. Nothing could be farther from her wishes than that he should grow up with the conscientious scruples which beset these extraordinary English. She felt herself wasted as a spy upon them, and nothing but the conviction that they could not possibly be so open and sincere as they seemed kept her from boredom. Sooner or later she would discover that the Princess Eirene, at any rate, was engaged in some intrigue against Prince Romanos, involving her husband and his family, and this would justify her watch. Then would come that magnificent moment, the goal of her aspirations, when, in gorgeous European clothes provided by her own exertions, Danaë would appear at her brother’s palace, leading Janni, a noble stripling, by the hand, and it would burst upon the astonished Prince Romanos that he possessed not only a promising heir, but also a sister eminently qualified to preside over his court. Few people would have considered that very second-rate and rather Bohemian assemblage as an abode to be desired, but to Danaë the dream of leading it, intriguing in it, and initiating Janni into its devious ways, was perfect bliss. As for the English, it might be convenient to have them for enemies, and she did not object to them as private friends, but as allies they were emphatically not to be desired.
About this time her acquaintance with the despised race was extended by the arrival of a visitor at the Konak. As she was helping Linton to prepare the guest-rooms in the old part of the building on the ground-floor, she gleaned some interesting information about him beforehand. He was Lord Armitage, little Harold’s godfather, and—so she learned with extreme interest—a former suitor of the Lady Zoe’s.
“But why did she not marry him?” she demanded. “You say he was a Milordo, and rich, with a whole ship of his own, and the Lord Glafko is poor.”
“Because he wasn’t the man for her,” returned Linton sharply. “She could turn him round her little finger.”
“Then he has not cruel eyes, that seem to pierce you through, and a mouth that shuts like a trap?” inquired Danaë curiously.
“That he hasn’t. But”—as Linton realised suddenly what the question implied—“if you mean that the Colonel has, it strikes me you are forgetting your place, my girl. The Colonel is a real gentleman, and it’s not for you to pass remarks on him. Lord Armitage is pleasant and well-spoken, with a kind word for everybody, but a sort of boy that will never grow up.”
“Oh, holy Antony!” groaned Danaë despairingly, “these English! They are all children—all that I have seen. And now here is one coming whom the English themselves call a child! Does he bring a nurse with him, to put on his pinafores and feed him as you do the Lord Harold?”
“I suppose you think that’s funny?” demanded the irate Linton. “You take my advice, Kalliopé, and curb that tongue of yours, or it will get you into trouble, and serve you right too. His lordship brings his secretary and his body-servant, as any nobleman would, and very likely some armed guards, as he comes by land. Though what he wants a secretary for is beyond me, for I should say he doesn’t write many more letters in the year than I do.”
“Perhaps he is like me, and can’t write on paper, but only on walls or the ground,” suggested Danaë, and was much pleased when Linton merely muttered angrily and would not deign a reply.
Two days later she was playing on the verandah with the children, when a young man came up the steps with a light springy step. Seeing her, he took off his hat hastily, and she saw to her surprise that he was not as young as she had thought. There was even gray in his hair. She rose politely and faced him.
“Good-day, lady,” he stammered, and Danaë was wickedly delighted to detect that he blushed.
“Good-day, lord,” she responded, hoping fervently that Linton was not within earshot, to come forward and point out that she had no right to be called ‘lady.’
“Colonel Wylie—the Lord Glafko—told me to come up here—that I should find Princess Zoe——” he said confusedly.
“The Lady Zoe was here just now, but she has been called away,” said Danaë, with great composure. “I think you will find her downstairs, lord.”
“Perhaps she will come back,” he said—evidently gaining courage, she thought. “I must speak to the little chap now I am here. I say, I didn’t know there were two! How awfully queer not to have let me know!”
“The little lord here is ward to the Lord Glafko,” explained Danaë. “This is the Lord Harold.”
The newcomer took Harold into his arms in a dazed kind of way, said he supposed he had grown, and really his eyes were exactly like Wylie’s. Then, apparently growing desperate under Danaë’s solemn gaze, he murmured something about some sweets which were in his luggage, and went down the steps again.
“Who is the island-princess you have got up there?” he demanded eagerly when he met Zoe downstairs.
“The nurse-girl, I suppose you mean—Kalliopé?”
“A nurse-girl? Nonsense! But all the islanders are kings and queens, of course.”
“What makes you say she is an islander? Has she told you anything?”
“Not about herself. Is she given to lavishing confidences on strangers? She hardly said a word to me.”
“She is particularly gifted in the matter of supplying information,” said Wylie, who had joined his wife. “Unfortunately it varies with time and circumstances.”
“No, no; we must not prejudice him against her,” said Zoe. “But do tell me why you decided that she must come from the islands?” she asked eagerly of Armitage.
“Her face! What more could one want? That blue-black hair and marble complexion, and the peculiarly pure profile—it is the very finest island-type. You get it nowhere else, and it degenerates horribly easily, even in individuals, under the influence of city life. Think of our friend Romanos. As a youth he must have been a perfect example of the type. Now he might stand for a rather battered Athenian of the rackety sort.”
“Prince Romanos! Why, that is the person Kalliopé is like, and little Janni too—I see it now!” cried Zoe.
“That is the type, of course. They may even come from the same island. I noticed a suggestion of dialect in her speech which I have caught much more faintly in his.”
“You have made good use of your opportunity for studying her, old man,” said Wylie jokingly.
“Who could help it? Considered purely as a picture, she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life.”
“Now why do you say ‘purely as a picture’?” asked Zoe quickly.
Armitage rather looked embarrassed. “The soul is not there yet, you know. But when it comes it must be a beautiful one, to look out through those glorious eyes.”
“That’s just what I feel about her,” said Zoe—“that she has no soul, I mean. But she is such a fine creature, I long to see the soul appear. Perhaps she is really a sea-nymph, not a girl at all.”
“But the nymphs could gain souls,” said Armitage.
“By taking them from other people?” said Wylie meaningly. “Don’t build up too much of a romance about the girl, old man, for whatever may be the truth about her soul, it’s absolutely certain that she has no conscience. We’ll tell you all about her—‘ways that are dark and tricks that are vain’—after dinner, and how she foisted herself and the child upon us.”
“I have an old man of the sea too,” said Armitage, “and much less attractive to look at than yours. It is old Lacroix, as he chooses to call himself, my secretary. Poor old chap, he has a sad story—at least, I can’t help fearing it will turn out to be sad—but he shall tell it to you himself. He wants your advice, and I shall be glad to know what you think. I’ve taken an awful fancy to the old fellow, and it really is rough on him——”
* * * * * * * *
“As much of a boy as ever!” said Zoe to her husband when they were alone together.
“Every bit as much. I suppose you are prepared for his falling in love with Kalliopé, Zoe?”
“Do you think it’s very complimentary to me to suggest that he will fall in love with a nurse-maid—with my nurse-maid?”
“Nonsense! here he is with an empty place in his heart, and you throw him into the society of ‘the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.’ Ah, the thought has occurred to you, I see! What do you propose to do—get rid of the girl?”
“How can we cast her adrift? No, what I should like to do, if he really cared for her, would be to educate her—train her for him.”
“My dear Zoe, isn’t that idea just a little high-flown? Do you recollect that Armitage is a peer of the realm, with a certain amount of position to keep up—even in these degenerate days—when you calmly propose to promote his marriage with a young lady of unknown parentage and confused views of right and wrong? Do you even think it would be fair to him?”
“Most unfair, unless he could awaken the soul in her. If he could——”
“If he could, then all the worldly objections might go hang? Well, I am not the person to object, since Princess Zoe stooped to marry me.”
Zoe put her hand over his mouth. “You were never to say that!” she cried.
“But it is a fact. Well, then, we are to further this preposterous affair, are we? I suppose we shall know if Armitage is really smitten, because he will want to paint her portrait.”
CHAPTER IX.
ON THE TRACK.
Danaë was much exercised in her mind by the fact that Prince and Princess Theophanis dined with the Wylies that evening, and that after the meal, when they all repaired to the verandah, Maurice and Wylie made a careful inspection of the surroundings, evidently to see that there were no eavesdroppers at hand. They were plotting something at last, she was sure, and she crouched in the corner of the nursery window, which was as near to them as she could get, and listened eagerly to the scraps of conversation that reached her ears until disgust drove her away. She could hardly have expected that they would speak in Greek for her special benefit, but she felt distinctly injured when she found they were using, not English, which she had begun to pick up, but French. This was for the sake of Armitage’s secretary, M. Lacroix, a soldierly-looking elderly man in a threadbare dress suit, who had sat almost silent throughout the meal. Now, on the verandah, Armitage brought him forward, and insisted on his taking a chair in the midst.
“Before my friend says anything,” he said in his pleasant boyish voice, “I must tell you that he is really not Lacroix at all—nor my secretary at all, for that matter. May I present the Cavaliere Onofrio dei Pazzi?”
“Ah!” said Zoe sharply. Then, as the rest looked at her in surprise, she laughed with some embarrassment. “I think we must have met a relative of yours at the Dardanian court three or four years ago, Cavaliere—Donna Olimpia Pazzi? She was maid of honour to the young Princess of Dardania.”
“That was my daughter, madame—and it is of her that I am come to speak.” He rose from his chair and stood before them, as though to give himself more freedom. “Highnesses, and my kind host, Colonel Wylie, you will hear the story I have to tell, and give me your opinion on it? May I be pardoned if I first say something of myself?”
“Whatever the Cavaliere Pazzi has to tell us we shall be delighted to hear,” said Maurice courteously.
“Highnesses—” the old man spread forth his hands deprecatingly—“it is not for me to recall to your minds the War of Liberation, nor the fact that the hero-king, Carlo Salvatore, took from his own breast the cross of St Eustace and St Martha and pinned it on mine, after a day in which we had fought side by side. Suffice it that the royal house of Magnagrecia has been pleased to regard me with continued favour. I have never been rich, but while my wife lived she made our small income provide amply for our needs. But she died”—he wrung his hands—“leaving me with an infant daughter, and the money, Highnesses—” he threw his arms wide—“it vanished! I am a soldier, not an economist—I confess it to my shame. My august sovereign and his gracious consort came to my aid, and provided for my child’s future. She shared the education of the young Princess Emilia, and was one of the ladies appointed to her household when she was married to the Prince of Dardania. It was by no will of mine that my child went forth into that barbarous country, but I could give her nothing, and her royal mistress promised to find her a husband of suitable rank, and provide a dowry. My little Olimpia parted from me with the tenderest of farewells, and I lived—yes, literally lived upon her letters. But by degrees there came a change in them. The eyes of paternal love are sharp. I suspected a love-affair, and not a happy one. I entreated my child to treat me with frankness, and at length she revealed the truth. She loved a person whose rank was such that they could never hope to marry. I saw the danger of her position, and begged her to return to me. You will ask, Highnesses, why I did not insist, why I did not rush immediately to Bashi Konak and fetch her away. Alas! I was ashamed, afraid, to do so. Behold me living upon my pension—the only portion of my income that could neither be anticipated nor alienated in my more lavish days. A modest apartment provides me shelter for the night; in the day there is the restaurant, the club, the promenade. But what kind of life would that be for a woman young, beautiful, accustomed to courts, who would, moreover, forfeit all expectations from her royal patrons if she quitted the Princess? Without a dowry who would marry her? Therefore I sent her good advice, but—oh, blame me, Highnesses; you cannot blame me more than I blame myself—I allowed her to remain. Then I received a letter overflowing with the innocent joy of a romantic girl who believes that she has obtained her heart’s desire. She was married. Her royal mistress wrote also, to assuage any anxiety that I might feel as to the marriage. It had been solemnised in her own private chapel, she herself and her mother-in-law had been present, every precaution had been taken to ensure its legality, but—” here came a tremendous pause—“it was to be kept secret for the present in view of the circumstances of the bridegroom. My daughter would remain with her mistress, and no difference would appear until Olimpia could be presented to the world as the bride of Prince Romanos of Emathia.”
“Romanos!” cried Princess Theophanis, her voice rising almost to a shriek. “Maurice, Zoe, do you hear? He is married, and to a Latin!”
“I knew about it,” said Zoe.
“My dear Zoe!” said her brother. “Was it fair to keep a thing like that from us?”
“I had no choice. She swore me to secrecy. It was on the day of his election—she was worried and excited—there had been some absurd idea among the people of his marrying me, you know—” she addressed the explanation to her husband—“and she could not stand it, poor thing. So she told me.”
“And you kept it secret—depriving Maurice of his throne, endangering the rights of your own child!” cried Eirene.
“I tell you there was no choice. She made me promise. And the election was over. It is not as if this had come out first.”
“What does that signify? They would have swept Romanos from the throne, sent him back to his beggarly Strio. It would have been the turning-point. Zoe, I can never, never forgive you. Maurice’s future—the future of your house—was in your hands, and you deliberately cast it away.”
“Pardon me, Princess,” said Wylie. “It seems to me that my wife was not free to act.”
“Most certainly she was not,” said Maurice decisively. “When Prince Romanos and I submitted our claims to the choice of the Emathians, we pledged ourselves to abide by the result. When that had once been announced, we could not have taken advantage of Christodoridi’s marriage to oust him, even if it had come to our knowledge.”
“Oh, you are mad, all mad!” cried Eirene bitterly. “I, who sacrificed my child in the cause of the house of Theophanis, I cry shame upon you.”
Maurice’s face hardened. “We fought in Hagiamavra for the freedom of Emathia, Eirene, not for our own aggrandisement. And we are interrupting the Cavaliere Pazzi in his recital. Pray, monsieur, proceed.”
The Cavaliere bowed. “At your Highness’s gracious command. The news that the marriage had actually taken place threw me into a great difficulty, Highnesses. My first impulse was to cross at once to Dardania, and snatch my daughter from a position likely to prove so compromising. But cooler reflection assured me that such an action could only give rise to suspicions in the highest degree injurious to her. I wrote therefore—with all a father’s authority, but I trust also with the natural sympathy of one who himself has loved—to desire her to obtain leave of absence from the Princess. A visit to her solitary parent would surely be the most natural thing in the world, and could be prolonged indefinitely until her husband found himself able to visit Magnagrecia and claim his bride from her paternal home. But alas! the love and obedience to which I had never appealed in vain in my child had turned traitor, and were now enlisted against me. My precaution precipitated the very evil it was designed to prevent. Olimpia’s letters expressed the strongest reluctance to comply with my request. The fear of offending the Princess her mistress, of becoming a burden upon me—ah, well I perceived that these were only excuses; her true object was to remain as near her husband as possible. At last I resolved on the strong measures from which I had shrunk at first, and bade her be ready, for I was coming to fetch her. What evil fate caused the arrival of that letter of mine to coincide with a visit of Prince Romanos to the Dardanian court? When I received an answer, it was to tell me that Olimpia had accompanied her husband on his return to Emathia, though the time was not yet propitious for him to acknowledge her. Then, when it was too late, I hesitated no longer, and went in search of my daughter. I found her in the island of Thamnos, just outside Emathian waters. Her husband had been obliged to visit Czarigrad, and durst not leave her behind at Therma. There was no prospect of his acknowledging her at present, so that she could not go with him. Highnesses, our interview was a sad one—it tears the heart to recall it. I besought my daughter on my knees to return with me—to force the hand of the man who was risking her reputation for his convenience. She refused, she had cast in her lot with him. Then I begged her to permit me to remain and confront him, to urge upon him the absolute necessity of postponing no longer the step which he constantly assured her it was his firm intention to take in the near future. If he would call in the servants and the crew of his vessel, and declare before them that she was his wife—I would be content for the present with that. The state entry into Therma, the public recognition, might come later. But she refused to let me stay. Evidently she feared what might happen if we met. She assured me solemnly that if I declared my conditions she would take sides with her husband, and agree with him that the time was not yet ripe. She and he and her personal attendants knew that she was his lawful wife, and with that she was content. Highnesses, she was not content. I saw it in her convulsed face, heard it in her agitated accents, but the husband now took the first place, and the father must yield. Sorrowfully I left my child, and since that day I never seen her.”
“You heard from her, surely?” cried Zoe.
“Did she remain in Thamnos, or accompany the Prince to Therma?” asked Wylie.
“I did receive letters from her, madame. The letters were posted in Therma, Colonel, and she gave me to understand that she was occupying a villa on the Prince’s property, not far from the city. To its actual position she gave me no clue—doubtless fearing that I might again attempt to see her. The first letter I received after our unhappy parting begged me very earnestly to make no further allusion to the question of her recognition, but to think of her as an ordinary wife, married to a private person whose business obliged him to be a good deal away from her. She had perfect confidence in her husband, feeling sure that he would acknowledge her at the earliest possible moment, and in the meantime she lived a rather lonely but by no means unhappy life. She amused herself with gardening and the study of the Emathian languages and her husband spent with her every moment that he could snatch from the cares of state. At length she referred of her own accord to the subject she had begged me not to mention. If her child should be a boy, she was sure the Prince would take that opportunity of acknowledging her. The child was born. It was a boy, and it was baptised John, after the last of the Emperors, by the Greek rite. Olimpia assured me continually of her husband’s delight in his heir, but there was no word of recognition. At last I lost patience, Highnesses, for what could happen that could provide a more favourable moment for the announcement? I wrote to my child then that the Prince’s perpetual postponement of his promise absolved me from my engagement of silence, and that I was intending to take steps to announce the marriage on my own account.”
“That was a dangerous thing to do, monsieur,” said Wylie.
“It was, Colonel. I recognise it now, but it was at the time that rumours of an alliance between Romanos and a Scythian Princess were freshly mooted. I desired to cut the ground from under his feet, in case he should actually be meditating any baseness of the kind. But, Highnesses, I endeavoured to mitigate any harshness which my proposal might seem to imply. I was about to visit Therma, I told Olimpia, and then I would lay before her husband a fact which would go far to remove any objections his subjects might be expected to entertain to the marriage.”
“And pray, monsieur, what was that?” demanded Eirene, her pale face flushed, and her eyes glowing.
“Simply, madame, that in the poverty-stricken veteran before you, you behold the great-great-grandson of Maxim Psicha.”
“Maxim Ghazi?” cried Wylie. “But why not have used that weapon before, Cavaliere?” For the name of the great Illyrian hero of the eighteenth century, who had built up a short-lived Christian state in his native highlands, and but for his early death by treachery, would probably have succeeded in driving the Roumis from Illyria, was one to conjure with among both Greeks and Slavs in Emathia.
“I was not aware of its value, Colonel. It is only the changes of these later years that have taught the world there is any Illyrian question at all. The formation of one Balkan state after another, and finally the emergence of Emathia from Roumi tyranny, have revived in the Illyrians the national feeling that has slumbered for generations, and which the Roumis did their best to stamp out by promoting local and tribal feuds. I have of course always been aware of my descent from the son of Maxim Psicha, whose mother fled with him to Magnagrecia on her husband’s murder, and who married an heiress of the Pazzi and took her name, but it was not until last year, when a deputation of Illyrian notables visited me in my humble lodging, and invited me formally to place myself at the head of their struggle for freedom, that I recognised it had any bearings on present-day politics.”
Wylie looked across at his brother-in-law with raised eyebrows, and Maurice spoke.
“You may not be aware, monsieur, that I myself was offered the crown of Illyria at the beginning of last year, and invited to negociate a British protectorate over the country when I refused it?”
“I was informed so, Highness, but you will permit me to say that it was your British birth, to which the Greeks in Emathia object, and not your Greek descent, which has no interest for the Illyrians, that led to the offer. When you referred the deputation to Prince Romanos and the Assembly at Therma, they turned their thoughts from you to the descendant of Maxim Psicha.”
“Another opportunity lost!” cried Eirene.
“But you would have objected strongly to their adopting me on any other ground than as the heir of John Theophanis,” said Maurice. “At any rate, it is satisfactory to know why the offer collapsed so suddenly. But I cannot imagine, Cavaliere, why Prince Romanos did not jump at your news. His subjects would not have objected to his marrying anyone who brought with her as a dowry the future adhesion of Illyria.”
“Alas, Highness! the news was never told. I received an urgent letter from Olimpia, entreating me to write what I had to say, but on no account to come to Therma. The moment was most unpropitious, and my visit might do irreparable harm by setting people talking. I could well understand that the moment was unfortunate for my son-in-law, for the rumours of his impending marriage were becoming more definite. As you have no doubt seen, his photograph and that of the Grand Duchess Feodora were published together in the papers, and it was positively, though not officially, announced that they were engaged. I did not wish to embarrass Olimpia by insisting on visiting her against her wishes, but I wrote very strongly pressing my point, and refusing to commit my news to paper. I have had no reply to that letter, Highnesses—no further letter of any kind from my daughter.”
His auditors were silent, and looked at one another. The inference was obvious, but no one liked to put it into words. At last Maurice spoke.
“Pardon me, Cavaliere; do I understand that you have had no news of Donna Olimpia from that day to this?”
“If they can be called news, I have had one or two brief notes from her husband—assurances that Olimpia could not write, but sent her love and implored me not to be anxious, and above all not to come to Therma. Nothing in her own writing—not even a pencilled signature. I wrote again urgently, demanding definite tidings of the nature of her illness, the opinion of her doctors—above all, some word from herself, failing which, I should start for Therma at once. What did I receive, Highnesses? A long letter purporting to be written by Prince Romanos at his wife’s dictation. Why do I say ‘purporting’? Because it was never dictated by Olimpia. It was not the letter which a loving, ailing woman would send to the fond father who was breaking his heart for her at a distance. It was the letter of a poet trying to put himself in such a woman’s place, full of images that would not occur to her, of words that she would not dream of using. Highnesses, when I received that letter, my mind was made up. I also have a soul capable of stratagem. I left behind me letters to be posted at my usual weekly intervals, and started for Therma by sea.”
He paused, to deepen the impression, then hurried on, his words seeming to overflow one another. “I said, Highnesses, that I possessed a mind capable of stratagem. To that let my proceedings on approaching Therma be witness. I sent my old soldier-servant on shore with my passport, and wearing clothes of mine, while I remained on board the steamer. No sooner was the name on the passport perceived than he was detained, and refused permission to proceed into the city. At the police-office he was photographed, his physical measurements taken, as though he were a criminal, and he was reconducted on board, informed that he would not be allowed to land. My worst suspicions were confirmed, but I have one consolation. Neither the photograph nor the measurements thus obtained will help the Therma police when they have to deal, not with old Filippi, but with me.”
“I think you are very wise, monsieur,” said Wylie. “I understand also that Prince Romanos has never seen you? You decided, then, to make your next attempt to enter Therma by land?”
“No, that was my idea,” said Armitage proudly. “We met at Trieste, and the Cavaliere heard I was bound for Therma, and asked me to take him in the yacht, but I thought it would be much safer to get in by the back door. So I got him a brand-new passport, and they let him pass the frontier without the slightest suspicion as Lacroix and my secretary. I thought he might go on to Therma to see about rooms for me, and make inquiries on his own account, and then when he has found Donna Olimpia, we can bring the yacht up and get her off in it.”
“But what do you think has happened to her?” asked Maurice.
“Why, that she’s imprisoned somewhere, of course.”
“Not likely,” said Wylie. “Unless she has altogether broken with her husband, he would have been able to get her to write to her father and beg him again not to come. No, I’m afraid it’s worse than that——” Zoe pinched his arm, and he changed the form of his sentence suddenly. “But after all, it’s quite possible that she has refused to be bamboozled any longer, and he has shut her up somewhere lest she should spoil his matrimonial projects.”
“Do you think he can have carried her off to Strio?” said Zoe. “Don’t you remember that stagey old ruffian of a father of his? He said to me so evilly that Strio had dungeons as well as palaces, when he thought I aspired to the honour of being his daughter-in-law.”
“But they are on the worst possible terms,” said Armitage.
“Do you know, I should say that Professor Panagiotis would be the best person to enlist on your side, Cavaliere,” said Maurice suddenly. “He is very keen on the Scythian match, but he can have no idea of the harm he has been doing.”
“No, wait,” said Wylie. “Imagine the Professor’s feelings when he finds out that he has been tricked all along—that the Scythian match can’t take place, and never could have done. I don’t think it would be for Donna Olimpia’s safety for him to make that discovery, and I am sure it will lose Prince Romanos his throne.”
“That last consideration would have no weight with me, Colonel,” said the Cavaliere. “Whether my son-in-law retains his position or not is a matter of indifference. My sole object now is to rescue my daughter from his clutches, and to carry off her and her child into safety—if it is not too late. After that forged letter I could believe him capable of sinking to any depths of baseness. And if it is so, if he has repaid Olimpia’s confidence with treachery, then I will unveil his iniquity and hound him from his throne, if I have to tramp barefoot through Europe.”
Eirene crossed quickly to where he stood. “Be it so!” she said, holding out her hand. “We are united. We will make it clear what he really is, and drive him from the throne he has usurped.”
CHAPTER X.
THE PORTRAIT.
The Cavaliere Pazzi had gone on to Therma, as what Armitage called his “advance agent,” to find out the best hotel and take rooms for him there, and discover which of the public buildings of the new city were worthy of being immortalised by Milordo’s brush. Happily the people of Therma were not likely to guess that their lofty stucco palaces were anathema to the artistic mind, which would have infinitely preferred the tumble-down Roumi relics they replaced, so that the Cavaliere would be able to pursue his private inquiries under cover of his architectural researches. Maurice and Wylie were much occupied with a vexatious matter which was disturbing the extreme north of their territory, at the point where it touched the Debatable Land. A Pannonian scientific expedition, duly authorised by the Therma Government, which was conducting a geological survey of the district, had contrived in some way to excite the dislike of the inhabitants, who declared that the members were looking for hidden treasure. Natural cupidity combined with race-hatred to make the search as difficult as possible, and the Emathians put so many obstacles in the explorers’ way, and dogged their steps with such persistent malignity, as would have stirred even the mildest of scientists to revolt. These particular scientists were young and fiery, and demanded effectual protection for themselves and their pursuits, under the threat of holding up the North Emathian administration to the execration of Europe, sending a deputation to Klaustra to argue the case against the representatives of the peasants. Wylie would fain have hurried at once to the disputed area, and settled the difficulty on the spot, but this suggestion did not meet the learned men’s wishes. They wanted, not police protection, but a definite edict to secure them from molestation, and deprecated the untoward importance which would be attached to their mission if Wylie carried out his intention. The peasants were equally determined that the strangers’ proceedings ought to be stopped at all costs, and brought up relays of witnesses to prove that they were impiously and callously interfering with all manner of time-honoured landmarks.
The game of accusation and contradiction went on merrily, wasting time day after day, and Armitage was left to his own devices and to the society of the ladies for entertainment. Thus forsaken, he conceived the idea of occupying his leisure by painting Danaë’s portrait, and to Wylie’s intense delight asked Zoe’s leave to do so. True to her first resolution, Zoe consented, hoping to discover, during the hours occupied in the task, some clue to the enigma of the girl’s personality.
As for Danaë herself, she was highly flattered by the request, having long admired in secret the large painting of Zoe which the artist had presented to her and her husband as his wedding-gift. Her ideas on the subject were not exactly in accord with Armitage’s, however, as was made evident when she presented herself for the first sitting robed in Linton’s best black gown and a stiffly starched white apron, with her hair strained back from her face and piled into a kind of helmet on her head, in distant imitation of Zoe’s coils. Zoe and Armitage gazed at her in speechless horror as she displayed herself with much pride, and were devoutly thankful for the sudden irruption of Linton, who had discovered the unauthorised use made of her Sunday gown, and lost no time in proceeding to recover it. Zoe herself presided over the transformation of the European into the everyday Kalliopé, a change which had to be effected almost by force, for the girl was sulking furiously. She resented particularly the restoration of her hair to its usual massive plaits, for the uncouth pile secured with stolen hairpins had been a special triumph. The Lady Zoe was obliged to do her hair loosely and fluff it out to make it look at all well, whereas she, Danaë, had so much that she could hardly get it all up even when it was twisted as tightly as possible! Her face was like a thundercloud when Zoe led her back at last, and Armitage, welcoming the gay dress and long plaits in place of the grotesque array which had affronted his horrified vision, had no chance of doing more that first day than obtain an excellent attitude for an embodiment of disgust.
Things improved afterwards, though it was several days before Danaë could be induced to appear save with an expression of restrained protest, and Armitage made one sketch after another, trying to find the best attitude for bringing out the points of the beautiful face and form. Danaë was in no wise shy. To her mind the Christodoridi were the equals of any of the royal houses of Europe, and the conviction lent a stately assurance to her manner that puzzled Zoe and roused Armitage to fresh admiration. Pursuing her plan of training her handmaid for a loftier future, Zoe gave herself some trouble in the matter of choosing subjects for conversation during these mornings. She had thrown herself of late so completely into the actual life that surrounded her that Armitage was rather surprised to find how keen her interest in literary and artistic matters still remained. But he was fresh from London and the circles in which she had shone before her marriage, and he found it quite easy to believe that a brilliant woman of her achievements might find the society of Emathian country ladies, and the duty of leading them in the way that they should go, pall at times. Therefore he talked of books and pictures and historical events, following her lead, and Zoe watched Danaë’s face to see how it affected her, and tried to draw her into the discussion by asking her the right word in Greek for such and such a thing. But the result was disappointing. The girl had no foundation of general knowledge on which to build. Names which would have brought a glow of enthusiasm to the cheek of most of her countrywomen had no meaning for her, and history was represented to her mind by the rude chronicles of the sordid and bloodthirsty squabbles of her Christodoridi ancestors with the other island chiefs. When she could be induced to recite one of these metrical romances, then, indeed, her eye kindled and her voice became almost inspired, but to her hearers the matter was hopelessly inadequate to the emotions it evoked. They could not tell that she felt she had justified her descent from these rather unheroic heroes, and that the barbaric crimes and virtues which they supposed her to admire in her rulers were honoured family characteristics to her.