CHAPTER XXI
A WORD OF VARIOUS MEANINGS
She came up to me swiftly and without hesitation. I had looked forsome embarrassment, but there was none in her face. She met my eyesfull and square, and began to speak to me at once.
'My lord,' she said, 'I must ask one thing of you. I must lay one moreburden on you. After to-day I dare not be here when my countrymenlearn how they are deluded. I should be ashamed to face them, and Idare not trust myself to the Turks, for I don't know what they woulddo with me. Will you take me with you to Athens, or to some other portfrom which I can reach Athens? I can elude the guards here. I shall beno trouble: you need only tell me when your boat will start, and giveme a corner to live in on board. Indeed I grieve to ask more of you,for you have done so much for me; but my trouble is great and-- Whatis it, my lord?'
I had moved my hand to stop her. She had acted in the one way inwhich, had it been to save my life, I could not have. She put what hadpassed utterly out of the way, treating it as the merest trick. Mypart in it was to her the merest trick; of hers she said nothing. Hadhers then been a trick also? My blood grew hot at the thought. I couldnot endure it.
'When your countrymen learn how they are deluded?' said I, repeatingher words. 'Deluded in what?'
'In the trick we played on them, my lord, to--to persuade them todisperse.'
I took a step towards her, and my voice shook as I said:
'Was it all a trick, Phroso?' For at this moment I set aboveeverything else in the world a fresh assurance of her love. I wouldforce it from her sooner than not have it.
She answered me with questioning eyes and a sad little smile.
'Are we then betrothed?' she said, in mournful mockery.
I was close by her now. I did not touch her, but I bent a little, andmy face was near hers.
'Was it a trick to-day, and a trick on St Tryphon's day also?' Iasked.
She gave one startled glance at my face, and then her eyes dropped tothe ground. She made no answer to my question.
'Was it all a trick, Phroso?' I asked in entreaty, in urgency, in thewild longing to hear her love declared once, here, to me alone, wherenobody could hear, nobody impair its sweet secrecy.
Phroso's answer came now, set to the accompaniment of the saddest,softest, murmuring laugh.
'Ah, my lord, must you hear it again? Am I not twice shamed already?'
'Be shamed yet once again,' I whispered; then I saw the light ofgladness master the misty sorrow in her eyes as I had seen oncebefore; and I greeted it, whispering:
'Yes, a thousand times, a thousand times!'
'My dear lord!' she said; but then she sprang back, and the brightnesswas clouded again as she stood aloof, regarding me in speechless,distressed puzzle.
'But, my lord!' she murmured, so low that I scarcely heard. Then shetook refuge in a return to her request. 'You won't leave me here, willyou? You'll take me somewhere where I can be safe. I--I'm afraid ofthese men, even though the Pasha is dead.'
I took no notice of the request she repeated. I seemed unable to speakor to do anything else but look into her eyes; and I said, a touch ofawe in my voice:
'You have the most wonderful eyes in all the world, Phroso.'
'My lord!' murmured Phroso, dropping envious lids. But I knew shewould open them soon again, and so she did.
'Yes, in all the wide world,' said I. 'And I want to hear it again.'
As we talked we had moved little by little; now we were at the side ofthe house, in the deep dull shadow of it. Yet the eyes I praisedpierced the gloom and shone in the darkness; and suddenly I felt armsabout my neck, clasping me tightly; her breath was on my cheek, comingquick and uneven, and she whispered:
'Yes, you shall hear it again and again and again, for I am notashamed now; for I know, yes, I know. I love you, I love you--ah, howI love you!' Her whispers found answer in mine. I held her as thoughagainst all the world: all the world was in that moment, and there wasnothing else than that moment in all the world. Had a man told me thenthat I had felt love before, I would have laughed in his face--thefool!
But then Phroso drew back again; the brief rapture, free from all pastor future, all thought or doubt, left her, and, in leaving her,forsook me also. She stood over against me murmuring:
'But, my lord--!'
I knew well what she would say, and for an instant I stood silent. Theworld hung for us on the cast of my next words.
'But, my lord, the lady who waits for you over the sea?' There soundeda note of fear in the softly breathed whisper that the night carriedto my ear. In an instant, before I could answer, Phroso came near tome and laid one hand on my arm, speaking gently and quickly. 'Yes, Iknow, I see, I understand,' she said, 'and I thank you, my lord, and Ithank God, my dear lord, that you told me and did not leave me withoutshewing me your love; for though I must be very unhappy, yet I shallbe proud; and in the long nights I shall think of this dear island andof you, though you will both be far away. Yes, I thank heaven you toldme, my dear lord.' She bent her head, that should have bent to no man,and kissed my hand.
But I snatched my hand hastily away, and I sprang to her and caughther again in my arms, and again kissed her lips; for my resolve wasmade. I would not let her go. Those who would might ask the rights ofit; I could not let her go. Yet I spoke no word, and she did notunderstand, but thought that I kissed her in farewell; for the tearswere on her face and wetted my lips, and she clung to me as thoughsomething were tearing her from me and must soon sunder us apart, sogreedy was her grasp on me. But then I opened my mouth to whisper inher ear the words which would bid defiance to the thing that wasrending her away and rivet her life to mine.
But hark! There was a cry, a startled exclamation, and the sound offootsteps. My name was shouted loud and eagerly. I knew Denny's voice.Phroso slid from my relaxed arms, and drew back into the deepestshadow.
'I'll be back soon,' I whispered, and with a last pressure of herhand, which was warm now and answered to my grasp, I stepped out ofthe shelter of the wall and stood in front of the house.
Denny was on the doorstep. The door was open. The light from the lampin the hall flooded the night and fell full on my face as I walked upto him. On sight of me he seemed to forget his own errand and his owneagerness, for he caught me by the shoulder, and stared at me, crying:
'Heavens, man, you're as white as a sheet! Have you seen a ghost? DoesConstantine walk--or Mouraki?'
'Fifty ghosts would be a joke to what I've been through. My God, Inever had such a time! What do you want? What did you call me for? Ican't stay. She's waiting.' For now I did not care; Denny and allNeopalia might know now.
'Yes, but she must wait a little,' he said. 'You must come into thehouse and come upstairs.'
'I can't,' I said obstinately. 'I--I--I can't, Denny.'
'You must. Don't be a fool, Charley. It's important: the captain iswaiting for you.'
His face seemed big with news. What it might be I could not tell, butthe hint of it was enough to make me catch hold of him, crying, 'Whatis it? I'll come.'
'That's right. Come along.' He turned and ran rapidly through the oldhall and up the stairs. I followed him, my mind whirling through acloud of possibilities.
The quiet business-like aspect of the room into which Denny led theway did something to sober me. I pulled myself together, seeking tohide my feelings under a mask of carelessness. The captain sat at thetable with a mass of papers surrounding him. He appeared to beexamining them, and, as he read, his lips curved in surprise orcontempt.
'This Mouraki was a cunning fellow,' said he; 'but if anyone hadchanced to get hold of this box of his while he was alive he would nothave enjoyed even so poor a post as he thought his governorship.Indeed, Lord Wheatley, had you been actually a party to his death, Ithink you need have feared nothing when some of these papers had foundtheir way to the eyes of the Government. We're well rid of him,indeed! But then, as I always say, these Armenians, though they'reclever dogs--'
But I had
not come to hear a Turk discourse on Armenians, and I brokein, with an impatience that I could not altogether conceal:
'I beg your pardon; but is that all you wanted to say to me?'
'I should have thought that it was of some importance to you,' heobserved.
'Certainly,' said I, regaining my composure a little; 'but yourcourtesy and kindness had already reassured me.'
He bowed his acknowledgments, and proceeded in a most leisurely tone,sorting the papers and documents before him into orderly heaps.
'On the death of the Pasha, the government of the island havingdevolved temporarily on me, I thought it my duty to examine hisExcellency's--curse the dog!--his Excellency's despatch-box, with theresult that I have discovered very remarkable evidences of the schemeswhich he dared to entertain. With this, however, perhaps I need nottrouble you.'
'I wouldn't intrude into it for the world,' I said.
'I discovered also,' he pursued, in undisturbed leisure and placidity,'among the Pasha's papers a letter addressed to--'
'Me?' and I sprang forward.
'No, to your cousin, to this gentleman. Pursuing what I conceived tobe my duty--and I must trust to Mr Swinton to forgive me--' Here theexasperating fellow paused, looked at Denny, waited for a bow fromDenny, duly received it, duly and with ceremony returned it, sighed asthough he were much relieved at Denny's complaisance, cleared histhroat, arranged a little heap of papers on his left hand, and atlast--oh, at last!--went on.
'This letter, I say, in pursuance of what I conceived to be my duty--'
'Yes, yes, your duty, of course. Clearly your duty. Yes?'
'I read. It appeared, however, to contain nothing of importance.'
'Then, why the deuce-- I mean--I beg your pardon.'
'But merely matters of private concern. But I am not warranted inletting it out of my hands. It will have to be delivered to theGovernment with the rest of the Pasha's papers. I have, however,allowed Mr Swinton to read it. He says that it concerns you, LordWheatley, more than himself. I therefore propose to ask him to read itto you (I can decipher English, but not speak it with facility) in mypresence.' With this he handed an envelope to Denny. We had got to itat last.
'For heaven's sake be quick about it, my dear boy!' I cried, and Iseated myself on the table, swinging my leg to and fro in a fury ofrestless impatience. The captain eyed my agitated body with profounddisapproval.
Denny took the letter from its envelope and read: 'London, May 21st;'then he paused and remarked, 'We got here on the seventh, you know.' Inodded hastily, and he went on, 'My dear Denny--Oh, how awful this is!I can hardly bear to think of it! Poor, poor fellow! Mamma is terriblygrieved, and I, of course, even more. Both mamma and I feel that itmakes it so much worse, somehow, that this news should come only threedays after he must have got mamma's letter. Mamma says that it doesn'treally make any difference, and that if her letter was _wise_, thenthis terrible news can't alter that. I suppose it doesn't really, butit seems to, doesn't it? Oh, do write directly and tell me that hewasn't very unhappy about it when he had that horrible fever. There'sa big blot--because I'm crying! I know you thought I didn't careabout him, but I did--though not (as mamma says) in _one_ way,really. Do you think he forgave me? It would kill me if I thought hedidn't. Do write soon. I suppose you will bring poor dear Charleyhome? Please tell me he didn't think very badly of me. Mamma joinswith me in sincerest sympathy.--Yours _most_ sincerely, BeatriceKennett Hipgrave. _P.S._--Mr Bennett Hamlyn has just called. He isawfully grieved about poor dear Charley. I always think of him asCharley still, you know. Do write.'
There was a long pause, then Denny observed in a satirical tone:
'To be thought of still as "Charley" is after all something.'
'But what the devil does it mean?' I cried, leaping from the table.
'"I suppose you will bring poor dear Charley home,'" repeated Denny,in a meditative tone. 'Well, it looks rather more like it than it dida few days ago, I must admit.'
'Denny, Denny, if you love me, what's it all about? I haven't had anyletter from--'
'Mamma? No, we've had no letter from mamma. But then we haven't hadany letters from anybody.'
'Then I'm hanged if I--' I began in bewildered despondency.
'But, Charley,' interrupted Denny, 'perhaps mamma sent a letterto--Mouraki Pasha!'
'To Mouraki?'
'This letter of mine found its way to Mouraki.'
'All letters,' observed the captain, who was leaning back in his chairand staring at the ceiling, 'would pass through his hands, if he choseto make them.'
'Good heavens!' I cried, springing forward. The hint was enough. In aninstant my busy, nervous, shaking hands were ruining the neat piles ofdocuments which the captain had reared so carefully in front and oneither side of him. I dived, tossed, fumbled, rummaged, scattered,strewed, tore. The captain, incapable of resisting my excited energy,groaned in helpless despair at the destruction of his evening's work.Denny, having watched me for a few minutes, suddenly broke out into apeal of laughter. I stopped for an instant to glare reproof of hisill-timed mirth, and turned to my wild search again.
The search seemed useless. Either Mouraki had not received a letterfrom Mrs Bennett Hipgrave, or he had done what I myself always didwith the good lady's communications--thrown it away immediately afterreading it. I examined every scrap of paper, official documents,private notes (the captain was very nervous when I insisted on lookingthrough these for a trace of Mrs Hipgrave's name), lists of stores; ina word, the whole contents of Mouraki's despatch-boxes.
'It's a blank!' I cried, stepping back at last in disappointment.
'Yes, it's gone; but depend upon it, he had it,' said Denny.
A sudden recollection flashed across me, the remembrance of the subtleamused smile with which Mouraki had spoken of the lady who was mostanxious about me and my future wife. He must have known then; he musteven then have had Mrs Hipgrave's letter in his possession. He hadplayed a deliberate trick on me by suppressing the letter; hence hisfury when I announced my intention of disregarding the ties that boundme--a fury which had, for the moment, conquered his cool cunning andled him into violent threats. At that moment, when I realised theman's audacious knavery, when I thought of the struggle he had causedto me and the pain to Phroso, well, just then I came near tocanonising Demetri, and nearer still to grudging him his exploit.
'What was in the letter, then?' I cried to Denny.
'Read mine again,' said he, and he threw it across to me.
I read it again. I was cooler now, and the meaning of it stood outplain and not to be doubted. Mrs Bennett Hipgrave's letter, her wiseletter, had broken off my engagement to her daughter. The fact wasplain; all that was missing, destroyed by the caution or thecarelessness of Mouraki Pasha, was the reason; and the reason I couldsupply for myself. I reached my conclusion, and looked again at Denny.
'Allow me to congratulate you,' said Denny ironically.
Man is a curious creature. I (and other people) may have made thatreflection before. I offer no apology for it. The more I see of myselfand my friends the more convinced I grow of its truth. Here was thething for which I had been hoping and praying, the one great gift thatI asked of fate, the single boon which fortune enviously withheld.Here was freedom--divine freedom! Yet what I actually said to Denny,in reply to his felicitations, was:
'Hang the girl! She's jilted me!' And I said it with considerableannoyance.
The captain, who studied English in his spare moments, hereinterposed, asking suavely:
'Pray, my dear Lord Wheatley, what is the meaning of thatword--"jilted"?'
'The meaning of "jilted"?' said Denny. 'He wants to know the meaningof "jilted," Charley.'
I looked from one to the other of them; then I said:
'I think I'll go and ask,' and I started for the door. The captain'sexpression accused me of rudeness. Denny caught me by the arm.
'It's not decent yet,' said he, with a twinkle in his eye.
'It happened n
early a month ago,' I pleaded. 'I've had time to getover it, Denny; a man can't wear the willow all his life.'
'You old humbug!' said Denny, but let me go.
I was not long in going. I darted down the stairs. I suppose a mantricks his conscience and will find excuses for himself where otherscan find only matter for laughter, but I remember congratulatingmyself on not having spoken the decisive words to Phroso before Dennyinterrupted us. Well, I would speak them now. I was free to speak themnow. Suddenly, in this thought, the vexation at being jilted vanished.
'It amounts,' said I to myself, as I reached the hall, 'to no morethan a fortunate coincidence of opinion.' And I passed through thedoor and turned sharp round to the left.
She was there waiting for me, and waiting eagerly, it seemed, for,before I could speak, she ran to me, holding out her hands, and shecried in a low urgent whisper, full of entreaty:
'My lord, I have thought. I have thought while you were in the house.You must not do this, my lord. Yes, I know--now I know--that you loveme, but you mustn't do this. My lord's honour shan't be stained for mysake.'
I could not resist it, and I cannot justify it. I assumed a terriblysad expression.
'You've really come to that conclusion, Phroso?' I asked.
'Yes. Ah, how difficult it is! But my lord's honour--ah, don't temptme! You will take me to Athens, won't you? And then--'
'And then,' said I, 'you'll leave me?'
'Yes,' said Phroso, with a little catch in her voice.
'And what shall I do, left alone?'
'Go back,' murmured Phroso almost inaudibly.
'Go back--thinking of those wonderful eyes?'
'No, no. Thinking of--'
'The lady who waits for me over the sea?'
'Yes. And oh, my lord, I pray that you will find happiness!'
There was a moment's silence. Phroso did not look at me; but then Idid look at Phroso.
'Then you refuse, Phroso, to have anything to say to me?'
No answer at all reached me; I came nearer, being afraid that I mightnot have heard her reply.
'What am I to do for a wife, Phroso?' I asked forlornly. 'Because,Phroso--'
'Ah, my lord, why do you take my hand again?'
'Did I, Phroso? Because, Phroso, the lady who waits over the sea--it'sa charmingly poetic phrase, upon my word!'
'You laugh!' murmured Phroso, in aggrieved protest and wonder.
'Did I really laugh, Phroso? Well, I'm happy, so I may laugh.'
'Happy?' she whispered; then at last her eyes were drawn to mine inmingled hope and anguish of questioning.
'The lady who waited over the sea,' said I, 'waits no longer, Phroso.'
The wonderful eyes grew more wonderful in their amazed widening; andPhroso, laying a hand gently on my arm, said:
'She waits no longer? My lord, she is dead?'
This confident inference was extremely flattering. There wasevidently but one thing which could end the patient waiting of thelady who waited.
'On the contrary she thinks that I am. Constantine spread news of mydeath.'
'Ah, yes!'
'He said that I died of fever.'
'And she believes it?'
'She does, Phroso; and she appears to be really very sorry.'
'Ah, but what joy will be hers when she learns--'
'But, Phroso, before she thought I was dead, she had made up her mindto wait no longer.'
'To wait no longer? What do you mean? Ah, my lord, tell me what youmean!'
'What has happened to me, here in Neopalia, Phroso?'
'Many strange things, my lord--some most terrible.'
'And some most--most what, Phroso? One thing that has happened to mehas, I think, happened also to the lady who waited.'
Phroso's hand--the one I had not taken--was suddenly stretched out,and she spoke in a voice that sounded half-stifled:
'Tell me, my lord, tell me. I can't endure it longer.'
Then I grew grave and said:
'I am free. She has given me my freedom.'
'She has set you free?'
'She loves me no longer, I suppose, if she ever did.'
'Oh, but, my lord, it is impossible.'
'Should you think it so? Phroso, it is true--true that I can come toyou now.'
She understood at last. For a moment she was silent, and I, silentalso, pierced through the darkness to her wondering face. Once shestretched out her arms; then there came a little, long, low laugh, andshe put her hands together, and thrust them, thus clasped, betweenmine that closed on them.
'My lord, my lord, my lord!' said Phroso.
Suddenly I heard a low mournful chant coming up from the harbour, themoan of mourning voices. The sound struck across the stillness whichhad followed her last words.
'What's that?' I asked. 'What are they doing down there?'
'Didn't you know?' The bodies of my cousin and of Kortes came forth atsunset from the secret pool into which they fell: and they bring themnow to bury them by the church. They mourn Kortes because they lovedhim; and Constantine also they feign to mourn, because he was of thehouse of the Stefanopouloi.'
We stood for some minutes listening to the chant that rose and felland echoed among the hills. Its sad cadences, mingled here and therewith the note of sustained hope, seemed a fitting end to the story, tothe stormy days that were rounded off at last by peace and joy to uswho lived, and by the embraces of the all-hiding all-pardoning earthfor those who had fallen. I put my arm round Phroso, and, thus at lasttogether, we listened till the sounds died away in low echoes, andsilence fell again on the island.
'Ah, the dear island!' said Phroso softly. 'You won't take me awayfrom it for ever? It is my lord's island now, and it will be faithfulto him, even as I myself; for God has been very good, and my lord isvery good.'
I looked at her. Her cheeks were again wet with tears. As I watched adrop fell from her eyes. I said to her softly:
'That shall be the last, Phroso, till we part again.'
A loud cough from the front of the house interrupted us. I advanced,beckoning to Phroso to follow, and wearing, I am afraid, theapologetic look usual under such circumstances. And I found Denny andthe captain.
'Are you coming down to the yacht, Charley?' asked Denny.
'Er--in a few minutes, Denny.'
'Shall I wait for you?'
'Oh, I think I can find my way.'
Denny laughed and caught me by the hand; then he passed on to Phroso.I do not, however, know what he said to her, for at this moment thecaptain touched my shoulder and demanded my attention.
'I beg your pardon,' said he, 'but you never told me the meaning ofthat word.'
'What word, my dear captain?'
'Why, the word you used of the lady's letter--of what she had done.'
'Oh, you mean "jilted"?'
'Yes; that's it.'
'It is,' said I, after a moment's reflection, 'a word of very variousmeanings.'
'Ah,' said the captain, with a comprehending nod.
'Yes, very various. In one sense it means to make a man miserable.'
'Yes, I see; to make him unhappy.'
'And in another to make him--to make him, captain, the luckiest beggaralive.'
'It's a strange word,' observed the captain meditatively.
'I don't know about that,' said I. 'Good-night.'