CHAPTER VI
THE POEM OF ONE-EYED ALEXANDER
There is a matter on my conscience which I cannot excuse but may aswell confess. To deceive a maiden is a very sore thing, so sore thatit had made us all hot against Constantine; but it may be doubted by acool mind whether it is worse, nay, whether it is not more venial thanto contrive the murder of a lawful wife. Poets have paid moreattention to the first offence--maybe they know more about it--the lawfinds greater employment, on the whole, in respect to the second. Forme, I admit that it was not till I found myself stretched on amattress in the kitchen, with the idea of getting a few hours' sleep,that it struck me that Constantine's wife deserved a share of myconcern and care. Her grievance against him was at least as great asEuphrosyne's; her peril was far greater. For Euphrosyne was hisobject; Francesca (for that appeared from Vlacho's mode of address tobe her name) was an obstacle which prevented him attaining thatobject. For myself I should have welcomed a cut throat if it came asan alternative to Constantine's society; but probably his wife wouldnot agree with me, and the conversation I had heard left me in littledoubt that her life was not safe. They could not have an epidemic,Vlacho had prudently reminded his master; the island fever could notkill Constantine's wife and our party all in a day or two. Men suspectsuch an obliging malady, and the old lord had died of it, pat to thehappy moment, already. But if the thing could be done, if it could beso managed that London, Paris, and the Riviera would find nothingstrange in the disappearance of one Madame Stefanopoulos and theappearance of another, why, to a certainty, done the thing would be,unless I could warn or save the woman in the cottage. But I did notsee how to do either. So (as I set out to confess) I dropped thesubject. And when I went to sleep I was thinking not how to saveFrancesca, but how to console Euphrosyne, a matter really of lessurgency, as I should have seen had not the echo of that sad little crystill filled my ears.
The news which Hogvardt brought me when I rose in the morning, and wasenjoying a slice of cow-steak, by no means cleared my way. An actualattack did not seem imminent--I fancy these fierce islanders were nottoo fond of our revolvers--but the house was, if I may use the term,carefully picketed, and that both before and behind. Along the roadwhich approached it in front there stood sentries at intervals. Theywere stationed just out of range of our only effective long-distanceweapon, but it was evident that egress on that side was barred. Andthe same was the case on the other; Hogvardt had seen men moving inthe wood, and had heard their challenges to one another repeated atregular intervals. We were shut off from the sea; we were shut offfrom the cottage. A blockade would reduce us as surely as an attack. Ihad nothing to offer except the release of Euphrosyne. And to releaseEuphrosyne would, in all likelihood, not save us, while it would leaveConstantine free to play out his relentless game to its appointed end.
I finished my breakfast in some perplexity of spirit. Then I went andsat in the hall, expecting that Euphrosyne would appear from her roombefore long. I was alone, for the rest were engaged in variousoccupations, Hogvardt being particularly busy over a large handful ofhunting knives which he had gleaned from the walls; I did notunderstand what he wanted with them, unless he meant to arm himself inporcupine fashion.
Presently Euphrosyne came, but it was a transformed Euphrosyne. Thekilt, knee-breeches, and gaiters were gone; in their place was thewhite linen garment with flowing sleeves and the loose jacket over it,the national dress of the Greek woman; but Euphrosyne's was ornamentedwith a rare profusion of delicate embroidery, and of so fine a texturethat it seemed rather some delicate, soft, yielding silk. The changeof attire seemed reflected in her altered manner. Defiance was gone,and appeal glistened from her eyes as she stood before me. I sprangup, but she would not sit. She stood there, and, raising her glance tomy face, asked simply:
'Is it true?'
In a business-like way I told her the whole story, starting from theevery-day scene at home in the restaurant, ending with the villainousconversation and the wild chase of the night before. When I relatedhow Constantine had called Francesca his wife, Euphrosyne started.While I sketched lightly my encounter with him and Vlacho, she eyed mewith a sort of grave curiosity; and at the end she said:
'I'm glad you weren't killed.'
It was not an emotional speech, nor delivered with any _empressement_,but I took it for thanks and made the best of it. Then at last she satdown and rested her head on her hand; her absent reverie allowed meto study her closely, and I was struck by a new beauty which thefantastic boy's disguise had concealed. Moreover, with the doffing ofthat, she seemed to have put off her extreme hostility; but perhapsthe revelation I had made to her, which showed her the victim of anunscrupulous schemer, had more to do with her softened air. Yet shehad borne the story firmly, and a quivering lip was her extreme signof grief or anger. And her first question was not of herself.
'Do you mean that they will kill this woman?' she asked.
'I'm afraid it's not unlikely that something will happen to her,unless, of course--' I paused, but her quick wit supplied theomission.
'Unless,' she said, 'he lets her live now, because I am out of hishands?'
'Will you stay out of his hands?' I asked. 'I mean, as long as I cankeep you out of them.'
She looked round with a troubled expression.
'How can I stay here?' she said in a low tone.
'You will be as safe here now as you were in your uncle's care,' Ianswered.
She acknowledged my promise with a movement of her head; but a momentlater she cried:
'But I am not with you--I am with the people! The island is theirsand mine. It's not yours. I'll have no part in giving it to you.'
'I wasn't proposing to take pay for my hospitality,' said I. 'It'll behardly handsome enough for that, I'm afraid. But mightn't we leave thequestion for the moment?' And I described briefly to her our presentposition.
'So that,' I concluded, 'while I maintain my claim to the island, I amat present more interested in keeping a whole skin on myself and myfriends.'
'If you will not give it up, I can do nothing,' said she. 'Though theyknew Constantine to be all you say, yet they would follow him and notme if I yielded the island. Indeed they would most likely follow himin any case. For the Neopalians like a man to follow, and they likethat man to be a Stefanopoulos; so they would shut their eyes to much,in order that Constantine might marry me and become lord.'
She stated all this in a matter-of-fact way, disclosing no greathorror of her countrymen's moral standard. The straightforwardbarbarousness of it perhaps appealed to her a little; she loathed theman who would rule on those terms, but had some toleration for thepeople who set the true dynasty above all else. And she spoke of herproposed marriage as though it were a natural arrangement.
'I shall have to marry him, I expect, in spite of everything,' shesaid.
I pushed my chair back violently. My English respectability wasappalled.
'Marry him?' I cried. 'Why, he murdered the old lord!'
'That has happened before among the Stefanopouloi,' said Euphrosyne,with a calmness dangerously near to pride.
'And he proposes to murder his wife,' I added.
'Perhaps he will get rid of her without that.' She paused; then camethe anger I had looked for before. 'Ah, but how dared he swear that hehad thought of none but me, and loved me passionately? He shall payfor that!' Again it was injured pride which rang in her voice, as inher first cry. It did not sound like love; and for that I was glad.The courtship probably had been an affair of state rather than ofaffection. I did not ask how Constantine was to be made to pay,whether before or after marriage. I was struggling between horror andamusement at my guest's point of view. But I take leave to have a willof my own, even sometimes in matters which are not exactly my concern;and I said now, with a composure that rivalled Euphrosyne's:
'It's out of the question that you should marry him. I'm going to gethim hanged; and, anyhow, it would be atrocious.'
She smiled at that; but then sh
e leant forward and asked:
'How long have you provisions for?'
'That's a good retort,' I admitted. 'A few days, that's all. And wecan't get out to procure any more; and we can't go shooting, becausethe wood's infested with these ruff--I beg pardon--with yourcountrymen.'
'Then it seems to me,' said Euphrosyne, 'that you and your friends aremore likely to be hanged.'
Well, on a dispassionate consideration, it did seem more likely; butshe need not have said so. She went on with an equally discouraginggood sense:
'There will be a boat from Rhodes in about a month or six weeks. Theofficer will come then to take the tribute; perhaps the Governor willcome. But till then nobody will visit the island, unless it be a fewfishermen from Cyprus.'
'Fishermen? Where do they land? At the harbour?'
'No; my people do not like them; but the Governor threatens to sendtroops if we do not let them land. So they come to a little creek atthe opposite end of the island, on the other side of the mountain. Ah,what are you thinking of?'
As Euphrosyne perceived, her words had put a new idea in my mind. If Icould reach that creek and find the fishermen and persuade them tohelp me or to carry my party off, that hanging might happen to theright man after all.
'You're thinking you can reach them?' she cried.
'You don't seem sure that you want me to,' I observed.
'Oh, how can I tell what I want? If I help you I am betraying theisland. If I do not--'
'You'll have a death or two at your door, and you'll marry the biggestscoundrel in Europe,' said I.
She hung her head and plucked fretfully at the embroidery on the frontof her gown.
'But anyhow you couldn't reach them,' she said. 'You are closeprisoners here.'
That, again, seemed true, so that it put me in a very bad temper.Therefore I rose and, leaving her without much ceremony, strolled intothe kitchen. Here I found Watkins dressing the cow's head, Hogvardtsurrounded by knives, and Denny lying on a rug on the floor with asmall book which he seemed to be reading. He looked up with a smilethat he considered knowing.
'Well, what does the Captive Queen say?' he asked with levity.
'She proposes to marry Constantine,' I answered, and added quickly toHogvardt:
'What's the game with those knives, Hog?'
'Well, my lord,' said Hogvardt, surveying his dozen murderousinstruments, 'I thought there was no harm in putting an edge on them,in case we should find a use for them,' and he fell to grinding onewith great energy.
'I say, Charley, I wonder what this yarn's about. I can't construehalf of it. It's in Greek, and it's something about Neopalia; andthere's a lot about a Stefanopoulos.'
'Is there? Let's see,' and, taking the book, I sat down to look at it.It was a slim old book, bound in calf-skin. The Greek was written inan old-fashioned style; it was verse. I turned to the title page.'Hullo, this is rather interesting,' I exclaimed. 'It's about thedeath of old Stefanopoulos--the thing they sing that song about, youknow.'
In fact I had got hold of the poem which One-Eyed Alexander composed.Its length was about three hundred lines, exclusive of the refrainwhich the islanders had chanted, and which was inserted six times,occurring at the end of each fifty lines. The rest was written inrather barbarous iambics; and the sentiments were quite as barbarousas the verse. It told the whole story, and I ran rapidly over it,translating here and there for the benefit of my companions. Thearrival of the Baron d'Ezonville recalled our own with curiousexactness, except that he came with one servant only. He had beentaken to the inn as I had, but he had never escaped from there, andhad been turned adrift the morning after his arrival. I took moreinterest in Stefan, and followed eagerly the story of how theislanders had come to his house and demanded that he should revoke thesale. Stefan, however, was obstinate; it cost the lives of four of hisassailants before his door was forced. Thus far I read, and expectedto find next an account of a _melee_ in the hall. But here the storytook a turn unexpected by me, one that might make the reading of theold poem more than a mere pastime.
'But when they had broken in,' sang One-Eyed Alexander, 'behold thehall was empty, and the house empty! And they stood amazed. But thetwo cousins of the Lord, who had been the hottest in seeking hisdeath, put all the rest to the door, and were themselves alone in thehouse; for the secret was known to them who were of the blood of theStefanopouloi. Unto me, the Bard, it is not known. Yet men say theywent beneath the earth, and there in the earth found the lord. Andcertain it is they slew him, for in a space they came forth to thedoor, bearing his head; this they showed to the people, who answeredwith a great shout. But the cousins went back, barring the door again;and again, when but a few minutes had passed, they came forth, openingthe door, and the elder of them, being now by the traitor's deathbecome lord, bade the people in, and made a great feast for them. Butthe head of Stefan none saw again, nor did any see his body; but bodyand head were gone whither none know, saving the noble blood of theStefanopouloi; for utterly they disappeared, and the secret wassecurely kept.'
I read this passage aloud, translating as I went. At the end Dennydrew a breath.
'Well, if there aren't ghosts in this house there ought to be,' heremarked. 'What the deuce did those rascals do with the old gentleman,Charley?'
'It says they went beneath the earth.'
'The cellar,' suggested Hogvardt, who had a prosaic mind.
'But they wouldn't leave the body in the cellar,' I objected; 'and if,as this fellow says, they were only away a few minutes, they couldn'thave dug a grave for it. And then it says that they "there in theearth found the lord."'
'It would have been more interesting,' said Denny, 'if they'd toldAlexander a bit more about it. However I suppose he consoles himselfwith his chant again?'
'He does. It follows immediately on what I've read, and so the thingends.' And I sat looking at the little yellow volume. 'Where did youfind it, Denny?' I asked.
'Oh, on a shelf in the corner of the hall, between the _Iliad_ and a_Life of Byron_. There's precious little to read in this house.'
I got up and walked back to the hall. I looked round. Euphrosyne wasnot there. I inspected the hall door; it was still locked on theinside. I mounted the stairs and called at the door of her room; whenno answer came, I pushed it open and took the liberty of glancinground; she was not there. I called again, for I thought she might havepassed along the way over the hall and reached the roof, as she hadbefore. This time I called loudly. Silence followed for a moment. Thencame an answer, in a hurried, rather apologetic tone, 'Here I am.' Butthen--the answer came not from the direction that I had expected, butfrom the hall! And, looking over the balustrade, I saw Euphrosynesitting in the armchair.
'This,' said I, going downstairs, 'taken in conjunction withthis'--and I patted One-Eyed Alexander's book, which I held in myhand--'is certainly curious and suggestive.'
'Here I am,' said Euphrosyne, with an air that added, 'I've not moved.What are you shouting for?'
'Yes, but you weren't there a minute ago,' I observed, reaching thehall and walking across to her.
She looked disturbed and embarrassed.
'Where have you been?' I asked.
'Must I give an account of every movement?' said she, trying to coverher confusion with a show of haughty offence.
The coincidence was really a remarkable one; it was as hard to accountfor Euphrosyne's disappearance and reappearance as for the vanishedhead and body of old Stefan. I had a conviction, based on a suddenintuition, that one explanation must lie at the root of both thesecurious things, that the secret of which Alexander spoke was a secretstill hidden--hidden from my eyes, but known to the girl before me,the daughter of the Stefanopouloi.
'I won't ask you where you've been, if you don't wish to tell me,'said I carelessly.
She bowed her head in recognition of my indulgence.
'But there is one question I should like to ask you,' I pursued, 'ifyou'll be so kind as to answer it.'
'Well, what is
it?' She was still on the defensive.
'Where was Stefan Stefanopoulos killed, and what became of his body?'
As I put the question I flung One-Eyed Alexander's book open on thetable beside her.
She started visibly, crying, 'Where did you get that?'
I told her how Denny had found it, and I added:
'Now, what does "beneath the earth" mean? You're one of the house andyou must know.'
'Yes, I know, but I must not tell you. We are all bound by the mostsacred oath to tell no one.'
'Who told you?'
'My uncle. The boys of our house are told when they are fifteen, thegirls when they are sixteen. No one else knows.'
'Why is that?'
She hesitated, fearing, perhaps, that her answer itself would tend tobetray the secret.
'I dare tell you nothing,' she said. 'The oath binds me; and it bindsevery one of my kindred to kill me if I break it.'
'But you've no kindred left except Constantine,' I objected.
'He is enough. He would kill me.'
'Sooner than marry you?' I suggested rather maliciously.
'Yes, if I broke the oath.'
'Hang the oath!' said I impatiently. 'The thing might help us. Didthey bury Stefan somewhere under the house?'
'No, he was not buried,' she answered.
'Then they brought him up and got rid of his body when the islandershad gone?'
'You must think what you will.'
'I'll find it out,' said I. 'If I pull the house down, I'll find it.Is it a secret door or--?
She had coloured at the question. I put the latter part in a low eagervoice, for hope had come to me.
'Is it a way out?' I asked, leaning over to her.
She sat mute, but irresolute, embarrassed and fretful.
'Heavens,' I cried impatiently, 'it may mean life or death to all ofus, and you boggle over your oath!'
My rude impatience met with a rebuke that it perhaps deserved. With aglance of the utmost scorn, Euphrosyne asked coldly,
'What are the lives of all of you to me?'
'True, I forgot,' said I, with a bitter politeness. 'I beg yourpardon. I did you all the service I could last night, and now--I andmy friends may as well die as live! But, by God, I'll pull this placeto ruins, but I'll find your secret.'
I was walking up and down now in a state of some excitement. My brainwas fired with the thought of stealing a march on Constantine throughthe discovery of his own family secret.
Suddenly Euphrosyne gave a little soft clap with her hands. It wasover in a minute, and she sat blushing, confused, trying to look as ifshe had not moved at all.
'What did you do that for?' I asked, stopping in front of her.
'Nothing,' said Euphrosyne.
'Oh, I don't believe that,' said I.
She looked at me. 'I didn't mean to do it,' she said. 'But can't youguess why?'
'There's too much guessing to be done here,' said I impatiently; and Istarted walking again. But presently I heard a voice say softly, andin a tone that seemed to address nobody in particular--me least ofall:
'We Neopalians like a man who can be angry, and I began to think younever would.'
'I am not the least angry,' said I with great indignation. I hatebeing told that I am angry when I am merely showing firmness.
Now at this protest of mine Euphrosyne saw fit to laugh--the mosthearty laugh she had given since I had known her. The mirthfulness ofit undermined my wrath. I stood still opposite her, biting the end ofmy moustache.
'You may laugh,' said I, 'but I'm not angry; and I shall pull thishouse down, or dig it up, in cold blood, in perfectly cold blood.'
'You are angry,' said Euphrosyne, 'and you say you're not. You arelike my father. He would stamp his foot furiously like that, and say,"I am not angry, I am not angry, Phroso."'
Phroso! I had forgotten that diminutive of my guest's classical name.It rather pleased me, and I repeated gently after her, 'Phroso,Phroso!' and I'm afraid I eyed the little foot that had stamped sobravely.
'He always called me Phroso. Oh, I wish he were alive! ThenConstantine--'
'Since he isn't,' said I, sitting on the table by Phroso (I must writeit, it's a deal shorter),--by Phroso's elbow--'since he isn't, I'lllook after Constantine. It would be a pity to spoil the house,wouldn't it?'
'I've sworn,' said Phroso.
'Circumstances alter oaths,' said I, bending till I was very nearPhroso's ear.
'Ah,' said Phroso reproachfully, 'that's what lovers say when theyfind another more beautiful than their old love.'
I shot away from Phroso's ear with a sudden backward start. Her remarksomehow came home to me with a very remarkable force. I got off thetable, and stood opposite to her in an awkward and stiff attitude.
'I am compelled to ask you, for the last time, if you will tell me thesecret?' said I, in the coldest of tones.
She looked up with surprise; my altered manner may well have amazedher. She did not know the reason of it.
'You asked me kindly and--and pleasantly, and I would not. Now you askme as if you threatened,' she said. 'Is it likely I should tell younow?'
Well, I was angry with myself and with her because she had made meangry with myself; and, the next minute, I became furiously angry withDenny, whom I found standing in the doorway that led to the kitchenwith a smile of intense amusement on his face.
'What are you grinning at?' I demanded fiercely.
'Oh, nothing,' said Denny, and his face strove to assume a prudentgravity.
'Bring a pickaxe,' said I.
Denny's eyes wandered towards Phroso. 'Is she as annoying as that?' heseemed to ask. 'A pickaxe?' he repeated in surprised tones.
'Yes, two pickaxes. I'm going to have this floor up, and see if I canfind out the great Stefanopoulos secret.' I spoke with an accent ofintense scorn.
Again Phroso laughed; her hands beat very softly against one another.Heavens, what did she do that for, when Denny was there, watchingeverything with those shrewd eyes of his?
'The pickaxes!' I roared.
Denny turned and fled; a moment elapsed. I did not know what to do,how to look at Phroso, or how not to look at her. I took refuge inflight. I rushed into the kitchen, on pretence of aiding or hasteningDenny's search. I found him taking up an old pick that stood near thedoor leading to the compound. I seized it from his hand.
'Confound you!' I cried, for Denny laughed openly at me; and I rushedback to the hall. But on the threshold I paused, and said what I willnot write.
For, though there came from somewhere the ripple of a mirthful laugh,the hall was empty! Phroso was gone! I flung the pickaxe down with aclatter on the boards, and exclaimed in my haste:
'I wish to heaven I'd never bought the island!'
But I did not really mean that.