CHAPTER XVII.

PARTED LOVERS.

The last word has been spoken, the last look exchanged between the

lovers, and the wrench of parting is over. Gustav declined to accompany

Selaka back to Xinara; he was too shaken for society other than his

own. Inarime had bent to her father’s decision, and had accepted the

sundering of their lives. More than this he hardly knew.

When Selaka rode down the village, Gustav followed on foot, and knew

not whither he went,--content to drift along without purpose or desire.

Yet he dreaded the weakness of succumbing to a merely whimpering

sorrow. That something had gone from him to which he clung with a kind

of frenzied fervour he felt, but he was resolved that the sense of

desolation should not conquer him. He had said that he would accept

his fate at Inarime’s bidding; now, that that fate seemed harder than

human endurance, it was not for him to rebel in impotent anguish, but

to endeavour bravely to face the empty world.

As he entered the village of Steni, he saw a little band of villagers

approach the Greek church, and, hardly knowing why, he followed them.

The church was lit, and in the middle upon a table was a tray of sweets

and two long candles, upon which rested two wreaths joined by a long

white ribbon. Pricked by the dull curiosity of a man who no longer

feels interested in himself, he pushed his way on up the church,

lounged against the pillar and gazed with a strange calmness upon the

ceremonial, that soon began. No one who saw him would interpret his

impassivity of attitude and look as the despair of a suddenly wrecked

life.

The man beside him, standing with his hat on his head, and wearing the

preoccupied air with a visible nervousness that usually betokens the

happy man upon the portals of marriage, was a mere village clod in an

unpicturesque European garb, who stood beside his best man waiting for

the bride. A stout, plain, village girl was ushered into the church

in a whirlwind of excitement, surrounded by a circle of feminine

satellites. She neither looked at the bridegroom, nor at any one else,

but kept her eyes fixed in sullen acquiescence on the ground.

She wore a bright-coloured kerchief on her head, with a band of coins

round her forehead; and a profusion of jewellery decked her muscular

throat and arms. Very expensively and tastelessly was she arrayed,

and most miserable did she look in her finery. The fixed misery of

her face interested Gustav, who naturally thought it quite in keeping

with the lesson of life, that every one should look wretched. Three

priests advanced to wed this uncomely couple, and the evolutions that

followed struck Gustav with astonishment. He listened to the priests

as they droned out the wedding service, and held the Gospel now to the

bridegroom’s lips and then to the bride’s; and so on, three times;

watched them place the long lighted tapers in the hands of each;

watched the pair give and accept rings, and passively submit to the

decoration of the wreaths of artificial flowers, exchanged three times

upon either head.

Involuntarily Gustav smiled at the grotesque sight presented by the

village clod in his wreath of roses, and then marvelled when the

priests and principal personages, with their attendant swains and

nymphs, caught hands in a circle, and danced with inconceivable gravity

round the table backwards and forwards three times, the bride and

bridegroom still wearing their look of dull wretchedness. Good heavens!

Was this the kind of ceremony he would have been bound to go through

in his marriage with Inarime? to find himself hauled round a table,

as sailors haul in the anchor, bound in that degrading fashion with

roses! It was some slight salve for his wound to gaze in contempt at

this pastoral introduction to marriage, and when a little mischievous

boy upset the tray in order that he and his friends might taste of its

contents in the scuffle that ensued, and was frantically cuffed and

sworn at by the angry priests, Gustav burst out into gloomy laughter,

and made his way as well as he could out of the church.

He walked down the darkened street heavy-hearted, thinking of Inarime;

he dropped into the rough decline that leads to Xinara, and mingled

with the sad images of the day were the cruel dulness of the bride’s

face and the tame acceptance of the bridegroom. After all, perhaps it

was so; this might be the symbol of marriage, and not the high ideal he

yearned for.

Under a rocky projection he saw a man who had been pointed out to

him as a semi-idiot. An ambitious mother had sent him as a lad to

Marseilles; thence he had made his way up to Paris; and now this was

his state. Three years of stormy life in that nefarious city had turned

a bright lad into a bald, aged idiot, only twenty-five, looking more

than fifty. He was staring stupidly down through the thickening shadows

to where the sea beat against the distant shore: staring out from the

barren island that oppressed him; living acutely and horribly in memory.

Comforted by the sight of a fellow-sufferer, Gustav stopped and said

good-night. The wretched man glanced at him in dreary reproach.

“It used to be good-night over there in Paris; the boulevards were lit

and there were laughter and gaiety around, happy voices, music, cabs,

and pretty women. Here nothing, nothing, nothing, but the everlasting

sea and sky and the pathless mountain sides. Don’t say good-night to

me, sir, I am dead, irretrievably damned, damned, damned in hell!”

Gustav thought he was not the only living man who thought this world a

hell, and turned round by the desolate Castro. He climbed up the rocks,

overjoyed by the sensation of complete discomfort, of torn hands and

bruised members. Then he stretched himself on the top of the rock, and

looked out across the shadowy waters. The first faint glimmer of the

crescent shone in the glossy sky, and the stars looked like drops of

fire hanging above the world. There was no sound save the far-off roar

of the waterfalls thundering down their marble rocks, or the musical

clang of the goat and sheep bells as the shepherds gathered in their

flocks for the night. Sometimes a light flamed from a distant window.

Gustav thought of old stories he had read, in which maidens placed

lights in their windows to light their lovers, or wives as a message

to their husbands. The loneliness of his future broke in upon him in a

flood of self-pity. There was only one window he wanted to see lighted

for him, and that now would be eternally dark. Tears sprang to his

eyes, and then, fearful of the horror of the gathering outburst he

felt within him, he jumped down the rocks, now sliding, now racing on,

tangling his limbs in the bushes and furzes, and shot down the path

that hung over the little village of Xinara.

Demetrius saw him pass with flying feet, with set lips, and unseeing

eyes; and the popular shop-keeper turned to his patient satellites,

Johannes and Michael, and observed:

“He’s been to Mousoulou; I heard it all; the wedding takes place

immediately.”

“He’s a good-looking fellow,” said Johannes, apprehensive of the

reception of this innocent remark from so susceptible a leader.

“As for that, yes, and he’s getting a good-looking wife, though she

does dress outlandishly, and turns up her nose at my stuffs. She got

that yellow gown at Syra, and I can’t say I admire the big buttons she

wears.”

“Well,” said Michael, reflectively, “she is a very learned young woman,

and writes very fine letters for our women. I don’t know what they’ll

do when she goes away. I know my girl in Constantinople won’t be in

the way of hearing much from my wife.”

“Ay, that’s so,” said Demetrius, “she’ll be missed as letter-writer,

and I’m not so sure that the place won’t seem a good deal smaller and

duller when we’ve not her handsome face to look at.”

In the courtyard Gustav brushed up against Aristides, who glared at him

and muttered a curse as he removed his frame from the doorway, where

he had been airing his ill-humour for the benefit of Annunziata, busy

making the new Misythra.

“Here he is,” he said to his good-tempered listener, engaged just then

on the delicate process of straining off the sheep’s milk and tying up

the remainder of clotted cream tightly in a linen cloth.

Gustav strode up to her and said in an unfamiliar voice, chill and

remote like an echo:

“I am going.”

The pleasant old woman laid down her jar, dried her hands, and took

hold of his, tightening upon them with an inspiriting and sympathetic

grasp.

“My poor child, may God and His saints go with you! I know all. By

my faith, I see no reason why you should go. The Turk, we know, is a

heretic, but you would marry my Inarime according to the Greek rite.

You would be faithful to her as a Christian should be.”

“Faithful!” cried Gustav, vehemently. “Gladly would I die for her.” But

he did not see that of the two this is much the easier to do.

“Yes, yes,” said Annunziata, “young men in love talk very tall; when

the fit passes, they do very little. But I like you, and I am sorry for

you. Go away now; it is better so. Be assured that your interests here

will not suffer by being left in my hands.”

The tears were perilously near his eyelids; he struggled with rising

emotion, flung himself round, and in a moment his figure made a

vanishing and graceful shadow in the upper air. Selaka was within,

pacing the room in perplexed thought, when the young man entered.

“Sir, is this your last word? Must I go and not bear with me the hope

of returning?” demanded Gustav.

“You must,” said Selaka, gravely, “you cannot undo your birth, nor can

I.”

Gustav waited not for another word, but rushed into his room, hastily

gathered his things together, and reappeared in the little parlour with

his portmanteau in his hand. He stood in front of Selaka, and looked at

him steadily.

“Should this grief be too much for her?”

“She is strong, and she is brave,” said Selaka, “and she will overcome

it.”

“Good God!” said Gustav, “have you no thought of the girl’s heart? Are

there forces in nature, think you, to dispel or even dull its yearning?

Is there ever a barrier to the union of two souls! What you play with

is her happiness, for the sake of your own patriotic pride.”

Selaka did not answer, but covered his eyes with his hand, and said:

“It must be so. We are bound irrevocably by ties nearer, more sacred,

than any impulse of nature. There are animosities that cannot

shrink and vanish under such considerations as you urge; there is

a degradation that cannot be faced by any free spirit! Under other

circumstances, I should have regarded your marriage with my daughter as

an honour for me and a happiness for her. But that is at an end. You

will go hence, and you will forget us, but you may believe that our

kindest wishes will follow you wherever you may go.”

They shook hands, and thus they parted. Gustav found Aristides

waiting for him outside, with a mule for himself and a donkey for

his portmanteau; and through the increasing darkness and the shadows

of night, which lay like extended wings on the landscape, they rode

silently down into the town.

* * * * * * * * *

The next morning Pericles was shaken out of his moody disappointment

by Constantine’s wild letter written the night before his duel with

the lawyer Stavros, and an accompanying note from the brave Captain,

dwelling pompously on his gallant demeanour, and explaining that the

wound, the result of an awkward shot, was not in the least dangerous,

but simply troublesome, and that the presence of Dr. Selaka’s family in

Athens was desirable.

“The very thing. Inarime needs a change,” Pericles cried, brightening

at the prospect of getting outside his daughter’s grief.

He and Inarime embarked from the little pier for Athens late that

afternoon, and it seemed to him a hopeful omen that the forlorn girl

looked about her with eyes of interest.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER XVIII.

RUDOLPH AND ANDROMACHE.

New Year’s Eve at Athens by the Greek calendar. The long street of

Hermes was an execrable confusion of the mingled sounds of loud

chatter, laughter, jostling and popguns. Everybody was buying monster

bouquets for presentation on the morrow. Sensitive nerves were laid

prostrate in shivering ache by the din of squib and rattle, and

the intolerable and unceasing explosions, and the raw colours were

an offence to the eye. But the unfastidious Greeks were drunk with

excitement and pleasure. They proudly carried the purchased bouquets

with which the New Year’s greetings were to be exchanged, ate sweets,

laughed hilariously, and took their jostling very good-naturedly.

All the booths erected on either side of the street were covered

with flowers, and men went about bearing aloft long poles to which

bouquets for sale were affixed,--and these wands wore a curious

triumphal aspect. Oh, the dolorous strangeness and multiplied effects

of an Oriental town in holiday attire! Its clamorous and enervating

gaieties, and its exasperating want of tone! Think of it with a strong

sun beating down upon it, with not a touch of shadow or repose to

soothe the pained eyes, with incessant speech clanging and clattering

through the air, and every delicate sense affronted!

Foreigners and natives were abroad to view and drink at this local

fount of joy. One group we recognise. Rudolph Ehrenstein elbows his

way through the crowd and turns protectively every moment to his

delighted and staring companion, Andromache with the March-violet

eyes, whom we last saw with shamed and drooping head flee Madame

Jarovisky’s ball-room. How well, and young, and prettily infatuated the

pair look! And there is the glorious Miltiades behind them, bearing

on his arm his portly and panting mother. Was there ever conqueror so

irresistible? ever hero more gallantly conscious of his heroism? The

spectator thought of those hapless five thousand Turks, and shuddered;

heard the ostentatious rattle of his spurs, and that terrible weapon

of destruction hanging from his side in the eloquence of war; looked

at the scarlet plumes nodding above his noble brow, measured the

awful imposingness of his tall slim form in the sombre simplicity of

the Artillery Uniform and his long military boots, and rejoiced that

Providence is good enough to limit the number of such heroes, else

would surely be exterminated the horde of non-heroic.

This slaughterer of Turks was now content to be regarded as an amiable

slaughterer of women. Twirling his fierce moustache, with a casual

eye upon the young couple in front, he was looking round eagerly in

search of his latest victim, Miss Mary Perpignani, while his mother

breathed shortly on his arm, and kept muttering, “Poh! Poh! Poh! what a

crush!” while she vigorously fanned and rubbed her sallow face with her

handkerchief.

Above the foolish pair in front, Love’s star shone with a very gentle

fulgence. Just a sense of delicious trouble, unmarred by any passionate

impulses, stirred Rudolph. There was a delicate fragrance of homage

in his shy and boyish fancy. It was a happiness, exquisite in its

completeness and unexactingness, to be with Andromache, to listen to

her voice and look quickly, with the tell-tale blood of fervour in his

face, into her pretty eyes, his own shining and candid and content. Was

there ever a sweeter, more innocent idyll? and the pity was that these

two should not be allowed to run smoothly and trustingly into the shade

of forest depths and live the life of nature, with no knowledge of the

shabby compromises of civilisation and the more turbulent emotions of

the heart.

He called her Mademoiselle Andromache, and with a look of shyest prayer

had prevailed on her to call him sometimes Monsieur Rudolph. But the

_Monsieur_ and _Mademoiselle_ tripped by with alarming facility;

the tongue dwelt and faltered and whipped scarlet colour into each

susceptible cheek upon the _Andromache_ and _Rudolph_. Flattering,

foolish, happy creatures! If pulses never beat less innocently, and

senses never stirred more rapturously, the period of loverhood would

indeed be a spot of Arcadia upon the rough road of life.

“Does all this not make your head and eyes ache, Mademoiselle

Andromache?” he asked.

“No,” said the Greek maid, untroubled by nerves, and smiled in healthy

admiration. “Are not the bouquets pretty?”

“If you think them pretty, they must be pretty,” said Rudolph, striving

loyally to see their beauty. “I am glad you like flowers.”

“Why?” asked Andromache, meeting his eyes consciously.

“Because there are such quantities of flowers about my home in Austria.

It is a lovely place, Mademoiselle Andromache. Imagine a great forest,

so silent and shadowy. Oh, if you could see it in the moonlight! The

trees drop silver, and fairies seem to play among the branches. I wish

I could show it to you, take you to see the haunted well, and show

you my mother’s favourite walk. You would have loved my mother, dear

Mademoiselle Andromache. She was so good, so sweet, so gracious. Oh, it

was a bitter loss to me. I cannot accustom myself to it. Sometimes I

wake up at night and fancy I hear her enter my room, and feel her soft

kiss on my forehead--and it is dreary to know that it is only fancy.”

His voice shook and his clear eyes clouded. Andromache involuntarily

pressed his arm in sympathy, and when he looked down upon her he saw

responsive tears tremble on her lashes.

“Dear Andromache,” he said, in a whisper, “you make me feel less

lonely. Ah, how my mother would have loved you!”

And then these shy young persons, desperately afraid of each other and

of themselves, rushed eagerly on to impersonal ground.

At the Byzantine church of Camcarea, which quaintly obstructs Hermes

Street, they were jostled out of sight of their escort, upon which

Kyria Karapolos was thrown into a state of voluble alarm.

“Where are they, Miltiades? _Panaghia mou!_ Andromache alone with that

young man! Come, Miltiades! I shall have a fit if they have gone far.”

“It is all right, mamma,” laughed Andromache, behind them. “We were

pushed off the pavement, and had to let some people pass.”

And then she glanced roguishly at Rudolph, and another rivet in the

chain of intimacy was added by a sense of peril and crime shared

between them.

“Very well, Andromache. You will stay with me now, and Miltiades will

bring back Monsieur Ehrenstein to drink coffee with us later.”

The impenitent ruffian, who had endangered her daughter’s reputation,

took his dismissal gaily enough; bowed low and smiled delightfully upon

both ladies as he took the arm of the stately and stalwart Miltiades,

and stood for them to pass:

“Je crois c’est assez,” said Miltiades, with a comprehensive glance

up and down the noisy street, which had the bad taste not to show the

piquant face of Miss Mary Perpignani.

Rudolph, to whom the Captain’s limited vocabulary in French was a

source of perpetual amusement, intimated his concurrence with this

opinion, whereupon they ruthlessly beat their way down to Constitution

Square.

“Voulez-vous un café et cigarette?” asked the Captain, touching the

back of a chair, and the droll anxiety he displayed in uttering this

simple demand sent Rudolph into an explosion of appreciative mirth.

“Non, non, chez-vous, j’aime mieux,” said Rudolph, indistinctly,

between gasps of laughter.

Miltiades frowned, and held his head high with a proud, hurt air. His

French might be imperfect and his enunciation laborious, but he was

not the less for that a hero. By the grave of Hercules! was he to be

flouted and mocked by a young jackanapes from Austria?

“Mais, mon ami, il ne faut pas se fâcher,” cried Rudolph, full of

remorse and apprehension. “Ah, si vous saviez tout,” he added, and

forced Miltiades to stop and shake hands with him.

But how to unbosom oneself to a desired brother-in-law without a common

tongue? His Greek was even more limited than the other’s French, and of

German the gallant Captain’s knowledge was restricted to the convivial

“Trinken Sie Wein,” and “Hoch.” But despite the difficulties in the way

of conversation, the young men were delighted to be together.

Miltiades chattered Greek, and looked eager inquiry at Rudolph who

nodded significantly, and was as voluble and communicative in French.

What they said neither knew, but a gleam of intelligence broke the not

unpleasant darkness occasionally for Miltiades, in such pregnant words

as “votre sœur,” “j’aime,” and “épouser.”

“He wants to marry Andromache,” thought Miltiades, drawing himself up,

and looking very grave and responsible. “It would be a splendid match

for her, but his uncle will never consent to it. However, I’ll give

conditional consent.”

“Vous,--épouser ma sœur, Andromache?” he said slowly, as he faced

Rudolph with the heaviest air of guardian.

“Justement, Monsieur. Je le désire de tout mon cœur,” cried Rudolph,

flaming suddenly.

“Ah,” said Miltiades, pausing, and holding the suitor poised on the

wing of awful suspense. “Votre oncle?”

Here Rudolph broke out into vehement protestations regarding which not

one word did Miltiades understand. They turned up one of the openings

off Stadion Street that led direct to the Lycabettus, and here they met

little Themistocles, as fresh and dapper and dainty as if he were ready

for exhibition on a toy counter.

Miltiades collared him forcibly, and explained the extremity of his

need. Charmed by the possession of this sole superiority over the

warrior, which his fluent French gave him, little Themistocles lifted

his hat, and twirling his cane with an air of graceful ease, placed his

services as interpreter at the disposal of Monsieur Ehrenstein.

Thus was cleared the fog of doubt and perplexity. The Jovelike brow

of Miltiades smoothed, and the light of approval beamed softly in his

dark blue eyes. Little Themistocles minced, and smiled affectedly, and

shrugged his shoulders to an incredible extent, until the inferior

glory of the Parisian dandy was totally eclipsed. And Rudolph, now that

the fatal leap was taken, was full of vague apprehension and nervous

tremors. Was he quite so sure as he assumed to be that he had the right

to dispose of himself thus? But Andromache was so pretty and tender,

and he so greatly loved her!

The enchanted brothers, for once partners in feeling and idea, hurried

him up the steep, unpaved streets, laughing boisterously as they jumped

the flowing streamlets that intersect them, and when they reached the

glass door of the beloved’s home, Miltiades rapped sharply against the

pane.

“Maria, tell my mother to join us in the salon,” he said.

“Kyria, you are wanted in the salon,” shouted Maria from the passage,

shaking her hair out of her eyes the better to stare at Rudolph. “I’m

thinking it is Andromache he wants, and not the old lady,” she muttered.

Kyria Karapolos came puffing excitedly from the dining-room at the end

of the passage, followed by Julia, who wore her sulkiest air.

“You are not wanted, Julia,” cried Miltiades, striding into the salon,

his sword and spurs making a fearful clatter along the floor.

“You are not wanted, Julia,” echoed Themistocles, vindictively, eager

to air his own special spite under the cover of Miltiades’ command.

Miltiades frowned and glowered upon him. He resented the liberty

of spurious authority in his presence, and a repetition of thunder

irritated him. But Rudolph’s presence checked his anger, and when the

suitor, the reigning sovereigns and their humble interpreter were

seated, there were perfect serenity and dignity in his bearing.

“Monsieur Rudolph Ehrenstein wants to marry Andromache,” he said,

opening the proceedings.

“_Panaghia mou!_” cried Kyria Karapolos, with a look of unutterable

astonishment at an announcement hourly expected.

“He says his uncle will not object, and cannot practically interfere,”

Miltiades explained.

“And that he is rich enough to dispense with a dowry,” added

Themistocles, thereby bringing upon himself a lightning-flame of

contempt from the hero of Greece.

“_Panaghia mou!_ But I am rejoiced. My dear Monsieur Ehrenstein, you

are charming. I am happy to give you Andromache. Oh, but this is a

blessed moment for me!” and with that she rose, and emphatically

embraced poor Rudolph, whom the ordeal rendered giddy and awkward. This

was the signal for general demonstrations of affection. Miltiades shook

hands, and kissed the cheeks of his future brother-in-law, and little

Themistocles did likewise.

“Order coffee and liqueur, mother,” said Miltiades.

“You are very amiable,” Rudolph said, gratefully, disturbed by the

trouble of the moment. “I am sure it will be my pride and happiness to

deserve your good-will in the future.”

Kyria Karapolos returned with Andromache, and announced that the

refreshments of jubilation would shortly appear.

“Andromache, behold your husband,” exclaimed Miltiades, with a slightly

theatrical flourish.

Whereupon little Themistocles sighed profoundly, and retreated to his

own chamber to vex the sunset with strains of his asthmatic violin, to

muse upon his misery and think of the young lady in the next street.

With a significant nod, Captain Miltiades marched away to imaginary

glory, and Kyria Karapolos, in a kindly impulse, found a pretext for a

short absence in the necessity for Julia’s presence.

How frightened and shy two confiding young people can be when first

confronted with the horrors of a tête-à-tête.

Andromache was ready to sink with shame, and Rudolph’s heart was in his

boots. He looked at her with piteous entreaty, but her lashes rested

upon her cheek.

“Andromache, you are not afraid of me, you do not like me less

because--because----” and there was something extremely like fear in

his own voice and in the tender imploring of his eyes.

“Oh, no, but I do not know what to say,” whispered Andromache, still

studying the Smyrna rug at her feet.

“Look at me, Andromache, and say--say something kind.”

She lifted her eyes, and they were filled with passionate admiration:

“Say that--that you love me.”

“I love you,” she said, with adorable simplicity.

“Oh, Andromache,” he cried, suffocated with a sudden thrill, and

advanced nearer with outstretched hand.

But she retreated in visible dread.

“May I not have your hand, Andromache?”

She gave it, still shrinking, with averted face.

“Won’t you call me Rudolph, dear Andromache?”

“Rudolph,” she whispered, and their eyes met lovingly.

Emboldened by his success, he raised her hand to his lips.

“What a pretty hand, Andromache! You are so pretty, dear one. I love

you,” he murmured gently, and steps were heard outside.

CHAPTER XIX.

A CRUEL UNCLE.

What are the forces, and on whose behalf employed, that trouble the

smooth current of true love? We have seen one pair cruelly separated,

and now must these innocents be subjected to infamous treatment? Has

the sentence from the beginning been irrevocably pronounced, that if

both Adam and Eve prove faithful and worthy, their Eden cannot escape

the serpent? Must their bliss be poisoned either by the reptile of Fate

or by themselves? Poor sorry lovers, there is no peace, no security

for you, even in romance. Your only chance of permanent interest lies

in the mist of misfortune. The moment you bask in cloudless content,

the wings of poetry are clipped, and your garb is the insipidity of

commonplace.

The bolt of Destiny was shot from the blue of dreams next morning, when

Rudolph was banqueting blissfully with his uncle and aunt at the midday

breakfast.

“Rudolph,” said the enemy, in amiable baronial form, “your aunt and I

have arranged a charming surprise for you.”

Rudolph looked up quietly, without a smart of premonition, and smiled

his pleasantest.

“That is kind, uncle. And the surprise?”

“Well, seeing how bored you are here--and, really, my dear boy, I am

not astonished--we are going to take you on an exciting voyage through

the Peloponnesus. We will show you all the historic spots.”

“But, my dear uncle, I have no desire whatever to see the Peloponnesus

or any historic spots,” exclaimed Rudolph, paling before the vision of

himself wandering away from Andromache. “I hate history, and don’t care

a straw for the ancient Greeks.”

“Oh, Rudolph, don’t show me that I’ve built my hopes on you in vain,”

exclaimed the baroness, in cheerful dismay. “I have been counting on

you to explain everything to me. Your acquaintance with school books is

so much more recent than mine, and the baron is even more hazy in his

recollections than I.”

“I am very sorry to disappoint you, aunt, but I cannot leave Athens at

present. I am not bored, uncle, I assure you. I am very happy, and I

love Athens.”

The baron looked at him sharply, and thought he wore much too happy an

air.

“Rudolph, I entreat you--if I were not so massive, I would kneel to

you,” cried the baron, in mock prayer, “allow us to drag you away for

one solitary fortnight from the enchantress, Mademoiselle Photini

Natzelhuber. I admit that our society and the sight of historic spots

will prove an inadequate substitute for her charms and fascinations,

but humour this whim of two old people, and your return to the feet of

the yellow-eyed witch of Academy Street will be the more delightful.”

“I don’t know what you mean, uncle,” protested Rudolph, with a look

of startled anxiety. “I have not seen Mademoiselle Natzelhuber since

Madame Jarovisky’s ball.”

“Not possible? Good gracious! that one so young should be so faithless!

The contemplation of the perfidy of my own sex, Madame, fills my eyes

with tears. But no, I apprehend. It is merely the refined hesitation of

innocence. He sighs at her door--serenades her--have you not, Madame,

remarked a tell-tale look about his violin?--and consumes quantities of

paper. Well, I shall see that there are at least a dozen quires of note

paper, of the very best quality, stamped with the family coat-of-arms,

placed in your portmanteau, Rudolph, and your aunt and I will retire

discreetly into the background while you compose your flaming epistles

and frantically adjure the moon and stars instead of Mademoiselle

Photini.

“‘Ma Photini, prépare ta toilette,

Il y a un mois que la mienne est déjà faite;

Mes beaux habits, mes seuls habits,

Voilà un mois que je les ai mis.’

There are some verses, ‘une invitation au mariage,’ of which I make

you a present. You didn’t know that I sometimes perpetrate impromptu

verses? Good, aren’t they? ‘Ma Photini,’” he began again, singing the

lines to an impromptu air, seemingly unconscious that the crimson of

anger had mounted to Rudolph’s brow.

“You must not tease the boy,” said the baroness, maliciously.

“Remember, you were once in love yourself.”

“With you, Madame, before me, as a substantial testimony of that

pleasant fact, I do not see how I can forget it,” smiled the baron.

“My dear baron, our Rudolph well understands that that is not the sort

of love he is pricked with. But, seriously, my dear child, you must not

abandon us. A young man loves and he rides away--for a time--which does

not in the least prevent him from riding back again, also for a time.

Don’t you see? The Natzelhuber won’t die meanwhile.”

“Aunt, I cannot understand why you should talk in this way about

Mademoiselle Natzelhuber. Let me positively state that she is nothing

to me, nor am I anything to her,” cried Rudolph, testily.

“Poor Mademoiselle! I weep for her,” said the baron. “And there is that

wretched Agiropoulos stamping and swearing about Athens, plotting duels

and blood and the Lord knows what, protesting against yellow-headed

Austrians and amber moustaches. Dear me! That such noble indignation,

and a jealousy with a fine mediæval flavour in it, should be wasted!

Well, it is settled. If you have got over that little affair of the

Natzelhuber, any scruples I may have cherished against tearing you

away from the violet-crowned city--vanish. So, my nephew, you will get

yourself up in that fascinating green coat and the long boots to-morrow

morning, and we will begin by Marathon.”

The baron had finished his coffee and cigar, and stood up with a

gesture clearly indicating that the matter was settled. His mocking

smile struck Rudolph coward, and though his heart clamoured for open

recognition of Andromache, he was unable to force his tongue to break a

silence he felt to be mean and unmanly.

“By the way, Rudolph, we have invited the Foreign Legations to dinner

at Kephissia, and there will be an expedition before dinner to Tatoi.

The young people will ride, and the elder ones will go by carriage. We

start at four, so you will not forget to look your best, and do your

utmost to entertain Mademoiselle Veritassi,” said the baron, from the

door.

This last shot broke the deeps of holy indignation in the lover’s

heart. The Karapolos dined at half-past one. It would be discourteous

to call earlier than three. And how much time did that leave him for

Andromache? and he would be dragged away from her on the morrow. He

looked so candidly miserable and disappointed, that his aunt went over

to him, and kissed his forehead.

“Is it your wish, aunt, that I should go with you this afternoon? Could

I not join you later in time for dinner at Kephissia?”

“You poor child!” exclaimed the baroness, tenderly, smiling to herself

to think that he imagined them ignorant of his secret, and that it

should be so easy to manage and thwart him.

“No, no, Rudolph. It would be an affront to our guests. You are like

the son of the house now, and your presence is indispensable to the

young people.”

Rudolph sighed, and kissed his aunt’s plump hand in piteous and dumb

eloquence of protest and acquiescence. His eyes were full of tears as

he stood at his own window, and gazed like an angry, disappointed child

across the lovely hills and sudden sweeps of empty plain. Why had he

not spoken? Why had he not asserted himself? A man on the brink of

marriage ought surely to be able to take on himself the responsibility

of speech and decision. But there was the mocking smile of his uncle

that lashed him into petrified cowardice, like a well-bred taunt, and

flushed him like a buffet, and how to make these worldly relations

understand the charm of innocence, the fragrance of a violet, the

beauty of an untutored heart?

Punctually at three o’clock, he rapped with his silver-handled

walking-stick upon the glass door at the foot of Lycabettus. He had

learnt to ask in Greek for the ladies, and with a stare and smile of

frank familiarity, Maria supposed it was Andromache and not the others

he wanted. The Austrian aristocrat, to whom all evidences of democracy

and ill-bred freedom were repugnant, reproved her with a slight touch

of haughty insolence, and pointedly repeated his wish to see Kyria

Karapolos and her family.

“Kyria Karapolos, the fair young foreigner, is here,” shouted Maria,

and left him to find his way into the little salon.

“My dear Monsieur Ehrenstein, it is a pleasure to me to welcome you,”

said Kyria Karapolos, hastening to join him.

Her French was fluent, but droll enough to make conversation with her a

surprise and a puzzle.

“I have come to tell you that my uncle and aunt have planned an

excursion to the Peloponnesus, and they insist on my accompanying

them,” Rudolph began at once, very dolorously indeed.

“Well, of course you must please your uncle and aunt. It will make

them the more disposed afterwards to assent to your happiness. Here is

Andromache. Monsieur Ehrenstein has to leave Athens for a little while.

It is quite right. He must not displease those who stand to him as

father and mother.”

Andromache blanched to the lips, and then a wave of red flowed into her

face. Rudolph felt that he loved her more than ever, and while he held

her hand, a smile struggled through the pain of his eyes.

“It is so cruel to have to leave you just now, Andromache.”

She dared not trust herself to speak, for she hardly knew how much it

is permitted a modest maiden to say to her lover. But her pretty eyes

said a great deal more than she dreamed. Rudolph looked into them, and

a happy light broke over his face.

“You grieve too, dear,” he said, softly.

“Must you go, Rudolph?” she asked, tremulously.

“Shall I go, sweet friend?”

Andromache looked question at her mother.

“Of course he must,” cried Kyria Karapolos. “It would be folly to anger

or thwart them in the beginning. Besides, it won’t be for long, and we

can be getting things ready for the wedding in the meantime.”

“Am I to go, Andromache?” Rudolph still asked, holding her shy glance

boldly with his own.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She took a little roll of embroidery from the pocket of her apron, and

applied herself to it eagerly, but the needle pricks marked tiny spots

of red along the cambric. Rudolph noted this, and anxiously cried out

that she was hurting him. Andromache looked up in amazement.

“Don’t you understand?” asked this youth, suddenly growing subtle. “It

is my fingers you are so cruelly pricking with that sharp needle.”

Andromache flashed him a joyous smile, and he bent forward, and held

both her hands to his mouth.

“I love you, I love you,” he murmured, fondly.

“Rudolph,” she said, and dropped her eyes.

Kyria Karapolos thought proper to strike this growing heat chill with

a sound commonplace, by asking him if he had much land in Austria, and

what was the exact amount of his rent-roll.

“I believe it amounts to five thousand, but my steward manages

everything for me. You may be assured, however, that I have quite

enough for Andromache and myself,” answered Rudolph, simply.

This drove him to describe Rapoldenkirchen, and he necessarily

rhapsodised over its loveliness, and the happiness that awaited

Andromache in that shadowed home. And there in front of him was the

clock summoning him from heaven; it already pointed cruelly to the

stroke of four. He stood up and announced his hurry, shook hands with

Kyria Karapolos, and held a moment Andromache’s slim fingers, looking

sorrowfully into the shining March-violets he felt an irresistible

impulse to kiss.

“You will think of me every day, dear?”

“I will, Rudolph.”

“Whisper. Am I very dear to you?”

“Oh, Rudolph, I love you,” she cried, and broke down in simple passion.

He stooped hurriedly and pressed his lips to her hair. In another

instant he was outside, tearing madly down the rough streets, splashing

his boots and clothes in the little streams, jumping over groups of

astonished babies, and racing, as if pursued by furies, past the

Platea Omonia and up the Patissia Road.

There was a carriage outside the Austrian Embassy, and just as he got

inside, a group of riders bore down towards it.

“Monsieur Rudolph will be down presently,” the major-domo explained, in

answer to the irritable inquiries of the baron.

When Rudolph descended to the hall in his charming riding attire,

the baron surveyed him with a curious and amused smile, and nodded

approvingly.

“There are some young ladies for you to look after. Spare them, I

entreat you,” and, in reply to Rudolph’s questioning look, added,

“Young ladies, you know, are weak and susceptible, and you wear an

abominably victimising air.”

Rudolph jumped into the saddle with a very apparent want of alacrity.

Mademoiselle Veritassi smiled him welcome, and unconsciously he took

his place beside her. Three carriages carried the elders, and the party

of youthful riders nearly made the dozen. The air was blithe, the sun

shone gloriously and struck the landscape lucid green. The young blood

of the impressible Rudolph mounted to his head. The laughter of his

companions imparted its contagion to his bereaved heart; on he rode

with spring running music through his pulses, and caught by the mirth

of the landscape.

The young people showed no destructive tendency to break into couples,

but kept one gay and impregnable party, laughing, joking, careering in

hearty rivalry to see who should out-distance the sedate carriage-folk,

chattering nonsense and enjoying the hour with the frenzied intensity

of unperturbed youth. Mademoiselle Veritassi made a delightful

companion, with the charm of a well-bred boy, courteously brusque and

quizzically candid.

Under the fire of her imperious glance the sundered, dolorous air

dropped from Rudolph, the wine of life coursed vigorously through his

veins, and he shouted laughter with the rest. They skirted the stations

of upper and lower Patissia under the blue shadows of the Parnes

mountains. The marble of Pentelicus, struck by the quivering sunbeams,

broke the delicate mist afar. On either side, the long waste of olive

plantations toned the joy of the scene by their sad colour, and brought

out the contrast of the emerald grasses of the underwoods, and the

variously-tinted reeds that edge the torrent of the river Cephissus.

The little German village of Heraclion showed white and yellow, with

solemn spaces of cypress, upon the sky of clear, unshadowed blue.

Flocks of white and black sheep were like moving mounds upon the

fields, and over all hung Pentelicus, a haze of grey heather and

dismantled branches where its marbles were not a dazzle of whiteness.

Rudolph was enchanted with everything--with the blurred hillsides and

the murmuring streams that curled in soft swirls along by the hedges,

with the goatherds following their capricious charges,--the villagers,

burnt brown, in the glory of fustanella, scarlet fez and smart

jackets, their long sleeves hanging back like idle wings,--with the

boys and their donkeys, and the women in embroidered coats and muslin

head-dresses.

At Kephissia it was obligatory to dismount and hunt for the grotto of

nymphs, and then talk nonsense beneath its dripping rocks and curtains

of maidenhair. It was even compulsory to taste of its water, and the

French viscount made a gallant allusion, and quoted the inevitable line

from Homer. Then on up the straight road to Tatoi, the arbutus in full

fruit, and on either side exquisite varieties of shrub and leaf and

winter flowers. The young ladies were eager to feed on the arbutus,

and sent their escorts to gather this ethereal nourishment. And when

they were replenished, and satisfied with the smirched and bramble-torn

condition of the cavaliers, they decorated their bosoms with the

berries, which showed like balls of blood upon their sombre habits. All

this necessarily involved much explosive mirth and many inarticulate

cries. And men and maidens rode on, convinced there is no delight to

match a ride through winter Athenian landscape, when the heart is

fresh, the eyes are clear, and the senses near the surface; when, above

all, there is plenty of arbutus-fruit for the gathering, cavaliers to

tear their gloves in its search through the bushes and brambles, and

attractive maidens to wear and eat it.

What more potent than youth’s wild spirits? At dinner it was impossible

to say whether the young people or the old, to whom they had

communicated their irrepressible gaiety, were the more intoxicated.

What amazing tact and calculation were displayed by the Baron and

Baroness von Hohenfels! Well they understood the impressionable and

susceptible temperament they had to deal with when they gathered

together these gems of their society. Such brilliant eyes and laughing

teeth gleaming above the flowers, such whiz of airy and unseizable

nothings shot high on the wings of badinage, with the same intangible

flavour as the foam of champagne which plentifully drowned them. All

seemed specially conspiring to captivate the poor bereaved lover. And

so well did they succeed, that he quite forgot Andromache. It was only

after dinner, when Mademoiselle Veritassi was invited to sing, and

selected something weakly sentimental in French, all about hearts and

sighs and tears and parting, that the new-born babe, the infant Cupid,

began to clamour and blubber within him. Then he turned aside to think

of Andromache. He pressed his head against the window, and stared

blankly out upon the hotel gardens drenched with moonlight, the flowers

washed of all colour in their bath of silver.

The baron saw him in this doleful attitude, and coming up behind him,

held one hand sentimentally upon his heart and the other stretched out,

in frantic adjuration to the moon.

“Ma Photini, prépare ta toilette,” he sang.

Rudolph faced him angrily, barely able to restrain the strong

exclamation that rushed to his lips.

“No, I have just made better, that is, more appropriate verses.

Mademoiselle Natzelhuber is notorious for not greatly caring for dress.

Then it is clearly an offence to mention it.”

Rudolph muttered the German equivalent for “bosh,” and walked away.

Has any philosopher deigned to discover the reason why, when a party

of young folks start upon a boisterous expedition, and laugh until the

woods resound with their mirth, the return to the domestic hearth is

generally so silent and so depressed? They are bound to sigh, and look

at the stars, or at themselves, in a forlorn and disappointed way, and

wonder where and why all their wild enjoyment has vanished.

Rudolph rode in front with Mademoiselle Veritassi, and remembered not

the existence of his companion, as his profound and troubled gaze

rested solemnly upon the dark landscape. The wavy hilltops stood far

out from the horizon, and the sky, instead of looking like a blue

shield against them, shot away like a sea of infinite mist. The night

air blew chilly round Athens, and the Viscount cheerfully suggested the

visit of those intemperate blasts that howl down from the encircling

hills with frantic force, and prove more than anything the exceeding

greatness of that mass of broken pillars and temples upon the Acropolis

that have resisted their destructive strength all these centuries.

But the next day, though cold, was not thought unfit for travelling,

and, at an early hour, Rudolph was carried out of Athens to hear his

uncle spout and quote upon the plain of Marathon, where the anemones

were getting ready for their spring display. Pray, what did Rudolph

care about Miltiades? Had he not an intended brother-in-law of the

name worth ten such generals? Indeed, he hazarded the opinion that

the old one was greatly overrated, upon which his diplomatic uncle

smiled, as the wise smile upon the foolish--the smile of tolerant and

good-humoured superiority.

CHAPTER XX.

AT THE THEATRE.

Pericles carried his wounded brother to Phalerum for the period of

convalescence, which an incessantly choleric spleen indefinitely

prolonged. They stayed at the Grand Hotel looking upon the sanded

beach, made cheerful by the café-tables and the proximity of the

railway station, by which hosts of voluble Athenians were ever passing

and repassing. In the afternoon they lounged amid the olive trees by

the side of the hotel, athwart which the blue of sky and sea showed

sharply, and drank their coffee while Constantine eagerly devoured “The

Hora” and the “The Palingenesia,” ready to pounce like a hawk on its

prey upon the first chance acquaintance Providence, in the shape of the

half-hourly train, should send him from Athens.

Pericles sat reading one of his favourite volumes, now and then pausing

to look watchfully at his daughter, and thankful in his heart to see

how well she bore her sorrow. Inarime was for a time laid prostrate

by Gustav’s banishment. And then youth’s elasticity rebounded with

unconquered force. Like a drenched bird, she shook out her wet plumes,

returned to her books, and saw that the sun was shining and that the

flowers were blooming--noted it unwearily and without dismay. To

recognise this much in the time of passionate absorption in self is

a rapid stride towards recovery, and at such a moment new scenes and

excitements of any sort work most potently.

February had set in sharp and chill when they returned to Athens,

Constantine cured and spared the humiliation of seeing the town

illuminated in honour of the new Mayor, Oïdas. He insisted on bringing

Inarime to the ruinously expensive dressmaker, Madame Antoinette, and

there she was supplied with every imaginable detail of fashionable

toilet, crowned with a gorgeous red silk parasol and long embroidered

Suède gloves.

Inarime, thus apparelled, stood before a cheval mirror, and placidly

gazed astonishment at herself. It was impossible to deny that dress

added glory to her beauty. Picturesque she had been before with a

fitting background of valley and desolate mountain. Now she was a nymph

of Paris in walnut-coloured silk, and a little coquettish hat tipped

with feathers.

“Now you are fit to be seen in the streets of a capital, Inarime,”

said Constantine, surveying her proudly. “Take her with you to Madame

Jarovisky’s, Pericles.”

Pericles took her, to Madame Jarovisky’s lasting gratitude. The girl

was a positive sensation. Several men stopped to congratulate her uncle

next day.

“We must take her to the theatre. There is _Faust_ on to-night. Every

one likes _Faust_, and it will delight Inarime, while she is delighting

others,” he said.

“I see no objection to the theatre, but mind, Constantine, I will not

have the girl talked of. Remember what my great namesake says of women.

Their glory is the silence men observe upon them.” Here he quoted the

famous Oration.

“Stuff and nonsense! Your mind is addled with that folly of the

Ancients. Who the deuce cares nowadays about silent virtue or the

violet blushing unseen? This is the age of advertisement. Get yourself

talked of, yourself, your house, your women--if not well, then by all

means ill. Only get the talk. Do you imagine I have not gone about

everywhere spreading the report of your learning? That is why you

receive so many cards of invitation. I extolled you to the director of

the German School of Archæology, and he was so impressed that he sends

you a request to attend their meeting next month.”

Shame and disappointment struck scarlet Pericles’ sallow face. He

thought the letter the natural result of his own recognised and merited

reputation, mainly built upon a correspondence with one of the Greek

professors of the University of Bonn.

“Brother,” he reproved, sternly, “it would afford me much satisfaction

if you would be good enough to discontinue mentioning abroad my name

and my daughter’s.”

“Then I am curious to know how you intend to dispose of that girl of

yours.”

Pericles sat still, and played musingly with his finger-tips.

“I must marry her?” he interrogated, softly.

“Marry her! What in the name of all the heathen gods else would

you do with her? Stick a professor’s cap on her head, and send her

out to lecture to a band of curious rascals like that rash and

self-opinionated young woman, Hypatia? You’d make a respectable Theon.”

“His was the easier part. But Inarime would not be unworthy, though

it is the last career I should choose for her,” said Pericles, with a

quaint smile.

“Exactly. You apprehend inflammable youth.”

“I desire but to see my daughter live securely in the shade of

protection. There are times when I feel overwhelmed with a strange

sensation--half-illness, half the simple withdrawal of vitality. Then

it is that apprehensions and terror of a solitary future for that dear

girl assail and completely master me. I would have her married, and yet

it seems so improbable that I shall find a suitable partner, one to

whom her cultured intellect would be a noble possession, to whom her

beauty would be a thing of worship. There was one--alas! alas!”

“Well, that’s settled. You sent him about his business. It was a

foolish thing to do. Helene thinks so, too. A Turk! Well, we don’t

choose our nationality. Probably he would just as soon have been born

a Greek or a German. Let that pass. Turn the lock upon your desire for

culture and learning. They won’t put bread and olives into Inarime’s

mouth. Money, Pericles, money is what we must look to.”

When consulted about the theatre, Inarime showed sufficient pleasure in

the prospect to quiet the doubts of her anxious father.

“Come down to Antoinette, and get something pretty--very pretty,”

Constantine ordered. “You are not a fool, I suppose, and can take some

natural interest in your beauty.”

“I am glad that I am beautiful,” she said, gravely.

“Very well. Put on your hat, and we’ll drive at once to Antoinette,”

her uncle laughed hilariously. “Oh, women!”

Conceive the efficiency of a Parisian dressmaker instructed to enhance

beauty. Bedeck Inarime then according to fancy, so that the costume be

both scientific and suitable.

Constantine was master upon the occasion, ordered the carriage, secured

the box, and fussily did the honours to the bewildered islanders when

they arrived in the little back street in which the old theatre was

located. It was a most grotesque and shabby paper edifice, ugly, dirty,

unstable. But it was worth the tenth-rate Italian companies who hired

it, and usually left Athens, after the season, bankrupt. The men,

untroubled by feminine charges, sat in the parterre, King George’s

officers, of whom there are many, enjoyed the spectacle on half fees,

chattering, laughing, and ostentatiously clanking their spurs and

swords against the floor as they walked about between the acts. Here

and there an aspiring civilian made believe to come fresh from Paris by

appearing _en frac_, and impertinently focussed the constellation of

beauty in the box lined with cheap and ragged paper, and in the last

stage of dilapidation.

They were playing the waltz when the Selakas entered their box. In

spite of excruciating fiddles, and tuneless and vulgar singers, it was

possible to detect its intoxicating charm, and Inarime sat and listened

with a pleased, abstracted expression, her elbow resting on the front

of the box and her chin against her cream-gloved hand. Constantine took

the seat beside her, in front, and audibly hummed the air while his

quick glance roved over the house. He saw Oïdas, the Mayor, opposite in

a box with his sister and his little motherless girl. They exchanged

an uncordial nod, and the Mayor raised his opera-glass to inspect

Inarime. He passed it to his sister, and they nodded and whispered

together. The young bloods below were soon enough conscious that there

was somebody in the boxes worth looking at. Many an eye was turned from

the middle-aged Marguerite, whose flaxen wig inartistically exposed the

black hair underneath and who wore a soiled white wrapper of uncertain

length, with grass-green bows down the front.

With naïve earnestness Inarime followed the actors, listened to the

melodies, and frequently turned to bespeak her father’s attention. She

was acquainted with Goethe, and knew the story of Marguerite in its

classic form. But this sweet and voluptuous music was quite unfamiliar

to her. Of music, good or bad, she knew nothing, and had only

occasionally heard a village piper piping for the Arcadians to dance.

She could see that the dresses were dirty and tawdry, but the novelty

of beholding a tender love-scene for the first time acted even by a

stagy foolish Faust singing false, and by a cracked-voiced Marguerite

in a slovenly wrapper, with wig awry, to the accompaniment of squeaking

fiddles and hoarse ’cellos, brought tears of sympathy to her eyes.

Her emotions were too keenly touched to allow of her remembering the

necessity of wiping away her tears, and when the curtain went down, the

tell-tale drops had fallen on her cheek.

“What a lovely young woman,” Agiropoulos exclaimed, as he stood with

his back to the stage, and leisurely surveyed the occupants of the

boxes.

“Where?” asked Rudolph, tolerantly.

“Beside the Royal Box. She is with the gallant and fiery member for

Tenos.” Agiropoulos broke into laughter, and began to quote Constantine

at the Odeon. “‘I’ll mangle him, murder him, riddle him with shots,’

and when it came to the point he had as much courage as a draggled hen.”

Rudolph smiled faintly. He had heard the story before, and

Agiropoulos’s excessive spirits bored him. He turned round and looked

straight up at the Selaka group. He saw Inarime at once, wearing an

intense, almost tragic expression, as if the curtain had just gone down

upon her own first love-scene; some moments elapsed before he removed

his eyes from her.

Constantine went away in search of an ice for his niece, and a little

distraction for himself in shape of gossip and a cigarette. He knocked

against Oïdas, and the rival politicians stopped to shake hands.

“Is that your niece you have with you?” the Mayor asked.

“Yes. She and Pericles are staying in town now.”

“A very fine girl--I may say, a very beautiful one. Has your brother

any views with regard to her?”

“Matrimonial?” queried Constantine, laughing.

“Those, I think, are the only views fathers are supposed to entertain

about their daughters,” retorted Oïdas, with awkward, averted glance.

“Oh, of course. He naturally cherishes the hope to dispose of her some

day with entire satisfaction to her and to himself.”

“Anybody in question?”

Constantine faced his interrogator boldly, narrowed his eyelids to a

sly, meditative slit, and answered:--

“You think of offering yourself, perhaps.”

“I should certainly have no objection to a beautiful young wife. She

has a dowry, I presume.”

“I presume so,” said Selaka, shutting up his lips in a portentous way.

“But there is something else to be considered besides your willingness.”

“Undoubtedly. Still, it is a sufficiently important point. That is why

I mention it.”

Constantine understood perfectly well that such wealth as Oïdas’

entitled its owner to his confident air. No sane father would be likely

to reject or hesitate before such an offer as this, and the girl would,

of course, be guided by her father.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” conceded the wily Constantine.

“Begin by introducing me at once,” suggested the Mayor.

The aspiring Mayor was carried triumphantly to the Selakas’ box.

The introduction enabled Oïdas to relieve Inarime of her saucer,

which he did with ponderous civility. She was hot and wretched in

spite of the eaten ice. Of the Mayor’s presence she took no note; in

spirit she gazed gloomily back upon the departed vision of Gustav

so harrowingly evoked by the music. Oïdas devoted himself to Selaka

with an occasional inclusive droop towards Inarime, whom he furtively

and appraisingly observed. Into his box opposite Stavros entered,

circumspect, thoroughly unobstructive, having joined the Government and

resigned the editorship of the “New Aristophanes.” He looked casually

at Constantine, and bit his underlip, it might be to restrain a blush

or a smile. In the next box, just before the curtain went up on the

second act, Miltiades rose like an evening sun upon the amazed scene,

in _grande tenue_, cheerfully attended by his mother and Andromache.

“Your twin-soul,” whispered Agiropoulos. “Hector is called.”

Rudolph turned round quickly, beheld Andromache with soft invitation

in her glance, jumped up, and in passing down the house, his eyes

rested for one moment on Inarime’s face. He withdrew them angrily, in

the delicate belief that even a dim consciousness of any other woman’s

beauty but his own particular lady’s was almost a deliberate disloyalty.

“Oh, Rudolph, have you not seen her? Is she not beautiful?” Andromache

enthusiastically asked, as she turned round her affectionate and

glowing face to his when greetings were over, and he had taken his

recognised place behind her chair.

“Who?” Rudolph whispered; rapture demanding that their lightest words

should be folded in mystery.

Andromache pointed to the Selaka box. The young man looked steadily

across over Andromache’s shoulder, frowned a little, and admitted

grudgingly:

“She is handsome, but not soft and sweet like my Andromache.”

“Oh, Rudolph!” Andromache flashed on him delightedly.

He had only the day before come back from the Peloponnesus, and in a

week he hoped to have summoned up courage to declare his honourable

bondage to the baron, and start for Austria to conclude pre-nuptial

arrangements.

CHAPTER XXI.

A CHORUS OF ATHENIAN MAIDENS.

When Constantine lighted his niece’s candle and handed it to her, he

touched Pericles on the arm and nodded.

“I want you to smoke a cigarette with me before going to bed. I have

something to say to you.”

Pericles suffered himself to be led into the sitting-room, and

proceeded to roll up a cigarette while his brother lighted the lamp.

“We are agreed upon the advisability of at once marrying Inarime, I

suppose?” he began.

“At once!” Pericles exclaimed, in alarm.

“Why not?”

“Think of her recent wound. She behaved so well. I cannot in conscience

so soon do wrong to the memory of her lover.”

“Sentiment! The world only exists by ignoring it. What have the fancies

of girls to do with suitable family arrangements? I declare you are

as great a fool as the child herself. A young woman permits herself

the blamable freedom of looking complacently upon a young man who has

not been officially chosen for her. She must perforce think herself a

martyr and her guardians executioners, when it becomes necessary for

them to reprimand her and order her to withdraw her prematurely fixed

affections. Good gracious! It is preposterous. We might as well be in

England or in some equally wild place, where girls are unprotected and

forward.”

“Whom have you in view?” Pericles quietly asked, bringing the orator

back to the point.

“Oïdas.”

“The Mayor! Why, he is a widower and nearly as old as myself.”

“What does it matter? He is rich and influential. Inarime will have a

handsome house,--you know that colonnaded building near the Palace?

Well, when a man has such a house as that to offer a woman, she need

not trouble to examine the wrinkles on his forehead or the crowsfeet

under his eyes, or whether his hair be grey or black or red. All things

are relative, Pericles, even youth and beauty. It depends on the purse.”

“But have you any proof that Kyrios Oïdas is disposed to think of my

daughter?”

“The best possible. He told me so to-night.”

Pericles started, and stared doubtingly at his brother.

“You do not credit me, I see, but it is true, I assure you. He

admires her, wants a wife, asked if she had a dowry, and notified his

willingness to demand her in marriage.”

“He is a rich man, undoubtedly,” Pericles slowly admitted, remembering

just then that Reineke had not started by considerations of the dowry.

“In his country women are bought,” he said to himself, “in ours their

husbands are purchased. It is merely an opinion on which side the

barter is more honourable.”

“You consent then to my calling to-morrow on Oïdas with an official

communication and recognition?”

“It is too soon,” Pericles pleaded.

“It is never too soon to marry your child well.”

“Perhaps you are right. I would have chosen a younger man. However,

do not precipitate matters. I must know more of this Oïdas. He is a

politician, and you know my feelings towards that class of men. It

is just possible he may be less disreputable and illiterate than the

general run. He cannot be an honourable man upon your own admission,

for he stooped to buy the influence of that reptile, Stavros.”

“True, but all politicians do so. The greater they are, the more

unscrupulous. It is part of their _métier_, as callousness to pain is

of the surgeon’s. You have studied history and I have not; then this

fact you must have learnt.”

“Sometimes the loose political mind may prove itself more keenly

apprehensive of correct deductions than that of the studiously trained

thinker,” Pericles rejoined, with a subtle smile. “Doubtless it is I

who am in error.”

“This is idle wandering. I’ll grant you anything in argument, only

grant me in turn the consideration of Oïdas’ proposals and his formal

reception.”

Pericles thought awhile, then rose and stretched his arms.

“There will be nothing incorrect in receiving him. I cannot settle

straight off to marry Inarime to him, but I agree with you that his

proposals are worth considering. He is not the man I should have

selected, and that is why I hesitate to compromise our honour. But he

can come. I will not coerce my child. It is for her to say whether he

will stay.”

This concession was more than Constantine had dared to hope for,

and his spirits rose to the point of exuberance next morning when

an invitation came from Madame Jarovisky’s for Inarime to attend an

afternoon party for young people given in honour of her daughter’s

birthday.

There were about twenty young ladies and mature little girls, with a

sprinkling of boys and youths from the military and naval schools, at

Madame Jarovisky’s when Inarime entered the rooms, escorted by her

father. The chaperons retired to the salon downstairs, to refresh

themselves with tea and return to their homes, or stay and watch the

youngsters disport and play. By and by Miltiades came, that prince of

masters of ceremonies, especially invited to conduct the cotillon, and

show the small rabble how to dance the mazurka. Could a hero object

to shine and lead, even in minute and giggling society? Heavens above

us! What would be the result of an entertainment in Athens without

Miltiades? Confusion, scare, and disgrace,--worse, the privation of its

most picturesque adornment, and its crown of military glory.

The young ladies of Athens were there in every stage, little women

dressed like dolls, flirting and pouting with grave little old men of

ten and twelve; girls in tutelage, breaking from their governess to

dance a riotous quadrille with the future defenders of their country

upon land and water; and lastly, the self-conscious and important

“demoiselles à marier,” who play Chopin’s Second Nocturne to the

desolation of those who understand Chopin, chatter ceaselessly in

indifferent French, draw flowers and keep albums for the collection of

all the heart-broken verses in European tongues. Into this lively and

flippant circle Inarime was at once whirled with voluble cordiality and

cries of frantic enthusiasm.

Mademoiselle Eméraude Veritassi was the presiding archangel, in the

artistic setting of the expensive Antoinette. The angels were Miss

Mary Perpignani, Sappho Jarovisky, Andromache Karapolos, Proserpine

Agiropoulos, and the young ladies of the American legation. Eméraude

was the key to the general mood,--she was captain of a pliable and

sensitive band of very amiable young marauders. She welcomed Inarime

avidly, with the frankest smile and a swift approval of her toilet. The

others clustered round her and somewhat bewildered her with this sudden

introduction to noisy unmeditative girlhood. Of the mind and ways of

girls she was savagely ignorant, we know, and all these laughing faces

and softly brilliant glances, turned upon her, shook her with surprise

and terror. Could it be that she was one of them and so aloof, so

absolutely unlike and out of sympathy with them? Joy and vigour were

abounding in them, the susceptible and intoxicating blood of youth and

its untamable pulses, gave fire to their eyes and chased reflection

from their minds. When they danced together, or with boys of their

own age, their steps sprang over the polished floor with the urgent

impetuosity of their years. When they stood near her, and panted and

laughed between their gasping speech, she felt as the Peri might,

gazing upon happiness afar.

She envied these absurd and frivolous maidens, envied them

their untroubled youth,--beside which her own looked sad and

grey-toned,--their free hearts and meaningless laughter, their

twinkling feet and innocent sentimentality.

“You do not dance,” said Eméraude, pausing beside her after a wild

waltz, with fluttering bosom, like a pursued bird.

“I have never danced. I have never met girls before,” Inarime answered,

with a sharp note of regret in her voice.

Imagine the consternation and the wonder on the faces around her.

Eméraude was naturally spokeswoman for the party. She expressed an

opinion that the conversation should be carried on in Greek instead of

French.

“Then we shall have to speak our best Greek,” cried Sappho, having

heard of Inarime’s learning. “Mademoiselle Selaka speaks the language

of Plutarch.”

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Inarime, with a deprecating smile. “I have

the current Athenian at your service. Except with my father, I am

accustomed to speak the rough brogue of our island.”

“There is just the faintest perceptible tinge of the Archipelago in

your accent,” affirmed Eméraude, authoritatively. “This is your first

visit to Athens?”

“My first.”

“Oh, are you not happy to be here?” carolled Andromache. “Athens--ah!

it is so lovely. I could not leave it.”

“Tell us of your life in Tenos,” said Eméraude, taking up the dominant

melody of the concerto, and at once the chorus of followers pressed

their captain’s demand with an inarticulate cry of accentuated

agreement.

“It is very simple. I read and walk with my father, and when not thus

occupied, I help Annunziata in housework or I write letters for the

villagers.”

“Annunziata! That is a pretty name. Italian?”

“She is Greek, of remotely Italian origin.”

“And why do you write letters for the villagers?” asked Sappho. “Can

they not write themselves?”

“None of the women in the villages of Lutra, Xinara, or Mousoulou can

write but myself.”

“How marvellous!” exclaimed Miss Perpignani, and the girls wore a look

of interjection.

“Are there goats?”

Inarime stared a little at such an obviously foolish question. Her

steady luminous gaze struck chill upon the volatile young circle, and

for an instant checked their chatter. Then some one broke the uneasy

silence.

“How about your dresses? You must leave Tenos when you want new

clothes. This pretty frock is surely Athenian.”

“Yes, that is because I am here, and my uncle wishes me to be dressed

like everybody else, but hitherto I have had my dresses made at Tenos.

They are well made too.”

“Not possible! Like ours, in the modern fashion?”

Inarime lightly scanned the costumes round her.

“I do not think Tenos could produce anything like these,” she said,

simply, “but then we would not know what to do with them over there.”

“Do you live far from the town?”

“Yes, a good way. It takes nearly three hours by mule.”

“I suppose you have no carriages in Tenos?”

“There are no roads to begin with, and in consequence no vehicles of

any sort. It is a very rough, wild place.”

“And now you have come to Athens to be married,” concluded Eméraude.

“Do you look forward to marriage?”

A dusky colour shot up into Inarime’s face like a hidden flame. She

fixed her eyes slowly on Mademoiselle Veritassi.

“If it is my father’s wish that I should marry, it will be my duty to

obey him, but I trust he will not ask it of me.”

Another look of wondering consternation flashed over the circle. Not

wish to marry! have a house of her own and take precedence of unmarried

girls! be somebody in social life, give parties and travel!

“I thought all girls liked the notion of getting married,” remarked

Miss Mary Perpignani. “It is so dull to be unmarried, not to be able to

go out alone, or to go to Antoinette’s and order what you like. Just

think how delightful it must be to be free, like a young man, and do

all sorts of lovely naughty things, dance twice if you like with the

handsomest officer without any one to tell you it is not _convenable_,

and read all the dreadful French novels. We poor girls are so harassed

with that horrid word _convenable_. To see little boys at the age of

ten allowed to stand on their heads and we, aching for liberty, not

allowed to budge at thirty if we are not married!”

“Oh, shocking to think of, as the English say,” cried Sappho, clapping

her hands to her ears to shut out the spoken description. “We are

martyrs, we unhappy girls.”

“Your faces belie your misery,” said Inarime, gravely.

“Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?” Eméraude retorted, gaily, “nous

autres, nous sommes á peu près Françaises. Il faut être bien mis et

savoir rire malgré tout. Avent de me tuer, je mettrai ma plus jolie

robe.”

“Oh, ma chère, ma chère,” the shocked angels chorussed. Then turning to

Inarime, one of them soothed her perplexity.

“Don’t pay any heed to the exaggerations of Eméraude. She likes to

frighten people. She talks that way, but she means nothing. Comme tu

sais blaguer, Eméraude.”

“Mais, point du tout. Je suis sérieuse. Qu’est ce que serait la vie

si l’on ne savait pas se moquer de ses chagrins, au lieu de s’en

attrister?” protested Eméraude.

“I applaud your sentiment. Cheerfulness I should imagine to be the

lesson of life and our highest aspiration,” said Inarime.

“It is not mine, assuredly,” cried Sappho. “My dream is excitement--oh,

but the excitement that consumes and fills up every hour, waking

and sleeping. I should adore being married to a man I hated, rich,

powerful and commanding, of whom I was desperately afraid, and to be

in love with a poor, divinely beautiful young officer. To think of

the thrilling terrors and consuming bliss of meetings at parties, at

theatres, in picture galleries, horribly shadowed by a jealous husband,

only time to whisper a hurried greeting and look into each other’s

eyes----”

Be assured this rash prospective sinner was in mind as innocent of a

sinister meaning as in limpid gaze. Mademoiselle Veritassi measured her

scornfully.

“You have probably been taking your first plunge into Feuillet in

secret, and are talking of what you do not in the least understand.

You would find your young officer a complete idiot, and his divinely

beautiful face would soon enough pall on you. Love, romantic or

otherwise, will not be my domain. I aspire to marry a man of moderate

intelligence, pliable, of the world and of the best tone, with the

doors of a foreign embassy open to him, whom I shall mould and lead,

and whose fortune I shall make. My dream is more legitimate, though

from the purely masculine point of view, hardly less incorrect than

Sappho’s.”

“And yours?” Andromache asked shyly of Inarime.

“Mine? I have none. I have not felt the need for excitement or novelty.

My quiet, uneventful life has hitherto amply satisfied me--until

lately, until quite lately,” she added, with a slight break in her

voice.

Mademoiselle Veritassi scrutinised her through narrowed lids, and

smiled imperceptibly.

“You speak German, I am told, fluently. I presume you had a governess.”

“No, my father was my tutor. He taught me everything that I know.”

“Your father! and no governess! And embroidery, music, drawing and the

rest?” Mademoiselle Veritassi gasped.

“I know nothing of such graceful accomplishments. With books I am

acquainted, and though I have never measured my speed with any

other girl’s, my father tells me I am a swift runner. But girls so

brilliantly finished as you will laugh to hear me speak of running.”

“No, no. It is charming. A modern Atlanta. You are truly a divine

creature. As for us, our futile accomplishments are mere gossamer

wings to skim to social heights for which we are destined. There they

drop from us, and their instability is their only charm. Yours are of

solider weight, with the merit of corresponding permanence.”

“It is kind of you to reassure me thus, but I know my value. I am only

a bookish peasant.”

“Eméraude is right,” Miss Perpignani cooed, caressingly. “You are a

divine creature--beautiful as a picture.”

Inarime glanced pitifully at the youthful leader whose voice to these

girls was as the voice of fame. Her own intellect was rare, and her

knowledge profound, and yet she was humiliated and acutely conscious of

her inferiority to this dainty damsel, who fluttered and flirted her

fragile fan with inimitable grace, and wore her girlhood with an air of

sovereignty that came of twenty years’ sway at home and abroad. We may

divine that it was the extreme fastidiousness of the heiress and only

child that allowed her to reach twenty unclaimed.

“You have but to wish it to outstrip us all on our own ground. But, I

beseech you, spare us. Think what rivalry with you would mean for us.

The sun above the stars. Be content with your beauty and your books,

and do not ask to descend to the mere social arena. For me, I ask

nothing better than to be your friend.”

The little ones had come to the end of their hour of rhythmic movement,

and Miltiades, beaming in the splendour of black and gold, was

officiously telling off the couples for the cotillon. He approached the

girls, and asked if Mademoiselle Selaka would dance. Inarime shook her

head.

“Do, do, dear Inarime--may I?” pleaded Mademoiselle Veritassi. “It will

give us all such pleasure to watch you.”

“Yes, yes,” chorused the followers.

“But I cannot dance, alas!” Inarime murmured.

“Your voice is like velvet, and yet clear though so softly murmurous.

Do not fear. It is quite simple. Pray be persuaded. Captain Karapolos

will guide you.”

Inarime suffered herself to be led across the room to the spot where

the couples were noisily forming themselves. Just then she saw Rudolph

Ehrenstein enter with the Baroness von Hohenfels on his arm, who

surveyed the young people through her _face-à-main_ with a complacent

smile. The smile intensified when Inarime came under its rays, while

Rudolph and Andromache were looking far too eloquently at each other.

Inarime understood the mute avowal of momently wedded orbs, and a

thrill of remembered delight and anguish swept over her like a blast.

O bliss too fleeting, and O pain too sweet!

CHAPTER XXII.

FORESHADOWING A CRISIS IN RUDOLPH’S CAREER.

The constant dropping of the waters of opposition upon the stone of

Pericles’ obstinacy showed the proverbial result. It was worn away

in a few days, at the end of which time he yielded to his brother’s

persuasions and admitted that a daughter is a ticklish charge for one

sane man, only armed with the controlling influences of a father.

His girl, he at first argued, was not quite as other girls--she was

steadfast, sincere and earnest. He had not yet perceived any tendency

in her to the sex’s frantic moodishness and dizzy variations. True,

the god Cupid had mastered her at a single glance with alarming

urgence. But an antique-modern Greek found excuse in his heart for

the headstrong vagaries of the eternally youthful god. He announced

himself ready to transfer his responsibilities to Oïdas, if he proved

acceptable to Inarime. He was not exuberant at the prospect, nor in the

least hurry. But he permitted Oïdas to visit with prospectively nuptial

intentions, and left the rest to the gods.

Oïdas came. He came very often, hardly noticed by Inarime, beyond the

fact that his coming provided her with flowers, and that he frequently

conducted her to the theatre where she heard the surfeiting honey

strains of Bellini and Verdi, and to the Saturday concerts at the

Parnassus Club of which he was president, where Bellini and Verdi were

also in the ascendant.

“Have you any feeling towards Kyrios Oïdas?” her father once ventured

to ask.

“Feeling! I have not remarked him specially. He is polite, but I should

imagine not interesting,” Inarime replied.

“Ah!” interjected Selaka, with an air of partial self-commiseration.

Having made up his mind after prolonged doubting upon so minor a point,

to accept Oïdas for a son-in-law, it was disconcerting to learn that

the chosen one had made none but a very dubious impression upon the

principal personage of the duet.

He lightly dismissed the fact as another proof of the singular and

incorrigible perversity of woman, not even to be counteracted by such

anomalous training and education as he had given this particular one.

Not to be out of the fashion, the Baroness von Hohenfels had

rapturously taken up the new beauty. Inarime was frequently invited to

the Austrian Embassy, and her acquaintance with Mademoiselle Veritassi

and her band progressed to intimacy. The delight of joyous youth that

lives unthinkingly upon the beating of its own pulses struck dormant

rays from her closed nature. She shook off the shadow of her own calm

past and emerged from gloom, a radiant being, now and then weighted

with her recent heavy bereavement, only to rebound again into realms

of intoxicating instability. The friction of her natural forces with

these laughing creatures urged her upward, and a return to the desolate

solitude of a world unblessed by the presence of her lover, left her

amazed, incredulous and giddy.

The trashy music she had heard struck her as enchantment, until

Mademoiselle Veritassi chilled her enthusiasm.

“Do you sometimes go to the theatre?” she queried.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Mon Dieu! When I want to go to the theatre, I go to Paris or Vienna,”

said Mademoiselle Veritassi, superciliously.

“Is it not good here?”

“It is vulgar rubbish--good enough for the Athenians, but not for those

who have heard music and seen acting. My child, you have yet to see a

theatre.”

This was food for reflection, and another proof of her inferiority to

these bewildering nymphs of society. The next time Oïdas made soft

proposals touching Verdi and Bellini, Inarime curtly declined them.

“I have intimated to Kyrios Oïdas my entire willingness to receive him

into my family,” said Pericles one day to his brother. “It now remains

for him to try his fortunes with Inarime, to whom I shall previously

communicate his intentions. But I desire that the matter may be

speedily settled. This frivolous, noisy existence wearies me. I yearn

for my books and the quiet of my mountain home.”

“But are you not pledged to attend the meeting of the German School

which takes place in ten days?”

“I will come back for it. Besides, Annunziata writes for my immediate

presence. The steward is not giving satisfaction.”

Inarime entered, modernised beyond recognition in a flimsy grey silk

gown slashed with crimson and shaded greens, a belt from which depended

ribbons of these mixed hues that floated in the breeze and arrested the

distracted glance, with hair which swelled above the mild brow to a

pyramidal crown of shadow and threw out bronze and bluish lights, its

rippling massy softness in complete harmony with the equable, studious

face.

“Why thus early decked in bird of Paradise hues?” laughed Selaka,

quietly.

“Mademoiselle Veritassi and her brother are to call for me shortly.”

“Ah, I forgot. You grow dissipated, my dear. It seems to me your books

are now quite forsaken for the society of these chattering young

persons. Voices, voices, voices, and meaningless laughter I hear as I

pass you in the salon. What in heaven’s name have they to say?”

“Well, not much that is worth listening to, I am afraid,” Inarime

admitted, with a little apologetic smile. “And they fly from one

subject to another so quickly, exchange interjections and telegraphic

remarks, scattered phrase with sharp hiatus till I am compelled to give

up all hope of following them, having missed their airy education. But

the sound of their voices is pretty to the ear--that is, not the sound

itself, but its suggestions.”

“Then you are satisfied that you have enough amiable reminiscences

to carry back with you to the solitudes of Tenos?” Pericles

half-commented, just looking at Constantine to signify his wish to be

left alone with his daughter.

Inarime sighed. Tenos seemed so very far away from her.

“We are going back, my child. Do you not rejoice?”

“Back! So soon! You have enjoyed your visit, father?”

“It is for you to decide. Your pleasure is mine, dearest.”

Her face clouded. Confronted with her ruthlessly severed heart the

phrase sounded hollow.

“I have almost forgotten that I was unhappy,” she whispered.

Pericles gazed at her in amazement. He would have staked his life on

this girl’s stability and firmness. Here was a curious proof of the

inexplicable lightness and variability of the feminine temper. Who was

to sound its depths or follow its breathless changes? Man, he concluded

(not originally, who can be original on the theme?) treads a mine when

he essays to read the book of woman, even in the chapter of his own

daughter. The simplest page holds promise of explosion and surprise.

Philosophy shrinks from the task, as beyond the hard unimaginative male

intelligence.

“You wish to remain here?” he interrogated.

“I think I do,” she breathed through her teeth reluctantly. “To return

to Tenos would mean so much for me. It was good of you, father, to give

me this change.”

“Well, well,” Selaka interposed, with a disappointed air. “Happily

the emotions of your strange sex are ever ready to come to your aid.

Sorrow is not incurable, because you answer so readily to the spur

of distraction. Perhaps you will bend as compliantly to the sound of

wedding-bells.”

“No, I will not,” she retorted, harshly.

“If I ask it, Inarime?” he bent forward.

“It would not be fair. You have the right to dispose of me, I know, but

I ought not to be tried beyond my strength.”

“Do not speak as if it were possible I should be other than your

best friend, with your interests exclusively my own,” protested

Selaka, affectionately. “But it is the duty of the old to remember

the future for the young. Marriage is the natural termination of a

girl’s irresponsible existence. I, as your guardian, am bound to find

you a suitable mate. You mentioned just now that here at Athens you

had forgotten that you were unhappy. That struck me as a singularly

pregnant observation--it felicitously summed up your sex. What then

can there be objectionable in my proposal to settle you permanently at

Athens?”

He awaited her reply as if he expected compliance.

“I spoke of change preluding a return to the old life. It pleased me

to feel that I had pushed it away from me for awhile, that I was aloof

from it, beholding entirely new scenes and hearing foreign voices. That

change I know I wanted to keep me from a merely whimpering discontent.

I wish to be strong, father, and hate to succumb to weakness.”

“Prove your wish for strength by casting from you sentimental

chains. Your objection is purely sentimental. Remember the lesson

of the ancients. We perceive the ideal, and hasten to make our best

compromise with the actual. Love is the unattainable draught. We are

sometimes permitted to bring our lips within measurable distance from

the rim of the bowl, and then it is withdrawn. Some of us are given one

sip of the nectar and must go thirsty ever afterwards. We live the life

of the flesh, which is common and crude enough, and nourish our starved

spirit upon memory. That is the lesson of experience, but we need not,

for that, feel ourselves curtained off from cheerfulness and contented

labour.”

He watched her attentively. All the light had fled from her face.

“You wish me to marry Kyrios Oïdas,” she said, after a pause.

“You have rightly guessed. He is not a scholar, I have to admit, and a

modern politician does not fill me with admiration; but he is wealthy,

and will take care of you. It will be for you to shine, and I dare say

he will be proud enough of you.”

“If he were a scholar I could understand,” she exclaimed. “But simple

money! Father, you are not material. You are not tired of me?”

“Tired? I? Of you?”

Pericles fondled her hand, and laughed.

“But you wish me to leave you for this man, who is only rich.”

“I shall not live forever, and a husband will be your proper protector.

Poverty would not be a recommendation in a suitor, I imagine.”

“But you are not so old, and there are long days before us.”

“Who knows? I have been warned of late that I am not very strong. It

is decided. You must marry.”

“Kyrios Oïdas?”

“I am compromised--pledged.”

She bent her head, and at that moment the bell announced the arrival of

her friends.

The Baroness von Hohenfels, hearing of Selaka’s intended departure and

a meditated return for the meeting of the German School, called and

warmly pressed Inarime to stay with her during M. Selaka’s absence.

She would not hear of refusal. There was a room at the Embassy at

Mademoiselle Selaka’s disposal; her friends would be desolated to lose

her so soon--in fact, she must come.

“You will not have time to miss me, Inarime,” Pericles sang out

cheerily from the doorstep, as she drove away in the Baroness’s

carriage, her engagement still hanging in the balance of indecision.

She had some faint hope of consulting the baroness, and seeking

strength and resolution in her judgment.