SUB ROSA.
Secrets absurd
Leading to woes,
Only are heard
Under the rose.
Maidens refuse,
Lovers propose,
Just as they choose,
Under the rose.
How scandals spread
Nobody knows,
For they are said
Under the rose.
When anything marvellous occurs in real life, wiseacres shake their
heads, and say, “Wonderful! extraordinary! Truth is stranger than
fiction.” But when a novel contains any incident out of the common,
these same inconsistent people refuse to believe it on the plea that
“Fiction is not stranger than truth.” They entirely forget that fiction
is but a reflection of real life, and that man can imagine nothing, but
merely reproduces what he sees around him. The sceptic will
object,—“Fairy tales!” Well, my dear doubter, how do you know that fairy
tales do not contain a germ of truth? there may have been fairies in the
earlier ages of the world, and if so, the chronicles of Fairyland are as
authentic as those of England—perhaps more so, seeing all histories are
tinctured more or less with partisanship. Who would have believed in the
mammoth, had not the huge beast been reconstructed by Cuvier? or in the
moa, had not the skeleton of that gigantic bird been discovered in New
Zealand? Nay, there is doubtless much truth in those extravagant travels
of Marco Polo, Sir John Mandeville, and such-like wanderers. The middle
ages were times of improbability, not of impossibility, for but little
was known of the geographical world. Well, we of this nineteenth century
have discovered all possible continents, and assume that we know
everything; but such is not the case, for, though we may have exhausted
the geographical world, we know comparatively few of the secrets of
Nature. The pebble parable of Sir Isaac Newton will here occur to many
minds, and it applies as truly to our times as to his own. Earth, sky,
and water are full of secrets, many of which yet defy our efforts to
learn and catalogue them. This century has been prolific of discoveries,
but even add another hundred years of fresh revelations, and Nature will
still give us riddles to solve out of her exhaustless store.
Therefore, when a coincidence occurs in a fiction, though it may be
improbable, it is not impossible, and he who takes the trouble to keep
his eyes open, his mental as well as his physical eyes, will, in nearly
every case, find the counterpart of the ideal in the real. Here, then,
are two mysterious individuals, who, masquerading under the names of
Crispin and Caliphronas, meet one another in the most unexpected manner
in the most unexpected place. Wiseacres will at once say “Impossible!”
but, going on the theory set forth as before, such a meeting is not
impossible, but probable. Fate, Destiny, Fortune,—whatever be the name
of the power which guides our circumstances,—delights in surprises quite
as much as does the novelist; therefore, why should we believe the first
and doubt the second? This is inconsistent! Therefore, if you who read
are wise in your generation, and broad in your views of probability, you
will see nothing impossible in this unexpected meeting of poet and
adventurer.
Caliphronas was an adventurer pure and simple, of course, as regards his
vocation as free lance, but not as touching his moral or physical
qualities. He had come to England with a distinct end in view, and
already had made the first step to the accomplishment of that end.
Whether his intentions were good or bad remains to be seen, and if, my
dear reader, you cannot tell the quality of his designs from the
character of the man as before described, you must perforce remain in
ignorance, even as Crispin remained, for, truth to tell, that astute
individual was for once in his life really and truly puzzled. He knew
Caliphronas in Greek waters, under another name, and, having had
considerable experience of his character, was quite confident that he
had some object in view for thus making his appearance at Roylands. With
the determination of finding out that object, and thwarting it if he
could,—for Crispin had no very great love for the Greek,—our poet walked
down to the park gates between the hours of five and six, with the
intention of having an interview with this mysterious stranger.
In his own mind he was by no means certain of the identity of this
Caliphronas with the person he thought he was, and such a doubt could
only be solved by a personal view of the Greek himself; but the
description given by Maurice so tallied with the image of a certain
individual, that Crispin felt sure that the conclusion he had arrived at
was a correct one. In order, however, to end all doubt on the subject,
he wanted to personally interview the Count before he set foot in
Roylands Grange, and had with considerable dexterity carried out his
plan without exciting suspicion, a thing which he was anxious to avoid
if possible.
Pleading a headache,—that convenient excuse,—he had managed to give his
friend the slip, though, truth to tell, he took more trouble over
securing such secrecy than was absolutely necessary, for Maurice, fired
by the idea of recommencing work, had retreated to his studio, and
remained there all the afternoon. Mrs. Dengelton still kept a watchful
eye upon her daughter, and, on one plea or another, kept her away from
the too-fascinating poet: so, in reality, Crispin was left entirely to
his own devices, therefore utilized such good fortune by seeking this
important interview with the unknown Greek.
So hot had been the day, that Crispin felt a certain sense of relief
when the coolness of night approached, and, lingering under the mighty
oaks which bordered the avenue, luxuriated in that delightful twilight,
which is neither wholly of night nor day, but partakes equally of both.
The air was still warm, and there was a pleasant shade over the sky, as
Night gradually drew her dusky veil across the glaring blue from east to
west. Shafts of crimson light shot through the wood and through the
dense foliage. Crispin could see at times the rosy flames of the setting
sun. Still vocal were the birds, for they were now singing their
good-night to day, and in a short time nothing would be heard but
occasional chirps from some belated thrush, until with the moon came the
divine nightingale to flood the thickets with song. Restless gnats were
dancing in front of his face as he strolled down the avenue, and at
times a bat would flit noiselessly through the warm air, while, mellowed
by distance, the chimes of Roylands church rang musically on his ear.
“Six o’clock,” said the poet to himself, glancing at his watch. “I
suppose this Caliphronas will be here shortly. Roylands sent the
dog-cart, but if this is the man I imagine, he will send on his traps in
charge of the groom, and walk over to the Grange on such a perfect
evening.”
At this moment he heard the noise of approaching wheels, and shortly
afterwards the dogcart, drawn by a fast-trotting mare, flashed past him,
containing only the groom and some luggage. Finding his conjecture thus
prove correct, Crispin did not trouble himself to go farther on his way
to seek Caliphronas, as that gentleman was bound to meet him in the
avenue; so, lounging against the mighty trunk of an oak, he lazily
waited the approach of the individual concerning whose intentions he
entertained such doubts.
“I will crown myself with roses
To meet thee, beloved.
Why dost thou fly at the sight of my wreath?
The hot sun hath withered it truly.
And my heart is burnt up by thine eyes.
Dead heart! dead roses! but love undying.”
Caliphronas was singing these words in Greek, and Crispin at once
recognized the voice of the singer, a recognition which immediately
confirmed his suspicions as to the identity of this gentleman.
“We will live in the woods, my beloved,
And berries will be our food;
On berries and kisses could I live always,
Till Fate destroyed us,
And robbed us of berries, and kisses, and life forever.”
“I’ve heard him singing that song at Melnos,” muttered Crispin quietly
to himself. “It is he! What can he be doing here?”
At this moment the singer came in sight, walking rapidly up the avenue
with a springy step, swinging his stick to and fro as he sang. He was
indeed a sight worth looking at, as he bounded lightly over the earth,
Antæus-like, drawing fresh vigor at every pressure of his foot on the
ground; yet his undeniable beauty but excited a feeling of repulsion in
the breast of Crispin, who now knew him only too well. They were a
strange contrast, these two men: the poet small, dark, and unhandsome,
but the fire of intellect in his eyes; the adventurer a splendid animal,
with nothing but his physical perfections to recommend him.
Caliphronas did not notice the poet leaning against the tree, and came
on, carelessly singing as he walked,—
“What will I do for thee, beloved?
Oh, I will do many deeds of daring!
I will slay the Turk in his pride,
And his head will be my wedding gift.
Behold I”—
Here he stopped suddenly, catching sight of Crispin, but, instead of
being astonished at the unexpected meeting, as the poet expected, he
simply stood still, leaning on his stick, and laughing at the look on
the other’s face.
“Ah, ah, Creespeen!” he said in Greek, with a smile; “you did not expect
to see me in this place.”
“Certainly I did not,” retorted Crispin in the same language, marvelling
at the self-possession of the man; “and I’ve no doubt the meeting is
unexpected on both sides.”
“Not with me; oh no! That priest—the Papa I saw this morning told me you
were here, and your friend also informed me of your presence.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Ah, that is a long story, my good Creespeen,” replied Caliphronas
coolly, “and one I do not choose to tell.”
“You have some design in your head.”
“Assuredly,” said the Count mockingly; “I would not come to this cold
island for pleasure.”
“Ah, I see you are as great a scoundrel as ever!”
Caliphronas laughed, and seemed in no wise offended at the scornful tone
of the other. For such an epithet an Englishman would have struck its
utterer, but Caliphronas did not even frown. The only notice he took of
Crispin’s rudeness was to raise his eyebrows in mocking surprise.
“You have still a bad opinion of me, I see.”
“The very worst!”
“What a truly good young man you are!” said the Count sardonically. “I
regret that you should be forced to keep company with such a scamp as I
am; but I am afraid you will have to make up your mind to that or—go
away.”
“I shall certainly not do the latter until I find out the reason of your
presence in this place.”
“Then, my dear friend, you will have to stay here forever.”
“Are you going to stay here forever?”
“I! no. I am down here on business.”
“With the Rector?—with Roylands? with whom?”
The Count looked at him with a provoking smile, and flung himself on the
grass at the foot of the oak against which Crispin was leaning.
“Perhaps with both; perhaps with neither.”
“Now you listen to me, Caliphronas,—as that is the name you choose to go
by; both Mr. Carriston and Mr. Roylands are friends of mine, and if you
have come down here with any bad design in your head against either of
them, I will make it my business to thwart you.”
“Do so by all means, if you can.”
“I can do so by a very simple means, though you seem to doubt it,” said
Crispin quietly. “You brought an excellent letter of introduction to Mr.
Carriston, though how you came by it I do not know. You have made
friends with Roylands, who is a simple fellow, by consenting to be his
model for Endymion”—
“And a very good model too,” interrupted Caliphronas, looking at himself
complacently.
“I don’t deny your outward goodliness;—it is a pity your mind is not in
keeping. But to come back to what I was saying. You have made friends
with both the gentlemen I speak of, and perhaps such friendship is
necessary to your plans; if so. I will end it.”
“How will you manage that?” said the Count coolly, but with a nasty
glitter in his eyes.
“Simply by telling them who you are and what you are.”
“You will not do that!”
“I will, if your designs are bad.”
“How do you know my designs are bad?”
“Because to a man of your nature goodness is impossible.”
“I would not go so far as to say it is impossible,” said Caliphronas,
with a sneer, “but I agree with you that it is improbable. To my mind,
goodness is a weakness.”
“One you don’t possess, I’m afraid.”
“I do not; nor do I wish to possess it,” replied the Count insolently.
“But may I not draw your attention to the fact that it is long past six,
that Roylands dines at seven, and that I am terribly hungry?”
“You can call my attention to all these facts,” retorted Crispin
promptly, “but you don’t enter that house until I know what you are
going to do.”
“Pay a visit. Sit for the Endymion.”
“I am tired of this fencing. Don’t go on like this with me, An”—
“Caliphronas,” said the other quickly.
“Well, one name is as good as another; but you needn’t waste all this
diplomacy on me, my friend. I know you too well to believe you would
waste your time in coming here for nothing. Now tell me what your
schemes are, or I will reveal all I know of you to Maurice Roylands.”
The Count was thus driven into a corner, and all his suave manner
vanished as he sat up on the turf with a scowl on his handsome face, and
a significant movement of his right hand toward his waist.
“Oh, I’m not afraid of that, you scamp,” said Crispin quickly; “you wear
not the fusanella here, nor have you knife or pistol with you. You are
in a civilized country, my noble Count, so must act in a civilized
manner.”
The Greek, recovering his temper, burst out laughing, and beckoned
Crispin to sit down beside him on the soft green turf.
“You have the whip-hand of me, Creespeen,” he said lightly; “and I am
too wise a man to waste time in argument, so I will tell you the reason
of my presence here. You were quite right in thinking I did not come for
pleasure; on the contrary, I wish to carry out a very delicate affair,
and perhaps it is as well you should know, as I may want your assistance
in the matter.”
“I will help you in none of your villanies.”
“By St. Theodore, how pious you have become! Oh, I forgot! you are
Misterr Creespeen, the famous poet, the new Chrysostom of the Golden
Mouth. Eh yes; I heard all about you in London. No one would think this
great poet was ever”—
“Hold your tongue!” said Crispin, roughly grasping the Greek by the
wrist; “whatever I have been, whatever I am, I have done nothing to be
ashamed of.”
“Indeed! would you like them to know all?” retorted the Count, jerking
his hand in the direction of the house.
“I intend to tell them all when I choose; but not before.”
“Suppose I anticipate you?”
“Do so, by all means. You will relate the story of my life, and I will
relate the story of your life. I wonder which will prove the more
interesting.”
“Oh, I wonder,” rejoined Caliphronas, with consummate impudence; “but do
not let us quarrel, as I may want your assistance. Oh, you need not
frown; I have no ill intentions towards your precious friends. In fact,
to put you completely at your ease, I may as well tell you Justinian
sent me to England.”
“Justinian!” repeated Crispin, with a start. “Well, what of that?” he
resumed carelessly. “You know I am not now friends with Justinian,—I
have not seen him for nearly”—
“Three years, eh?” said Caliphronas quickly; “of course, that is just
about the time you came here. Oh, I heard all about you in London; and
Justinian will have heard also by this time, for I wrote and told him
all.”
“I trust he is pleased,” said Crispin grimly.
“As to that, I don’t know. True, his goose has turned out a swan, and
now, unlike a swan, sings songs the world listens to; but such glory can
hardly compensate him for the ungrateful manner in which you treated
him.”
“Enough!” cried Crispin hotly, his dark face flushing with anger; “I can
justify my conduct amply, but I do not choose to do so to you. Leave
Justinian, and Melnos, and all the old life alone. I want to know the
reason of your presence in Roylands.”
“Well, you shall know. But do not get furious over nothing,” said
Caliphronas mockingly. “I am afraid you have lost all your old Hellenic
calm, and now resemble one of these bad-tempered Englishmen, devoured
with the spleen, and greedy of money.”
“I am not greedy of money.”
“Eh? oh, I see! you sing your songs for the smiles of women, not for the
gold of their husbands, fathers, and brothers. Well, I agree with you;
the smiles of women are very delightful, but one cannot live on them, so
I would like to know how you exist.”
“Would you, indeed?”
“Yes; and so would Justinian.”
“Well, you will neither of you be told. Come, now, it is growing late,
and I wait for your confession.”
“No one will hear us?”
“Of course not; besides, we speak in Greek, which is not so common in
England as in Hellas.”
Caliphronas let the smile die away from his lips, and looked keenly at
Crispin.
“You will not reveal what I have now to tell you?”
“Not unless it is some villany.”
“It is no villany. It is an act of justice. Listen.”
The story, which did not take long to tell, drew forth many exclamations
of surprise from Crispin, who for once in his life was astonished at the
revelations of Caliphronas, and believed he was speaking the truth.
Indeed, he could hardly help believing it, as many points of the story
coincided with what he himself knew in connection with the Roylands
family. When Caliphronas finished his recital, he flung himself back on
the turf, and waited for Crispin to speak, which the young man did after
a long pause.
“What you have stated astonishes me very much,” he said deliberately;
“but, as far as I can see, there does not seem to be any harm intended
to my friend.”
“None in the least,” said the Count eagerly. “You do not like Justinian
now, for some mysterious reason, but I think you know enough about him
to trust him.”
“I know enough about him not to trust him overmuch,” replied Crispin
coolly; “but with regard to your scheme and his scheme”—
“Yes?” cried the Count breathlessly.
“I will remain neutral.”
Caliphronas drew a long breath of relief, and sprang to his feet.
“That is better than nothing; but I wish you would help me.”
“No; I will remain neutral.”
“You can see for yourself there is no harm intended.”
“I tell you I will remain neutral,” said Crispin for the third time,
also rising from his recumbent attitude. “I will neither help you nor
thwart you; so you can do as you please, but I don’t think you’ll
succeed in your schemes.”
“Don’t you?” replied Caliphronas provokingly, as they walked up to the
house together. “Well, that remains to be seen. If a man of my
capacity”—
“Cunning.”
“Well, cunning if you like. If a man of my cunning cannot circumvent
this dull-headed”—
“Cautious.”
“Oh, is he cautious? Well, I will make this cautious Englishman do as I
wish. But here we are nearly at the house, and I wait to know on what
footing we stand.”
“You are an acquaintance of mine. I met you at Athens. Talk of the
best-known Athenians as our mutual friends.”
“And you will say nothing about Melnos?”
“No.”
“Nor about Justinian?”
“No.”
“Nor Alcibiades?”
“I tell you I won’t say a word about any one or anything,” said Crispin
impatiently. “You can carry out your plan if you like. It does no harm
to Roylands as far as I can see; but if I find you playing double, my
friend, I’ll put an end to your games.”
“I always play fair when it is to my benefit to do so,” retorted the
Greek, with an unpleasant smile.
“What a pity it is not always to your benefit to do so!” said the poet
cruelly; “you would then be an honest man.”
“I am what I am,” answered Caliphronas sullenly; “had I created myself,
I might have made an improvement.”
“Not in your appearance,” observed Crispin, looking at the splendid
beauty of the man beside him. “I suppose you are as vain as ever?”
“Possibly; but I never let my vanity interfere with my business.”
“Ah, there is some sense in that splendid head of yours, but precious
little.”
“Quite enough to accomplish my wishes.”
“I doubt it. However, here we are, and here is Mr. Roylands.”
It was indeed Maurice, who, arrayed in evening dress, advanced to meet
them, and greeted Caliphronas with a smile.
“I had quite given you up, Count,” he said, shaking hands with the
Greek; “your luggage arrived, but not you, and the dinner is now due.
However, as neither of you gentlemen is ready, I have just put it off
for half an hour, so you will just have time to dress. You know Mr.
Crispin, Count?”
“Yes; you must blame him for my unpunctuality,” said Caliphronas
gracefully. “I walked over here, and sent on my luggage by your groom.
In the avenue I met Mr. Creespeen, and we talked of old times.”
“Ah, you know one another!” cried Maurice, flashing a keen glance at
Crispin, which that gentleman sustained without blenching.
“Oh yes,” answered the poet calmly; “I was afraid I did not know the
name of Count Caliphronas, but my memory played me false. I know it and
him very well. We met at Athens.”
“Three years ago,” continued the Count, laughing. “You have no idea, Mr.
Maurice, how astonished I was to meet my friend here. By the way, you
must allow me to call you Mr. Maurice; I make such a mess of your
English names.”
“I think you speak English wonderfully well, Count. Where did you learn,
may I ask, if it is not a rude question?”
“I had an English tutor,” replied Caliphronas, stealing a glance at
Crispin; “and I have been accustomed to your tongue since a lad.”
“Ah, that accounts for it. Well, come with me, Count, and I will show
you your room. Crispin, Mrs. Dengelton and her daughter are already in
the drawing-room, so you had better make haste.”
Crispin went off as quickly as possible, and Maurice hospitably
conducted his guest to the room prepared for him, where Roylands’ valet
was already spreading out the Count’s evening dress. This duty having
been performed, Mr. Roylands hurried away to his guests in the
drawing-room, and the Count was left alone with the valet, whom he
speedily dismissed.
“Thank you; I won’t require anything else,” he said, when the servant
had arranged all his clothes. “I am accustomed to wait on myself. Dinner
is in half an hour?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the valet, and retired quietly.
The fact is, Caliphronas had a habit of thinking aloud, and, as he had a
good many matters to consider, he was afraid of committing himself if a
second person were in the room; therefore, having got rid of the
servant, he began to dress slowly for dinner, thinking deeply all the
time.
“I do not think Creespeen will say anything,” he said aloud in Greek, as
he arranged his white tie; “very likely he will help me, if I can manage
him. How upright he is now—how very upright, and to think”—
Here the Count went into a fit of silent laughter, which lasted until he
arrived at the door of the drawing-room, when he controlled his risible
muscles, and went in gravely to be introduced to the ladies.