THE CREED OF A MOTHER-IN-LAW.
In all good faith I do believe
That sons-in-law their wives deceive;
So, seeing marriage is a snare,
My daughter needs her mother’s care;
And if this couple young be wise,
Their life they’ll let me supervise.
For I can show the wife the way
To make the servants her obey,
Nor fail the husband’s acts to see,
And rob him of his midnight key,
Improve his faults with frown and snub,
Insist he should give up his club;
And if he’s an obedient boy,
His home will be a place of joy.
Thus ruling husband, home, and wife,
I will secure a home for life.
“So you have decided upon Eastward Ho?” said Crispin, as Maurice
enveloped himself in clouds of smoke.
They were seated in the smoking-room by themselves, for the ladies had
long since retired; and Caliphronas, unable to bear the fumes of
nicotine, which, he averred, made his eyes sore and his head swim, had
just gone off to bed. Thus, left to that sweetest hour of the night
which is somewhere about the stroke of twelve P.M., the poet and his
host had established themselves in two comfortable arm-chairs, and, each
armed with a pipe, were incensing the Muse of Fancy, who is frequently
invoked by such worship. But the talk of the two was anything but
fanciful, as they were engaged in discussing their projected tour in
Levantine waters. Maurice was rather glad Caliphronas retired so early,
as he was anxious to have a quiet conversation with Crispin, and what
better time or place could he have, than nearly midnight in the
smoking-room, with the soothing weed, and the exhilarating whiskey
diluted with soda, to stimulate the drowsy brain.
It is wonderful how men at this mystic hour unbosom themselves the one
to the other, and tell secrets which they certainly would not reveal in
the daytime. Maurice knew this peculiarity of midnight confabulations,
and perhaps thought that Crispin would take him into his confidence; but
if he did think so he was disappointed, for Crispin kept his own counsel
and held his tongue, save indeed to talk generally about things Maurice
was well acquainted with.
“So you have decided upon Eastward Ho?” said Crispin for the second
time, finding that Maurice did not reply immediately, which negligence
was due to the fact that he wished to speak to the poet about Eunice,
and was doubtful of the wisdom of such a step. The second time of asking
this question, however, aroused him from his musings, and he answered at
once.
“Yes. I had a conversation with the Rector this morning, and I have
decided to travel abroad for a year or so.”
“Do you mean a general tour of the world, or a special part?”
“A special part. I am going to Greece.”
“Oh! The mainlands or the islands?”
“The latter.”
“In that case, I know where you are going,” said Crispin, carefully
shaking the ashes out of his pipe; “your destination is the Island of
Melnos.”
“It is,” replied Maurice in some surprise. “Do you know Melnos?”
“Very well. I also know the woman you are going to see.”
“Helena? How do you know that? I have told you nothing about it.”
“No; but Caliphronas mentioned something about your spiritual passion
for that picture.”
This was mere guess-work, as Caliphronas had mentioned nothing of the
sort; but Crispin was so well aware of the deep game which the Greek was
playing, that he had no difficulty in arriving at a fair conclusion
concerning his tactics. Maurice was, however, ignorant of Crispin’s
knowledge, and at once assumed that Caliphronas had been discussing his
passion for this pictured Helena with the poet, perhaps laughing at it,
and his pride was up in arms at once.
“Caliphronas has no right to speak to you about my private affairs,” he
said angrily. “I intended to tell you myself, but now he has forestalled
me. I did not know he was such a gossip.”
“Nor is he. I said he told me, and so he did, indirectly; but if I did
not know Caliphronas, Helena, and Melnos, I would still be in the dark
concerning your projected journey.”
“Where is this Island of Fantasy?”
Crispin looked up with a quick smile.
“Oh, he told you the name Justinian calls it! The Island of Fantasy in
imagination, and Melnos in reality, is situated in the southern portion
of the Ægean Sea, beyond Paros, beyond Amorgos, nay, even beyond Anapli.
As a matter of fact, it is a little-known island, hidden, to speak
exactly, in the Cretan Sea, between Telos and Crete.”
“I thought I was rather good at geography, but I never heard of the
Island of Melnos before. Has it anything to do with the Island of
Melos?”
“No; that is more to the north. But I do not wonder at your ignorance,
as Melnos is known only to the sailors and shepherds who are thoroughly
acquainted with that portion of the Archipelago.”
“What kind of an island is it?”
“A mountain—a volcanic mountain, extinct of course for the present,
though I would not be surprised if it blew up one day and sent Justinian
flying in the air with all his subjects.”
“Is this Justinian a king, that you talk about his subjects?”
“Well, a kind of minor king, such as Odysseus might have been. I know
him very well.”
“And Helena?”
“Is his daughter.”
“His daughter!” repeated Maurice gravely. “Is she as beautiful as this
portrait shows her to be?”
“I should say more so,” replied Crispin, taking the photograph. “Here
you only get absolute stillness; the great charm of Helena lies in the
changeful expression of her face, and in her bright manner. Yes, she is
altogether charming, and I do not wonder you have fallen in love with
her face, even though this photograph fails to do justice to the
original.”
In spite of his passion for Helena, which should have made him delight
in these praises of her beauty, Maurice did not pay much attention to
Crispin’s speech, as he was thinking deeply, and the current of his
thoughts was indicated by his next remark.
“Crispin, you said Caliphronas was merely a chance acquaintance you met
at Athens; but, as far as I can judge from the hints you drop, I believe
you know him very well.”
“That is the real truth,” replied Crispin, without flinching. “I did
meet this Greek at Athens, but I knew him before that—in Melnos. Oh, I
can tell you many things which would astonish you, but I cannot do so
yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have strong reasons for such reticence,” said the poet
coldly; “either trust me in all or not at all. This journey you are
undertaking means more than you think, but I will not fail you, and as
long as I am by your side you will take no hurt.”
“Are we in the Middle Ages? Is Caliphronas a freebooter, that you talk
as if I were in danger?”
“I will explain all some day, and you will be rather astonished at my
story.”
“I suppose there is nothing wrong in your story?”
“No. When I tell all about myself and my past life, I think it will
satisfy not only you—but Mrs. Dengelton.”
“It is on her account that I made that rather rude remark, for, unless
you can prove your name, your position, and your income to be
satisfactory, she will never consent to your marriage with Eunice.”
“As to my name,” said Crispin, coloring a little at such plain speaking,
“I hope to prove that spotless, my position will be beyond reproach, and
my income is larger than your own.”
“You are wealthy, then?”
“I am certainly well off, and I will give you my story at some later
date, but at present I will answer no more of your questions.”
“And Mrs. Dengelton?”
“I am going to speak to her to-morrow morning, so as to put things right
before I leave England. Oh, I am not afraid of being absent. Eunice
loves me, and will be true, while as to her mother, I can win that lady
on to my side, and will do so to-morrow.”
“You are an enigma, Crispin.”
“I am; but, as I said before, I can explain myself to your satisfaction,
and intend doing so when I consider it wise. But you must trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“I am afraid you ask too many questions for absolute trust,” said the
poet dryly, relighting his pipe.
“I will ask you no more—save one.”
“Well?”
“Is Caliphronas to be trusted?”
“As long as I am with you, yes.”
“Ah, you have some power over him?”
“Now you are asking questions again.”
“I beg your pardon; but do tell me about Caliphronas!”
Crispin paused for a moment, as if to consider how he would reply to
this remark.
“Caliphronas,” he said at length slowly, “is a man who is a slave to his
own vices, and gratifies himself at all costs. He lets no one stand in
the way of such self-gratification; but whether you are an obstacle or
not remains to be seen. At all events, you have elected to trust me,
mysterious as I am, and I promise you on my word of honor that you shall
have no reason to regret that trust. I foresee difficulties ahead, but
these you need not be afraid of as long as I am by your side. You will
leave Roylands with me, and you will return with me, and I give you my
word you will not be a bit the worst for your journey, nay, I hope you
will be the better.”
“One would think we were going to Timbuctoo, the way you talk,” said
Maurice crossly. “You have no idea how these enigmatic speeches pique my
curiosity.”
“Well, such curiosity I will gratify—shortly.”
“But”—
“You said you would trust me, and ask no more questions.”
“I do trust you, and I will not.”
Certainly he could not complain of a lack of interest in life now: this
mysterious woman Helena, these equally mysterious individuals, Crispin
and Caliphronas,—all three riddles. Surely the son of Laius was never so
bothered by enigmas as was this young country squire. However, it added
new zest to the wine of life, and gave him something to look forward to,
so on the whole Maurice was enjoying himself.
“By the way,” said Crispin lazily, after a pause, “how are you going to
Melnos?”
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. Go by train to Venice, I suppose, and take an
Austrian Lloyd steamer from there, or leave Marseilles by the French
packet which goes to Athens. Once at the Piræus, and there won’t be much
difficulty in exploring the Archipelago in search of your Island of
Fantasy. To tell you the truth, however, as I only made up my mind this
morning, I have not yet looked up routes, steamers, and all that sort of
thing, but intend to go to town next week and find out all about them.”
“There will be no need,” said Crispin quietly; “you can come to Greece
in my yacht.”
“Your yacht! Why, I did not know you had one.”
“I know you didn’t. Because I am a poet, you necessarily think I am
poor, which is a mistake. I am sufficiently well off to keep a hundred
and fifty ton steam yacht, which is at present lying at Southampton,
ready to start when I wish. A poet and a yacht sound incongruous, I
admit; and I suppose I am the first rhyme-stringer who ever possessed
such an article, unless you except Shelley’s boat partnership with
Trelawny. But that was a small boat; my craft is a genuine steam yacht,
and in it I explore unknown seas. You look astonished.”
“I am astonished. You are a poet-millionnaire.”
“Not quite as wealthy as that, and I need hardly tell you I did not pay
for the yacht out of my poems. But, of course, you will come with me to
Greece in The Eunice.”
“Eunice?”
“Yes; she was called The Aphrodite, but I rechristened her The Eunice
out of compliment to you know whom.”
“Have you any more surprises in store?”
“Plenty,” replied Crispin, rising with a yawn; “but this one is quite
enough to keep you awake for a night. Oh dear, I am so sleepy!”
“Wait a minute. Does Caliphronas know you are a yacht-owner?”
“No; I expect he will be surprised and confoundedly jealous.”
“Jealous! Why?”
“Because he thinks all the good things of this life should go his way.
But you have not yet given me your answer.”
“Oh, I will come by all means.”
“And so will our mutual friend, the Greek. What a happy family we will
be! Well, good-night. I wish Eunice was coming in her namesake.”
“And Mrs. Dengelton,” said Maurice mischievously, lighting his candle.
“No; in my wildest dreams I never wished that. She would want to be
captain of the ship. However, I am going to astonish my future
mother-in-law to-morrow; so I must take a good night’s rest, and husband
my strength for the encounter. Good-night, once more.”
“Good-night, Crispin.”
They both retired to their respective rooms, and Maurice fell asleep
wondering who Crispin was, from what source he derived wealth enough to
keep a yacht, and what connection he had with Caliphronas. All these
things mixed together in his drowsy brain until the real world faded
away, and he dreamed he was at Melnos, trying, like another Paris, to
carry off Helena, while Caliphronas, in the guise of Menelaus, prevented
such elopement.
Next day the brilliant sun had disappeared, and there was a gray veil of
clouds drawn across the sky, which neutralized the brilliant tints of
the summer’s luxuriance of foliage and flowers. Caliphronas, ever
impressionable to atmospheric changes, shivered at the dreary look which
now spread over the earth, and it needed all his animal spirits to
sustain his normal condition of careless joy. Even then he lacked his
ordinary exuberance of life, and it appeared as if a great portion of
his vitality disappeared with the sun.
“St. Theodore!” he said to Mrs. Dengelton, as they looked out of the
window at the gray landscape; “do you often have this weather here?”
“No, not often,” she replied, in a tone of regret; “I wish we did.”
“What! this dulness, this melancholy, this want of color!”
“Why, my dear Count, it is a most beautiful day!” cried the lady, with
great vivacity; “what have you to complain of?”
“Complain of?” The Greek’s face was a study as he repeated her words,
and he stared at her in surprise. “Why, I complain of this want of
sunlight; it is not like yesterday, which was passable.”
“Passable!” echoed Mrs. Dengelton, surprised in her turn. “Why, Count,
since you have come to Roylands, the weather has been simply perfection.
How long have you been in England?”
“Two months.”
“Then you must have had this lovely weather all along. You are an
exceptionally lucky man, Count Constantine, for you have seen England at
her best.”
“Why, have you worse days than this?” asked Caliphronas, with a shudder.
“Infinitely worse,” said Eunice, who at this moment joined them with
Crispin: “fog, snow, rain, hail, mist—oh, you don’t know the
capabilities of the English climate!”
“I am glad I am going away,” observed Caliphronas, with a sigh of
relief; “this place would kill me. Gray skies, small cultivated
landscapes, ugly cities, sad-looking men and women. Oh, great saints!
what do you know of life or pleasure?”
“I assure you, my dear Count,” began Mrs. Dengelton sweetly, “that in
the season”—
“What is the season?”
“The London season, which begins in May.”
“Oh, that is what I have seen. Up all night, tired all day, crowded
rooms, unhealthy dinners, plenty of talk about nothing, and no rest—is
that what you call the season? is that what you term life? St. Theodore!
let me go back to Greece, there at least I can live.”
“But Greece is not like London,” said Crispin, with the intention of
provoking the Greek.
“No, thank the saints, it is not, as you know well, Mr. Crispin; there,
at least, are fresh air, laughing seas, wide plains, lofty mountains—one
can breathe there—one can live and delight in living, but here—oh,
pardon me, I cannot talk of it. I must go to Mr. Maurice for the
Endymion, and I am glad I leave your dull grayness soon.”
When Caliphronas with this parting shot had vanished, Mrs. Dengelton
turned to Crispin with a pitying smile.
“What an impulsive creature, is he not, Mr. Crispin? To talk about such
barbaric lands, and call existence there life! Ah, he does not know what
enjoyment is.”
“I think he does in his own way,” replied Crispin dryly, thinking of the
difference between the free, open-air existence of the one, and the
narrow, petty life of the other.
“Well, of course, you know a blind man never misses color because he
does not know what he loses,” said the lady apologetically. “That poor
dear Count is in exactly the same plight. Eunice, my dear, I wish you
would go and write that letter to Lady Danvers at once. I want it to
catch the noonday post. We go to Lady Danvers when we leave here,” she
added, as Eunice left the room. “For my part, I would have been glad to
stay here till the autumn, but dear Maurice has been ordered abroad for
his health.”
“Yes, I know he is going,” said Crispin coolly; “he is coming with me.”
“Coming with you?” repeated Mrs. Dengelton, indignantly, wondering at
the presumption of this, as she thought, poor poet.
“Yes,” replied Crispin equably, as he prepared to startle the lady; “he
is going to the East in my yacht.”
“Your yacht!” gasped Mrs. Dengelton, in the same tones in which she
would have said, “Your throne!” “I did not know you—you”—
“Were rich enough to possess one,” said Crispin dryly, seeing the lady
hesitated. “Oh, I have had a yacht for many years. I hope you and Miss
Dengelton will do me the favor of coming a cruise in her some day.”
“Oh, I should be delighted!” cried Mrs. Dengelton, with a shudder, for
she was a very bad sailor; “but does it not take a great deal of money
to keep up such an expensive luxury?”
“A great deal,” assented the poet, suppressing a smile as he saw the
dexterous way in which Mrs. Dengelton was trying to find out the extent
of his income; “but, fortunately, I can afford it.”
“How lucky you are!” sighed the lady, now adopting a more polite tone
towards this wealthy young man. “Ah, it is a splendid thing to be rich.
My late husband was of good birth, but poor, and he did not leave me
very well off. However, I have a sufficiently good income to live
comfortably, and of course my dear daughter for a companion.”
“What will you do when Miss Dengelton marries?”
“Oh, I will live with her still. You see, young wives are inexperienced,
and I could take all that sort of thing on my shoulders.”
Crispin shuddered, for the prospect of living under the same roof with
this lady was anything but an inviting one.
“Of course, I do not mind speaking freely to you, dear Mr. Crispin,”
pursued Mrs. Dengelton, determined to crush all thoughts Crispin might
have regarding Eunice, “because you are such a friend of dear Maurice.
You know I wish him to marry his cousin, it would be a perfect match.”
“Would it?” said Crispin grimly.
“Yes; it would keep the property in the family,” said Mrs. Dengelton,
who had arrived at this remarkable conclusion by some means known only
to herself; “and then, of course, this would be my home, and I could
live here with my dear children. You see, I speak openly to you, because
I know you would like to see dear Maurice happily married.”
“I would indeed, Mrs. Dengelton, but not to your daughter.”
“Indeed, Mr. Crispin! and why not?”
“Because I want to marry her myself.”
“Mr. Crispin!”
If a bombshell had dropped through the roof, Mrs. Dengelton could not
have been more astonished. She half guessed that this audacious poet
admired Eunice, but to speak thus so boldly, and after she had given her
views as to the future settlement of her daughter in matrimony—it was
too horrible! Who was this man? Nobody knew. He had not even two names
like respectable people, and to propose to bestow the only one he
possessed on her daughter, was too much for Mrs. Dengelton’s powers of
endurance. She was actually dumb with astonishment, and those who had
once heard this lady’s tongue could have seen from that alone how she
was thunderstruck. For a minute she gazed at Crispin with horror-struck
eyes, but as he did not turn into stone before that Medusa gaze, or even
have the grace to blush, Mrs. Dengelton recovered her powers of speech
with a weak laugh.
“Oh, of course you are jesting!”
“I am not jesting. I wish to marry your daughter.”
“Impossible!”
“Why is it impossible?”
“Oh, because—because”—Mrs. Dengelton could not really bring herself to
give the real reasons, so fenced dexterously,—“Because you see, I wish
her to marry her cousin, and keep the property in the family.”
“The property will remain in the family without such a marriage,” said
Crispin provokingly; “and as for your daughter, she does not love
Maurice.”
“Not love Maurice!” screamed Mrs. Dengelton wrathfully.
“No, she loves me.”
“Loves you!” gasped the good lady faintly, feeling for her
smelling-salts. “Oh, this is some horrible dream!”
“By no means,” replied Crispin quietly; “I really do not see why you
should make such an uncomplimentary remark. I love your daughter, and I
wish to marry her. Is there anything extraordinary in that?”
“Eunice could marry any one.”
“No doubt, but she will not. I am the only man she will marry.”
“Indeed! You forget her mother’s consent is necessary.”
“At present, yes, because she is under age—but afterwards”—
“Eunice Dengelton will obey me all her life,” said the lady furiously;
“and I will never, never consent to her marriage with you, sir!”
“Why not?”
“Because I do not know who you are,” retorted Mrs. Dengelton tartly.
“I will satisfy you on that point before the marriage.”
“Then I do not know if you can support a wife.”
“If I can support a yacht, I can certainly support a wife,” said Crispin
ironically; “but if you want me to be exact as to figures, my income is
twelve thousand a year.”
“Twelve thousand a year!” gasped Mrs. Dengelton in amazement; “why, you
are richer than Maurice!”
“Yes, twice as rich. Is there any other question you would like to ask?”
“Well, I would like to know about your parents.”
“I have no parents. I am an orphan.”
“And where do you come from, Mr. Crispin?”
“From the East”
“Heavens!” cried Mrs. Dengelton, as a dreadful thought struck her; “you
are not a Hindoo, or a negro, or a Hottentot?”
“Well, I am certainly dark,” replied the poet, laughing, “but I am, as
it happens, a pure-blooded Englishman. But come now, Mrs. Dengelton, I
have answered your questions, so in common fairness you must answer
mine. Will you let me marry your daughter?”
“I—I—really I don’t know what to say,” said Mrs. Dengelton, unwilling to
let the chance of such a wealthy match slip, and yet doubtful as to the
position of the suitor. “I must think it over. Tell me who you are.”
“Not now. I will satisfy you fully concerning my family when I return
from Greece.”
“Ah! am I right in saying you are going to the East to see your
relatives about this marriage?” said Mrs. Dengelton archly.
“Partly right. I am going as much on your nephew’s account as my own.”
“And what is _he_ going for?”
“That I cannot tell you, Mrs. Dengelton,” replied Crispin mendaciously,
“you must ask him that yourself. But as to this marriage”—
“I cannot give you an answer now—really I cannot.”
“Will you give me an answer when I return from the East?”
“When will you return?”
“In three months.”
“Yes, I will give you an answer then,” said Mrs. Dengelton glibly,
having quite determined to throw Crispin over, should she meet with a
more desirable match for her daughter. Crispin guessed this double
dealing, and at once met the feminine plot by a masculine counterplot.
“Mrs. Dengelton,” he said solemnly, “I love your daughter, and she loves
me. When I return in three months from the East, I will satisfy you on
all points you desire to know. If those questions you ask are answered
to your complete satisfaction, will you agree to our marriage?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Dengelton, all the volubility frightened out of her,
“I will.”
“Then give me your word that during my absence you will not try to
induce your daughter to marry any one else.”
“I hardly think it is necessary to ask that,” said the lady, with
dignity, though in her heart of hearts she knew it was very necessary,
as also did Crispin, who still pressed his request.
“Perhaps it is not necessary; still I would like your word for it that
such a thing will not occur.”
“Well, well, I promise,” remarked Mrs. Dengelton peevishly, rising to
her feet. “What a pertinacious man you are, Mr. Crispin! Mind, I will
not consent to this marriage unless I am thoroughly satisfied about your
position, income, and family.”
“I will satisfy you on all those points,” rejoined Crispin, with a bow,
as he held the door open for her to pass through.
“I feel quite upset,” said the good lady, as she hastily departed. “I am
sure I don’t know what Maurice will say.”
“I do,” thought Crispin, as he closed the door; “he will be delighted. I
talk very confidently, but I am doubtful. Position—yes, that is all
right, I am a poet; money—well, she can hardly complain of twelve
thousand a year, safely invested; family—ah, that is the difficulty! I
wonder if I can get the truth out of Justinian, he alone knows. I cannot
marry with only one name, but I will have two before I return from
Melnos, or else”—
He paused, and struck his fist hard against his open hand.
“I will force Justinian to tell me,” he muttered between his clinched
teeth. “I also hold cards in this game he is playing, and even with him
and Caliphronas as adversaries I will win. Maurice Roylands is
Justinian’s stake, Helena is the stake of Caliphronas, as he chooses to
call himself, but Eunice is mine, and with such a prize to gain I am
desperate.”
His eyes fell on an open volume of Thomas à Kempis, which Mrs.
Dengelton, in strange contrast to her usual worldliness, was fond of
reading, and he saw the following sentence:—
“Love desires to be aloft, and will not be kept back by anything low and
mean.”
“I accept the omen,” he said, closing the book slowly. “I desire Eunice,
and no lowness or meanness of Justinian and Andros will keep me back. I
accept the omen.”