AN ISLAND KING.
Oh, I know naught of the work-a-day world!
This is the land of eternal quiet,
Where I can nestle in indolence curled,
Far from the clamor of modern riot.
Here are my wings of ambition close furled,
For I know naught of the work-a-day world.
I am the king of an indolent race,
Working with pleasure, and not with regret;
Never the phantom of Money they chase,
Never they feel in their bosoms a fret;
Nothing to alter, for all is in place.
I am the king of an indolent race.
From the archway of the tunnel stretched two roads, one to the left,
leading down to the valley below by easy gradations, the other to the
right, running round the cup of the mountain on a level with the place
where they were now standing. Along this latter road they walked, the
three gentlemen abreast, and Gurt, considerably bewildered, rolling
behind in his nautical way. Maurice’s admiration was strongly excited by
the perfection of this road, which was level and broad, being apparently
hewn out of the living rock, while the side nearest the valley was
bordered by cyclopean masses of dressed stone, and a long line of
mulberry trees, now heavily foliaged. On the other side also, where the
rocks arose steep and smooth, was a corresponding line of trees, so that
they walked through a leafy arcade, formed by the meeting of the
branches overhead, and their path was checkered with sunlight shadows
moving restlessly under their feet, as the wind rustled the leaves
above. Through the slim trunks of the trees, set some little distance
apart, they caught glimpses of the town below on the verge of the blue
lake, its white houses embosomed in trees, and straight streets
intersecting each other at right angles, so that it looked like a
miniature chess-board. Maurice was in ecstasies over this Eden of the
South, and could not express his delight in high enough terms to his
companions.
“It is a place to dream in!” he said enthusiastically; “a land of the
lotos! I don’t wonder Justinian desires to keep all outside influences
away from this paradise. Upon my word, Caliphronas, with such a
beautiful spot as this to dwell in, I do not wonder you were
discontented with our gray island of the West. My only astonishment is
that you should ever wish to go beyond this enchanted circle of
mountains.”
“Oh, it’s pretty enough,” said Caliphronas carelessly, casting a glance
at the lovely valley below: “but one grows tired of lovely places, the
same as one wearies of the most beautiful woman.”
“Every one is not so fickle as you are,” cried Crispin sharply.
“Well, you did not stay in this paradise yourself, Creespeen.”
“I was banished from it, and you were the serpent who caused my
banishment.”
“Bah! do not lay the blame on me. You ate of the Tree of Knowledge, and
wanted to know too much; so Justinian got rid of you.”
“I only wanted to know about myself.”
“Then you never will.”
“Won’t I? You forget that I am equal with Justinian now.”
“Are you really?” said Caliphronas mockingly. “I think not. Justinian
has the wisdom of sixty years against your thirty. The half is not equal
to the whole.”
“Well, you have something to gain as well as I,” flashed out Crispin
fiercely; “so if I am beaten, you will not be in a much better
condition.”
“Eh! you think so? I have Justinian’s promise, remember.”
“You have; and if I know anything of Justinian he’ll break it.”
“He dare not! Melnos is not impregnable.”
“Probably not; but you cannot storm it single-handed.”
“What about my dear Alcibiades?” sneered the Greek significantly.
Crispin stopped, and looked Caliphronas up and down with scorn.
“You had better not say any more, Andros, or I may be tempted to tell
Justinian of your intention.”
“All I say is not meant,” cried Caliphronas in evident alarm; “but
Justinian cannot go back from his word about Helena.”
“Helena!” said Maurice, who had hitherto kept silence. “What about
Helena?”
“Nothing to do with you, sir,” retorted Caliphronas rudely, and walked
on quickly.
“What does he mean?” asked Maurice, turning to Crispin with a frown.
“Nothing more than what I told you on The Eunice, when we were off
Taygetus.”
“You told me Caliphronas loved Helena; but this promise”—
“That has to do with Justinian,” said Crispin hastily; “you must ask him
for information. After all, Maurice, you had better wait and see how
things turn out before you cross swords with Caliphronas.”
“Ah! you think, then, we will cross swords?”
“I fancy it is extremely probable. This Helena will be an apple of
discord, as was her predecessor of Troy. But, however much you two men
fight for her, remember it is the lady herself who decides whom she will
take.”
“If she is the woman I judge her to be from her pure face, she will
never take that scamp of a Greek.”
“Oh ho! that is as much as to say she will take you, my Lord Conceit;
but never mind Helena just now. We have to get into the good graces of
Justinian, or else”—
“Well?” asked Maurice, seeing Crispin paused significantly; “what will
happen?”
“I can’t tell yet; but, after all, why anticipate evil?”
“Crispin, you are as ambiguous as a Delphic oracle.”
“And about as doubtful,” retorted the poet, laughing. “But here we are
at the Acropolis.”
“Well, I’m darned!” observed Gurt in astonishment; and his exclamation
of surprise was certainly pardonable, for no one would have expected to
find so splendid a building in this lonely island of the Ægean Sea.
A broad flight of fine-grained red limestone stairs led up to a lofty
platform of the same material, this splendid ascent being bordered on
both sides by masses of dark green laurel trees, which accentuated the
roseate tint of the staircase. On the platform, some distance back,
arose a large edifice, somewhat after the model of the Parthenon at
Athens, with graceful slender pillars of white marble supporting the
weighty entablature, the frieze of which was delicately carved with
god-like forms of nude youths, white-draped maidens, severe-faced old
men, rearing horses, and seated deities. Above this the pediment, in the
centre of which was sculptured a life-sized figure of Hephaistos, with
his anvil and raised hammer, while the bas-reliefs on either side
represented long trains of unclothed men, with their faces turned to the
god, coming towards him with supplicating hands, as if for the gift of
fire. The Pentelican marble of this temple was now toned down by the
weather to a delicate gray hue, which contrasted charmingly with the red
staircase, the dark laurels, and the faint green of the foliage which
clothed the mountain at the back of the building.
“Justinian never built this!” cried Maurice, transfixed in amazement at
the suave beauty of the whole building; “no architects of to-day could
have designed such perfection.”
“No,” replied Crispin, as they ascended the steps; “only this staircase
and the platform are modern, for the temple is an old Greek one, built
in Heaven knows what year of Hellenic art, and Justinian, finding it in
a ruinous condition, restored it as you see. The front was fortunately
intact, but he has arranged the interior as a dwelling-house. It is a
shrine to Vulcan, and, I presume, was built here because this island is
volcanic in character, though indeed it is far away from the
Hephæstiades.”
“I do not wonder Justinian calls it the Acropolis, for it is a
magnificent building, and worthy of the name. Oh, Crispin, look at that
nude youth struggling with the rearing horse!”
“You can look at all that another time,” replied the poet, laughing at
the sculptor’s enthusiasm; “meanwhile, Justinian is waiting us.”
They entered the great door of the building, followed by the awestruck
Gurt, who was too much astonished to speak, and advanced along a lofty
hall towards an archway draped with heavy blue curtains. Drawing these
aside, they entered into an open court, bordered by ranges of white
marble columns, for the temple was hypæthral in character, and the sun
shone brightly through the opening of the roof. Between these snow-white
pillars hung heavy curtains of azure tint, embroidered with bizarre
figures in yellow silk. The pavement was of smooth white marble, and
there was a small fountain in the middle, splashing musically into a
broad pool which brimmed nearly to the verge of its marble marge. A
number of Turkish mats, comfortable-looking cane chairs, silk-covered
cushions, and dainty bamboo tables were scattered about, and finally,
the whole court was one mass of flowers.
Slender palms, bowing their feathery fronds, stood in huge red jars,
which added a bright touch of color to the general whiteness; while
there were oblong boxes filled with heterogeneous masses of violets,
pansies, golden crocus, anemones, gladioli, and cyclamen, all glowing in
one dazzling blaze of color. There were also cytisus trees with their
bright yellow blossoms, great bushes of roses red with flowers, delicate
white lilies springing virgin-like from amid their green leaves, and the
pink buds of the gum cistus with its aromatic odors, while between stood
the myrtles, sacred to love. All this gorgeous mass of colors was
blended skilfully with a prevailing tint of green foliage, and what with
the blue curtains, the dazzling white of the pillars and pavement, even
under the hot southern sun it did not pain the artistic eye with a sense
of incongruous hues, but rather pleased and satisfied it by its bright
beauty and variety of hue.
“What flowers! what flowers!” cried Maurice, with genuine admiration.
“Why, this is finer even than the Rector’s rose-garden.”
“These are Helena’s flowers,” said Crispin, smiling; “she is so fond of
them that she ought to be called Chloris. Hush! here is Justinian.”
There was a grating sound of rings being drawn along a rod, and Maurice
turned to the left, to see the blue draperies held to one side by an
exceptionally tall man, with a long gray beard and keen black eyes, who
was dressed in a graceful robe of soft white wool, falling in classic
folds to his feet. Maurice himself was over the ordinary height, but
this ancient, holding himself erect as a dart, seemed to tower above
him, and, as he moved towards Maurice with outstretched hand, the
Englishman involuntarily thought of the Homeric description of Nestor.
“Mr. Roylands,” said Justinian, taking the young man’s hand, and looking
keenly at him, “you are welcome to my island. I am the Demarch of
Melnos.”
Behind Justinian came Caliphronas, who looked rather dismayed when he
saw the courtesy with which the island king received his guest; and even
Crispin made a gesture of surprise, which movement at once drew the old
man’s eyes towards him.
“You also, truant!” he said, taking the poet’s hand, but without
releasing his hold of Maurice; “you have come back to Melnos?”
“Yes, for a purpose,” said Crispin boldly, evidently not to be duped by
the suave greeting of Justinian.
As a flash of lightning leaps from the heart of a dark cloud, so gleamed
a glance from Justinian’s dark eyes, and he was evidently about to make
some fierce retort to the bold poet, when he restrained himself with
wonderful self-command, and released the hands of both the young men.
“Before I ask you any questions, gentlemen,” he said, striking a silver
bell that stood on one of the small tables near, “I must attend to the
rites of hospitality.”
A man made his appearance, and bowed submissively to Justinian.
“The bath! the meal! for these guests,” said the old man in tones of
command, speaking in Greek. “You can attend to Mr. Crispin—tell Georgios
to see to the other gentleman. When you are quite refreshed,” he added
in English, turning to his guests, “I will speak to you here.”
“But Gurt?” said Maurice, pausing a moment.
“Oh, the sailor!” observed Justinian, carelessly looking at him; “let
him follow you, and Anasthasius can look after him. Go now! I will await
your return here.”
The young men, astonished at the courtesy of their reception, Crispin
being not less so than Maurice, went out with Gurt after the man; and
Justinian, flinging himself into a chair, with a deep sigh, covered his
face with his hands. Caliphronas, leaning gracefully against one of the
pillars, looked at this exhibition of what he considered weakness with
disdain, but did not dare to break upon the revery of Justinian, of whom
he had a wholesome dread. He picked a pink oleander blossom and placed
it in his belt, then, after walking about for a few minutes with a frown
on his face, sat down on a stone margin of the fountain and began to
dabble in the water with his hands. After a time, Justinian looked up
with a second sigh.
“Well, what do you think of him?” asked the Count in Greek, at the sound
of which the old man made a gesture of annoyance.
“Speak English, you fool! I love to hear my own language.”
“You will get plenty of it shortly, then,” said Caliphronas coolly.
“Nine Englishmen already on the island,—bah! it is a British
possession.”
“You are right, Andros. I am British, and as this island is mine, it is
a British possession.”
Caliphronas frowned, as if this way of looking at things was distasteful
to him, but, not caring to argue about such a delicate matter, repeated
his first remark.
“Well, what do you think of him?”
“Maurice Roylands?”
“Yes.”
Justinian pondered a moment, and was about to reply, when, catching
sight of the eager gleam in the Greek’s eyes, he altered his mind at
once.
“I will tell you when I know him better; I never make up my mind in a
hurry. You ought to be aware of that by this time.”
The other, ill-contented with this reticence, would have persisted in
his questioning, but the old man, seeing this, shut him up sharply.
“Be silent, Andros! I will give you my opinion in my own good time.
Meanwhile, mind you treat my guests with all courtesy.”
“Even Creespeen?” said Caliphronas, with a sneer.
“Yes, even Crispin,” reiterated Justinian in a fiery tone. “I have my
reasons for acting as I do now. If you dare to disobey my orders, I have
a way to silence you.”
Caliphronas turned pale, for he knew that Justinian was absolute ruler
of Melnos, while he was thoroughly well hated by the inhabitants, one
and all.
“I have no intention of acting contrary to your desires,” he replied
sulkily, rising to his feet; “but I cannot understand the meaning of
your actions. However, I have done what you desired, and Mr. Maurice is
in Melnos. Now, I presume, you will fulfil your part of the bargain.”
“Certainly; you have my permission to pay your addresses to my
daughter.”
“And you will make her marry me?” asked Caliphronas eagerly.
The King sprang from his seat with a gesture of anger.
“I will force my daughter in no way!” he roared fiercely. “I forbade you
to think of Helena as a bride, but, provided you brought Roylands here,
I gave you permission to woo her. As to forcing her into a marriage with
you, there was no question of such a thing.”
“I thought there was,” retorted the Greek, who was white with rage.
“You put your own base construction on my motives. How dare you question
me, Andros! Am I master here, or are you? Helena is free to marry you if
she wishes; but, as far as I am concerned, I would rather you were
drowned in the sea than become my son-in-law.”
The Count went alternately red and white as Justinian spoke, and when
the speech was ended tried to answer, but his rage was such that he
could say nothing, so, with a choking cry of anger, he turned on his
heel and darted out of the court; while the King, much agitated, walked
up and down hurriedly, his white robe sweeping the pavement.
“What does the boy mean?” he muttered angrily. “I do not like these
veiled threats. Melnos is well defended, but I mistrust Andros—he is too
much a friend of that rascal Alcibiades. Bah! I have no fear—treachery
for treachery!—and if Andros dares”—
He paused abruptly, and, raising his hands, shook them impotently at the
sky, then resumed his seat with a frown, which boded ill for Caliphronas
in the event of any double dealing on his part being discovered. A
peacock came walking proudly along the court, with his splendid tail
erect, shining like some rich product of the Eastern loom, with its
manifold colors, fantastic moons, and iridescent sheen, which flashed
gloriously in the sunshine. Evidently irritated at not being noticed,
the vain bird uttered a discordant shriek, which had the effect of
making his master look up suddenly.
“Ha, Argos!” he said, with a sardonic smile; “you are like Andros, my
friend, fine to look at and nothing else. But it would be as easy to
wring your neck, with all your bravery, as it would that of my handsome
scamp yonder.”
The bird strutted proudly along, the feathers of its neck glistening
with every movement of its head.
“You have many eyes, my Argos,” resumed Justinian, after a pause, “but
your human prototype has none at all. He sees no farther than his own
straight nose, else he would be more cautious in his deeds, and less
daring in his words. It looks as if he were going to dispute my will;
well, he can do so, and we will see who will come off best—Andros or
Justinian.”
At this moment Maurice and the poet entered the court, whereupon Argos
fled in dismay.
“An omen!” thought Justinian, as he arose to receive them; “with these I
need not fear the machinations of Peacock Andros.”
The two gentlemen, refreshed by their bath and a hearty meal, were now
arrayed in loose, flowing robes of white wool, similar to that of
Justinian. Crispin wore this antique garb gracefully enough, very
evidently used to managing such draperies; but Maurice found them
awkward, and as he sat down seemed rather ashamed of the effeminacy of
the dress. The King noticed this, and smiled broadly at the Englishman’s
want of dexterity.
“You do not like these?” he said, touching his own robe lightly; “but,
believe me, they are very comfortable within doors in this climate. When
you go out to look at my island, I will supply you with a less
embarrassing dress—more adapted for walking and climbing.”
“I like my legs to be free, sir,” observed Maurice, striving to look at
his ease in these long white draperies, whereon Justinian laughed again
at this naïve confession.
“Yes; we English are an active race,” he said, leaning back in his
chair, “and like all clothing to be tight and trig; but indoors you will
find these flowing robes more adaptable than a shooting suit would be.
When one is in the East, one should adopt Eastern customs. For myself, I
have become a Sybarite in luxury since dwelling in Melnos.”
“Where is Caliphronas?” asked Crispin, looking about him for the Greek.
“Caliphronas? Oh yes; I forgot his travelling-name. A count, is he not,
of the Greek Empire? He took a fine name to match his fine feathers.
Well, Andros has just left me in a fit of bad temper.”
“You do not appear to like Andros so much as you did, Justinian.”
The Greco-Englishman smiled significantly.
“Andros is—Andros,” he replied dryly, “and is anything but reliable.
What do you think of my handsome Greek, Mr. Roylands?”
“I think he is a scamp,” retorted Maurice briefly.
“How long did it take you to find that out?” asked Justinian, without
showing any sign of surprise.
“I did not find it out at all. He confessed his scampishness himself
with the most appalling cynicism.”
“Oh, as far as cynicism goes, Andros might be a boulevardier soaked in
absinthe. It is the soul makes the man, not the surroundings. But never
mind this scamp; I wish to hear all about your cruise.”
“Hasn’t Caliphronas told you?”
“Caliphronas has told me his version of the story, which is all to his
own credit; but those six sailors who are at present in Melnos seemed to
disagree with his praises of himself, so I would like to hear what you
two gentlemen have to say.”
Whereupon Crispin, being the more fluent of speech, told the whole
story, from the time of the Greek’s arrival at Roylands,—narrated the
beginning of the voyage, the arrival in Greek waters, the storm, the
loss of the yacht, and the subsequent treachery of Caliphronas. Daring
the recital, Justinian, with compressed lips, listened to it in silence,
only uttering a smothered exclamation of rage when he heard how
Caliphronas had cut the rope, and left those on board the yacht to
perish.
“Thank you, Crispin,” he said, when the poet brought his narrative to a
close; “your story is worthy of being told by Ulysses at the court of
Alcinous. I am glad you escaped the fate intended you by Andros; but if
he had succeeded, I don’t think he would have dared to show his face
here.”
Crispin glanced at Maurice significantly, and Justinian caught the look
with his accustomed keen-sightedness.
“I speak for you as well as Mr. Roylands,” he said quickly. “We did not
get on well in the past, Crispin, but let us hope we will be more
friendly in the future.”
The poet, considerably astonished at this unwonted emotion of Justinian,
accepted the proffered hand of the old man,—although he did so with a
somewhat doubtful air.
“I cannot forget you were kind to me in my youth, Justinian, and brought
me up; but I cannot understand these sentiments, now so different from
those you expressed when we last met.”
“You were yourself to blame in the matter, Crispin. Force is of no avail
with me, and you came in a rage to demand what I refused to tell you. I
have been a wild man in my day, but I am not so absolutely bad as you
think me, and it depends upon yourself as to whether I tell you what you
wish to learn.”
“I have a right to know!” cried the poet impetuously.
“That I question,” retorted Justinian, with a flash of his keen eyes. “I
will tell you or not entirely at my own pleasure; but the tone you adopt
will not make me answer your questions. The storm cannot bend the oak,
but the gentlest breeze will make its branches quiver. Lay that parable
to heart in your demeanor towards me, Crispin, and all will yet be well;
otherwise—well, you know how you left last time.”
The young man made no reply, but relapsed into moody silence, whereupon
Justinian turned to Maurice with a winning smile.
“You must bring this obstinate boy to reason, Mr. Roylands. Believe me,
it is as well we should be all firm friends and allies, as I have reason
to believe there will be trouble.”
“From Caliphronas?”
“Exactly. He has made a demand of me which I refuse to grant.”
“About Helena?” said Crispin, suddenly looking up.
“Yes; did he tell you?”
“He said you had made him a promise to give him Helena for his wife, if
he carried out your plans.”
“That’s a lie!” cried Justinian impetuously. “I said he could pay his
addresses to Helena, but the question of marriage I left entirely in her
own hands.”
“Oh,” said Crispin quickly, “that puts quite a different face on the
affair.”
“At all events, Helena will never marry him,” said Maurice abruptly,
whereon the King turned on him in surprise.
“What do you know of Helena?”
“Only this,” replied Maurice, handing the portrait of the girl to her
father. “Caliphronas showed me that face, and I fell in love with it.”
“Oh, you fell in love with it!” remarked Justinian in a tone of
satisfaction.
“Yes; in fact, it was that which brought me to Melnos.”
Justinian smiled in a satisfied way, but suddenly frowned.
“So Andros dared to use this as a lure!” he muttered in Greek; “well, he
has succeeded to his own undoing.”
“I thought you would think so,” said Crispin, who overheard the speech;
“as soon as I heard the reason of Andros’ coming to Roylands, I guessed
your intention.”
“How could you do that?” asked the old man quickly; “you knew nothing.”
“I know all—Andros told me.”
“Traitor!” said Justinian fiercely. “Well, Crispin, if you do know, keep
your own counsel until such time as I choose to tell my own story.”
“I promise you.”
“And in return I will, at my own convenience, tell you what you desire
to know about your parentage.”
“Do this,” cried Crispin, springing up and clasping Justinian by the
hand, “and I will be your friend for life!”
“You had better be my friend for your own sake,” retorted the King
angrily; “united we stand, divided we fall. Remember, Andros is your and
my enemy.”
“And Alcibiades?”
“Alcibiades would like nothing better than an excuse to plunder Melnos.
However, we are nine Englishmen, not counting my Greeks, and I think
with all we will be a match for Andros, Alcibiades, and their brother
blackguards.”
This conversation took place in Greek, so was therefore quite
unintelligible to Maurice, who looked from the one to the other in
astonishment. On seeing this, Justinian turned towards him with a
courteous apology, and restored the portrait.
“As Andros gave you this, I will not deprive you of it, Mr. Roylands,”
he said politely; “but shortly I hope to present you to the original.”
“Now?” asked Maurice eagerly.
“No; you must go and sleep this afternoon,” replied Justinian
authoritatively; “and you also, Crispin. After your dangers of last
night, you must be quite worn out.”
“Well, the bath and a meal have done wonders,” said Crispin, yawning;
“but I must say a few hours’ sleep would complete the cure.”
“And when will we see Helena?” demanded Roylands persistently.
“This evening,” answered Justinian, taking him by the hand. “We must be
good friends, Mr. Roylands, for I like your face. Tell me, do you
resemble your father or your mother most?”
“My mother,” said Maurice, rather astonished at this strange question.
Justinian looked at him steadily, then, dropping his hand with a sigh,
turned away, as if to conceal some sudden emotion. After a time he
recovered himself, and spoke sharply, as if to atone for his
faint-heartedness.
“Come, come, gentlemen, be off to your rooms!” he said testily; “sleep
is what you need.”
“And Helena!” said Crispin, as he and Maurice left the court.
“And Helena!” repeated Justinian in a satisfied tone; “yes, this is her
husband, not Andros.”