Incidental mention has been made of the fact that Leland Junior engaged
in a pronounced flirtation with a little Greek girl aboard the vessel
wherein Barndale made love so stupidly and so successfully. It was out
of this incident that the strange story which follows arose. It would
not have been easy to tell that story without relating the episode
just concluded; and when one has to be tragic it is well to soften the
horrors by a little love-making, or some other such emollient. I regret
to say that the little Greek girl--who was tyrannously pretty by the
way--was as thorough-paced a little flirt as ever yet the psychic
philosopher dissected. She had very large eyes, and very pretty lips,
and a very saucy manner with a kind of inviting shyness in it. Jimmy
Leland’s time had not yet come, or I know no reason why he should not
have succumbed to this charming young daughter of Hellas. As it was, he
flirted hugely, and cared not for her one copper halfpenny. She was a
little taken with him, and was naturally a little indiscreet. Otherwise
surely she would never have consented to meet James at the Concordia
Garden on the evening of their arrival at Constantinople. He had been in
Constantinople before, and was ‘down to the ropes,’ as he preferred to
say. He made his appointment with the young lady and kept it, slipping
out from Misserie’s, and leaving the other members of his party trifling
with their dessert at that dreary table d’hôte, and lost in wonder at
the execrable pictures which are painted in distemper upon the walls
of that dismal salle à manger. He strolled down the Grande Rue de Pera,
drank a liqueur at Valori’s, and turned into the Concordia in the summer
dusk. He sat down at one of the little wooden tables, and aired his
Turkish before the waiter by orders for vishnap, limoni, and attesh.
Then he crossed his legs, lit his cigar, and waited and watched for the
little Greek lady. The little Greek lady came not; but in her stead,
as he watched the entrance place, appeared the manly form of his chum
Barndale, clad in loose white serge. Barndale caught sight of Leland
almost at the moment of his own entrance, and took a seat beside him.
‘Lilian has gone to bed,’ said Barndale, ‘and I came in here by
accident. Glad I found you.’
He looked about him with no great interest. The stream of people flowed
round and round the little circle, and repeated itself once in five
minutes or thereabouts, until he got to know nearly all the faces in the
crowd. He noted one face especially, where many were notable.
It was the face of a Greek of a very severe and commanding type,
shadowed in some strange way by a look which made the owner of the
face absolutely irritating to Barndale. There are some opposites in
nature--human nature--which can only meet to hate each other. These two
crossed glances once, and each was displeased with what he saw in
the other. The Greek saw a handsome, good-natured, bronzed face, the
thoughtful eyes whereof looked at him with an expression of curiosity
and analysis. The Englishman saw a pair of languid eyes, which flashed
instantaneous defiance and anger back to scrutiny. The Greek went by,
and in his after passages looked no more at Barndale, who continued
to watch him with an unaccountable, disliking regard. The crowd had
completed its circle some half score of times, and Barndale missed his
Greek from it. Turning to address Leland, he missed him too. He rose and
mingled with the circling procession, and listened to the music of the
band, and speculated idly on the people who surrounded him, as lazy and
unoccupied men will at times. Suddenly, in the shadow of the projecting
orchestra, he caught sight of a figure which he fancied was familiar to
him. Scarcely had he noticed it when it was joined by another figure,
recognisable at once even in that deep shadow--Mr. James Leland. And the
other personage was of course the pretty little Greek girl. ‘No affair
of mine,’ said Barndale, who was slow to meddle, even in thought, with
other people’s doings; ‘but neither wise nor right on Jimmy’s side,’ He
walked round the little circle discontentedly, thinking this matter
over with deepening displeasure. When he came to the orchestra again
the handsome Greek was there, with an expression so devilish on his face
that Barndale regarded him with amazement. Demetri Agryopoulo, salaried
hanger-on to the Persian embassy, was glaring like a roused wild beast
at these two shadowy figures in the shadow of the orchestra. The band
was crashing away at the overture to ‘Tannhäuser,’ the people were
laughing and chattering as they circled, and not an eye but Barndale’s
regarded this drama in the corner. The Greek’s hand was in his bosom,
where it clutched something with an ugly gesture. His face was in the
sideway glare of the footlights which illumined the orchestra. Leland,
unconscious of observation, stooped above the girl and chatted with her.
He had one arm about her waist. She was nestling up to him in a trustful
sort of way. Barndale’s eyes were on the Greek, and every muscle in his
body was ready for the spring which he knew might have to be made at any
minute. Leland stooped lower, and kissed the face upturned to his. At
that second the band gave its final crash, and dead silence fell. Out of
that dead silence came a shriek of wrath, and hatred, and anguish from
Demetri Agryopoulo’s lips, and he leaped into the shadow with a hand
upraised, and in the hand a blade that glittered as he raised it, One
impulse seemed to shoot forth the jealous Greek and his watcher, and
before Demetri Agryopoulo could form the faintest notion as to how the
thing had happened, a sudden thunderbolt seemed launched against him,
and he was lying all abroad with a sprained wrist. The stiletto flew
clean over the wall, so swift and dexterous was the twist which Barndale
gave the murderous hand that held it.
‘Get the girl away,’ said Barndale rapidly to Leland. The crowd gathered
round, alarmed, curious, eager to observe. Barndale helped the Greek
to his feet. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked. Demetri glared at him, felt his
sprained right wrist with his left hand, picked up his hat, shook off
the dust from his disordered clothes, and went his way without a word.
Barndale went his way also. The band crashed out again, and the crowd
once more began its circle. When a torpedo is lowered into the sea, the
wound it makes in the water is soon healed. But the torpedo goes on and
explodes by-and-by, with terrible likelihood of damage.
Barndale came down heavily on Leland, in the latter’s bedroom at the
hotel, that night.
‘Well,’ said Jimmy, in sole answer to his friend’s remonstrance and
blame; ‘there’s one thing about the matter which may be looked on as a
dead certainty. The beggar would have had my blood if it hadn’t been for
you, old man. It’s only one more good turn out of a million, Billy, but
I shan’t forget it.’
With that he arose and shook Barndale’s hand.
‘What did you do with the girl?’ asked Barndale.
‘Took her home. The Bloke who had such strong objections to me is her
sweetheart.
He’s engaged to her; but she says she hates him, and is afraid of him.
She’ll be more afraid of him now than ever, and with better reason.
I suppose I shall have to stop here a time, and see that she isn’t
murdered. Suppose I went to that Greek sweep, Billy--I’ve got his
address--and explained to him politely that it was all a mistake, and
that I’m sorry I went poaching on his manor, and told him that if he
liked to have a pot at me he’d be quite welcome! D’ye think that would
be of any use, old man?’
‘Leave ill alone!’ said Barndale, pulling solemnly away at his pipe.
‘I can’t,’ answered Leland. ‘That cove’s likelier to murder her than
not, if he hasn’t got me to murder. Look here, Billy, I’ll marry the
girl.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Barndale. ‘What do you know about the girl?’
‘Lots,’ answered the imperturbable James.
‘Highly connected. Lots of tin. Character irreproachable. That elderly
Bulgarian party, Kesanlyk Attar of Roses man, knew all about her. The
fat Bloke aboard the boat. You know.’
‘He won’t hurt her,’ said Barndale, thinking of the Greek lover, ‘and
you’re well out of it. Why should you marry the girl? There’s nothing
worse than I know, is there?’
‘There’s nothing at all in it but that confounded meeting at the
Concordia.’
‘Keep out of the way of the man in future,’ Barndale counselled his
friend,’ and leave him and his ladylove to make this matter up between
them. That’ll all blow over in time.’ With that he said good-night, and
rose to go. At the door he turned and asked--
‘Who is the man?’
Leland produced his pocket-book, searched for a page, found it, and
handed it over to. Barndale. There, in a delicate but tremulous hand,
was written, ‘Demetri Agryopoulo, Hotel Misserie, Grande Rue de Pera.’
‘He lives in this house,’ said Barndale gravely. ‘Lock your door before
you go to bed.’
Leland took his advice.
The next morning at table d’hôte they met the Greek. He was evidently
well known at the table, and was popular. His right wrist was bandaged,
and in answer to many friendly inquiries, he said it had been sprained
by a fall. He never looked at either Barndale or Leland, but chatted
with his friends in a free and unembarrassed way which extorted the
admiration of the two Englishmen, who were both somewhat silent and
uncomfortable. But in Lilian’s society it was not possible for Barndale
to be gravely thoughtful just now. The business of the day was a trip to
the Sweet Waters of Europe. Jimmy, who had been caught by that charming
title on a former visit, proclaimed the show a swindle, and the Sweet
Waters a dreary and dirty canal; but Lilian and her mother must needs go
and see what everybody else went to see; and so an open vehicle having
with infinitude of trouble been procured, and George Stamos, best
of dragomans and staunchest of campaigning comrades, being engaged,
Barndale and Leland mounted and rode behind the carriage. Papa Leland,
in white serge and a big straw hat with a bigger puggaree on it, winked
benevolent in the dazzling sunlight.’ The party crawled along the Grande
Rue, and once off its execrable pavement took the road at a moderately
good pace, saw the sights, enjoyed the drive, and started for home
again, very much disappointed with the Sweet Waters, and but poorly
impressed with the environs of Constantinople on the whole. On the
return journey an accident happened which sent grief to Barn-dale’s
soul.
Five or six years ago, wandering aimlessly in Venice, Barndale had an
adventure. He met a sculptor, a young Italian, by name Antoletti, a
man of astonishing and daring genius. This man was engaged on a work
of exquisite proportions--‘Madeline and Porphyro’ he called it. He had
denied himself the very necessaries of life, as genius will, to buy
his marble and to hire his studio. He had paid a twelvemonth’s rent
in advance, not daring to trust hunger with the money. He lived, poor
fellow, by carving meerschaum pipes for the trade, but he lived _for_
‘Madeline and Porphyro’ and his art. It took Barndale a long time to get
into this young artist’s confidence; but he got there at last, and made
a bid for ‘Madeline and Porphyro,’ and paid something in advance for it,
and had the work completed. He sold it to a connoisseur at an amazing
profit, handed that profit to young Antoletti, and made a man of him.
‘What can I do for you?’ the artist asked him with all his grateful
Italian soul on fire, and the tears sparkling in his beautiful Italian
eyes. Barn-dale hesitated awhile: ‘You won’t feel hurt,’ he said at
length, ‘if I seem to ask too small a thing. I’m a great smoker, and I
should like a souvenir now I’m going away. Would you mind carving me a
pipe, now? It would be pleasant to have a trifle like that turned out by
the hands of genius. I should prize it more than a statue.’ ‘Ah!’ said
Antoletti, beaming on him, ‘ah, signor! you shall have it. It shall be
the last pipe I will ever carve, and I will remember you whilst I
carve it.’ So the pipe was carved--a work of exquisitely intricate and
delicate art. On the rear of the bowl, in view of the smoker, was
a female face with a wreath of flowers about the forehead, and with
flowers and grapes hanging down in graceful intermingling with
flowing bands of hair. These flowers ran into ragged weeds and
bedraggled-looking grasses on the other side, and from these grinned a
death’s head. In at the open mouth of the skull and out at the eyes, and
wrapped in sinuous windings at the base, coiled a snake. The pipe was
not over large, for all its wealth of ornamentation. Barndale had hung
over it when he smoked it first with the care of an affectionate nurse
over a baby. It had rewarded his cares by colouring magnificently until
it had grown a deep equable ebony everywhere. Not a trace of burn
or scratch defaced its surface, and no touch of its first beauty was
destroyed by use. Apart from its memories, Barndale would not have sold
that pipe except at some astounding figure, which nobody would ever have
been likely to bid for it. The precious souvenir was in his pocket, snug
in its case. In an evil hour he drew it out, tenderly filled it and lit
it. He and Leland were riding at a walk, and there seemed no danger,
when suddenly his horse shied violently, and with the shock crash went
Barndale’s teeth through the delicate amber, and the precious pipe fell
to the roadway. Barndale was down in a second, and picked it up in two
pieces. The stem was broken within an inch of the marvellous bowl. He
lamented over it with a chastened grief which here and there a smoker
and an enthusiast will understand. The pathos of the situation may be
caviare to the general, but the true amateur in pipes will sympathise
with him. I have an ugly old meerschaum of my own which cheered me
through a whole campaign, and, poor as I am, I would not part with it or
break it for the price of this story.
Barndale was displaying his mangled darling to Papa Leland in the salle
à manger, when Demetri Agryopoulo came in with a friend and went out
again after a stay of two or three minutes. Barndale did not notice him,
but Jimmy met him point-blank at the door, and made way for him to pass.
The two friends crossed over to Stamboul and went to the bazaar with
their dragoman, and there chaffered with a skilled old Turkish artificer
who asked just ten times what he meant to take for the job, and finally
took it at only twice his bottom price. A silver band was all it needed
to restore it, and it was promised that the work should be done and the
pipe ready to be called for at noon on the morrow. It chanced that as
the friends left the bazaar they ran full against their Greek enemy, who
raised his hat with well-dissembled rage, and stalked on. The Greek by
ill hap passed the stall of the man to whom the precious pipe had been
entrusted. Barn-dale had smoked this remarkable pipe that morning in the
Greek’s view in the reading-room, and Demetri knew it again at a glance.
It lay there on the open stall in its open case. Now Demetri
Agryopoulo was not a thief, and would have scorned theft under common
circumstances. But, for revenge, and its sweet sake, there was no
baseness to which he would not stoop. The stall’s phlegmatic proprietor
drowsed with the glass mouthpiece of his narghilly between his lips.
The opposite shops were empty. Not a soul observed. Demetri Agryopoulo
put forth his hand and seized the pipe. The case closed with a little
snap, the whole thing went like lightning into his breast pocket, and
he sauntered on. He had heard Barndale’s lament to Leland Senior: ‘I
wouldn’t have done it,’ said Barndale, ‘for a hundred pounds--for five
hundred. It was the most valued souvenir I have.’ So Agryopoulo Bey
marched off happy in his revengeful mind. There was quite a whirlwind
of emotion in the old Turk’s stall at noon on the following day. The
precious wonderful pipe, souvenir of dead Antoletti, greatest of modern
sculptors, had disappeared, none could say whither. The old Turk was had
up before the British Consul; but his character for honesty, his known
wealth, the benevolence of his character, his own good honest old face,
all pleaded too strongly for him. He was ordered to pay the price set
on the pipe; but Barndale refused to take a price for it, and the old
artificer and tradesman thereupon thanked him with flowing and beautiful
Oriental courtesy. It was settled that the pipe had been stolen from the
stall by some passer-by, but, as a matter of course, no suspicion fell
upon the Greek. Why should it?
When the time came for the little party to leave Constantinople, and to
take the boat for Smyrna, Barndale and his friend went first aboard with
packages of Eastern produce bought for Lilian; and Lilian herself with
her father and mother followed half-an-hour later, under the care of the
faithful George, whom I delight to remember. The Greek was aboard
when the two young Englishmen reached the boat. To their surprise he
addressed them.
Lifting his hat formally he said, in admirable English:
‘Gentlemen, our quarrel is not over, but it can wait for a little time.
We shall meet again.’
With that he bowed and turned away. Leland ran after him, and,
uncovering, stood bareheaded before him.
‘I owe you an apology,’ he said. ‘I am extremely sorry and very much
ashamed of my part in the quarrel.’
‘I care little for your shame,’ said Demetri Agryopoulo, with his voice
quite low and calm and his eyes ablaze. ‘I do not care about your shame,
but you shall live to be more sorry than you are.’
He went down the ladder by the side of the boat, and was pulled away in
a caique. As he went he laughed to himself, and pulled out Barndale’s
pipe--remembrancer of his mean triumph, since repaired by his own hands.
He filled and lit it, smoking calmly as the sturdy caiquejee pulled him
across the Golden Horn. Suddenly the caique fouled with another, and
there came a volley of Turkish oaths and objurgations. The Greek looked
up, and saw Miss Leland in the other boat. Her eyes were fixed upon him
and the pipe. He passed his hand lazily over the bowl and took the pipe
indolently from his lips, and addressed himself to the caiquejee. The
boats got clear of each other. Lilian, coming aboard the boat, could not
get speech with Barndale until the steamer was well under way. By then,
she had time to think the matter over, and had come to the conclusion
that she would say nothing about it. For, womanlike, she was half
jealous of the pipe, and she was altogether afraid of two things--first,
that Barndale would leave her to go back to Constantinople; and next,
that the Greek and he would enter on a deadly quarrel. For she had a
general belief that all Orientals were bloodthirsty. But the meerschaum
pipe was not yet done with, and it played its part in a tragedy before
its tale was fully told.