MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE.
Prince Christodoridi sat alone on the terrace, in the most unamiable
of tempers. Evening was drawing on, and the guests had departed, after
doing full justice to the coffee and syrup, the preserves of roses and
quinces, handed round by the girls. They were provided with a subject
of conversation that would crop up for many a long day, and Prince
Christodoridi writhed under the knowledge of it. He had been
over-reached and publicly flouted, and what was worse, Loukas
Smaragdopoulos held fast to the extra five hundred drachmæ. He had
intended his son to marry the Despot’s elder daughter, he said, and
had prepared apartments for them on a suitable scale, and if he was to
be put off with the younger, at least he would not be done out of his
money as well. It had required all the diplomacy of Parthenios
Chalkiadi, and the restraint imposed by the presence of the English
stranger, to keep the wrangle within due bounds, but Kyrios Loukas had
gone away without consenting to forgo his claim, which meant that it
would have to be acknowledged. And this was not the worst. If Prince
Christodoridi carried his grievance to the Patriarchal tribunal, and
asked for the annulment of the betrothal, it was ten to one that he
would merely waste more money without obtaining satisfaction. But if
Angeliké were married before her elder sister, he would be eternally
disgraced in the opinion of all his acquaintances, yet to find a
husband for Danaë as well meant the provision of two dowries at
once--a prospect which was enough to wring tears of blood from the
hapless father. It was little wonder that when Angeliké made an
unobtrusive appearance, and began to clear away the coffee-cups, he
swore at her angrily and bade her bring him his stick. But it seemed
indeed as if the very foundations of the earth were out of course,
since this hitherto submissive slave made no attempt to obey. Instead,
she stood before him meekly with clasped hands.
“Why would you beat me, lord?” she asked softly.
“You know very well. Fetch that stick!” vociferated her father.
“Nay, lord; listen a moment. You robbed me of the bridegroom you had
promised. Did I rebel? I wept, but even my tears were put away in
obedience to your will. But when the opportunity offered--ah, lord, I
was resigned, as I thought, but a voice in my heart bade me seize my
chance, and I listened. Beat me if you will, but had you been in my
place, would you have suffered your sister to steal your bridegroom?”
“It was not your sister’s doing; it was mine--and you have made your
father a laughing-stock, girl.”
“Ah, lord, not so--never! Surely no one could ever laugh at you!”
The tone was so serious, so reverential, that Prince Christodoridi
found his wrath melting away in a most unwonted manner. The thought
was a gratifying one--and Angeliké was nestling close to his knees,
and gazing up with admiring eyes into his face. Quite without warning
she gave a little laugh. “I wonder why Danaë fainted!” she said.
“Because she is a fool, and you are another,” growled her father.
“I wonder--” Angeliké edged away a little--“I wonder why the English
lord came here.”
“Not to behold your beauty, at any rate.”
“Oh!” with breathless interest; “was it to behold Danaë’s, lord?”
“Nonsense! The thoughts of you girls run on nothing but bridegrooms.
Milordo was passing by, and came like a well-mannered man to salute me
on his way.”
“Oh!” this time the tone breathed intense disappointment. “I did hope
it might be on account of Danaë.”
“What do you mean by that?” Prince Christodoridi gripped her shoulder
as she made a movement to rise. “What should he know about Danaë?”
“I don’t know, lord,” gazing at him with wide eyes of terror. “I have
never spoken to him, nor seen him.”
“Of course not,” impatiently. “Do you mean that your sister has?”
“I--I don’t know. Perhaps--I don’t think so. It may not have been the
same man. Don’t ask me, lord; ask Petros. I know no more than you do;
how should I?”
“What has Petros been saying to you? What is this about your sister?
Can this be the man----? Tell me at once, girl.”
“Petros said--” whimpered Angeliké--“at least, I mean he told
Aristomaché, and she told me (but he said you knew),--that all the
talk at Klaustra was that Milordo would marry Danaë. And one night
she was dressed up in Frank clothes--all in cloth of gold like an
empress--and they made a great feast, and Milordo and she sat side by
side. She--she even put her arm in his, lord,” breathed modest
Angeliké in horror, turning away her eyes. But Prince Christodoridi
had been a scandalized participant in European dinner-parties, and had
even, under pressure from his son, consented to offer his arm to a
lady, so that he bore up under the shock better than she had hoped.
“But this cannot be the same man. How could he have the effrontery--?
And yet he said---- Well, what of all this?”
“Why, lord, they all thought the betrothal would take place the next
day, when my brother arrived suddenly, but instead of that, there was
much talk at the house of Prince Theophanis, to which Danaë was
summoned, and she came away looking like one dead, and the next day my
brother brought her away to Therma. So everyone said that Milordo had
refused to marry her, and they supposed it was because she had
pretended to be a servant.”
“But he knew all about that!” said Prince Christodoridi, thoroughly
puzzled.
“Did you know of it, then, lord? Oh, why was it?” Curiosity had led
Angeliké beyond the bounds of prudence, and her father frowned.
“That is no concern of yours, girl. If he saw her at Klaustra, it was
when she was passing as a servant.”
This was a bad blow to Angeliké’s theory, but a happy idea struck
her. “But perhaps his parents interfered, lord. They may have thought
she would have no dowry.”
“Your brother would have referred the matter to me. He knows that I
should not grudge a--a reasonable sum to establish you both suitably.”
“Of course, lord, he must know. And yet--the match was broken off, and
Milordo is here.”
“True. He is here,” her father repeated mechanically.
“And his parents are not here, lord.”
Prince Christodoridi looked at her sharply. “What do you mean by that,
girl?”
“It looks almost,” said Angeliké, with an innocent little giggle, “as
if he wanted to marry her after all.” This was going much farther than
she had intended, but Armitage’s arrival had fitted in so miraculously
with her plans that she could not allow it to be wasted.
“After all? What do you mean?”
“As if he might be willing even to marry her without a dowry, lord.”
The siren-voice was sweet, and Angeliké was crouching very
confidingly close to her father. He shook her off with an oath.
“All-Holy Mother! He has said nothing about it.”
“But perhaps he will, lord; or you might notice something that would
enable you to speak.”
“The fellow is not going to refuse my daughter twice!”
“No, lord; but since he has come here, surely he has no wish to
refuse? And how could he say anything? Every civilised man knows that
it falls to the maiden’s father to speak first. And--and he might not
be sorry--just to satisfy his parents----”
“Yes? Plague take the girl, why won’t she speak out?”
“He might not be sorry if you insisted on the marriage, lord.”
The idea appealed to Prince Christodoridi, since it savoured of the
methods of his ancestors, and he welcomed it with a pleased smile. But
none the less, he put it aside valiantly.
“No, no; he is my guest, and we can’t force a wife upon him. But if I
see anything to make me believe he has really come after Danaë, and
that good manners are keeping him back---- But mind, not a word to
your sister!”
“Oh no, lord!” said Angeliké heartily, with the full intention of
disobeying at the earliest possible opportunity. When she went up to
bed, creeping stealthily into their room, she found Danaë, as she
expected, kneeling at the window with her eyes fixed on the distant
lights of the yacht. With great tact, Angeliké took no notice of her
immediate change of position, but yawned softly as she lighted the
lamp.
“It has been a great day!” she said. “And to-morrow come the gifts.
Oh, how I hope Narkissos will have chosen my dress the right colour! I
told him blue and citron most carefully, but I know his father would
get any other stripe that was a little cheaper, no matter how ugly it
was.”
“Well, you have got Narkissos, at any rate,” said Danaë sharply.
Angeliké’s claws were out in an instant.
“I believe you wanted him after all! You didn’t faint.”
“You know I don’t want him. I--I forgot.”
“You wouldn’t have done it at all if I had not cried out. If anyone
had been looking they must have noticed. I know why you forgot,” with
awful directness. “It was because of Milordo.”
“It wasn’t!” cried Danaë. But Angeliké’s distrustful eyes warned her
that there was only one possible alternative, and she temporised.
“Well, I was surprised to see him, of course.”
“Of course! If you mean glad, why don’t you say so?”
“Because I was not glad!” cried Danaë vehemently. “I was bowed down
with shame--I could have died----”
“Oh, you are always talking about dying!” said Angeliké, altering her
tactics skilfully to meet this surprise. “He is rich, and pleasant to
look upon--though he has the face of a boy; I prefer men--and our
father favours him.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Danaë.
“Promise not to tell--never to let out a word about it. Our father has
chosen him for your bridegroom.”
Danaë flung up her arms wildly, then dropped them in despair. “Has
he--has he spoken to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I think not; but perhaps he has.” It was necessary to
walk warily in dealing with such explosive material.
“Then he must not. Oh, Angeliké, sister mine, he must not! It is not
the custom of the English. With them the man speaks first.”
“But he might be refused!” cried Angeliké, aghast at the idea of
subjecting the nobler sex to such an indignity. “Are you sure? Who
told you?”
“Sofia, the Lady Zoe’s maid. And she said that with them a woman whose
parents spoke for her would be eternally despised. Nor would the man
consent to marry her.”
“Well, of all the barbarous customs! But fear not, my sister. No man
refuses what the Despot of Strio offers.”
“Do you think I want him to marry me against his will?”
“But why should it be against his will? Kyrios Loukas was glad enough
for Narkissos to marry one of us, though he had to make a fuss about
the dowry----” She stopped abruptly. The crowning shame, her
suggestion that Armitage might be induced to marry Danaë without a
dowry, must be discreetly concealed, for by immemorial custom, a
Striote girl whose father refused without due cause to provide for her
had the right of appeal to the people in public assembly against the
insult put upon her, and such an exposure would not suit Prince
Christodoridi.
“It’s not a question of dowry!” cried Danaë. “Would you have cared to
marry Narkissos if you knew he didn’t want you?”
“Of course, if I wanted him,” said the practical Angeliké. “And you
want the English lord; you know you do.”
“I don’t! I don’t! I don’t want to marry anyone.”
“But that’s silly. You have got to be married. What else could become
of you?”
“In Europe women do all sorts of things now. There are female
teachers, and scribes.”
“As if we should ever be allowed to do anything of the kind! Of
course, if one had a chance like that of getting away from here, and
living where there was something going on, one would not care about
getting married. But as it is, we may be thankful that there are
bridegrooms to be found for us.”
“I am not! I won’t marry him! I don’t want to.”
“You talk so foolishly,” said Angeliké patiently. “If our father
means you to marry Milordo, he will have to take you, and you will
have to go to him. And once you are his wife----”
“Angeliké,” said Danaë quickly, “how is it that you have managed to
send messages to Narkissos when you wished? I never heard of anyone’s
doing it before.”
Then the seed so casually dropped had borne fruit! Angeliké smiled to
herself as she replied, “That’s all you know about it! All the girls
send messages if they wish. Why not make use of friend Petros?”
“I would not trust Petros if there was no one else in the world.”
“Well, what I do,” reluctantly, “is to get hold of Aristomaché. She
is always going about, looking for suitable brides and bridegrooms,
and she is to be trusted. She is sleeping here to-night, so as to see
the gifts to-morrow.”
And the next morning Angeliké smiled again, when she found Danaë
missing when she woke, and saw her shortly afterwards returning
breathless from a hurried visit to the women-servants’ quarters. She
could picture, as well as if she had heard the request uttered, the
old woman despatching her grandson to waylay Armitage as he landed,
and to tell him that some one wished to speak to him at a certain
place. That would be the form of the message, since the matter was too
delicate to be confided to the go-between, and the important thing now
was to discover the place, and to contrive to direct Prince
Christodoridi’s steps thither at the right time. But the Angeliké of
the last two days was such an ingratiating creature, and the ruse to
discover the date of her wedding so prettily transparent, that her
father was rather pleased than otherwise to be dragged off to examine
her own particular myrtle, and decide whether it would flower in time
to provide her wreath, or whether some bush growing on lower ground
must be laid under contribution.
Armitage received his message duly, and with mixed feelings. He was to
turn aside to examine a built-up archway some little distance to the
left of the fortress gate, and some one--nods and winks and meaning
gestures--would come to speak to him there. He hoped in one way that
it might be Danaë, for it seemed that etiquette would otherwise
prevent him from speaking to her at all, and he had Zoe’s inquiries to
make. But Parthenios Chalkiadi’s warning rang in his ears, and he had
caught certain looks passing among the women the day before which
seemed to indicate that he was somehow connected with Danaë in their
minds. This was the more undesirable in that he had no very definite
idea what his wishes or intentions were, and only a vague notion that
perhaps he had better not have come to the island. But this was
forgotten when he saw Danaë standing in the shelter of the archway,
and sprang forward to meet her. She allowed him no time for
conventional greeting.
“You will wonder how I got here, lord. I climbed down the wall.” She
held out her hands, all bruised and scratched, and looked down at her
torn and dusty skirt. “You will guess I should not have done that for
nothing. Lord, turn back. There is a plot to kidnap you.”
On this version of the facts she had decided, after much mental
wrestling. But Armitage was incredulous.
“But who would do such a thing, Lady Danaë? I am more than sorry that
you should have taken so much trouble----”
She interrupted him hastily. “Don’t think of me, lord; but believe
what I tell you. Do not enter the fortress. You would not have me
betray my own people?” with the ghost of a smile. “But we are all
pirates, you know, and you are rich, and can pay ransom. Go back while
you can.”
“But I have messages for you from the Lady Zoe. Are you happy here?”
The glance she turned on him thrilled him with the remembrance of that
other glance of yesterday. But she recollected herself quickly. “At
least I am happier than yesterday morning I expected to be,” she said.
“Yes, lord, tell the Lady Zoe that all is well. I am here in my own
place, in the life to which I belong. It must be the best for me. Why
should I not be happy?”
“Look me in the face and tell me that you are, Danaë.”
He spoke very gently, but Danaë could not meet his kind eyes. “No,
that is unfair. You have no right to ask me that!” she said
incoherently, with both hands pressed to her breast. “Go, lord, go,
and tell my Princess that I tried to remember what I had learnt from
her, but it would be happier for me if I could forget it. Ah, lord, if
you have any kindness for the poor girl whom you once called
beautiful, go, and let me forget!”
She avoided his attempt to detain her, and fled. Armitage would have
followed her, but started to find himself suddenly confronted by
Petros, who might have sprung from the earth, but more probably from
the recess formed by the side of the gateway and the wall.
“My lord the Despot awaits Milordo,” he said with a bow.
Had he heard all that had passed? It was impossible to say; his face
told nothing, and after one quick glance at him, Armitage turned again
towards the great gate, very much perturbed in his mind. Should he ask
Danaë to marry him? Pity, admiration, romance, urged him to do so;
reason, prudence, a kind of shame that the man who had loved Zoe
Theophanis should think of linking himself with a mere beautiful
savage, held him back. In his mental struggle the warning Danaë had
given him was slighted. These were not the days when British peers
could be held to ransom in the islands of the Egean, nor would Prince
Christodoridi be foolish enough to dream of such a thing.
“You have something to say to me, friend Milordo?” The words, uttered
with extreme coldness, roused him from his reverie. Prince
Christodoridi stood before him, but did not hold out his hand or offer
any other sign of welcome. “I understand that such is the custom of
your country,” he added impatiently, as Armitage stared at him.
“You must pardon me, lord, but I have not the slightest idea----”
The truth never occurred to Armitage, for Petros was still behind him,
and it was impossible he should have told his master yet of the
meeting under the wall. The Despot waved his hand magnificently.
“From the rampart just now, Milordo, I saw you in close converse with
my elder daughter. Perhaps that also is one of your national customs?”
“It is certainly not the custom for a man to turn his back when he
happens to meet a lady whose acquaintance he enjoys,” said Armitage
with spirit. Prince Christodoridi smiled grimly.
“With us, when a man is found talking with an unmarried girl, he
marries her--without a dowry.”
“And that is a grave deterrent?” with an answering smile.
“If he refuses, he is found the next dark night with a dagger in his
heart.” Armitage’s eyes followed his host’s hand, by a kind of
fascination, to the longest of the long curved daggers in his belt,
but like most Englishmen, he had a rooted objection to being driven
into any course. Five minutes ago he had been seriously contemplating
the possibility of marrying Danaë, now it was absolutely out of the
question.
“I can only recommend you to change your customs, lord. They are
unduly old-fashioned,” he replied deliberately.
“You have cast a slur upon my daughter’s name, and you refuse to take
the only step that can remove it. I suppose you are thinking of the
dowry?” with a sneer.
“The dowry makes no difference whatever, but I refuse to be coerced
into marrying any woman on earth--even the Lady Danaë. But nothing is
farther from my wishes than to cast any slur upon her. In fact---- But
we are neither of us cool enough to discuss such a question at this
moment, Prince. With your permission, I will return on board, and you
shall hear from me.”
“Have I your promise that you will send a formal request for my
daughter’s hand?”
“Certainly not,” replied Armitage, in the gentle, reasonable tone of
voice which always led his opponents astray. “You are still trying to
force a promise out of me, which is preposterous.”
“You shall not go until you give it!” Prince Christodoridi had been
coming nearer and nearer, and now he made a spring at his guest.
Stepping back instinctively, Armitage set his back to the wall, but
the wall gave way behind him, and the floor failed beneath his feet.
Staggering helplessly, he had a momentary vision of the appalled face
of Angeliké in the distance, before the wall which had opened to
receive him closed again with a crash, leaving him in utter darkness
on a steep smooth slope. Stumbling, sliding, clutching blindly at the
walls, he descended swiftly, until he was brought up violently against
masonry of some sort. To his left was a faint glimmer of light, and he
groped his way towards it, to find himself in a chamber apparently
hewn out of the living rock, with a small hole admitting light high
above his head. The slope down which he had come was too steep and
smooth to climb, and there was no means of reaching the window.
Opposite the doorway of the dungeon, to the right of the slope, was a
wooden door, which he shook in vain, and at the keyhole of which he
shouted till he was tired. Most undoubtedly he was in a place from
which it would be very difficult to get out, and he confessed to
himself that he had walked neatly into a trap. For one moment he
experienced a sinking of the heart as he wondered whether Danaë could
be in the plot, but he drove away the doubt with a determination that
surprised himself. No, she was not to blame, except for the attempt to
save him which had led to this. Of course she could not tell him the
exact nature of the demand to be made on him, and she had unwittingly
precipitated the very danger she had tried to avert. Would they
ill-treat her? he wondered, remembering her godfather’s warning. It
was horrible to think of. If that absurd old father would only let him
see her for a moment! It would be ridiculous to marry her without
knowing that she wished it. At present she was scarcely likely to wish
it, since the terrified sister had probably rushed with all speed to
tell her that the English lord had chosen a dungeon rather than
marriage with her. It was a horrible tangle, and he saw no way out of
it.