XXII.

A few days later the Carvels were installed for the summer in one of the

many large houses on the Buyukdere quay, which are usually let to any

one who will hire them. These dwellings are mostly the property of

Armenians and Greeks who lost heavily during the war, and whose

diminished fortunes no longer allow them to live in their former state.

They are vast wooden buildings for the most part, having a huge hall on

each floor, from which smaller rooms open on two sides; large windows in

front afford a view of the Bosphorus, and at the back the balconies are

connected with the gardens by flights of wooden steps. In one of these,

not far from the Russian embassy, the Carvels took up their abode, and

John expressed himself extremely well satisfied with his choice and with

his bargain. In the course of their stay in Pera, the family had

contrived to collect a considerable quantity of Oriental carpets and

other objects, some good, some utterly worthless in themselves, but

useful in filling up the immense rooms of the house. Chrysophrasia

seemed to find the East sympathetic to her nerves, and was certainly

more in her element in Constantinople than in Brompton or Carvel Place.

Strange to say, she was the one of the family who best understood the

Turks and their ways. In contact with a semi-barbarous people, she

developed an amount of common sense and keen intelligence which I had

never suspected her of possessing.

As for me, I had gone up to Buyukdere one day, and had then and there

changed my mind in regard to my departure. The roses were in full bloom,

and everything looked so unusually attractive, that I could not resist

the temptation of spending the summer in the place. A few years ago,

when I thought of traveling, I set out without hesitation, and went to

the ends of the earth. I suppose I am growing old, for I begin to

dislike perpetual motion. The little kiosk on the hill, at the top of a

beautiful garden, was very tempting, too, and after a few hours'

consideration I hired it for the season, with that fine disregard for

consequences which one learns in the East. The only furniture in the

place was an iron bedstead and an old divan. There was not a chair, not

a bit of matting; not so much as an earthen pot in the kitchen, nor a

deal table in the sitting-room. But in Turkey such conveniences are a

secondary consideration. The rooms were freshly whitewashed, the board

floors were scrubbed, and the view from the windows was one of the most

beautiful in the world. A day spent in the bazaar did the rest. I picked

up a queer, wizened old Dalmatian cook, and with the help of my servant

was installed in the little place eight-and-forty hours after I had made

up my mind.

The life on the Bosphorus is totally different from that in Pera.

Everybody either keeps a horse or keeps a sail-boat, and many people do

both; for the Belgrade forest stretches five-and-twenty miles inland

from Buyukdere and Therapia, and the broad Bosphorus lies before,

widening into a deep bay between the two. The fresh northerly breeze

blows down from the Black Sea all day, and often all night; and there is

something invigorating in the air, which revives one after the long, gay

season in Pera, and makes one feel that anything and everything is

possible in such a place.

The forest was different in May from what it had been on that bitter

March night when Gregorios and I drove down to Laleli's house. The

maidam--the broad stretch of grass at the opening of the valley before

you reach the woods--was green and fresh and smooth. The trees were full

of leaves, and gypsies were already camping out for the season. The

woodland roads were not as full of riders as they are in July and

August, and the summer dancing had not yet begun, nor the garden

parties, nor any kind of gayety. There was peace everywhere,--the peace

of quiet spring weather before one learns to fear the sun and to long

for rain, when the crocus pushes its tender head timidly through the

grass, and the bold daisies gayly dance by millions in the light breeze

as though knowing that their numbers save them from being plucked up and

tied into nose-gays, and otherwise barbarously dealt with, according to

the luck of rarer flowers.

So we rode in the forest, and sailed on the Bosphorus, and enjoyed the

freedom of the life and the freshness of the cool air, and things went

on very pleasantly for every one, as far as outward appearances were

concerned. But it was soon clear to me that the matter which more or

less interested the whole party was no nearer to its termination than it

had been before. Paul came and went, and his face betrayed no emotion

when he met Hermione or parted from her. They were sometimes alone

together, but not often, and it did not seem to me that they showed any

very great anxiety to procure themselves such interviews. A keen

observer might have noticed, indeed, that Hermione was a shade less

cordial in her relations with Alexander, but he himself did not relax

his attentions, and was as devoted to her as ever. He followed her

about, always tried to ride by her side in the forest, and to sit by her

in the boat; but under no circumstances did I see Paul's face change

either in color or expression. He did not look scornful and cynical, as

he formerly did, nor was there anything hostile in his manner towards

his brother. He merely seemed very calm and very sure of himself,--too

sure, I thought. But he had made up his mind to win, and meant to do it

in his own fashion, and he appeared to be indifferent to the fact that

while his duties often kept him at the embassy the whole day, Alexander

had nothing to do but to talk to Hermione from morning till night. I

fancied that he was playing a waiting game, but I feared that he would

wait too long, and lose in the end. I knew, indeed, that under his calm

exterior his whole nature was wrought up to its highest point of

excitement; but if he persisted in exercising such perfect self-control

he ran the risk of being thought too cold, as he appeared to be. I was

called upon to give an opinion on the matter before we had been many

days in Buyukdere, and I was embarrassed to explain what I meant.

John Carvel and Hermione, Alexander and I, rode together in the woods,

one afternoon. Paul was busy that day, and could not come. It fell out

naturally enough that the young girl and her cousin should pair off

together, leaving us two elderly men to our conversation. Hermione was

mounted on a beautiful Arab, nearly black, which her father had bought

for her in Pera, and Alexander rode a strong white horse that he had

hired for the short time which remained to him before he should be

obliged to return to St. Petersburg. They looked well together, as they

rode before us, and John watched them with interest, if not altogether

with satisfaction.

"Griggs," he observed at last, "it is very odd. I don't know what to

make of it at all. You remember the conversation we had in Pera, the

first night after our arrival? I certainly believed that Hermy wanted to

marry Paul. She seems to get on amazingly well with his brother; don't

you think so?"

"It is natural," I answered. "They are cousins. Why should they not like

each other? Alexander is a most agreeable fellow, and makes the time

pass very pleasantly when Paul is not there."

"What surprises me most," said John Carvel, "is that Paul does not seem

to mind in the least. And he has never spoken to me about it, either. I

am beginning to think he never will. Well, well, there is no reason why

Hermy should marry just yet, and Paul is no great match, though he is a

very good fellow."

"A very good fellow," I assented. "A much better fellow than his

brother, I fancy,--though Alexander has what women call charm. But Paul

will not change his mind; you need not be afraid of that."

"I should be sorry if Hermy did," said Carvel, gravely. "I should not

like my daughter to begin life by jilting an honest man for the sake of

a pretty toy soldier like Alexander."

It was very clear that John Carvel had a fixed opinion in the case, and

that his judgment did not incline to favor Alexander. On the other hand,

he could not but be astonished at Paul's silence. Of course I defended

the latter as well as I could, but as we rode slowly on, talking the

matter over, I could see that John was not altogether pleased.

Alexander and Hermione had passed a bend in the road before us, and had

been hidden from our view for some time, for they were nearly half a

mile in front when we had last seen them. They rode side by side, and

Alexander seemed to have plenty to say, for he talked incessantly in his

pleasant, easy voice, and Hermione listened to him. They came to a place

where the road forked to the right and left. Neither of them were very

familiar with the forest, and, without stopping to think, they followed

the lane which looked the straighter and broader of the two, but which

in reality led by winding ways to a distant part of the woods. When John

Carvel and I came to the place, I naturally turned to the left, to cross

the little bridge and ascend the hill towards the Khedive's farm. In

this way the two young people were separated from us, and we were soon

very far apart, for we were in reality riding in opposite directions.

The lane taken by Hermione and her cousin led at first through a

hollowed way, above which the branches of the trees met and twined

closely together, as beautiful a place as can be found in the whole

forest. Alexander grew less talkative, and presently relapsed altogether

into silence. They walked their horses, and he looked at his cousin's

face, half shaded by a thin gray veil, which set off admirably the

beauty of her mouth and chin.

"Hermione," he said after a time, in his softest voice.

The girl blushed a little, without knowing why, but did not answer. He

hesitated, as though he could get no further than her name. As the blush

faded from her cheek, his cousin glanced timidly at him, not at all as

she generally looked. Perhaps she felt the magic of the place. She was

not used to be timid with him, and she experienced a new sensation.

There was generally something light and gay in his way of speaking to

her which admitted of a laughing answer; but just now he had spoken her

name so seriously, so gently, that she felt for the first time that he

was in earnest. Instinctively she put her horse to a brisker pace,

before he had said anything more. He kept close at her side.

"Hermione," he said again, and his voice sounded in her ear like the

voice of an unknown spell, weaving charms about her under the shade of

the enchanted forest. "Hermione, my beloved,--do not laugh at me any

more. It is earnest, dear,--it is my whole life."

Still she said nothing, but the blush rose again to her face and died

away, leaving her very pale. She shortened the reins in her hands,

keeping the Arab at a regular, even trot.

"It is earnest, darling," continued her cousin, in low, clear tones. "I

never knew how much I loved you until to-day. No, do not laugh again.

Tell me you know it is so, as I know it."

The lane grew narrower and the branches lower, but she would not slacken

speed, though now and then she had to bend her head to avoid the leafy

twigs as she passed. But this time she answered, not laughing, but very

gravely.

"You must not talk like that any more," she said. "I do not like to hear

it."

"Is it so bitter to be told that you are loved--as I love? Is it so

hard to hear? But you have heard once--twice, twenty times; you will not

always think it bad to hear; your ears will grow used to it. All,

Hermione, if you could guess how sweet it is to love as I love, you

would understand!"

"I do not know--- I cannot guess--I would not if I could," answered the

young girl desperately. "Hush, Alexander! Do not talk in that way. You

must not. It is not right."

"Not right?" echoed the young man, with a soft laugh. "I will make it

right; you shall guess what it is to love, dear,--to love me as I love

you."

He bent in his saddle as he rode beside her, and laid his left hand on

hers, but she shook his fingers off impatiently.

"Why are you angry, love?" he asked. "You have let me say it lightly so

often; will you not let me say it earnestly for once?"

"No," she answered firmly. "I do not want to hear it. I have been very

wrong, Alexander. I like you very much--because you are my cousin--but I

do not love you--I will not--I mean, I cannot. No, I am in earnest,

too--far more than you are. I can never love you--no, no, no--never!"

But she had let fall the words "I will not," and Alexander knew that

there was a struggle in her mind.

"You will not?" he said tenderly. "No--but you will, darling. I know you

will. You must; I will make you!"

Again he leaned far out of his saddle, and in an instant his left arm

went round her slender waist, as they rode quickly along, and his lips

touched her soft cheek just below the little gray veil. But he had gone

too far. Hermione's spurred heel just touched the Arab's flank, and he

sprang forward in a gallop up the narrow lane. Alexander kept close at

her side. His blood was up, and burning in his delicate cheek. He still

tried to keep his hand upon her waist, and bent towards her, moving in

his saddle with the ease of a born horseman as he galloped along. But

Hermione spurred her horse, and angrily tried to elude her cousin's

embrace, till in a moment they were tearing through the woods at a

racing pace.

Suddenly there came a crash, followed by a dull, heavy sound, and

Hermione saw that she was alone. She tried to look behind her, but

several seconds elapsed before her Arab could be quieted; at last she

succeeded in making him turn, and rode quickly back along the path.

Alexander's horse was standing across the way, and Hermione was obliged

to dismount and turn him before she could see beyond. Her cousin lay in

the lane, motionless as he had fallen, his face pale and turned upwards,

one arm twisted under his body, the other stretched out upon the soft

mould of the woodland path. Hermione stood holding the two horses, one

with each hand, and looking intently at the insensible man. She did not

lose her presence of mind, though she was frightened by his pallor; but

she could not let the horses run loose in such a place, when they might

be lost in a moment. She paused a moment, and listened for the sound of

hoofs, thinking that her father and I could not be far behind. But the

woods were very still, and she remembered that she and her cousin had

ridden fast over the last two miles. Drawing the bridles over the

horses' heads, she proceeded to fasten them to a couple of trees, not

without some trouble, for her own horse was excited and nervous from the

sharp gallop; but at last she succeeded, and, gathering her habit in one

hand, she ran quickly to Alexander's side.

There he lay, quite unconscious, and so pale that she thought he might

be dead. His head was bare, and his hat, crumpled and broken, lay in the

path, some distance behind him. There was a dark mark on the right side

of his forehead, high up and half covered by his silky brown hair.

Hermione knelt down and tried to lift his head upon her knee. But his

body was heavy, and she was not very strong. She dragged him with

difficulty to the side of the path, and raised his shoulders a little

against the bank. She felt for his pulse, but there was no motion in the

lifeless veins, nor could she decide whether he breathed or not. Utterly

without means of reviving him, for she had not so much as a bottle of

salts in the pocket of her saddle, she kneeled over him, and wiped his

pale forehead with her handkerchief, and blew gently on his face. She

was pale herself, and was beginning to be frightened, though she had

good nerves. Nevertheless she took courage, feeling sure that we should

appear in five minutes at the latest.

It was clear that in galloping by her side at full speed Alexander's

head had struck violently against a heavy branch, which grew lower than

the rest. His eyes had been turned on her, and he had not seen the

danger. The branch was so placed that Hermione, lowering her head to

avoid the leaves, as she looked straight before, had passed under it in

safety; whereas her cousin must have struck full upon the thickest part,

three or four feet nearer to the tree. At the pace they were riding, the

blow might well have been fatal; and as the moments passed and the

injured man showed no signs of life, Hermione's heart beat faster and

her face grew whiter. Her first thought was of his mother, and a keen,

sharp fear shot through her as she thought of the dreadful moment when

Madame Patoff must be told; but the next instant brought her a feeling

of far deeper horror. He had been hurt almost while speaking words of

love to her; he had struck his head because he was looking at her

instead of before him, and it was in some measure her fault, for she had

urged the speed of that foolish race. She bent down over him, and the

tears started to her eyes. She tried to listen for the beating of his

heart, and, opening his coat, she laid her ear to his breast. Something

cold touched her cheek, and she quickly raised her head again and looked

down. It was a small flat silver flask which he carried in the pocket of

his waistcoat, and which in the fall had slipped up from its place.

Hermione withdrew it eagerly and unscrewed the cap. It contained some

kind of spirits, and she poured a little between his parted lips.

The deathly features contracted a little, and the eyelids quivered. She

poured the brandy into the palm of her hand, and chafed his temples and

forehead. Alexander drew a long breath and slowly opened his eyes; then

shut them again; then, after a few moments, opened them wide, stared,

and uttered an exclamation of surprise in Russian.

"Are you better?" asked Hermione, breathlessly. "I thought you were

dead."

"No, I am all right," he said, faintly, trying to raise himself. But his

head swam, and he fell back, once more insensible. This time, however,

the fainting fit did not last long, and he soon opened his eyes again

and looked at Hermione without speaking. She continued to rub the

spirits upon his forehead. Then he put out his hand and grasped the

flask she held, and drank a long draught from it.

"It is nothing," he said. "I can get up now, thank you." He struggled to

his feet, leaning on the young girl's arm. "How did it happen?" he

asked. "I cannot remember anything."

"You must have struck your head against that branch," answered Hermione,

pointing to the thick bough which projected over the lane. "Do you feel

better?"

"Yes. I can mount in a minute," he replied, steadying himself. "I have

had a bad shaking, and my head hurts me. It is nothing serious."

"Better sit down for a few minutes, until the others come up," suggested

the young girl, who was surprised to see him recover himself so quickly.

He seemed glad enough to follow her advice, and they sat down together

on the mossy bank.

"It was my fault," said Hermione, penitently. "It was so foolish of me

to ride fast in such a place."

"Women care for nothing but galloping when they are on horseback," said

Alexander. It was not a very civil speech, and though Hermione forgave

him because he was half stunned with pain, the words rang unpleasantly

in her ear. He might have been satisfied, she thought, when she owned

that it was her fault. It was not generous to agree with her so

unhesitatingly. She wondered whether Paul would have spoken like that.

"Do you really think you can ride back?" she asked, in a colder tone.

"Certainly," he said; "provided we ride slowly. What can have become of

uncle John and Griggs?"

Uncle John and Griggs were at that moment wondering what had become of

the two young people. We had ridden on to the top of the hill, and had

stopped on reaching the open space near the Khedive's farm, where there

is a beautiful view, and where we expected to find our companions

waiting for us. But we were surprised to see no one there. After a great

deal of hesitation we agreed that John Carvel, who did not know the

forest, should follow the main road down the hill on the other side,

while I rode back over the way we had come. I suspected that Alexander

and Hermione had taken the wrong turn, and I was more anxious about them

than I would show. The forest is indeed said to be safe, but hardly a

year passes without some solitary rider being molested by gypsies or

wandering thieves, if he has ventured too far from the beaten tracks. I

rode as fast as I could, but it was nearly twenty minutes before I

struck into the hollow lane. I found the pair seated on the bank, a mile

further on, and Hermione hailed me with delight. Everything was

explained in a few words. Alexander seemed sufficiently recovered from

his accident to get into the saddle, and we were soon walking our horses

back towards the maidam of Buyukdere. Neither Alexander nor Hermione

talked much by the way, and we were all glad when we reached the tiny

bazaar, and were picking out way over the uneven street, amongst the

coppersmiths, the lounging soldiers, the solemn narghyle smokers, the

kaffejis, the beggars, and the half-naked children.

On that evening, two things occurred which precipitated the course of

events. John Carvel had an interview with Hermione, and I had a most

unlucky idea. John Carvel's mind was disturbed concerning the future of

his only daughter, and though he was not a man who hastily took fright,

his character was such that when once persuaded that things were not as

they should be, he never hesitated as to the course he should pursue.

Accordingly, that night he called Hermione into his study, and

determined to ask her for an explanation. The poor girl was nervous, for

she suspected trouble, and did not see very clearly how it could be

avoided.

"Sit down, Hermy," said John, establishing himself in a deep chair with

a cigar. "I want to talk with you, my dear."

"Yes, papa," answered Hermione, meekly.

"Hermy, do you mean to marry Paul, or not? Don't be nervous, my child,

but think the matter over before you answer. If you mean to have him, I

have no objection to the match; but if you do not mean to, I would like

to know. That is all. You know you spoke to me about it in England

before we left home. Things have been going on a long time now, and yet

Paul has said nothing to me about it."

It was impossible to put the matter more clearly than this, and Hermione

knew it. She said nothing for some minutes, but sat staring out of the

window at the dark water, where the boats moved slowly about, each

bearing a little light at the bow. Far down the quay a band was playing

the eternal _Stella Confidente_, which has become a sort of national air

in Turkey. The strains floated in through the window, and the young girl

struggled hard to concentrate her thoughts, which somehow wound

themselves in and out of the music in a very irrelevant manner.

"Must I answer now, papa?" she asked at last, almost desperately.

"My dear," replied the inexorable John, in kind tones, "I cannot see why

you should not. You are probably in very much the same state of mind

to-night as you were in yesterday, or as you will be in to-morrow. It is

better to settle the matter and be done with it. I do not believe that a

fortnight, a month, or even a longer time will make any perceptible

difference in your ideas about this matter." He puffed at his cigar, and

again looked at his daughter.

"Hermy," he continued, after another interval of silence, "if you do not

mean to marry Paul, you are treating him very badly. You are letting

that idiot of a brother of his make love to you from morning till

night."

"Oh, papa! How can you!" exclaimed Hermione, who was not accustomed to

hearing any kind of strong language from her father.

"Idiot,--yes, my dear, that expresses it very well. He is my nephew, and

I have a right to call him an idiot if I please. I believe the fellow

wears stays, and curls his hair with tongs. He has a face like a girl,

and he talks unmitigated rubbish."

"I thought you liked him, papa," objected Hermione. "I do not think he

is at all as silly as you say he is. He is very agreeable."

"I have no objection to him," retorted John Carvel. "I tolerate him.

Toleration is not liking. He fascinated us all for a day or two, but it

did not last long; that sort of fascination never does."

There was another long pause. The band had finished the _Stella

Confidente_, and ran on without stopping to the performance of the

drinking chorus in the _Traviata_. Hermione twisted her fingers

together, and bit her lips. Her father's opinion of Alexander was a

revelation to her, but it carried weight with it, and it aroused a whole

train of recollections in her mind, culminating in the accident of the

afternoon. She remembered vividly what she had felt during those long

minutes before Alexander had recovered consciousness, and she knew that

her feelings bore not the slightest relation to love. She had been

terrified, and had blamed herself, and had thought of his mother; but

the idea that he might be dead had not hurt her as it would have done

had she loved him. She had felt no wild grief, no awful sense of

blankness; the tears which had risen to her eyes had been tears of pity,

of genuine sorrow, but not of despair. She tried to think what she would

have felt had she seen Paul lying dead before her, and the mere idea

sent a sharp thrust through her heart that almost frightened her.

"Well, my dear," said John, at last, "can you give me an answer? Do you

mean to marry Paul or Alexander, or neither?"

"Not Alexander,--oh, never!" exclaimed Hermione. "I never thought of

such a thing."

"Paul, then?"

"Papa, dear," said the young girl, after a moment's hesitation, "I will

tell you all about it. When Paul came, I firmly intended to marry him.

Then I began to know Alexander--and--well, I was very wrong, but he

began to make pretty phrases, and to talk of loving me. Of course I told

him he was very foolish, and I laughed at him. But he only went on, and

said a great deal more, in spite of me. Then I thought that because I

could not stop him I was interested in him. Paul wanted to speak to you,

but I would not let him. I did not feel that my conscience was quite

clear. I was not sure that I should always love him. Do you see? I think

I love him, really, but Alexander interests me."

"But you never for a moment thought of marrying Alexander? You said so

just now."

"Oh, never! I laughed at him, and he amused me,--nothing more than

that."

"Then I don't quite see"--began John Carvel, who was rather puzzled by

the explanation.

"Of course not. You are a man,--how can you understand? I will promise

you this, papa: if I cannot make up my mind in a week, I will tell Paul

so."

"How will a week help you, my dear? Ever so many weeks have passed, and

you are still uncertain."

"I am sure that a week will make all the difference. I think I shall

have decided then. I am in earnest, dear papa," she added, gravely. "Do

you think I would willingly do anything to hurt Paul?"

"No, my dear, I don't," answered John Carvel. "Only--you might do it

unwillingly, you know, and as far as he is concerned it would come to

very much the same thing." And with this word of warning the interview

ended.

When I went home to dinner, I found Gregorios Balsamides seated on the

wooden bench under the honeysuckle outside my door. He had escaped from

the dust and heat of Pera, and had come to spend the night, sure of

finding a hearty welcome at my kiosk on the hill. I sat down beside him,

and he began asking me questions about the people who had arrived,

giving me in return the news and gossip of Pera.

"You have a very pretty place here," he said. "A man I knew took it last

summer, and used to give tea-parties and little fetes in the evening. It

is easy to string lanterns from one tree to another, and it makes a very

pretty effect. It is a mild form of idiocy, it is true,--much milder

than the prevailing practice of dancing in-doors, with the thermometer

at the boiling point."

"It is not a bad idea," I answered. "We will experiment upon our friends

the Carvels in a small way. I will ask them and the Patoffs to come here

next Saturday. Can you come, too?"

The thing was settled, and Gregorios promised to be of the party. We

dined, and sat late together, talking long before we went to bed.

Gregorios is a soldier, and does not mind roughing it a little; so he

slept on the divan, and declared the next day that he had slept very

well.