A CONSERVATIVE COUNTRY
Until the moment of our parting came, I had no idea that Beatrice
Hipgrave felt my going at all. She was not in the habit of displaying
emotion, and I was much surprised at the reluctance with which she
bade me good-bye. So far, however, was she from reproaching me that
she took all the blame on herself, saying that if she had been kinder
and nicer to me I should never have thought about my island. In this
she was quite wrong; but when I told her so, and assured her that I
had no fault to find with her behaviour, I was met with an almost
passionate assertion of her unworthiness and an entreaty that I should
not spend on her a love that she did not deserve. Her abasement and
penitence compelled me to show, and indeed to feel, a good deal of
tenderness for her. She was pathetic and pretty in her unusual
earnestness and unexplained distress. I went the length of offering to
put off my expedition until after our wedding; and although she
besought me to do nothing of the kind, I believe that we might in the
end have arranged matters on this footing had we been left to
ourselves. But Mrs Hipgrave saw fit to intrude on our interview at
this point, and she at once pooh-poohed the notion, declaring that I
should be better out of the way for a few months. Beatrice did not
resist her mother’s conclusion; but when we were alone again, she
became very agitated, begging me always to think well of her, and
asking if I were really attached to her. I did not understand this
mood, which was very unlike her ordinary manner; but I responded with
a hearty and warm avowal of confidence in her; and I met her questions
as to my own feelings by pledging my word very solemnly that absence
should, so far as I was concerned, make no difference, and that she
might rely implicitly on my faithful affection. This assurance seemed
to give her very little comfort, although I repeated it more than
once; and when I left her, I was in a state of some perplexity, for I
could not follow the bent of her thoughts nor appreciate the feelings
that moved her. I was however considerably touched, and upbraided
myself for not having hitherto done justice to the depth and sincerity
of nature which underlay her external frivolity. I expressed this
self-condemnation to Denny Swinton, but he met it very coldly, and
would not be drawn into any discussion of the subject. Denny was not
wont to conceal his opinions and had never pretended to be
enthusiastic about my engagement. This attitude of his had not
troubled me before, but I was annoyed at it now, and I retaliated by
asseverating my affection for Beatrice in terms of even exaggerated
emphasis, and hers for me with no less vehemence.
These troubles and perplexities vanished before the zest and interest
which our preparations and start excited. Denny and I were like a pair
of schoolboys off for a holiday, and spent hours in forecasting what
we should do and how we should fare on the island. These speculations
were extremely amusing, but in the long run they were proved to be,
one and all, wide of the mark. Had I known Neopalia then as well as I
came to know it afterwards, I should have recognised the futility of
attempting to prophesy what would or would not happen there. As it
was, we span our cobwebs merrily all the way to Rhodes, where we
arrived without event and without accident. Here we picked up Hogvardt
and embarked on the smart little steam yacht which he had procured for
me. A day or two was spent in arranging our stores and buying what
more we wanted, for we could not expect to be able to purchase any
luxuries in Neopalia. I was rather surprised to find no letter for me
from the old lord, but I had no thought of waiting for a formal
invitation, and pressed on the hour of departure as much as I could.
Here, also, I saw the first of my new subjects, Hogvardt having
engaged a couple of men who had come to him saying that they were from
Neopalia and were anxious to work their passage back. I was delighted
to have them, and fell at once to studying them with immense
attention. They were fine, tall, capable-looking fellows, and the two,
with ourselves, made a crew more than large enough for our little
boat; for both Denny and I could make ourselves useful on board, and
Hogvardt could do something of everything on land or water, while
Watkins acted as cook and steward. The Neopalians were, as they stated
in answer to my questions, brothers; their names were Spiro and
Demetri, and they informed us that their family had served the lords
of Neopalia for many generations. Hearing this, I was less inclined to
resent the undeniable reserve and even surliness with which they met
my advances. I made allowance for their hereditary attachment to the
outgoing family, and their natural want of cordiality towards the
intruder did not prevent me from plying them with many questions
concerning my predecessors on the throne of the island. My
perseverance was ill-rewarded, but I succeeded in learning that the
only member of the family on the island, besides the old lord was a
girl whom they called ‘the Lady Euphrosyne,’ the daughter of the
lord’s brother who was dead. Next I asked after my friend of the
Optimum Restaurant, Constantine. He was this lady’s cousin once or
twice removed--I did not make out the exact degree of kinship--but
Demetri hastened to inform me that he came very seldom to the island,
and had not been there for two years.
‘And he is not expected there now?’ I asked.
‘He was not when we left, my lord,’ answered Demetri, and it seemed to
me that he threw an inquiring glance at his brother, who added
hastily,
‘But what should we poor men know of the Lord Constantine’s doings?’
‘Do you know where he is now?’ I asked.
‘No, my lord,’ they answered together, and with great emphasis.
I cannot deny that something struck me as peculiar in their manner,
but when I mentioned my impression to Denny he scoffed at me.
‘You’ve been reading old Byron again,’ he said scornfully. ‘Do you
think they’re corsairs?’
Well, a man is not a fool simply because he reads Byron, and I
maintained my opinion that the brothers were embarrassed at my
questions. Moreover I caught Spiro, the more truculent-looking of the
pair, scowling at me more than once when he did not know I had my eye
on him.
These little mysteries, however, did nothing but add sauce to my
delight as we sprang over the blue waters; and my joy was complete
when, on the morning of the day I had appointed, the seventh of May,
Denny cried ‘Land!’ and looking over the starboard bow I saw the cloud
on the sea that was Neopalia. Day came bright and glorious, and as we
drew nearer to our enchanted isle we distinguished its features and
conformation. The coast was rocky save where a small harbour opened to
the sea, and the rocks ran up from the coast, rising higher and higher
till they culminated in a quite respectable peak in the centre. The
telescope showed cultivated ground and vineyards, mingled with woods,
on the slopes of the mountain; and about half-way up, sheltered on
three sides, backed by thick woods, and commanding a splendid
sea-view, stood an old grey battlemented house.
‘There’s my house,’ I cried in natural exultation, pointing with my
finger. It was a moment in my life, a moment to mark.
‘Hurrah!’ cried Denny, throwing up his hat in sympathy.
Demetri was standing near and met this ebullition with a grim smile.
‘I hope my lord will find the house comfortable,’ said he.
‘We shall soon make it comfortable,’ said Hogvardt; ‘I daresay it’s
half a ruin now.’
‘It’s good enough now for a Stefanopoulos,’ said the fellow with a
surly frown. The inference we were meant to draw was plain even to the
point of incivility.
At five o’clock in the evening we entered the harbour of Neopalia, and
brought up alongside a rather crazy wooden jetty which ran some fifty
feet out from the shore. Our arrival appeared to create great
excitement. Men, women, and children came running down the narrow
steep street which climbed up the hill from the harbour. We heard
shrill cries, and a hundred fingers were pointed at us. We landed;
nobody came forward to greet us. I looked round, but saw no one who
could be the old lord; but I perceived a stout man who wore an air of
importance, and walking up to him I asked him very politely if he
would be so good as to direct me to the inn; for I had discovered from
Demetri that there was a modest house where we could lodge that night;
I was too much in love with my island to think of sleeping on board
the yacht. The stout man looked at Denny and me; then he looked at
Demetri and Spiro, who stood near us, smiling their usual grim smiles.
At last he answered my question by another, a rather abrupt one:
‘What do you want, sir?’ And he lifted his tasselled cap a few inches
and replaced it on his head.
‘I want to know the way to the inn,’ I answered.
‘You have come to visit Neopalia?’ he asked.
A number of people had gathered round us now, and all fixed their eyes
on my face.
‘Oh,’ said I carelessly, ‘I’m the purchaser of the island, you know. I
have come to take possession.’
Nobody spoke. Perfect silence reigned for half a minute.
‘I hope we shall get on well together,’ I said, with my pleasantest
smile.
Still no answer came. The people round still stared. But presently the
stout man, altogether ignoring my friendly advances, said curtly,
‘I keep the inn. Come. I will take you to it.’
He turned and led the way up the street. We followed, the people
making a lane for us and still regarding us with stony stares. Denny
gave expression to my feelings as well as his own;
‘It can hardly be described as an ovation,’ he observed.
‘Surly brutes!’ muttered Hogvardt.
‘It is not the way to receive his lordship,’ agreed Watkins, more in
sorrow than in anger. Watkins had very high ideas of the deference due
to his lordship.
The fat innkeeper walked ahead; I quickened my pace and overtook him.
‘The people don’t seem very pleased to see me,’ I remarked.
He shook his head, but made no answer. Then he stopped before a
substantial house. We followed him in, and he led us upstairs to a
large room. It overlooked the street, but, somewhat to my surprise,
the windows were heavily barred. The door also was massive and had
large bolts inside and outside.
‘You take good care of your houses, my friend,’ said Denny with a
laugh.
‘We like to keep what we have, in Neopalia,’ said he.
I asked him if he would provide us with a meal, and, assenting
gruffly, he left us alone. The food was some time in coming, and we
stood at the window, peering through our prison bars. Our high spirits
were dashed by the unfriendly reception; my island should have been
more gracious; it was so beautiful.
‘However it’s a better welcome than we should have got two hundred
years ago,’ I said with a laugh, trying to make the best of the
matter.
Dinner, which the landlord himself brought in, cheered us again, and
we lingered over it till dusk began to fall, discussing whether I
ought to visit the lord, or whether, seeing that he had not come to
receive me, my dignity did not demand that I should await his visit;
and it was on this latter course that we finally decided.
‘But he’ll hardly come to-night,’ said Denny, jumping up. ‘I wonder if
there are any decent beds here!’
Hogvardt and Watkins had, by my directions, sat down with us; the
former was now smoking his pipe at the window, while Watkins was busy
overhauling our luggage. We had brought light bags, the rods, guns,
and other smaller articles. The rest was in the yacht. Hearing beds
mentioned, Watkins shook his head in dismal presage, saying,
‘We had better sleep on board, my lord.’
‘Not I! What, leave the island now we’ve got here? No, Watkins!’
‘Very good, my lord,’ said Watkins impassively.
A sudden call came from Hogvardt, and I joined him at the window.
The scene outside was indeed remarkable. In the narrow paved street,
gloomy now in the failing light, there must have been fifty or sixty
men standing in a circle, surrounded by an outer fringe of women and
children; and in the centre stood our landlord, his burly figure
swaying to and fro as he poured out a low-voiced but vehement
harangue. Sometimes he pointed towards us, oftener along the ascending
road that led to the interior. I could not hear a word he said, but
presently all his auditors raised their hands towards heaven. I saw
that some of the hands held guns, some clubs, some knives; and all the
men cried with furious energy, ‘_Nai, Nai._ Yes, yes!’ Then the whole
body--and the greater part of the grown men on the island must have
been present--started off in compact array up the road, the innkeeper
at their head. By his side walked another man whom I had not noticed
before; he wore an ordinary suit of tweeds, but carried himself with
an assumption of much dignity; his face I could not see.
‘Well, what’s the meaning of that?’ I exclaimed, looking down on the
street, empty again save for groups of white-clothed women, who talked
eagerly to one another, gesticulating and pointing now towards our
inn, now towards where the men had gone.
‘Perhaps it’s their Parliament,’ suggested Denny; ‘or perhaps they’ve
repented of their rudeness and are going to erect a triumphal arch.’
These conjectures, being obviously ironical, did not assist the
matter, although they amused their author.
‘Anyhow,’ said I, ‘I should like to investigate the thing. Suppose we
go for a stroll?’
The proposal was accepted at once. We put on our hats, took sticks,
and prepared to go. Then I glanced at the luggage.
‘Since I was so foolish as to waste my money on revolvers--?’ said I,
with an inquiring glance at Hogvardt.
‘The evening air will not hurt them,’ said he; and we each stowed a
revolver in our pockets. We felt, I think, rather ashamed of our
timidity, but the Neopalians certainly looked rough customers. Leading
the way to the door I turned the handle; the door did not open. I
pulled hard at it. Then I looked at my companions.
‘Queer,’ said Denny, and he began to whistle.
Hogvardt got the little lantern, which he always had handy, and
carefully inspected the door.
‘Locked,’ he announced, ‘and bolted top and bottom. A solid door too!’
and he struck it with his fist. Then he crossed to the window and
looked at the bars; and finally he said to me, ‘I don’t think we can
have our walk, my lord.’
Well, I burst out laughing. The thing was too absurd. Under cover of
our animated talk the landlord must have bolted us in. The bars made
the window no use. A skilled burglar might have beaten those bolts,
and a battering ram would, no doubt, have smashed the door; we had
neither burglar nor ram.
‘We’re caught, my boy,’ said Denny, ‘nicely caught! But what’s the
game?’
I had asked myself that question already, but had found no answer. To
tell the truth, I was wondering whether Neopalia was going to turn out
as conservative a country as the Turkish Ambassador had hinted. It was
Watkins who suggested an answer.
‘I imagine, my lord,’ said he, ‘that the natives’ (Watkins always
called the Neopalians ‘natives’) ‘have gone to speak to the gentleman
who sold the island to your lordship.’
‘Gad,’ said Denny, ‘I hope it’ll be a pleasant interview!’
Hogvardt’s broad good-humoured face had assumed an anxious look. He
knew something about the people of these islands; so did I.
‘Trouble, is it?’ I asked him.
‘I’m afraid so,’ he answered, and then we turned to the window again,
except Denny, who wasted some energy and made a useless din by
battering at the door till we beseeched him to let it alone.
There in the room we sat for nearly two hours. Darkness fell; the
women had ceased their gossiping, but still stood about the street and
in the doorways of their houses. It was nine o’clock before matters
showed any progress. Then came shouts from the road above us, the
flash of torches, the tread of men’s feet in a quick triumphant march.
Next the stalwart figures of the picturesque fellows, with their white
kilts gleaming through the darkness, came again into sight, seeming
wilder and more imposing in the alternating glare and gloom of the
torches and the deepening night. The man in tweeds was no longer
visible. Our innkeeper was alone in front. And all, as they marched,
sang loudly a rude barbarous sort of chant, repeating it again and
again; while the women and children, crowding out to meet the men,
caught up the refrain in shrill voices, till the whole air seemed full
of it. So martial and inspiring was the rude tune that our feet began
to beat in time with it, and I felt the blood quicken in my veins. I
have tried to put the words of it into English, in a shape as rough, I
fear, as the rough original. Here it is:
‘Ours is the land!
Death to the hand
That filches the land!
Dead is that hand,
Ours is the land!
‘Forever we hold it,
Dead’s he that sold it!
Ours is the land,
Dead is the hand!’
Again and again they hurled forth the defiant words, until at last
they stopped opposite the inn with one final long-drawn shout of
savage triumph.
‘Well, this is a go,’ said Denny, drawing a long breath. ‘What are the
beggars up to?’
‘What have they been up to?’ I asked; for I could not doubt that the
song we had heard had been chanted over a dead Stefanopoulos two
hundred years before. At this age of the world the idea seemed absurd,
preposterous, horrible. But there was no law nearer than Rhodes, and
there only Turk’s law. The sole law here was the law of the
Stefanopouloi, and if that law lost its force by the crime of the hand
which should wield it, why, strange things might happen even to-day in
Neopalia. And we were caught in the inn like rats in a trap.
‘I don’t see,’ remarked old Hogvardt, laying a hand on my shoulder,
‘any harm in loading our revolvers, my lord.’
I did not see any harm in it either, and we all followed Hogvardt’s
advice, and also filled our pockets with cartridges. I was
determined--I think we were all determined--not to be bullied by these
islanders and their skull-and-crossbones ditty.
A quarter of an hour passed; then there came a knock at the door,
while the bolts shot back.
‘I shall go out,’ said I, springing to my feet.
The door opened, and the face of a lad appeared.
‘Vlacho the innkeeper bids you descend,’ said he; and then, catching
sight perhaps of our revolvers, he turned and ran downstairs again at
his best speed. Following him we came to the door of the inn. It was
ringed round with men, and directly opposite to us stood Vlacho. When
he saw me he commanded silence with a gesture of his hand, and
addressed me in the following surprising style.
‘The Lady Euphrosyne, of her grace, bids you depart in peace. Go,
then, to your boat and depart, thanking God for His mercy.’
‘Wait a bit, my man’ said I; ‘where is the lord of the island?’
‘Did you not know that he died a week ago?’ asked Vlacho, with
apparent surprise.
‘Died!’ we exclaimed one and all.
‘Yes, sir. The Lady Euphrosyne, Lady of Neopalia, bids you go.’
‘What did he die of?’
‘Of a fever,’ said Vlacho gravely; and several of the men round him
nodded their heads and murmured in no less grave assent, ‘Yes, of a
fever.’
‘I am very sorry for it,’ said I. ‘But as he sold the island to me
before he died, I don’t see what the lady, with all respect to her,
has got to do with it. Nor do I know what this rabble is doing about
the door. Bid them disperse.’
This attempt at _hauteur_ was most decidedly thrown away. Vlacho
seemed not to hear what I said. He pointed with his finger towards the
harbour.
‘There lies your boat. Demetri and Spiro cannot go with you, but you
will be able to manage her yourselves. Listen now! Till six in the
morning you are free to go. If you are found in Neopalia one minute
after, you will never go. Think and be wise.’ And he and all the rest,
as though one spring moved the whole body, wheeled round and marched
off up the hill again, breaking out into the old chant when they had
gone about a hundred yards. We were left alone in the doorway of the
inn, looking, I must admit, rather blank.
Upstairs again we went, and I sat down by the window and gazed out on
the night. It was very dark, and seemed darker now that the gleaming
torches were gone. Not a soul was to be seen. The islanders, having
put matters on a satisfactory footing, were off to bed. I sat
thinking. Presently Denny came to me, and put his hand on my shoulder.
‘Going to cave in, Charley?’ he asked.
‘My dear Denny,’ said I, ‘I wish you were at home with your mother.’
He smiled and repeated, ‘Going to cave in, old chap?’
‘No, by Jove, I’m not!’ cried I, leaping up. ‘They’ve had my money,
and I’m going to have my island.’
‘Take the yacht, my lord,’ counselled Hogvardt, ‘and come back with
enough force from Rhodes.’
Well, here was sense; my impulse was nonsense. We four could not
conquer the island. I swallowed my pride.
‘So be it,’ said I. ‘But look here, it’s only just twelve. We might
have a look round before we go. I want to see the place, you know.’
For I was very sorely vexed at being turned out of my island.
Hogvardt grumbled a little at my proposal, but here I overruled him.
We took our revolvers again, left the inn, and struck straight up the
road. We met nobody. For nearly a mile we mounted, the way becoming
steeper with every step. Then there was a sharp turn off the main
road.
‘That will lead to the house,’ said Hogvardt, who had studied the map
of Neopalia very carefully.
‘Then we’ll have a look at the house. Show us a light, Hogvardt. It’s
precious dark.’
Hogvardt opened his lantern and cast its light on the way. But
suddenly he extinguished it again, and drew us close into the rocks
that edged the road. We saw coming towards us, in the darkness, two
figures. They rode small horses. Their faces could not be seen; but as
they passed our silent motionless forms, one said in a clear, sweet,
girlish voice:
‘Surely they will go?’
‘Ay, they’ll go or pay the penalty,’ said the other voice. At the
sound of it I started. For it was the voice of my neighbour in the
restaurant, Constantine Stefanopoulos.
‘I shall be near at hand, sleeping in the town,’ said the girl’s
voice, ‘and the people will listen to me.’
‘The people will kill them if they don’t go,’ we heard Constantine
answer, in tones that witnessed no great horror at the idea. Then the
couple disappeared in the darkness.
‘On to the house!’ I cried in sudden excitement. For I was angry now,
angry at the utter humbling scorn with which they treated me.
Another ten minutes’ groping brought us in front of the old grey house
which we had seen from the sea. We walked boldly up to it. The door
stood open. We went in and found ourselves in a large hall. The wooden
floor was carpeted here and there with mats and skins. A long table
ran down the middle; the walls were decorated with mediæval armour and
weapons. The windows were but narrow slits, the walls massive and
deep. The door was a ponderous iron-bound affair; it shamed even the
stout doors of our inn. I called loudly, ‘Is anyone here?’ Nobody
answered. The servants must have been drawn off to the town by the
excitement of the procession and the singing; or, perhaps, there were
no servants. I could not tell. I sat down in a large armchair by the
table. I enjoyed the sense of proprietorship; I was in my own house.
Denny sat on the table by me, dangling his legs. For a long while none
of us spoke. Then I exclaimed suddenly:
‘By Heaven, why shouldn’t we see it through?’ I rose, put my hands
against the massive door, and closed and bolted it, saying, ‘Let them
open that at six o’clock in the morning.’
‘Hurrah!’ cried Denny, leaping down from his table, on fire with
excitement in a moment.
I faced Hogvardt. He shook his head, but he smiled. Watkins stood by
with his usual imperturbability. He wanted to know what his lordship
decided--that was all; and when I said nothing more, he asked,
‘Then your lordship will sleep here to-night?’
‘I’ll stay here to-night, anyhow, Watkins,’ said I. ‘I’m not going to
be driven out of my own island by anybody.’
As I spoke, I brought my fist down on the table with a crash. And then
to our amazement we heard, from somewhere in the dark recesses of the
hall where the faint light of Hogvardt’s lantern did not reach, a low
but distinct groan, as of someone in pain. Watkins shuddered, Hogvardt
looked rather uncomfortable; Denny and I listened eagerly. Again the
groan came. I seized the lantern from Hogvardt’s hand, and rushed in
the direction of the sound. There, in the corner of the hall, on a
couch covered with a rug, lay an old man in an uneasy attitude,
groaning now and then and turning restlessly. By his side sat an old
serving-woman in weary heavy slumber. In a moment I guessed the
truth--part of the truth.
‘He’s not dead of that fever yet,’ said I.