THE LAST CARD
In most families--at least among those that have any recorded history
to boast of or to deplore--there is a point of family pride: with one
it is grace of manner; with another, courage; with a third,
statecraft; with a fourth, chivalrous loyalty to a lost cause or a
fallen prince. Tradition adds new sanction to the cherished
excellence; it becomes the heirloom of the house, the mark of the
race--in the end, perhaps, a superstition before which greater things
go down. If the men cling to it they are compensated by licence in
other matters; the women are held in honour if they bear sons who do
not fail in it. It becomes a new god, with its worship and its altar;
and often the altar is laden with costly sacrifices. Wisdom has little
part in the cult, and the virtues that are not hallowed by hereditary
recognition are apt to go unhonoured and unpractised. I have heard it
said, and seen it written, that we Wheatleys have, as a stock, few
merits and many faults. I do not expect my career--if, indeed, I had
such an ambitious thing as a career in my life’s wallet--to reverse
that verdict. But no man has said or written of us that we do not keep
faith. Here is our pride and palladium. Promises we neither break nor
ask back. We make them sometimes lightly; it is no matter: substance,
happiness, life itself must be spent in keeping them. I had learnt
this at my mother’s knee. I myself had seen thousands and thousands
poured forth to a rascally friend on the strength of a schoolboy
pledge which my father made. ‘Folly, folly!’ cried the world. Whether
it were right or not, who knows? We wrapped ourselves in the scanty
mantle of our one virtue and went our way. We always--but a man grows
tedious when he talks of his ancestors; he is like a doting old
fellow, garrulous about his lusty youth. Enough of it. Yet not more
than enough, for I carried this religion of mine to Neopalia, and
built there an altar to it, and prepared for my altar the rarest
sacrifice. Was I wrong? I do not care to ask.
‘His life is my life. For I love him as my life.’ The words rang in my
ears, seeming to echo again through the silence that followed them:
they were answered in my heart by beats of living blood. ‘Was it
true?’ flashed through my brain. Was it truth or stratagem, a noble
falsehood or a more splendid boldness? I did not know. The words were
strange, yet to me they were not incredible. Had we not lived through
ages together in those brief full hours in the old grey house? And the
parting in the quiet evening had united while it feigned to sever. I
believe I shut my eyes, not to see the slender stately form that stood
between death and me. When I looked again, Demetri and his angry
comrades had fallen back and stood staring in awkward bewilderment,
but the women had crowded in upon us with eager excited faces; one
broad-browed kindly creature had run to Phroso and caught her round
the waist, and was looking in her eyes, and stroking her hand, and
murmuring soft woman’s comforting. Demetri took a step forward.
‘Come, if you dare!’ cried the woman, bold as a legion of men. ‘Is a
dog like you to come near my Lady Euphrosyne?’ And Phroso turned her
face away from the men and hid it in the woman’s bosom.
Then came a cold rasping voice, charged with a bitter anger that
masqueraded as amusement.
‘What is this comedy, cousin?’ asked Constantine. ‘You love this man?
You, the Lady of the island--you who have pledged your troth to me?’
He turned to the people, spreading out his hands.
‘You all know,’ said he--‘you all know that we are plighted to one
another.’
A murmuring assent greeted his words. ‘Yes, they are betrothed,’ I
heard half-a-dozen mutter, as they directed curious glances at Phroso.
‘Yes, while the old lord lived they were betrothed.’
Then I thought it time for me to take a hand in the game; so I stepped
forward, in spite of Kortes’s restraining arm.
‘Be careful,’ he whispered. ‘Be careful.’
I looked at him. His face was drawn and pale, like the face of a man
in pain, but he smiled still in his friendly open fashion.
‘I must speak,’ I said. I walked up to within two yards of
Constantine, the islanders giving way before me, and I said loudly and
distinctly:
‘Was that same betrothal before you married your wife or afterwards?’
He sprang half-way up from his seat, as if to leap upon me, but he
sank back again, his face convulsed with passion and his fingers
picking furiously at the turf by his side. ‘His wife!’ went round the
ring in amazed whisperings.
‘Yes, his wife,’ said I. ‘The wife who was with him when I saw him in
my country; the wife who came with him here, who was in the cottage
on the hill, whom Vlacho would have dragged by force to her death, who
lay last night yonder in the guardhouse. Where is she, Constantine
Stefanopoulos? Or is she dead now, and you free to wed the Lady
Euphrosyne? Is she alive, or has she by now learnt the secret of the
Stefanopouloi?’
I do not know which made more stir among the people, my talk of his
wife or my hint about the secret. They crowded round me, hemming me
in. I saw Phroso no more; but Kortes pushed his way to my side. Then
the eyes of all turned on Constantine, where he sat with face working
and nails fiercely plucking the turf.
‘What is this lie?’ he cried. ‘I know nothing of a wife. True, there
was a woman in the cottage.’
‘Ay, there was a woman in the cottage,’ said Kortes. ‘And she was in
the guardhouse; but I did not know who she was, and I had no commands
concerning her; and this morning she was gone.’
‘That woman is his wife,’ said I; ‘but he and Vlacho had planned to
kill her, in order that he might marry your Lady and have your island
for himself.’
Demetri suddenly cried, with a great appearance of horror and
disgust:
‘Shall he live to speak such a slander against my lord?’
But Demetri gained no attention. I had made too much impression.
‘Who was the woman, then,’ said I, ‘and where is she?’
Constantine, tricky and resourceful, looked again on the dead Vlacho.
‘I may not tell my friend’s secrets,’ said he, with an admirable
assumption of honour. ‘And a foul blow has sealed Vlacho’s lips.’
‘Yes,’ cried I. ‘Vlacho killed the old lord, and Vlacho brought the
woman! Indeed Vlacho serves my lord as well dead as when he lived! For
now his lips are sealed. Come, then--Vlacho bought the island, and
Vlacho slew Spiro, and now Vlacho has slain himself! Neither
Constantine nor I have done anything; but it is all Vlacho--the useful
Vlacho--Vlacho--Vlacho!’
Constantine’s face was a sight to see, and he looked no pleasanter
when my irony wrung smiles from some of the men round him, while
others bit their lips to stop smiles that sought to come.
‘Oh faithful servant!’ I cried, apostrophising Vlacho, ‘heavy are thy
sins! May’st thou find mercy for them!’
I did not know what cards Constantine held. If he had succeeded in
spiriting away his wife, by fair means or foul, he had the better
chance; but if she were still free, alive and free, then he played a
perilous hand and was liable to be utterly confounded. Yet he was
forced to action; I had so moved the people that they looked for more
than mere protests from him.
‘The stranger who came to steal our island,’ said he, skilfully
prejudicing me by this description, ‘asks me where the woman is. But I
ask it of him--where is she? For it stands with him to put her before
you that she may tell you whether I, Constantine Stefanopoulos, am
lying to you. Yet how long is it since you doubted the words of the
Stefanopouloi and believed strangers rather than them?’
His appeal won on them. They met it with murmured applause.
‘You know me, you know my family,’ he cried. ‘Yet you hearken to the
desperate words of a man who fights for his life with lies! How shall
I satisfy you? For I have not the woman in my keeping. But have you
not heard me when I swore my love for my cousin before you and the old
lord who is dead? Am I a man to be forsworn? Shall I swear to you
now?’
The current began to run strongly with him. He had called to his aid
patriotism, and the old clan-loyalty which bound the Neopalians to
his house, and they did not fail him. The islanders were ready to
trust him if he would pledge himself to them.
‘Swear then!’ they cried. ‘Swear to us on the sacred picture that what
the stranger says is a lie.’
‘On the sacred picture?’ said he. ‘Is it not too great and holy an
oath for such a matter? Is not my word enough for you?’
But the old priest stepped forward.
‘It is a great matter,’ said he, ‘for it touches closely the honour of
your house, my lord, and on it hangs a man’s life. Is any oath too
great when honour and life lie in the balance? Let your life stand
against his, for he who swears thus and falsely has no long life in
Neopalia. Here we guard the honour of St Tryphon.’
‘Yes, swear on the picture,’ cried the people. ‘It is enough if you
swear on the picture!’
I could see that Constantine was not in love with the suggestion, but
he accepted it with tolerable grace, acquiescing in the old priest’s
argument with a half-disdainful shrug. The people greeted his consent
with obvious pleasure, save only Demetri, who regarded him with a
doubtful expression. Demetri knew the truth, and, though he would cut
a throat with a light heart, he would shrink from a denial of the deed
when sworn on the holy picture. Truly conscience works sometimes in
strange ways, making the lesser sin the greater, and dwarfing vile
crimes to magnify their venial brethren. No, Demetri would not have
sworn on the picture; and when he saw it brought to Constantine he
shrank away from his leader, and I saw him privily and furtively cross
himself. But Constantine, freed by the scepticism he had learnt in the
West to practise the crimes the East had taught him, made little
trouble about it. When the ceremonies that had attended the old
woman’s oath earlier in the day had been minutely, solemnly, and
tediously repeated, he swore before them as bravely as you please and
thereby bid fair to write my death-warrant in his lying words. For
when the oath was done, the most awful names in heaven standing
sanction to his perjury, and he ceased, saying, ‘I have sworn,’ the
eyes of the men round him turned on me again and seemed to ask me
silently what plea for mercy I could now advance. But I caught at my
chance.
‘Let Demetri swear,’ said I coolly, ‘that, so far as his knowledge
goes, the truth is no other than what the Lord Constantine has sworn.’
‘A subterfuge!’ cried Constantine impatiently. ‘What should Demetri
know of it?’
‘If he knows nothing it is easy for him to swear,’ said I. ‘Men of the
island, a man should have every chance for his life. I have given you
back your island. Do this for me. Make Demetri swear. Ah, look at the
man! See, he shakes, his face goes pale, there is a sweat on his brow.
Why, why? Make him swear!’
I should not have prevailed without the assisting evidence of the
rascal’s face. It was as I said: he grew pale and sweated on the
forehead; he cleared his throat hoarsely, but did not speak.
Constantine’s eyes said, ‘Swear, fool, swear!’
‘Let Demetri also swear,’ cried some. ‘Yes, it is easy, if he knows
nothing.’
Suddenly Phroso sprang forward.
‘Yes, let him swear,’ she cried. ‘Who is Chief here? Have I no power?
Let him swear!’ And she signed imperiously to the priest.
They brought the picture to Demetri. He shrank from it as though its
touch would kill him.
‘In the name of Almighty God, as you hope for mercy; in the name of
our Lord the Saviour, as you pray for pity; in the name of the Most
Blessed Spirit, whose Word is Truth; by the Most Holy Virgin, and by
our Holy Saint--’ began the old man. But Demetri cried hoarsely:
‘Take it away, take it away. I will not swear.’
‘Let him swear,’ said Phroso, and this time the whole throng caught up
her command and echoed it in fierce urgency.
‘Let him swear to tell the whole truth of what he knows, hiding
nothing, according to the terms of the oath,’ said the priest,
pursuing his ritual.
‘He shall not swear,’ cried Constantine, springing up. But he spoke to
deaf ears and won only looks of new-born suspicion.
‘It is the custom of the island,’ they growled. ‘It has been done in
Neopalia time out of mind.’
‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘Time out of mind has a man been free to ask
this oath of whomsoever he suspected. Swear, Demetri, as our Lady and
our law bid.’ And he ended the words of the oath.
Demetri looked round to right, to left, and to right again. He sought
escape. There was none; his way was barred. His arms fell by his side.
‘Will you let me go unharmed if I speak the truth?’ he asked sullenly.
‘Yes,’ answered Phroso, ‘if you speak the whole truth, you shall go
unhurt.’
The excitement was intense now; for Demetri took the oath, Constantine
watching, with pale strained face. Then followed a moment’s utter
silence, broken an instant later by an irresistible outbreak of
wondering cries, for Demetri said, ‘Follow me,’ and turned and began
to walk in the direction of the town. ‘Follow me,’ he said again. ‘I
will tell the truth. I have served my lord well, but a man’s soul is
his own. No master buys a man’s soul. I will tell the truth.’
The change in feeling was witnessed by what happened. At a sign from
the priest Kortes and another each took one of Constantine’s arms and
raised him. He was trembling now and hardly able to set one foot
before the other. The dogs of justice were hard on his heels, and he
was a craven at heart. Thus bearing him with us, in procession we
followed Demetri from the place of assembly back to the steep narrow
street that ran up from the sea. On the way none spoke. In the middle
I walked; and in front of me went Phroso, the woman who had come to
comfort her still holding her arm in hers.
On Demetri led us with quick decisive steps; but when he came to the
door of the inn which had belonged to that Vlacho whose body lay now
deserted on the level grass above the seashore, he halted abruptly,
then turned and entered. We followed, Constantine’s supporters
bringing him also with us. We passed through the large lower room and
out of the house again into an enclosed yard, bounded on the seaward
side by a low stone wall, towards which the ground sloped rapidly.
Here Demetri stopped.
‘By my oath,’ said he, ‘and as God hears me! I knew not who this woman
was; but last night Vlacho bade me come with him to the cottage on the
hill, and, if he called me, I was to come and help him to carry her
to the house of my Lord Constantine. He called, and I, coming with
Kortes, found Vlacho dead. Kortes would not suffer me to touch the
lady, but bade me stay with Vlacho. But when Kortes was gone and
Vlacho dead, I ran and told my lord what had happened. My lord was
greatly disturbed and bade me come with him; so we came together to
the town and passed together by the guardhouse.’
‘Lies, foul lies,’ cried Constantine; but they bade him be quiet, and
Demetri continued in a composed voice:
‘There Kortes watched. My lord asked him whom he held prisoner; and
when he heard that it was the Englishman, he sought to prevail on
Kortes to deliver him up; but Kortes would not without the command of
the Lady Euphrosyne. Then my lord said, “Have you no other prisoner,
Kortes?” Kortes answered, “There is a woman here whom we found in the
cottage; but you gave me no orders concerning her, my lord, neither
you, nor the Lady of the island.” “I care nothing about her,” said my
lord with a shrug of his shoulders, and he and I turned away and
walked some paces up the street. Then, at my lord’s bidding, I
crouched down with him in the shadow of a house and waited. Presently,
when the clock had struck two, we saw Kortes come out from the
guardhouse; and the woman was with him. Now we were but fifty feet
from them, and the wind was blowing from them to us, and I heard what
the lady said.’
‘It happened as he says,’ interrupted Kortes in a grave tone. ‘I
promised secrecy, but I will speak now.’
‘“I must go to the Lady Euphrosyne,” said she to Kortes,’ continued
Demetri. ‘“I have something to say to her.” Kortes answered, “She is
lodging at the house of the priest. It is the tenth house on the left
hand as you mount the hill.” She thanked him, and he turned back into
the guardhouse, and we saw no more of him. The lady came slowly and
fearfully up the road; my lord beside me laughed gently, and twisted a
silk scarf in his hand; there was nobody in the street except my lord,
the lady and me; and as she went by my lord sprang out on her, and
twisted the scarf across her mouth before she could cry out. Then he
and I lifted her, and carried her swiftly down the street. We came
here, to Vlacho’s inn; the door was open, for Vlacho had gone out; it
had not yet become known that he would never return. We carried her
swiftly through the house and brought her where we stand now, and laid
her on the ground. My lord tied her hands and her feet, so that she
lay still; her mouth was already gagged. Then my lord drew me aside
and took five pieces of gold from his purse and said, looking into my
eyes, “Is it enough?” I understood, and said, “It is enough, my lord,”
and he pressed my hand and left me, without going again near the
woman. And I, having put the five pieces in my purse, drew my knife
from its sheath and came and stood over the woman, looking how I might
best strike the blow. She was gagged and tied and lay motionless. But
the night was bright, and I saw her eyes fixed on mine. I stood long
by her with my knife in my hand; then I knelt down by her to strike.
But her eyes burned into my heart, and suddenly I seemed to hear Satan
by my side, chuckling and whispering, “Strike, Demetri, strike! Art
thou not damned already? Strike!” And I did not dare to look to the
right or the left, for I felt the Fiend by me. So I shut my eyes and
grasped my knife; but the lady’s eyes drew mine open again, although I
struggled to keep them shut. Now many devils seemed to be round me;
and they were gleeful, saying, “Oh, he is ours! Yes, Demetri is ours.
He will do this thing and then surely he is ours!” Suddenly I sobbed;
and when my sob came, a gleam lighted the lady’s eyes. Her eyes looked
like the eyes of the Blessed Virgin in the church; I could not strike
her. I flung down my knife and fell to sobbing. As I sobbed the noise
of the devils ceased; and I seemed to hear instead a voice from above
that said to me very softly, “Have I died to keep thy soul alive, and
thou thyself wouldst kill it, Demetri?” I know not if any one spoke;
but the night was very still, and I was afraid, and I cried low,
“Alas, I am a sinner!” But the voice said, “Sin no more;” and the eyes
of the lady implored me. But then they closed, and I saw that she had
fainted. And I raised her gently in my arms and carried her across
this piece of ground where we stand.’
He ended, and stood for a moment silent and motionless. None of us
spoke.
‘I took her,’ said he, ‘there, where the wall ends; for I knew that
Vlacho had his larder there. The door of the larder was locked, but I
set the lady down and returned and took my knife from the ground, and
I forced the lock and took her in, and laid her on the floor of the
larder. Then I returned to the house, and called to Panayiota,
Vlacho’s daughter, with whom I am of kin. When she came I charged her
to watch the lady till I returned, saying that Vlacho had bidden me
bring her here; for I meant to return in a few hours and carry the
lady to some place of safety, if I could find one. Panayiota, fearing
Vlacho and having an affection for me, promised faithfully to keep the
lady safe. Then I ran after my lord, and found him at the house, and
told him that the deed was done, and that I had hidden the body here;
and I craved leave to return and make a grave for the body or carry it
to the sea. But he said, “It will be soon enough in the evening. We
shall be quit of troubles by the evening. Does any one know?” I
answered rashly, “Panayiota knows.” And he was enraged, fearing
Panayiota would betray us; but when he heard that she and I were
lovers, he was appeased; yet I could not find means to leave him and
return to the lady.’
Demetri ended. Phroso, without a look at any one of us, stepped
lightly to the spot he had described. There was a low hut there, with
a stout wooden door. Phroso knocked on it, but there came no answer.
She beckoned to Kortes, and he, coming, wrenched open the door, which
seemed to have been fastened by some makeshift arrangement. Kortes
disappeared for an instant; then he came out again and motioned with
his hand. We crowded round the door, I among the first. There, indeed,
was a strange sight. For on the floor, propped against the side of the
hut, sat a buxom girl; her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and she
breathed in heavy regular breaths; Panayiota had watched faithfully
all night, and now slept at her post. Yet her trust was not betrayed.
On her lap rested the head of the lady whom Demetri had not found it
in his heart to kill; the bonds with which she had been bound lay on
the floor by her; and she also, pale and with shadowed rings about her
eyes, slept the sleep of utter exhaustion and weariness. We stood
looking at the strange sight--a sudden gleam of peace and homely
kindness breaking across the dark cloud of angry passions.
‘Hush,’ said Phroso very softly. She stepped forward and fell on her
knees by the sleeping woman, and she lightly kissed Constantine’s wife
on the brow. ‘Praise be to God!’ said Phroso softly, and kissed her
again.