THE ISLAND IN A CALM
We did not fight. My friend the captain proposed to rely on his
British _confrère’s_ sense of justice and of the courtesy which should
obtain between two great and friendly nations. To this end he
accompanied us on board the ship and laid his case before Captain
Beverley, R.N. My argument, which I stated with brevity, but not
without vehemence, was threefold: first, that Phroso had committed no
offence; secondly, that if she had, it was a political offence;
thirdly, was Captain Beverley going to hand over to a crew of dirty
Turks the prettiest girl in the Mediterranean? This last point made a
decided impression on the officers who were assisting their
commander’s deliberations, but it won from him no more than a tolerant
smile and a glance through his _pince-nez_ at Phroso, who sat at the
table opposite to him, awaiting the award of justice. After I had, in
the heat of discussion, called the Turks ‘dirty,’ I moved round to my
friend the captain, apologised humbly, and congratulated him on his
gallant and spirited behaviour. He received my advances with
courtesy, but firmly restated his claim to Phroso. Captain Beverley
appeared a little puzzled.
‘And, to add to it all,’ he observed to me, ‘I thought you were dead;’
for I had told him my name.
‘Not at all,’ said I, resentfully; ‘I am quite alive, and I’m going to
marry this lady.’
‘You intend to marry her, Lord Wheatley?’
‘She has done me the honour to consent and I certainly intend it;
unless you’re going to send her off to Constantinople--or heaven knows
where.’
Beverley arched his brows, but it was not his business to express an
opinion, and I heartily forgave him his hinted disapproval, when he
said to the captain:
‘I really don’t see how I can do what you ask. If you had won the tr--
I mean, if you had succeeded in taking the lady on board, I should
have had no more to say. As it is, I don’t think I can do anything but
carry her to a British port. You can prefer your claim to extradition
before the Court there, if you’re so advised.’
‘Bravo!’ cried Denny.
‘Be good enough to hold your tongue, sir,’ said Captain Beverley.
‘At least, you will take a note of my demand,’ urged the Turk.
‘With the utmost pleasure,’ responded Captain Beverley, and then and
there he took a note. People seem often to find some mystical comfort
in having a note taken, though no other consequence appears likely to
ensue. Then the captain, being comforted by his note, took his
farewell. I walked with him to the side of the vessel.
‘I hope you bear no malice,’ said I, as I held out my hand, ‘and that
this affair won’t get you into any trouble.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said he. ‘Your ingenuity will be my excuse.’
‘You’re very good. I hope you’ll come and see us in Neopalia some
day.’
‘You expect to return to Neopalia?’
‘Certainly. It’s mine--or Phroso’s--I don’t know which.’
‘There’s such a thing as forfeiture in our law,’ he observed, and with
this Parthian shot he walked down and got into his boat. But I was not
much frightened.
So, the Turk being thus disposed of, Denny and Hogvardt went back to
the yacht, while Phroso, Watkins and I, took up our abode on the ship,
and when Captain Beverley had heard the whole story of our adventures
in Neopalia he was so overcome by Phroso’s gallant conduct that he
walked up and down his own deck with her all the evening, while I,
making friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, pretended to look
very pleased and recited my dealings with Mouraki to an attentive
group of officers. And clothes were produced from somewhere for
Phroso--our navy is ready for everything--and thus, in the fulness of
time, we came to Malta. Here the captain had a wife, and she was as
delighted as, I take leave to say, all good women ought to be at the
happy ending of our story. And at Malta we waited; but nothing
happened. No claim was made for Phroso’s extradition; and I may as
well state here that no claim ever has been made. But when we came to
London, on board a P. and O. steamer, in charge of a benevolent but
strict chaperon, I lost no time in calling on the Turkish Ambassador.
I desired to put matters on a satisfactory footing at once. He
received me with much courtesy, but expressed the opinion that Phroso
and I alike had forfeited any claim which she or I, or either, or both
of us, might have possessed to the Island of Neopalia. I was very much
annoyed at this attitude; I rose and stood with my back to the fire.
‘It is the death of Mouraki Pasha that has so incensed your
Government?’ I ventured to ask.
‘He was a very distinguished man,’ observed the Ambassador.
‘Practically banished to a very undistinguished office--for his
position,’ I remarked.
‘One would not call it banishment,’ murmured his Excellency.
‘One would,’ I acquiesced, smiling, ‘of course, be particularly
careful not to call it banishment.’
Something like a smile greeted this speech, but the Ambassador
shrugged his shoulders.
‘Consider,’ said he, ‘the scenes of disorder and bloodshed!’
‘When I consider,’ I rejoined, ‘the scenes of disorder and bloodshed
which passed before my eyes, when I consider the anarchy, the murder,
the terrible dangers to which I, who went to Neopalia under the
sanction and protection of your flag, was exposed, I perceive that the
whole affair is nothing less than a European scandal.’
The Ambassador shifted in his armchair.
‘I shall, of course,’ said I, ‘prefer a claim to compensation.’
‘To compensation?’
‘Certainly. My island has been taken from me, and I have lost my
money. Moreover your Governor tried to kill me.’
‘So did your wife,’ remarked the Pasha. ‘At least the lady who, as I
understand, is to be your wife.’
‘I can forgive my wife. I do not propose to forgive your Government.’
The Ambassador stroked his beard.
‘If official representations were made through the proper quarters--’
he began.
‘Oh, come,’ I interrupted, ‘I want to spend my honeymoon there; and
I’m going to be married in a fortnight.’
‘The young lady is the difficulty. The manner in which you left
Neopalia--’
‘Is not generally known,’ said I.
The Ambassador looked up.
‘The tribute,’ I observed, ‘is due a month hence. I don’t know who’ll
pay it you.’
‘It is but a trifling sum,’ said he contemptuously.
‘It is, indeed, small for such a delightful island.’
The Ambassador eyed me questioningly. I advanced towards him.
‘Considering,’ said I, ‘that I have only paid half the purchase-money,
and that the other half is due to nobody--or to my own wife--I should
not resent a proposal to double the tribute.’
The Ambassador reflected.
‘I will forward your proposal to the proper quarter,’ he said at last.
I smiled, and I asked:
‘Will that take more than a fortnight?’
‘I venture to hope not.’
‘And, of course, pardon and all that sort of thing will be included?’
‘I will appeal to his Majesty’s clemency,’ promised the Pasha.
I had no objection to his calling it by that name, and I took my
leave, very much pleased with the result of the interview. But, as
luck would have it, while I was pursuing my way across Hyde Park--for
Phroso was staying with a friend of Mrs Beverley’s in Kensington--I
ran plump into the arms of Mrs Kennett Hipgrave.
She stopped me with decision. I confess that I tried to pass by her.
‘My dear Lord Wheatley,’ she cried, with unbounded cordiality, ‘how
charming to meet you again! Your reported death really caused quite a
gloom.’
‘You’re too good!’ I murmured. ‘Ah--er--I hope Miss Beatrice is well?’
Mrs Kennett Hipgrave’s face grew grave and sympathetic.
‘My poor child!’ she sighed. ‘She was terribly upset by the news, Lord
Wheatley. Of course, it seemed to her peculiarly sad; for you had
received my letter only a week before.’
‘That must have seemed to aggravate the pathos very much,’ I agreed.
‘Not that, of course, it altered the real wisdom of the step I advised
her to take.’
‘Not in the least, really, of course,’ said I.
‘I do hope you agree with me now, Lord Wheatley?’
‘Yes, I think I have come to see that you were right, Mrs Hipgrave.’
‘Oh, that makes me so happy! And it will make my poor dear child so
happy, too. I assure you she has fretted very much over it.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said I politely. ‘Is she in town?’
‘Why, no, not just now.’
‘Where is she? I should like to write her a line.’
‘Oh, she’s staying with friends.’
‘Could you oblige me with the address?’
‘Well, the fact is, Lord Wheatley, Beatrice is staying with--with a
Mrs Hamlyn.’
‘Oh, a Mrs Hamlyn! Any relation, Mrs Hipgrave?’
‘Well, yes. In fact, an aunt of our common friend.’
‘Ah, an aunt of our common friend,’ and I smiled. Mrs Hipgrave
struggled nobly, but in the end she smiled also. After a little pause
I remarked:
‘I’m going to be married myself, Mrs Hipgrave.’
Mrs Hipgrave grew rather grave again, and she observed:
‘I did hear something about a--a lady, Lord Wheatley.’
‘If you had heard it all, you’d have heard a great deal about her.’
A certain appearance of embarrassment spread over Mrs Hipgrave’s face.
‘We’re old friends, Lord Wheatley,’ she said at last. I bowed in
grateful recognition. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind if I speak plainly to
you. Now is she the sort of person whom you would be really wise to
marry? Remember, your wife will be Lady Wheatley.’
‘I had not forgotten that that would happen,’ I said.
‘I’m told,’ pursued Mrs Hipgrave in a somewhat scornful tone, ‘that
she is very pretty.’
‘But, then, that’s not really of importance, is it?’ I murmured.
Mrs Hipgrave looked at me with just a touch of suspicion; but she went
on bravely:
‘And one or two very curious things have been said.’
‘Not to me,’ I observed with infinite amiability.
‘Her family now--’
‘Her family was certainly a drawback; but there are no more of them,
Mrs Hipgrave.’
‘Then somebody told me that she was in the habit of wearing--’
‘Dear me, Mrs Hipgrave, in these days everybody does that--more or
less, you know.’
Mrs Hipgrave sighed pathetically, and added, with a slight shudder:
‘They say she carried a dagger.’
‘They’ll say anything,’ I reminded her.
‘At any rate,’ said Mrs Hipgrave, ‘she will be quite unused to the
ways of society.’
‘Oh, we shall teach her, we shall teach her,’ said I cheerfully.
‘After all, it’s only a difference of method. When people in Neopalia
are annoyed, they put a knife into you--’
‘Good gracious, Lord Wheatley!’
‘Here,’ I pursued, ‘they congratulate you; but it’s the same
principle. Won’t you wish me joy, Mrs Hipgrave?’
‘If you’re really bent upon it, I suppose I must.’
‘And you’ll tell the dear children?’ I asked anxiously.
‘The dear children?’ she echoed; she certainly suspected me by now.
‘Why, yes. Your daughter and Bennett Hamlyn, you know.’
Mrs Hipgrave surveyed me from top to toe. Her aspect was very severe;
then she delivered herself of the following remark:
‘I can never be sufficiently thankful,’ she said, with eyes upturned
towards the sky, ‘that my poor dear girl found out her mistake in
time.’
‘I have the utmost regard for Miss Beatrice,’ I rejoined, ‘but I will
not differ from you, Mrs Hipgrave.’
* * * * *
I must shift the scene again back to the island that I loved. For his
Majesty’s clemency justified the Ambassador’s belief in it, and
Neopalia was restored to Phroso and to me. Thither we went in the
spring of the next year, leaving Denny inconsolable behind, but
accompanied by old Hogvardt and by Watkins. This time we went straight
out by sea from England, and the new crew of my yacht was more
trustworthy than when Spiro and Demetri (ah, I had nearly written
‘poor Demetri,’ when the fellow was a murderer!) were sent by the
cunning of Constantine Stefanopoulos to compose it. We landed this
time to meet no threatening looks. The death-chant that One-eyed
Alexander wrote was not raised when we entered the old grey house on
the hill, looking over the blue waters. Ulysses is fabled by the poet
to have--well, to put it plainly--to have grown bored with peaceful
Ithaca. I do not know whether I shall prove an Ulysses in that and
live to regret the new-born tranquillity of Neopalia. In candour, the
early stormy days have a great attraction, and I love to look back to
them in memory. So strong was this feeling upon me that it led me
to refuse a request of my wife’s--the only one of hers which I have
yet met in that fashion; for when we had been two or three days in the
island--I spent one, by the way, in visiting the graves of my dead
friends and enemies, a most suggestive and soothing occupation--I saw,
as I walked with her through the hall of our house, mason’s tools and
mortar lying near where the staircase led up, hard by the secret door;
and Phroso said to me:
[Illustration: BACK TO NEOPALIA.]
‘I’m sure you’d like to have that horrible secret passage blocked up,
Charley. It’s full of terrible memories.’
‘My dear Phroso, wall up the passage?’
‘We shan’t want it now,’ said she, with a laugh--and something else.
‘It’s true,’ I admitted, ‘that I intend, as far as possible, to rule
by constitutional means in Neopalia. Still one never knows. My
dearest, have you no romance?’
‘No,’ said Phroso shamelessly. ‘I’ve had enough romance. I want to
live quietly; and I don’t want to push anyone over into that awful
pool where poor Kortes fell.’
I stood looking at the boards under the staircase. Presently I knelt
down and touched the spring. The boards rolled away, the passage gaped
before us, and I put my arm round Phroso as I said:
‘Now heaven forbid that I should lay a modern sacrilegious hand on the
secret of the Stefanopouloi! For the world makes many circles,
Phroso--forward sometimes, sometimes back--and it is something to know
that here, in Neopalia, we are ready, and that if any man attacks our
sovereignty, why, let him look out for the secret of the
Stefanopouloi! In certain moods, Phroso, I should be capable of coming
back from the chasm--alone!’
So Phroso, on my entreaty, spared the passage; and even now, when the
shades of middle age (a plague on ’em) are deepening, and the wild
doings of the purchaser of Neopalia grow golden in distant memory, I
like to walk to the end of the chasm and recall all that it has seen:
the contests, the dark tricks, the sudden deaths, aye, to travel back
from the fearful struggle of Kortes and Constantine on the flying
bridge to that long-ago time when the Baron d’Ezonville was so lucky
as to be set adrift in his shirt, while Stefan Stefanopoulos’s
headless trunk was dashed into the dim water and One-eyed Alexander
the Bard wrote the Chant of Death. Ah me, that was two hundred years
ago!
_Colston & Coy., Limited, Printers, Edinburgh._