CHAPTER VII.
THE EDUCATION OF KALLIOPÉ.
BEFORE the meal was over, Danaë became aware that the number of the spectators was increased. Prince and Princess Theophanis had come in quietly, and were watching the children as they ate.
“Not a bad little chap, is he?” said Maurice at last.
His wife shrugged her shoulders. “Not a bad-looking child, certainly. But no look of race about him.”
Danaë understood the tone, if not the words, and bristled angrily in Janni’s defence. But the Prince was speaking again. “You wouldn’t like us to take charge of him, I suppose, Eirene, as Zoe and Wylie have their own?”
“Maurice!” She turned upon him with poignant reproach. “To take Constantine’s place?”
“No, nonsense! No one could ever take Con’s place. But I thought it might be an interest for you, to have a child about the house.”
“What interest could there be for me in any ordinary child like that? He would not be a descendant of John Theophanis.”
The name caught Danaë’s attention, and she looked up so sharply that Wylie noticed it. “What do you know of John Theophanis, Kalliopé?” he asked her in Greek.
“He was the great Roman Emperor, lord, the blessed martyr from whom the Lord Romanos is descended,” she replied. Princess Theophanis turned quickly.
“The Lord Romanos!” she cried. “Girl, that upstart can only trace his descent from the Emperor’s daughter. Here in this room are the true descendants of John Theophanis, my husband and his sister descended from his elder son, I from the younger. And this child—” her voice grew harsh—“is the sole representative of the line in his generation. Do you understand? Tell me what I have said.”
“That you are all descended from John Theophanis, lady,” said Danaë sullenly, “and that this child is his rightful heir.” But her hands were on Janni’s shoulders, though her defiant eyes wandered from little Harold’s face to that of the Princess.
“My dear Eirene!” said Zoe, laughing uncomfortably, for there was a sense of something electric in the atmosphere. “Is it really necessary to require a confession of the Theophanis faith from every wretched servant-girl who comes into the house? What does it signify whether she believes in our claims or not?”
“If you are inclined to belittle your child’s rights, Zoe, I am not,” said the Princess coldly. Evidently her husband felt the moment was not propitious for urging his wishes, for the matter dropped. But when Zoe and her husband were alone together, Wylie showed that he had not forgotten it.
“That girl has some closer association with the name of John Theophanis than merely her Prince’s descent, Zoe,” he said. “Find out all you can about her—without letting her see that you are cross-questioning her, if possible. I don’t know what to make of her.”
“But what is there suspicious about her, Graham? She seems devoted to the child.”
“Yes, but the whole thing is so queer. I had better tell you exactly what we know of her.” He related the story of their first meeting, and mentioned the points which had struck him at various times as suspicious, his wife listening with close attention.
“But I don’t see how it fits in,” she said at last. “If she is a spy, why hamper herself with the child?”
“That’s what Maurice said. And then it struck him afterwards—I don’t want to frighten you, Zoe—that there might be some design against Harold. But I don’t see it. Still, surely the very purposelessness of bringing a baby with her would tend to make her less likely to be suspected?”
“But what design could there be against Harold? Graham, what have you heard? You must tell me.”
“My dear girl, I have heard nothing. It is simply that there were the usual rumours in Therma that Romanos was trying to negociate a royal alliance, and I suppose it is possible that the interested parties might wish to get rid of any other aspirants to the throne.”
“By kidnapping Harold?” She paused in sheer horror, then laughed. “You mean that they hope to deceive me by leaving that poor little shrimp in his place? I think that is really rather far-fetched. At any rate, I promise you that Linton and I will keep a very wide-open eye on Janni and his nurse, and if any wiles can get the truth out of her, it shall come to light. Then you still think Prince Romanos is not to be trusted?”
“His whole manner was most unsatisfactory. Putting off and putting off, slipping out of things and drawing red herrings across the trail. Of course, if the story of the projected Scythian marriage is true, one can understand it——”
Zoe interrupted him. “I don’t think you need be afraid of that, Graham. Think how long the rumours have been going on. Besides—I can’t give you my authority, because it was told me in confidence—but I have every reason to believe that no such marriage can possibly take place.”
“Then the mystery is deeper than ever—unless he is coquetting with the idea in the hope of getting some good out of it. But in that case he ought to let us into the secret. What are you to do with a man who won’t play fair to his own side?”
“But suppose you disapproved of the secret? It seems to me that he is very wise—from his own point of view. But it is horribly tiresome, of course—not being able to trust him, I mean. Oh, Graham, what about Eirene’s girdle? Were you able to get it back?”
“No, unfortunately. Everything seemed all right and above-board. The wall might never have been disturbed since the day she hid the thing, but there was merely an empty hole. And one can’t help remembering, you know, that the Scythian Imperial family would do anything to lay their hands on the Girdle of Isidora. But then, according to you, there’s nothing in that idea——”
“Nothing at all, I firmly believe. But I think Prince Romanos is capable of a good deal in other ways—which makes me not at all anxious to have a tool of his in the house. So I shall watch pretty keenly to catch Kalliopé tripping.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, might I speak to you a minute?” said Linton on the threshold, and Zoe joined her. She had a heap of little clothes on her arm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I thought I should like you just to see these. They are what was just taken off of that little boy Johnny. That nurse of his is singing him to sleep now—a thing I never have allowed in my nursery, nor never will—and he as naughty as possible, a fine contrast to Master Harold; so I’ve put his bed in her room.”
“But the things look very nice, Linton—and very clean,” said Zoe, fingering them in some perplexity.
“That’s just it, ma’am. Look at the stuff—and the trimmings. And all English-made—leastways European, as they call it. It’s my belief, ma’am, that child has been stolen, and from a good home, too.”
Zoe gasped. The variety of explanations of which Kalliopé and her proceedings were capable was becoming bewildering. Under Linton’s stern eye she recovered herself quickly.
“Well, Linton, we must take great care of him, and make sure that she does not carry him away anywhere else, while we watch the papers and see if any child has been lost. I will talk to Kalliopé, and try to find out something more about her, but we must be careful not to let her see she is suspected.”
Unfortunately, Linton was not a person who found it easy to disguise her feelings, when they were of an unflattering character. Her whole demeanour, to Danaë’s quick eye, was instinct with suspicion, and the girl improved the opportunity given her by the night to put her defences in order. The next morning, while Linton was busy in the nursery, Zoe came as usual to sit on the wide verandah when her house-keeping duties were done, to look after Harold, and naturally found Danaë there, keeping an eye on both children. After trying in vain to lead up to things gradually, she asked a direct question.
“Why does Janni wear European clothes, Kalliopé?”
The girl turned with a flash of bright eyes and white teeth. “I wondered when you would notice it, my lady. My sister was in the service of a great Frank lady before her marriage, and the lady has always sent Jannaki the clothes that her own little boy has outgrown.”
“He must grow very fast. The clothes look nearly new.”
“So much the better for Janni, my lady.”
“Why do you call Janni ‘my little lord’—kyriaki mou?” asked Zoe, changing the conversation abruptly.
“But I don’t, lady. Why should I?”
“You called him so to me last night.” Zoe’s voice had hardened, imperceptibly to herself. Danaë gave her one glance out of her black eyes, then laughed confusedly.
“It was only foolishness, lady. Does he not wear the little lord’s clothes? And we are proud of a first-born son in—” she had all but said “in Strio,” but substituted just in time—“in the islands. He is often called the little lord by the women.”
“Then you do come from the islands? Why did you tell my husband you had never been there?”
“Because I never have, my lady. I have always lived in Therma, but my family come from the islands. I suppose that is why that wretch Petros sought us out,” she added hardily. “Being island-born himself, doubtless he wished to hear the island-talk again.”
Zoe reflected for a moment. The explanation was glib enough, but it did not altogether satisfy her. “Do you always tell the truth, Kalliopé?” she asked boldly.
“O my lady, I never told a lie in my life!” replied the unblushing Danaë, with virtuous indignation. Her hostess abandoned the unpromising field of inquiry, and began to talk about the children.
“They are very much of an age,” she said.
“But the Lord Harold is much fatter,” said Danaë politely, yet with an air that implied size was by no means everything.
“How well you have caught his name, Kalliopé! Have you ever heard it before?” Danaë’s eyes were uncomprehending, but she declined to give herself away by answering, and Zoe went on. “His first name is Maurice, after my brother, but we could not have two Maurices, so we called him Harold, after a dear friend of ours who nearly lost his life in trying to help us in Hagiamavra. Sometimes we call him Childe Harold, to distinguish him. You have heard of Byron’s poem?”
Any other Greek girl would have kindled to enthusiasm at the name of Byron, but Danaë remained woefully perplexed, though she muttered, in a hopeless attempt to save appearances, that she knew the poem well. Then, perceiving that she had made a blunder, she dashed into a bold confidence.
“Lady, I will tell you a great secret. I feared at first, but now I know that I can trust you, since you received my Jannaki kindly, and gave him a place with your own child. Once I told the Lord Theophanis that the child was greater than he seemed, which made him laugh, and doubtless the Lord Glafko believed I was speaking falsely. But it is true. Janni is not my sister’s child. Her boy died, and this is the son of the great Frank lady in whose house my sister served, as I told you.”
Danaë stopped suddenly. In the Lady Zoe’s eyes there was a look of dawning comprehension. Was it possible that the scandals agitating Therma had reached her ears, and that she was within an inch of guessing the truth? The girl plunged wildly into further invention. “He was her youngest child, lady, and she had children enough before. She desired to make a long journey with the great lord her husband, and they did not wish to take the child, for they were to be away for two whole years. So she sent for my sister to Czarigrad, and entrusted the little lord to her, with money for his food and clothes, and started with her husband. That was how the little lord came to us.”
“And how long ago was this?”
Danaë embarked on elaborate calculations with the aid of her fingers. “Eight—nine weeks, my lady.”
“But you told me you had been with him from his birth!”
“Well—almost from his birth, lady,” conceded Danaë pleasantly.
“And where is his mother now?”
“I know not, my lady. How can I tell?”
“But were you not to write to her?”
“Nay, my lady. Who of us could write?”
“But she could not leave her child without making some arrangement—What is her name?”
“That also I know not, lady mine. My sister knew.”
“But this is absurd! No one could have been so mad. What about the money she paid to your sister?”
“It was hidden somewhere in the house, lady. Perhaps my brother-in-law found it, or Petros.”
“Does Petros know anything about the Frank lady?”
“I cannot tell, my lady. Why should he?”
Zoe gave up her questioning for the moment in despair. “Then all that you told me about the clothes was false?”
“Well, it was not quite true, my lady.”
“But I thought you never told lies? If you say different things on different days, which am I to believe?”
This seemed a new idea to Danaë, and she pondered it. “Whichever pleases you best, lady,” she said at last.
“But what I want is the truth. Can’t you understand, Kalliopé, that I prefer an unpleasant truth to a pleasant falsehood?”
“You may think so now, my lady, but you do not know,” said Danaë in a tone which clearly promised Zoe immunity from unpleasant truths so far as it lay with her.
“I can’t make anything of her!” Zoe told her husband afterwards. “She is very pretty, and she seems to have taken a fancy to me, but I am beginning to think you can’t believe a word she says.”
“Her flights of fancy are certainly surprising,” agreed Wylie.
“Yes; as if any mother could be so unnatural! But meanwhile, who is the child, and what are we to do about him? And another thing, Graham: I don’t believe the story of the Frank lady a bit. There is a great likeness between Kalliopé and the child—I have seen it several times. They both remind me of some one else, too, but I can’t think who it is. It is most mysterious.”
“Well, the likeness—if it is not a mere imagination of yours—makes it probable that the tale of the Frank lady is only invented to add to the child’s importance. Otherwise——”
“You think we ought to put the whole thing into the hands of the Therma police?”
“Not while she tells a different story every day. I still think that it’s to the secret police we owe her presence here at all. Therefore I should say wait a little, and see if we can arrive at any residuum of truth by the time her invention is exhausted.”
“But it’s so dreadful to feel that everything one asks her leads her to tell fresh falsehoods!” lamented Zoe. “She doesn’t seem to have an idea that it’s wrong.”
This was quite true. That falsehood should be a sin—as bad as eating meat on a fast-day, or neglecting to salute an icon—was absolutely incomprehensible to Danaë. Moreover, the fact that her new acquaintances so regarded it did not in the least raise them in her estimation. She thought of them, not as occupying a pinnacle of lofty if austere morality, but as fools, and the impression was deepened by a conversation she held with Linton, who laboured faithfully to awaken her to a sense of her lamentable moral condition. They had been watching from the verandah the stream of claimants and suppliants who sought the presence of Prince Theophanis every morning, and Danaë remarked on this accessibility. So far as she could see, his guards let them enter impartially in the order of their coming, and no one obtained first place by means of a bribe.
“Well, I should think not!” cried Linton, in vigorous if colloquial Greek. “Colonel Wylie would have something to say to any man who took a bribe.”
“Do the Prince and the Lord Glafko divide the presents that are brought, or does the Prince keep them all?” asked Danaë.
“Presents? what presents?”
“The presents that they will not suffer the guards to take.”
Linton snorted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, my girl. Neither the Prince nor my master have anything to do with presents. What is needed for the household is honestly bought and paid for, and the people are beginning to understand it.”
Danaë laughed. “The great ones take their commission on the taxes, then?”
“You seem to think the Roumis are still here, Kalliopé. The taxes are collected by the Therma Government, and the Prince merely sees that it’s done. And little enough gratitude he gets for all his work, and the peace and order the Colonel keeps with his police. This tumble-down old place, and nothing more.”
“You would have me believe that this is all kept up upon nothing?” with open incredulity.
“The Prince spends out of his own pocket to do it.”
Danaë laughed freely. “That is very fine—to talk about. The money returns to him somehow, of course. He is laying up a great store—or the ladies spend it upon jewels.”
“My lady’s jewels could be bought with a hundred-pound note any day,” said Linton indignantly. “The Princess has a better show, but they came to her from her own family. And the one thing she prizes most of all has been stolen, and she can’t get it back—a waistband with pictures of saints all over it.”
“These English people are mad,” was Danaë’s inconsequent rejoinder. “Or else you must think I am, to expect me to believe such things. I am not a child, to be deceived with fairy tales.”
She left Linton rather abruptly, and went to play with the children. It was disquieting to remember that she had brought the Girdle of Isidora under the roof of the person who considered herself its rightful owner. On the night of her arrival, she had hidden it cunningly, with the Lady’s unfinished letter, inside her mattress, and now as soon as she could steal away, she went to make sure that it was safe. She would have liked to make Zoe an accomplice by entrusting it to her, but something told her that in that case the Princess Eirene would very quickly receive it again, and she pushed it sadly back into its hiding-place.
“I could bear to see my own lady wearing it,” she said to herself, “but not the evil-eyed one.”
For ever since her first sight of Eirene, Danaë had been convinced that she regarded little Harold with an evil eye. It was quite natural, since he stood in her own son’s place, but it was also strongly to be resisted. For several days Linton and her mistress were perplexed by the overpowering smell of garlic which hung about Harold. Garlic was a forbidden delicacy in the nursery, and when Danaë felt an irresistible craving for it, she was obliged to seek the hospitality of the kitchen. But Harold’s hair and pinafores were strongly scented, and the smell was obvious in the room itself. It was Wylie who at last discovered a clove of garlic placed on the lintel of the door, and Zoe, watching while Linton was out of the way, caught Danaë rubbing the child’s head and shoulders with it. The offender was impenitent.
“It is to avert the evil eye,” she said. “Everyone knows it is the best thing—almost infallible.”
“You are never to do it in future,” said Zoe.
“Then the Lord Harold will pine away and die, my lady.”
“Nonsense! I won’t have it, do you hear?”
“As you will, lady,” reluctantly. “But at least I will say Skordon! skordon! [garlic] whenever the Lady Eirene comes in. I will do what I can, though that is not nearly so much good.”
It was in the faint hope of breaking Danaë of some of her superstitions that Zoe began to teach her to read. She would not have suspected in the girl any desire for such an accomplishment, if she had not caught her poring diligently over a torn newspaper held upside down. Linton could read, and therefore Danaë owed it to herself to pretend to be able to do so. She received her mistress’s offer without enthusiasm.
“Of course I could read as well as anyone when I was a child, but I have forgotten it,” she observed airily.
But when the lessons had continued some few days, she astonished Zoe by looking up and remarking, “I told you a lie the other day, my lady. I never got beyond theta at school.”
“Then you were at school, Kalliopé? Where?”
“Only for a week, lady—in Tortolana.”
“Tortolana? But that is one of the islands—near Strio?”
“Yes, my lady.” Danaë looked up smiling, and then realised the admission she had made. She grew crimson to the very tips of her ears as she bent over the book again, and Zoe bemoaned herself afterwards to her husband.
“Oh, Graham, I thought she was getting a little more truthful, and now I find she has been deceiving us all this time, and never meant to confess it! But if she does come from the islands, Petros may be her uncle after all, and there may not be a word of truth in any of her stories. What is one to believe?”
“What is one to do, rather?” said Wylie.
“Yes, about Janni. If his poor mother should be looking for him!—and yet there is nothing in any of the papers about a lost child. And if she is away on a journey, it is no good putting a notice in a Therma paper——”
“None whatever. But think, if she gets anxious because of getting no news, she will put the matter into the hands of the Therma police, and a reward will be offered for tidings of the little chap. You must remember that our friend Petros knows where he is, and I think we may be quite sure he won’t be backward in claiming that reward if it is offered. So don’t worry yourself.”