THE Cavaliere Pazzi had gone on to Therma, as what Armitage called his “advance agent,” to find out the best hotel and take rooms for him there, and discover which of the public buildings of the new city were worthy of being immortalised by Milordo’s brush. Happily the people of Therma were not likely to guess that their lofty stucco palaces were anathema to the artistic mind, which would have infinitely preferred the tumble-down Roumi relics they replaced, so that the Cavaliere would be able to pursue his private inquiries under cover of his architectural researches. Maurice and Wylie were much occupied with a vexatious matter which was disturbing the extreme north of their territory, at the point where it touched the Debatable Land. A Pannonian scientific expedition, duly authorised by the Therma Government, which was conducting a geological survey of the district, had contrived in some way to excite the dislike of the inhabitants, who declared that the members were looking for hidden treasure. Natural cupidity combined with race-hatred to make the search as difficult as possible, and the Emathians put so many obstacles in the explorers’ way, and dogged their steps with such persistent malignity, as would have stirred even the mildest of scientists to revolt. These particular scientists were young and fiery, and demanded effectual protection for themselves and their pursuits, under the threat of holding up the North Emathian administration to the execration of Europe, sending a deputation to Klaustra to argue the case against the representatives of the peasants. Wylie would fain have hurried at once to the disputed area, and settled the difficulty on the spot, but this suggestion did not meet the learned men’s wishes. They wanted, not police protection, but a definite edict to secure them from molestation, and deprecated the untoward importance which would be attached to their mission if Wylie carried out his intention. The peasants were equally determined that the strangers’ proceedings ought to be stopped at all costs, and brought up relays of witnesses to prove that they were impiously and callously interfering with all manner of time-honoured landmarks.
The game of accusation and contradiction went on merrily, wasting time day after day, and Armitage was left to his own devices and to the society of the ladies for entertainment. Thus forsaken, he conceived the idea of occupying his leisure by painting Danaë’s portrait, and to Wylie’s intense delight asked Zoe’s leave to do so. True to her first resolution, Zoe consented, hoping to discover, during the hours occupied in the task, some clue to the enigma of the girl’s personality.
As for Danaë herself, she was highly flattered by the request, having long admired in secret the large painting of Zoe which the artist had presented to her and her husband as his wedding-gift. Her ideas on the subject were not exactly in accord with Armitage’s, however, as was made evident when she presented herself for the first sitting robed in Linton’s best black gown and a stiffly starched white apron, with her hair strained back from her face and piled into a kind of helmet on her head, in distant imitation of Zoe’s coils. Zoe and Armitage gazed at her in speechless horror as she displayed herself with much pride, and were devoutly thankful for the sudden irruption of Linton, who had discovered the unauthorised use made of her Sunday gown, and lost no time in proceeding to recover it. Zoe herself presided over the transformation of the European into the everyday Kalliopé, a change which had to be effected almost by force, for the girl was sulking furiously. She resented particularly the restoration of her hair to its usual massive plaits, for the uncouth pile secured with stolen hairpins had been a special triumph. The Lady Zoe was obliged to do her hair loosely and fluff it out to make it look at all well, whereas she, Danaë, had so much that she could hardly get it all up even when it was twisted as tightly as possible! Her face was like a thundercloud when Zoe led her back at last, and Armitage, welcoming the gay dress and long plaits in place of the grotesque array which had affronted his horrified vision, had no chance of doing more that first day than obtain an excellent attitude for an embodiment of disgust.
Things improved afterwards, though it was several days before Danaë could be induced to appear save with an expression of restrained protest, and Armitage made one sketch after another, trying to find the best attitude for bringing out the points of the beautiful face and form. Danaë was in no wise shy. To her mind the Christodoridi were the equals of any of the royal houses of Europe, and the conviction lent a stately assurance to her manner that puzzled Zoe and roused Armitage to fresh admiration. Pursuing her plan of training her handmaid for a loftier future, Zoe gave herself some trouble in the matter of choosing subjects for conversation during these mornings. She had thrown herself of late so completely into the actual life that surrounded her that Armitage was rather surprised to find how keen her interest in literary and artistic matters still remained. But he was fresh from London and the circles in which she had shone before her marriage, and he found it quite easy to believe that a brilliant woman of her achievements might find the society of Emathian country ladies, and the duty of leading them in the way that they should go, pall at times. Therefore he talked of books and pictures and historical events, following her lead, and Zoe watched Danaë’s face to see how it affected her, and tried to draw her into the discussion by asking her the right word in Greek for such and such a thing. But the result was disappointing. The girl had no foundation of general knowledge on which to build. Names which would have brought a glow of enthusiasm to the cheek of most of her countrywomen had no meaning for her, and history was represented to her mind by the rude chronicles of the sordid and bloodthirsty squabbles of her Christodoridi ancestors with the other island chiefs. When she could be induced to recite one of these metrical romances, then, indeed, her eye kindled and her voice became almost inspired, but to her hearers the matter was hopelessly inadequate to the emotions it evoked. They could not tell that she felt she had justified her descent from these rather unheroic heroes, and that the barbaric crimes and virtues which they supposed her to admire in her rulers were honoured family characteristics to her.
After the sittings had lasted for a week, Zoe came upon Armitage turning over his portfolio with a perplexed face. It was full of sketches of Danaë of all sorts and sizes—whole-length, half-length, three-quarters, full face, profile, face turned away, some worked up almost into pictures, others the merest record of a moment’s pose.
“Not satisfied yet?” she asked him, smiling.
“How can I be?” he demanded, viewing with frowning brow a pencil drawing of Danaë recounting with immense gusto the tale of a particularly black piece of treachery practised against an enemy by Prince Christodoridi’s father. “There’s no soul in anyone of them, and it seems a kind of desecration to paint that face without it.”
“How can there be?” demanded Zoe in return. “She hasn’t got one—at least, that’s what I am beginning to think.”
“She has, she has!” cried Armitage stoutly. “I have caught glimpses of it—the merest glimpses—and it was gone again.”
“They must have been the very merest glimpses, for I have been watching most eagerly, and have never seen a sign,” said Zoe. “Why, even in this—” she took up a sketch of Danaë looking down on Janni and Harold playing at her feet—“in which she looks really sweet, there is not a hint of anything more than a kind of wild affection. She would go through right and wrong without a qualm to get Janni anything he cried for.”
“Or Harold either. She has a very real liking for you and Harold both, I believe, though in your case it is mixed with a good deal of—of lack of comprehension.”
“Why don’t you say contempt at once? That is what she feels, I know perfectly well. And no doubt we are all of us miserable failures according to her savage code—and Maurice, as the best of us, the worst failure.”
“No, I am the worst failure, I think. Prince Theophanis does at any rate rule, and with a strong hand when necessary. I potter about the world in a yacht, ready enough to help my friends, but without sufficient grit to annex a principality for myself. Oh, I have seen it in her eyes, I assure you, and it sets me wondering what exactly she would expect me to do on the lines of the villainous Despots she admires so much.”
“Oh, murder us all, and Romanos too, and seize Emathia, I suppose—regardless of the effect on the Powers,” said Zoe. “And yet you still think the soul is there?”
“I tell you I have seen it. But I can’t say the look is characteristic. Still, I know exactly how it would change the whole face. I could paint it now.”
“Then do it,” said Zoe, with a sudden inspiration. “Paint two pictures of her, one as she is and one as she ought to be—as you and I would like to see her. That one I will put away, and when we are old and gray-headed we will look at it and see whether she has developed in accordance with it or not.”
“But you would not let her see it?”
“Certainly not. One doesn’t want to add hypocrisy to the poor child’s obvious faults, and that would be a kind of temptation to it. No, she knows she must not look at the picture until it is finished, and you can keep the second one out of sight. When she sees herself in all her glory, she will be quite satisfied, and in no danger of finding fault with the expression.”
Armitage took the advice thus tendered him, and to Zoe there was something very pathetic about the smaller picture which grew under his hand in the neighbourhood of the large one. The splendidly handsome face, with its firm lips and scornful eyes, seemed to look down with contempt on its neighbour, into which, Zoe thought pitifully, the artist had painted the reflection of his own kindly soul rather than that of his sitter. If Kalliopé had a soul, it seemed to be buried deep beyond all means of reaching it; there was no way of getting at the girl herself. These thoughts were in Zoe’s mind when she came to the sitting one morning, to be met on the way by Armitage, who was carrying his large picture with some difficulty owing to a letter in one hand.
“Wait one moment, Princess,” he said. “Kalliopé is not there yet, and I have just had a letter from the Cavaliere. You will like to hear what he says?”
“Oh yes!” cried Zoe. “Has he discovered anything?”
“He thinks so. He says he had little difficulty in finding the villa where his daughter used to live. The people all knew that Prince Romanos had prepared it for a lady, who lived there in great retirement, and never went out. He used to visit her frequently, but of late his visits had entirely ceased, and the old woman who once did the marketing had also disappeared suddenly. Also the sentries who used to guard the house on the outside had been removed—and all these things happened at the same time, five or six months ago. Of course it might mean merely that Donna Olimpia had gone to live somewhere else, but the Cavaliere made up his mind that she had been murdered—and really you can’t wonder, after what he told us about her letters. He managed to get into the grounds one night with the help of a rope-ladder, and explored the whole place thoroughly. The house was clean and tidy, and there were no stains of blood, which was what he had feared to find, nor was there any grave in the garden. But everything indoors looked as though the inhabitants had gone away suddenly, without having time to pack properly. The furniture was all awry, and Donna Olimpia’s gowns were hanging up in her wardrobe. In the nursery the little boy’s toys and things were all left, and as far as he could tell the servants’ clothes were all in their rooms too. What should you think it pointed to?”
“It looks as though they had been seized and carried off somewhere without being allowed to take anything with them,” said Zoe. “Can it be Strio after all? But it seems such needless cruelty on the Prince’s part not to let them take their things.”
“Well, I should almost have thought they must have been abducted by some one else who objected to the way in which the Prince spent his time; but why they should take all the servants I don’t know,” said Armitage. “It seems unnecessary trouble, for if it was merely to ensure secrecy, I don’t suppose they would have stuck at killing them. But the Cavaliere seems to have agreed with you. He was remarkably lucky, for just as he was coming out of the house, he saw some one in the garden. It was a tall man, wandering up and down on the lawn in front, throwing his arms about and groaning. He guessed immediately—which is more than I should have done—that it was Prince Romanos, tormented by remorse, and he went for him at once, and demanded what he had done with his wife and child. It really was Romanos, and he seems to have behaved rather well, all things considered. He didn’t appear to mind Pazzi’s dropping in upon him, and explained, with suitable expressions of grief, that all the inhabitants of the house, Donna Olimpia, the baby, and three servants, had been carried off by diphtheria in the space of two days. How does that strike you?”
“As remarkable, to say the least.”
“So the Cavaliere thinks. He tried to corner Romanos in every possible way—about the letters especially. But he stuck to it that the first few were really written during his wife’s illness, and contained her messages. The long one, which was supposed to have been dictated, he gave up at once, confessing that he had made it up in terror lest the Cavaliere should insist on coming to Therma, and add a public scandal to his private grief. Well, it seemed so impossible to shake his story, and he displayed such a friendly wish to keep his father-in-law in sight while he remained in the city, that the Cavaliere smothered his suspicions and accepted the story. They even visited Donna Olimpia’s grave together the next day, and Pazzi might have come away satisfied if Prince Romanos had not made a bad slip. Something he let drop suggested to the Cavaliere that there was some uncertainty about the child’s death, and he nailed him there and then. Bit by bit it came out that the little boy had not died with his mother. His nurse had snatched him up in a fit of delirium and carried him off, and was believed to have thrown herself and him into the harbour from the quay that same night. Their bodies had not been recovered, but a woman with a child in her arms was known to have drowned herself, and if those were not they, where are they?”
“You know,” said Zoe inconsequently, “that I see a likeness in little Janni to Prince Romanos. What if he and Kalliopé were the missing child and nurse?”
Armitage started. “If it could be!” he said. “But no. You remember, Princess, that you thought Kalliopé also was like the Prince. But there is nothing to account for that. And the Cavaliere says somewhere that the nurse was an elderly woman—a Roumi, by the description he has of her.”
“It is a most curious coincidence,” said Zoe.
“But nothing more, I imagine. Well, do you wonder it made old Pazzi suspicious? However, he didn’t show it, but the moment he could shake off his affectionate son-in-law he went straight to Professor Panagiotis, who has promised to get at the rights of the matter by hook or by crook. So now the fat’s in the fire.”
“This may be very dreadful,” said Zoe, after a pause of dismay. “I don’t think the Cavaliere ought to have spoken to the Professor before consulting us. Maurice and Graham would have gone to Therma and helped him to bring Prince Romanos to book. He would probably tell the truth when he found they knew so much, and were only anxious to help him. But now—oh, do warn the Cavaliere to take no open steps, whatever he may discover, before letting Maurice know. One can never tell what Professor Panagiotis will do. I suppose he has an ideal in his mind, and goes straight for it, he cuts off so many corners that anyone else would have to go round. I only hope the Cavaliere’s letter has not been read on the way. We never consider the post here safe, you know.”
“Pazzi waited until your brother’s own messenger was coming out, and sent the letter by him. That accounts for our not having heard from him before, I suppose. Oh, I will warn him till all is blue, but I should doubt if Prince Romanos will come through this time.”
“Personally, one could hardly wish him to escape,” said Zoe, “for however much poor Donna Olimpia was to blame, he must have treated her shamefully. You can’t wonder at her coming to Therma, for she knew only too well that she could not trust him out of her sight. Do you remember how lovely she was when we were at Bashi Konak? That must have been when they first met, of course, but she had changed very much when she told me about her marriage. And she was really devoted to him, poor thing!”
“The man ought to be flayed alive!” muttered Armitage, in a tone so ferociously at variance with his usual sunny kindliness that Zoe was betrayed into a laugh. He looked ashamed, and took up his picture again. “Well, Princess, we have kept poor Kalliopé waiting a long time, but I thought you ought to know how matters stood.”
“Oh dear, I hope she won’t have looked at the other picture!” cried Zoe, hurrying up the steps, but she was too late. Danaë was standing beside the easel, contemplating her idealised portrait with a pleased smile.
“Am I really as beautiful as that?” she asked them as they came up, with a naïve frankness which betrayed no doubt of its answer. For the moment, in this softened mood, her expression was really not unlike that of the picture, Zoe thought. But as Armitage reached the top of the steps, she saw the second canvas in his hands.
“Ah, I thought this one was too small!” she cried. “Have you made two pictures of me, lord? But you might have let me wear the European clothes for one of them! Are they both exactly alike?”
In his perplexity, Armitage was still holding the larger picture, instead of placing it on the easel, and she came behind him and looked at it over his shoulder. Neither he nor Zoe ventured to say a word. Perhaps the girl would not notice the difference! But even as Zoe watched, a change came over the smiling face, and an angry sob broke from the beautiful lips. Danaë was at the easel again, her little dagger in her hand. Fiercely she drove it into the canvas, slitting it across and across and round the edge, then stood confronting them for a moment with stormy brow and heaving breast.
“You shall not mock me!” she gasped. More she would have said, but her fury would not let her speak. She snatched off her coin-decked cap and trampled upon it, caught up her apron and tore it into ribbons. Then the dagger which she had hurled from her caught her eye again, and Armitage sprang forward to seize it, fearing she would do herself an injury. His hand was actually on it, but she tore it away and struck at him as he tried to wrest it from her. Then, still in the same passion of silent rage, she hacked and hewed at one of her heavy plaits of hair, unheeding Zoe’s entreaties, until it was severed in her hand, and flung it at their feet. Then the tension relaxed, and she pressed her hands to her eyes and fled sobbing.
“I ought not to have done it. How could she understand unless it was explained to her? Of course she thought I was trying to make fun of her,” said Armitage, holding his wounded wrist.
“She had no business to look at the easel when she was told not,” said Zoe practically. “You must let me tell Linton to bring some hot water, and we will tie up your arm. I am afraid she must have hurt you a good deal.”
“Oh, I shall bear her mark!” he said, laughing, but Zoe thought that there was more in the words than a joke. Twisting his handkerchief round his wrist while she called to Linton, he stooped and picked up the severed plait from the floor. “What a pity!” he said.
“Yes, the naughty girl has effectually spoilt her appearance for some time,” said Zoe. Armitage was smoothing the thick blue-black strands, and she took them from him with gentle firmness. “I shall keep this to make Miss Kalliopé a wig when she needs it,” she said. “If she should take it into her head to cut off the other plait the next time she has a fit of temper, there will be nothing to fasten her cap to.”
“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” agreed Linton. “Anything more like a pig with one ear than that poor ill-tempered girl as she rushed past me just now I never did see. And to show such a wicked spirit, when his lordship was taking her picture so beautiful! I do hope, my lord, if I may make so bold, you’ll paint her with the short hair showing, as a lesson to her to keep her temper in hand for the future.”
“But that would spoil my picture,” objected Armitage, who was an old friend of Linton’s.
“And if it did, my lord, what’s that to curing a fine handsome girl like that—and good with children too, as I must confess, though I wouldn’t say as much to her—of her wicked ways?”