IT was Angeliké who at last broke desperately into the flood of complaint. “Lady, are you on my father’s side, or ours?”
“How can you be so foolish, daughter mine?” was the querulous reply. “Have I ever been on any side but your father’s? How could I be anything else?”
“But you don’t agree with him, my mother? You don’t think it fair that Danaë, who has missed all her own chances, should come back and steal my bridegroom?”
“I’m not stealing him! I don’t want him!” cried Danaë.
“It is no use asking me to oppose your father,” said Princess Christodoridi, and this was obviously true.
“No, but if we can manage to get things right, you won’t prevent us? It’s all very well for Danaë to stand there and say she won’t marry Narkissos, but our father will force the ring on her finger and the crown on her head. But I have a plan. My mother, I will not tell you what it is, lest my father should suspect, but you will do what I ask?”
“If you are sure your father will not find out,” said her mother nervously.
“You will have done nothing for him to find out. His anger will be terrible, of course, but we are used to that, and it is worth it this time. Once the blessed rings are exchanged, no one can break the betrothal. My mother, Danaë and I must be dressed exactly alike. Leave the embroidered robe for the Sunday after the wedding, and let Danaë have a long coat like mine. And you were going to lend me your own veil.”
“Yes, but your father said it was too large—like a Roumi woman’s. I told him it was what everyone wore in my island, and he said we were ignorant heathen. I dare not let you wear it, child. He would pull it off you and tear it to pieces.”
“Ah, but we will cut it in two, my mother. Then it will be quite small, and we shall be alike.”
“But what waste! It is good muslin, real English. And when your father sees two brides——”
“He will not have time to think about it. And you will sacrifice your veil to save your daughter, mother mine? Ah, I knew it!” She kissed the Princess’s hand. “Danaë, can you faint?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I fainted once, not long ago.”
“Well, you must be able to do it properly. You had better practise. When is the betrothal to be, my mother?”
“Your father said it was no use wasting more time. He has sent word to Kyrios Smaragdopoulos and his son, and Danaë’s godfather, to be here in three days.”
“I must let Narkissos know at once,” mused Angeliké, under her breath. “He must be sullen, but not refuse to accept the change. And you, my mother, you will tell the Despot that Danaë is obstinate and swears she will not marry Narkissos, but girls are often like that, and very likely she will be all right on the day. And we will both offer gifts to the Fates, that all may be well. Let us go and make honey cakes at once.”
“At Klaustra, they said that there were no such things as the Fates,” said Danaë hesitatingly. Her mother sat up.
“Never let me hear you say such a thing again, Danaë,” she said, with unusual decision. “Wretched girl, are you not afraid what will happen to you? No Fates, indeed? One would think you had been born in a house where the proper ceremonies were not observed. Did not your father himself tie up the dogs on the third night after you were born, that the august ladies might not be disturbed while they partook of the banquet prepared for them, and decided upon your future? Those unbelievers at Klaustra, whoever they may be, will say there is no such thing as witches next.”
As this was exactly what Zoe had said, Danaë held her peace. Angeliké laughed.
“Even if we were not sure of the Fates, it would be prudent to propitiate them in case they existed,” she said. “So I shall give them honey cakes, and if things go wrong with you and right with me, Danaë, we shall know why. And I shall also weep. My father calls me the weeper. Holy Marina! he shall see quite as many tears as he expects!”
And in truth, during the next two days, red eyes and perpetual weeping met Prince Christodoridi’s gaze whenever he glanced towards his younger daughter. They made him impatient, but he did not really object to them nearly as much as to Danaë’s set, tearless face. He was vaguely conscious of a conflict of wills between his elder daughter and himself, and he was determined that this should be the decisive battle. Once Danaë was betrothed, there was no help for her, and the greater her objection to the proposed bridegroom, the more signal her father’s triumph. It was no business of his to forecast the course of a loveless marriage between an unwilling couple. Its working-out might safely be left to Narkissos and his parents.
As for Danaë, the fact of her dependence upon Angeliké galled her almost as much as her father’s summary disposal of her hand. But for the assurance that Angeliké’s heart was firmly set upon Narkissos, she would have feared being left in the lurch at the last moment. It was a consolation to feel that Angeliké was working solely in her own interests, since that ensured a certain amount of loyalty on her part, but it was not pleasant to be so deeply indebted to her, while to Angeliké the bitterest drop in her cup was undoubtedly the reflection that in securing her own happiness she was working temporary deliverance for Danaë. How to counteract this involuntary boon was a problem at which her busy brain was hard at work whenever it was not perfecting the details of the original scheme.
* * * * * * * *
“Danaë, wake up! There is a ship lying off the shore—a pamporaki!” [steamer] It was the morning of the betrothal day, and Danaë, who had lain awake the night before, was still plunged in heavy sleep when her sister’s voice summoned her to the window. Out at sea, beyond the network of rocks and shoals which had formed an important part of the Striotes’ stock-in-trade in their palmy days as pirates and wreckers, lay a trim vessel, very unlike usual visitors to the island.
“I have only seen a pamporaki twice—no, three times—before, when we went to Tortolana,” mused Angeliké. “Certainly none has ever come so near Strio. Do you think it is the English lord’s ship, Danaë?”
“Certainly not—why should it be? How can I tell? I have never seen Milordo’s ship,” replied Danaë, in such confusion that Angeliké was emboldened to make a further attempt.
“Oh, sister mine, tell me about Milordo! Why did he break off the marriage?”
“There was no talk of a marriage, therefore no breaking-off,” said Danaë harshly. “I have told you before that Milordo never dreamed of marrying me.”
This ought to have been decisive, but to Angeliké the blush and the sudden eager look called up by her suggestion as to the vessel’s ownership were far more eloquent than words. Still, it was evidently hopeless to get anything more out of Danaë, so she turned to another informant. This was Petros, who was still hanging about, though not at all by his own wish. By way of accounting at once plausibly and concisely for the various events that had occurred at Therma—a large proportion of which were quite unintelligible to himself—he had told Prince Christodoridi that it had been discovered too late that the Lady was Orthodox by religion and royal by descent, and that she was now openly acknowledged to have been the wife of Prince Romanos. Thereupon the Despot turned upon him furiously, and charging him with having brought a false report at first, drove him from his presence, ordering him to leave the island. But his master had ordered him to stay in Strio, and he felt it highly inadvisable to return to Therma without a protector of some kind, so that his position was most unenviable. Angeliké had first come upon him—in sufficient secrecy—two days before, and by the sacrifice of the least conspicuous coin from her cap had drawn from him a statement to the effect that the marriage-broker had certainly been busy, at the instance of Prince Romanos, in arranging a marriage between Milordo and Lady Danaë, but that the English lord had suddenly and insultingly broken off the negociations. Pressed as to the reason, he replied—with a lumping together of cause and effect, and a confusion of times, that were truly magnificent—that the Lady Danaë had chosen to masquerade for a while as a servant in the household at Klaustra, and it was the discovery of this that had made her suitor alter his mind. To-day Angeliké managed to get hold of Petros again. He answered her question almost before it was asked.
“Yes, lady, that is Milordo’s ship. I have seen it in Therma harbour.”
“But why does he come here? Does he wish to renew the treaty of marriage?” demanded Angeliké.
“How can I tell, lady?” Petros assumed a deep air of wisdom. “At any rate, it can hardly be very agreeable for the Lady Danaë to meet him after what happened.”
“But did it happen?” flashed forth Angeliké.
Petros looked grieved. “Lady, you have asked, and I have answered. You know best whether the Lady Danaë desired to return to Strio. To me in my humility it appeared that she did not. If Milordo thought so too, may he not be visiting the island to show her what she has lost?”
“But that is insulting to us!” cried Angeliké.
“The English are like that, lady. They will take infinite pains to insult those they dislike. Nay, I have seen them show atrocious rudeness for mere wantonness.”
Angeliké went slowly away, a new plan beginning to shape itself in her mind. As a preliminary step, she took the precaution of a whispered warning to Princess Christodoridi. “Keep Danaë with you in the kitchen all the morning, my mother. If my father sees her, he will know that she does not intend to submit, and we don’t want him to be angry beforehand.”
Her mother agreed with nervous readiness, and as a result Danaë was kept hard at work making cakes and sweetmeats, with no opportunity of stealing upstairs to look at the distant ship. For herself Angeliké had reserved the task of preparing the pillared loggia, which served as an open-air sitting-room, for the afternoon’s ceremony. Sweeping and dusting, erecting a temporary altar for the blessing of the rings, and overseeing the servants as they beat up and arranged the cushions on the divan for the expected guests, she was elaborately busy, and constantly in her father’s sight. Her cheerful aspect forced itself upon his attention at last, and was no doubt welcome, since even Prince Christodoridi could scarcely deny that Angeliké had been hardly treated. He caught one of her plaits as she hurried past him, and pulled it with something like approval.
“What, weeper! are the tears dried?”
“Quite dried up, lord!” showing a saucy and absolutely tearless face. “Are there not plenty of bridegrooms to be had besides Narkissos Smaragdopoulos?”
“Oh, that’s what makes you so cheerful, is it? And you don’t even mind your sister’s getting him?”
She laughed, with gleeful appreciation of an absurdity. “Why, lord, it is Danaë who minds! She declares she won’t marry him, and my mother is keeping her under her own eye lest she should try to run away. There is that ship, you know——”
“And what of that ship, girl?” His tone was thunderous, but Angeliké smiled innocently into his face.
“Why, lord, they say it belongs to a great and rich English lord, who is a friend of my brother. Now what I think is that this lord has been drawn to Strio by the report of the beauty of your second daughter. So there will be a marriage for me after all!”
“You are an impudent little minx!” said Prince Christodoridi, but without any show of anger. “But suppose it is Danaë he comes after?”
“Lord, you would not let her rob me of two bridegrooms?” The pretty face was so innocently grieved, the eyes so near tears, that Prince Christodoridi laughed and pinched Angeliké’s ear encouragingly.
“One bridegroom will be quite enough for her, I warrant, and once betrothed she is out of your way. But suppose the English lord doesn’t think you come up to the report he has heard?”
“Oh, do you think he will be disappointed, lord?” breathed Angeliké, with such anxious misery that her father’s heart was melted.
“Suppose we let him see you, girl? Shall I ask him to the betrothal? It is well to be courteous to strangers.”
“Ah, lord, if you would! And then nothing need be said unless—unless you should feel that you would like an English son-in-law. All the English are very rich, I have heard Danaë or some one say.”
“What does Danaë know about the English?” suspiciously.
“I don’t know, lord. She has never seen any of them, has she? I daresay,” meekly, “that it was not Danaë who told me. But why should he come to Strio at all, if he did not desire to present himself for your approval?”
Curiously enough, Armitage was asking himself much the same question—what was he doing off Strio? He had been restless at Klaustra, and had gravely given utterance to the opinion that the sea was calling him. A short cruise in the Egean, and he would return to see what he had long promised himself as a rare delight—the unfolding of spring in the great beech-woods on the mountain slopes. His hosts acquiesced in the most understanding way, and Zoe begged him, if he found himself anywhere in the neighbourhood of Strio, to make a point of visiting the island and seeing how poor Kalliopé was getting on. At Therma it was only polite to pay his respects to Prince Romanos, and ask if he could do anything for him in the islands, and as the Prince wished to send an important parcel to his sister, it was only natural that Armitage, not guessing that it contained the various little clothes and toys which Danaë had made for Janni at different times during her career as his nurse, and was designed to emphasize the completeness of her separation from him for the future, should volunteer to carry it. Thus there was really no choice about the yacht’s destination, but all the same, Armitage had a lurking fear that he was making a fool of himself when his boat took him ashore, and he noticed the critical way in which the inhabitants regarded him. Emancipation had not been by any means wholly a boon to the inhabitants of Strio—rather it had brought about a distinct diminution both of their liberties and their prosperity, owing to the restraints imposed by their union with the mainland kingdom. Therefore the friendliness for England and individual Englishmen, so noticeable in most Greek communities, was conspicuous by its absence, and the truculent looks of the swarthy loafers on the quay made Armitage feel as if he was venturing into a pirates’ lair.
But after all, this was the environment in which his island princess—as he always called Danaë in his thoughts—had grown up, and in which it ought to be possible to see her free and happy, untrammelled by the conventions which had suited her so ill, and he rambled through the tortuous lanes of the little town with great contentment, noting endless subjects for sketches. Then he came suddenly on Prince Christodoridi, on his way to the harbour to visit him on board, and they renewed the acquaintance begun years ago at Bashi Konak, and fraternised cordially. The Despot would hear of nothing but the Englishman’s accompanying him home at once to spend the day, preparatory to coming on shore for a regular visit. He should sketch as much as he liked, examine the Venetian work still extant in the fortress, and there was a little family ceremony that afternoon which he might find it interesting to attend—the betrothal of Prince Christodoridi’s daughter. Armitage was conscious of a distinct shock at first, but he recollected that there were two daughters, and reasoned that it was not likely they would be marrying Danaë off so soon after her return home. Therefore he sent his boat, which was to fetch him off at a certain time, back to the yacht, and returned up the hill to the fortress with his host.
Everything was now ready for the betrothal, and presently the guests began to drop in. Kyrios Smaragdopoulos had rather the appearance of a policeman haling an unwilling prisoner, so sullen was the handsome face of his son, and so unsuited his bearing to his festal attire, which included the widest and whitest and stiffest kilt Armitage had ever seen, and a jacket rich with gold embroidery. Narkissos sat apart and brooded, his father taking no notice of him except to see that he did not run away, and it was a relief when a burly jovial man swaggered in, who was introduced to Armitage as Parthenios Chalkiadi. He had been Prince Christodoridi’s best man and his elder daughter’s godfather, it seemed, and not only took an important part in to-day’s proceedings, but was also to be best man at his goddaughter’s wedding. It was natural he should be in the family secrets, and he whispered loudly behind his hand to Armitage, with a nod towards the gloomy bridegroom, “Wanted the other one!” which caused the guest to regard Narkissos with more interest, as a rejected suitor of Danaë’s. Meanwhile a priest, with flowing hair and beard and a frayed purple robe, had made his appearance with a youthful assistant, and there was a great sound of whispering and giggling through a doorway across which female forms sometimes flitted. Then an old woman looked out and called in an agitated voice for Kyrios Parthenios, and the godfather rolled across the room with great pomp. Above the whisperings of the women his rich voice was clearly audible somewhere in the back regions.
“Well, little one, back just in time to keep your sister from getting married first! She has plenty of time before her. But mercy on us! she’s as tall as you are. Two brides instead of one! We must take care the wrong one doesn’t get betrothed.”
Then it was Danaë! Armitage was conscious of a feeling—not of disappointment; he assured himself it was not disappointment—but of flatness, as if a promising romance had come to an unexpectedly sudden end. But Kyrios Smaragdopoulos had marched his reluctant son to the extemporised altar, on which two gold rings were placed, and a procession was entering the doorway—Parthenios Chalkiadi leading a veiled figure by the hand, another veiled figure supporting the first one closely, and an indeterminate throng of girls and women behind. It was Danaë! Armitage must have started or made a movement of some kind, for her eyes met his with a look which made him turn away as if he had seen something he had no business to see. Shame, misery, reproach, unavailing protest—he read them all in that one glance and the movement of recoil which accompanied it, and he half rose, with a wild impulse to save the girl somehow, though how he had no idea. But attention was diverted from his action by a shriek from the bridesmaid.
“She is fainting! Help, quick! Carry her back!”
Armitage had seen no sign of fainting, but Danaë was undoubtedly lying limp in her sister’s arms, and Kyrios Chalkiadi was looking down at the two in amazement. The women closed round them and hustled them back, and presently the godfather reappeared grumbling.
“The Pappas had better cut things as short as possible,” he said, the radiance of his face eclipsed. “The girl is overwrought—joyful occasion—too much excitement—— But in our young days who ever heard of a bride fainting at her betrothal?”
“Girls are poor creatures nowadays,” growled Prince Christodoridi. “Leave out the exhortation, Pappa,” he added to the priest, who had prepared a flowery one, and was naturally reluctant to omit it. While he and his patron argued together in low tones, Kyrios Chalkiadi sat down again by Armitage.
“I verily believe the bride dislikes the match as much as the bridegroom,” he said, in his roaring whisper, with a glance of contempt at the stolid Narkissos. “A nasty, sulky fellow—I don’t wonder she doesn’t want him.”
“Can nothing be done?” asked Armitage involuntarily.
His neighbour looked at him in astonishment, then laughed. “You show yourself indeed a perfect stranger here, lord. What could be done, when the parents have arranged matters? You may be sure that in a case like this the young people would rebel, if they thought it would be any use. But they’ll settle down. And let me advise you to exhibit less interest, friend Englishman,” he added warningly. “We know that you English have a taste for interfering in other people’s affairs, but it will do no good to the girl. Ah, I am wanted again!”
The warning he had received held Armitage fast in his place, but it seemed to him like a horrible dream as the veiled figure was brought in once more, supported by the strong arm of Kyrios Parthenios on one side, and by her sister on the other, Princess Christodoridi following anxiously close behind, and keeping back the other women, who were inclined to press unduly close. Narkissos was brought into position again, the rings were blessed, and a reluctant hand was disinterred from under the bride’s draperies. Parthenios Chalkiadi was clearly resolved to do his duty to the utmost. He put the rings on, took them off, and exchanged them, with strict attention to the words the priest was gabbling, and callous disregard of the attitude of the betrothal pair, while his left arm held the bride in a grip which suggested constraint at least as much as support. When the brief ceremony was over, he gave a laugh of relief.
“Sorry to have done you out of your sermon, Pappa. Better keep it for the wedding. Lady Danaë will have got used to the thought of her bridegroom by that time—— Why, what’s this? All-Holy Mother of God! we have betrothed the wrong one after all!”
For the shrinking form on his left had suddenly recovered strength, and stepped forward with extreme confidence to join the bridegroom, from whose countenance the clouds had instantaneously disappeared. Princess Christodoridi, running forward in obvious horror to lift the veil, disclosed the features of Angeliké, and dropped it with a shriek.
“Holy Nicholas! what is this?” roared Prince Christodoridi, charging at the triumphant pair like a wild bull. Angeliké sheltered herself immediately behind the stalwart form of her betrothed, with a trustfulness very pretty to see, and left him to answer, which he did with admirable courage.
“I engaged myself to marry the Lady Angeliké, lord, and I am now betrothed to her.”
“Oh, are you?” cried his prospective father-in-law. “Take off those rings! Here, Pappa!” to the retreating priest, “come back and do the service over again. My stick shall make acquaintance with your shoulders for this foolishness, you hussy! Take off that ring!” he shouted to his daughter.
But Angeliké kept her hand behind her, and remained coyly in the shadow, and Narkissos rose magnificently to the occasion.
“You may take the Lady Angeliké’s ring from my dead hand, lord, but while I live it does not leave me.”
“Come out, girl!” roared Prince Christodoridi, making a dash at his daughter. “I will have that ring off if I have to cut off your finger to get it,” but the priest, still sore on account of his wasted eloquence, interposed.
“That would be sacrilege, lord. Once the handfasting has taken place, the symphonia [contract] is as binding as marriage itself. None can break it. Carry the case to the Bishop—to the Œcumenical Patriarch himself, and he will tell you the same.”
“I will go to the Patriarch, dog, and you shall see!” cried the irate father, and ceased perforce, foaming with rage. While he was still muttering inarticulately, Parthenios Chalkiadi, with considerable courage, stepped forward as peacemaker.
“I was as much taken aback as you, friend Agesilaos,” he said frankly, laying his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, “but I can’t say that I am altogether sorry for what has happened. It seems to me that these two young people are a good deal happier than they were half an hour ago. The only one who seems to have been badly treated is my goddaughter. What says the Lady Danaë? Does she wish the betrothal broken, if it can be done?”
“Nothing less so, lord,” cried Danaë eagerly. “I had no desire to marry the Lord Narkissos.”
“Then it looks as if everyone was satisfied,” said Kyrios Parthenios gravely. “Let us have the coffee, Danaë,” in the most audible of whispers. “Come, friend Agesilaos,” to Prince Christodoridi, “let the young folks kiss your hand. I’m sure I never saw a handsomer couple since the day I was best man to yourself and my friend Kyria Xantippe there. Ah, that’s right!”