CHAPTER IV.
THE GIRDLE OF ISIDORA.
IT was about ten o’clock in the morning, and Despina was clattering things furiously in the kitchen as she collected baskets and other aids to shopping, for she was late in starting. The Lady sat in the morning-room opening on the verandah, writing a letter which seemed, from her frequent pauses, to be difficult to frame, and Danaë was playing bo-peep with Janni in and out of the window. Above the child’s shouts of laughter came the imperative sound of the door-bell, and Danaë caught him up in her arms, and followed at a discreet distance in Despina’s wake as she went to open the door.
“Aha, old mother, you won’t be able to start just yet!” she cried mockingly, as the Prince rode in, followed by Petros, for Despina would never delegate even to Mariora the duty of keeping the door in her absence.
“May he that is without and afar [i.e., the devil] fly away with that girl! If I catch her, I’ll teach her saucy tongue a lesson!” muttered the old woman furiously.
“I should recommend a red-hot skewer,” was the soothing suggestion of Petros, as he flashed a glance towards Danaë to show that he had understood her intimation. “A monk at the Holy Mountain told me that the worst of scolds could be cured by marking a cross on her tongue with it, if the proper prayers were said at the same time.”
Despina requited his sympathy with another curse, and Danaë laughed as she followed the Prince, who had taken Janni in his arms. He gave the child back to her as they reached the house, and she sat down again on the verandah while he greeted his wife. Reading in her eyes the question she was too proud to ask, he unbuttoned his tunic, and took out something wrapped in linen which had been concealed there. Danaë, her curiosity aroused, watched him with eager eyes while he unrolled it, but she sang mechanically to Janni the while, lest her interest should be observed. One by one he released from the protecting folds a series of circular plaques of gold, gleaming with jewels and translucent enamel, while the Lady looked on, puzzled and a little disappointed, and Danaë’s breath came quick and fast.
“Byzantine, I suppose?” said the Lady, fingering one of the plaques; “and not intentionally comic?”
“Wait!” said Prince Romanos sharply. He was fitting the plaques together by means of the little gold hooks and chains attached to each, until they formed a small portrait-gallery of severe-featured saints, with jewelled halos and dresses. He held it up. “If the people in the streets as I passed had known that I was bringing this to you, Olimpia, they would have torn me limb from limb. It is the girdle of the Empress Isidora.”
Danaë gasped, in spite of herself, at the sound of the name, which was the only word she understood, but she had already guessed what the jewel was. Handed down in the Christodoridi family was a metrical version of the exploits of the famous, and infamous, Empress, in which the girdle figured largely, and Danaë could have named each ill-favoured saint from memory. And this treasure, the badge of Orthodox sovereignty, her infatuated brother was now handing over to the schismatic woman who had bewitched him! Even the Lady, who knew nothing of its legendary fame, was impressed as she took it into her hands.
“It is a magnificent thing!” she said. “Why have you never shown it to me before?”
“Because I have never had it in my possession, or even set eyes upon it, till now. In fact, I did not know that it was still in existence. For your possession of it, my most beautiful, you may thank Prince Theophanis, or rather Lady Eirene, his wife.”
“You will hardly ask me to believe that Princess Theophanis has acknowledged the justice of your claims so far as to send you this by her husband?”
“Very far from it, my dearest. She has no knowledge of its present whereabouts, and if you are to keep it, she had better not know.”
“But to whom does it really belong?”
“To the head of the descendants of John Theophanis. That, my Olimpia, is your husband, as the inhabitants of Emathia testified by their free vote. But the girdle has been preserved since the fall of Czarigrad in the family of the Princess Eirene, and I have reason to believe that she regards it as her own property.”
“And you have contrived to rob her jewel-case during her husband’s absence here?” asked the Lady lightly.
“Your poet does not go to work quite so crudely, Olimpia. No, it seems that it is ten years or more since anyone saw the girdle. Before her marriage the Princess was detained in a sort of honourable captivity at the old Scythian Consulate here, from which she escaped to join Theophanis. Unfortunately for her, knowing that the Scythian Imperial family were most anxious to possess the jewel, in order to support their claims to the heritage of the Cæsars, she contrived a hiding-place for it, from which she had not time to rescue it when the opportunity of escape came. There it must have remained ever since, for even when the Consulate was burnt by the Roumi mob before the bombardment, the walls in great part remained standing. But just lately she saw in the papers that we were clearing away the ruins to make the new boulevard, and immediately hurried her husband off to make inquiries. Knowing Maurice Theophanis, you won’t be surprised to hear that he chose me, in strictest secrecy, as the recipient of his inquiries—for which I should imagine his wife will have a word or two to say to him when he gets home. It seems that Princess Eirene managed to pick a large stone out of the wall with her scissors, and hide the girdle in the rubble behind it. As she had fitted the stone in again neatly enough to escape the observation of the spies who surrounded her, I thought it was very likely the treasure was there still, but I said a good deal to Theophanis about fire and plunderers. We visited the ruins, and Glafko—who has a plaguy exact mind—located as nearly as he could the spot where the Princess’s room had been. In their presence I promised the workmen a large reward if they found anything, and fearful penalties unless they gave it up, and then I carried our friends off to a review. The walls were duly knocked down, and nothing was found. But Daniloff, the chief of police, used himself to be employed at the Scythian Consulate in the old days, and he had visited the spot the night before. He found the girdle and brought it to me, wrapped up in odds and ends of paper, and he and I cleaned it and polished it ourselves. No one else on earth dreams where it is.”
“That girl outside will know,” said the Lady, without looking towards Danaë.
“Nonsense! she doesn’t understand French. All she knows is that I have brought you a present of jewellery to-day—surely a very natural thing to do. It is not as if she had ever heard of the girdle and its history.”
“And the obvious thing, to her, would be that I should put it on at once.” She passed the glittering links round her waist, confining the folds of the loose flowing gown of rich wine-colour she was wearing. Before she could snap the clasp into place the Prince’s hand stopped her.
“Wait, Olimpia. I must tell you that they say the girdle brings ill-luck with it.”
The Lady laughed, and fastened the clasp. “I will risk the ill-luck if it makes me Empress,” she said.
Prince Romanos gazed at her in unfeigned admiration. “Olimpia, you are magnificent! You look the Empress to the life. May I yet see you wear the girdle at our coronation in Hagion Pneuma!” He knelt and lifted the edge of the wine-coloured robe to his lips. “Hail to the Orthodox Empress!” he said fervently in Greek, and Danaë thrilled with horror at the sacrilege. Were there no bounds to her brother’s infatuation?
The Lady blushed slightly at the fervour of her husband’s tone. Perhaps she also saw, as she looked dreamily far beyond him, the dim splendours of the great cathedral of Czarigrad, rescued from the Moslem and restored to Christian uses, and crowded with rejoicing people assembled to welcome back the descendant of John Theophanis to the throne of his ancestors—saw herself in imperial robes beside him, and Janni, grown a goodly youth, acclaimed as the heir of the Eastern Empire. Then she shivered a little, and unfastened the clasp again.
“Don’t speak Greek; it is not safe with the girl about. You have made me almost afraid of letting even Despina know that I have the girdle, yet she has my keys. I will put it here,” she opened a drawer of her bureau by a spring, and laid the jewel inside it, Danaë watching her every movement, “until I can make an excuse to get them and hide it in the safe. And now tell me what it is you want me to do for you in return for it.”
“Most beautiful and beloved, will you not believe that your poet brought you a gift solely that he might feast his eyes upon your beauty adorned with it, and enjoy your pleasure?”
“Not for a moment,” said the Lady decisively.
“Ah, hard-hearted one! will nothing move you? Well, then, dearest, I claim your promise made the other day. You will allow me to quarter a guard for you within these walls?”
“I made no promise!” she said quickly.
“Not in words, I own, but it was implied, in return for the gift I hoped to bring you, and have now brought. Listen, Olimpia; I am in a very difficult position. Theophanis and his brother-in-law have made this week a perfect hell to me. The shifts and excuses to which I have been driven to baulk their curiosity are really humiliating to look back upon. I am compelled—simply for the sake of averting the suspicions I saw beginning to spring up in their minds—to appear to fall in with their scheme for the railway route. Of course it is exactly opposite to the one on which your hopes—our hopes—depend, but I must throw them off the scent for a week or two, or until I can get things definitely settled. Theophanis and Glafko are returning home fairly satisfied, but to make things quite smooth I was obliged to volunteer to go part of the way with them, to see a place where there would be difficulty in getting the line through. It is a Moslem colony—evkaf [or wakf, land set apart for religious uses] land, a mosque and a cemetery—and any sensible person would have seen at once that it was an insuperable obstacle to their pet route, but they want to negociate about it, relying on Glafko’s influence with the Roumis, I suppose, and—in a moment of thoughtlessness, I confess—I proposed enthusiastically to go with them and see what could be done.”
“Which means that you will be away from Therma—how long?”
“Four days, not more; three, if I am lucky.”
“And you have never gone away before without sending Janni and me into safety at Thamnos first!”
“My dear Olimpia, this is such a short time. And the notice was so brief; I start with them to-day, and there was no time to arrange anything. Then consider what is to be gained—the fulfilment of our dearest hopes. You on the throne beside me, Janni acknowledged heir of Emathia—safety and recognition, in short, if I can only keep those two meddlesome Englishmen in the dark till my great coup is made.”
“And your police are not capable of protecting this house against the mob, even with the help of the soldiers outside?”
“It is not the mob I am afraid of, but those who are your—our—enemies for political, dynastic reasons.”
She raised her eyebrows. “The Theophanis family?”
“Let me beg you not to consider me altogether a fool, Olimpia. No, not the Theophanis family. But you are aware that your existence is not entirely unknown in the city; you have often complained to me of the fact. I have reason to believe that it has reached the knowledge of the very people with whom I am carrying on my secret negociations. They may not know your real position, but they are quite capable of seeing in you and Janni a possible obstacle to the realisation of their aims, and in that case you and Janni would be sentenced to disappear. Now do you see what I mean? I may have been brutal, but you have forced me to speak plainly.”
The Lady frowned, paying little attention to his excuses. “In plain words, then, you think that opportunity will be taken of your absence to murder your wife and son?”
“I don’t think it will be so, or I should not go, but I think it is possible that such an attempt might be made. Consider Janni, Olimpia, if you will not consider yourself.”
“I am considering myself,” she said quickly; “or rather, I am considering the dignity of your wife. The Princess of Emathia may be pardoned a little pride, Romanos—may she not? But Janni is in danger, you say? Well, then, I well yield as far as this. You may post your guards round the house at night. Arrange matters with Despina, and let me hear nothing of them. They must be gone before I come out of doors in the morning, and they must only arrive after dark—I will not walk in the garden late. I will not see or be seen by any more of your subjects till you acknowledge me; that piece of pride I keep. But we shall be protected, according to your wish; for I suppose even you do not expect a murderous attack to be made upon us in the daytime?”
“No, I think that ought to be enough,” he said reluctantly. “I shall be a little happier in my mind, knowing that the garden is thoroughly patrolled. Accept your poet’s gratitude, my Princess, and vouchsafe him a gracious farewell. I have innumerable things to do before I join Theophanis and Glafko this afternoon. They start this morning, with a patriarchal paraphernalia of tents and baggage-mules, for the fancy for exploring their proposed new route forbids their making use of the railway, and I catch them up, travelling light. But I dare not stay longer.”
“And poor Despina will be distracted by the delay in her marketing,” said the Lady lightly. She took her husband’s arm, and walked with him into the garden, Danaë following with Janni in her arms, and the little iron wedge which Petros had given her clasped tightly in her hand. The Lady remained out of sight of the gate, but while his father was speaking to Despina, Janni clamoured to see the horses, and Danaë carried him to watch the riders mount. She hardly knew how she could contrive to slip the wedge into the lock, for Despina, fuming with impatience, was clearly in a desperate hurry. To add to her irritation, the horse which Petros rode began to dance hither and thither, apparently desiring to go anywhere rather than through the gate, and in his efforts to control it, Petros caught his spur in the old woman’s embroidered apron, and the stuff only yielded with a jagged tear. Then the horse went through the gateway with a bound, and Petros was left sitting on the ground with an expression of such intense astonishment that even Despina, while reviling him loudly, could hardly help laughing.
“Come on, Petraki! What’s the matter?” cried his master, turning round.
“I knew something would happen when we met that priest just as we were starting, my Prince,” moaned Petros lugubriously, noting with the tail of his eye that Danaë, venturing as far as the doorpost in sympathetic curiosity, had slipped the wedge into the hole.
“If you hadn’t been so clumsy, nothing would have happened, fellow,” snapped Despina, contemplating her ruined apron. “I didn’t meet a priest, so why should I be unlucky?”
“And I did meet him, and nothing has happened to me,” said Prince Romanos gaily. “Get yourself a new apron with that, old mother, and don’t croak. Make haste, friend Petros,” as the sentry brought up the horse, which he had captured; “or shall I send the police for you with an ambulance?”
“O my Prince, I think I can get to the Palace,” said Petros, rising with many groans, “but after that——”
“You will have to go on the sick-list instead of coming into the country with me. That’s where my ill-luck comes in,” said the Prince, as his retainer hoisted himself with tremendous difficulty into the saddle.
“Take the little lord in, Eurynomé,” cried Despina wrathfully. “How often have I not told you that no modest girl goes peeping out of gates, and there you are, absolutely outside! You’re a bad one, and I always said so.”
Danaë obeyed, too much excited even to give Despina as good as she gave, so near and clear to her mind was the culmination of the plot. Her brother was going away somewhere, and Petros had contrived to avoid going with him, and the door could be opened by anyone who knew the secret of the obstructed lock. Moreover, the saints—so she gratefully phrased it—had put in her way the means of escape from the fears of Janni’s future in Strio which had been suggested by the words of Petros when last they met. With the Girdle of Isidora in her possession, she could bargain for his safety with her father. Prince Christodoridi was an unsatisfactory person to bargain with—she recognised it quite dispassionately and not without admiration—since he never kept any promises that were not strictly in accordance with his own interests, but with the treasure of the family in her hands, it would be hard if Danaë could not manage to bind him down to tolerance of Janni’s presence, if not to actual recognition of his rights. To leave the girdle where it was, for her brother to bestow on some other schismatic woman, was a thought which only suggested itself to be scouted.
The morning passed quietly. Despina went out with her baskets, shutting the gate with a tremendous bang, since the lock was difficult to manipulate. The Lady compassionated her on having to start so late on such a hot day, and called Mariora to carry her chair and table out of doors. The favourite spot on the lawn in front of the house was not sufficiently shady to-day, and only the thick foliage of the ilexes afforded tolerable shelter. The Lady sat down to finish her letter, with Danaë and Janni playing on the ground beside her, and Mariora returned to her work. As the day grew hotter and the air and the hum of insects more drowsy, the child became sleepy and fretful.
“Carry him indoors, Eurynomé,” said the Lady, looking up from her writing. “It is early for his sleep, but the excitement this morning must have tired him. I will come and sit beside him while you have your dinner.”
“It is done as you command, my Lady,” responded Danaë, with unusual meekness, and she lifted the child to carry him into the house. On the verandah she paused. There were sounds at the gate. The Lady had heard them too, and risen from her chair, just as Mariora rushed through the hall from the kitchen.
“Fly, my Lady, hide yourself! Murderers!” shrieked the old woman. “I will keep them back!” and she pushed her mistress violently inside the house and ran towards the gate, brandishing a chopper. The Lady turned to snatch Janni out of Danaë’s arms, but drew back suddenly.
“Hide him, my Eurynomé, save him! You love him, I know.”
“They will do you no harm, Lady,” responded Danaë confidently, “nor the little lord either.”
“What do you know about it, girl? Listen!” as the clash of weapons and a terrible sobbing shriek reached their ears. “Ah, my poor Mariora! Take him, hide him—you have some place. I will go and meet them and give you time.” She pressed a passionate kiss on Janni’s sleepy eyes. “Save him, I charge you, Eurynomé. Go, go quickly!”
Overmastered by sheer force of will, Danaë fled through the hall and kitchen and out into the ilex-grove, seeing nothing but the tall red figure stepping out with uncovered head into the blinding sunshine. A clamour of words followed her, menaces and evil names, then the Lady’s voice, very clear and distinct in her foreign Greek.
“I am the wife of the Lord Romanos. If you kill me, you kill your Princess.”
Again that clash of steel, and Danaë’s stubborn heart misgave her. Pausing only to wind her shawl firmly round Janni and herself, she began to climb, hurriedly and furiously, and never ceased until she had reached her eyrie, where no one could see her from below. She found a cradle among the branches for Janni, and tied him there safely before she ventured to look out of the window she had made for herself. On the lawn lay a prostrate figure in a red gown, dreadfully still, with a deeper red spreading from it to the grass, and men in the uniform of the Prince’s guard were searching eagerly among the trees. Others came rushing out of the house as she watched.
“Not a soul there! Where are they?” was the cry. “What is the use of killing the she-wolf if the cub is left alive?”
Then Petros was false! More than that, it came upon Danaë like a blow that her father had planned this murder all along, and deliberately made use of her to further his plot. In the sudden revulsion of feeling she forgot her own hatred of the Lady, and the ignoble part it had led her to play. Janni was alive, left to her charge by his murdered mother, and she would save him if she died for it. Sick and shaking, she crawled back to where she had left him, and found him peacefully asleep. Seating herself in a fork of the branches beside him, she loosened her dagger in its sheath. If they were tracked to the tree, no one should touch him while she remained alive.