by John Buchan
“You mean Kynætho?” I asked,
“Kynætho.” He looked at me curiously. “You seem to have been getting up the subject. . . . Well, I don’t like it. If she goes there in April there may be a disaster. Upon my soul, we should be justified in having her kidnapped and shut up in some safe place till the summer. So far as I can learn, the danger is only in the spring. Once let the people see the crops springing and the caiques bringing in fish, and they will forget their grievances.”
Early in March I was dining with the Nantleys, and after dinner Mollie took me aside for a talk. As I have told you, she is one of my oldest friends, for when I was a grubby little private schoolboy and she was a girl of thirteen, we used to scamper about together. I had had her son Hugo in my chambers, before he went into Parliament, and Wirlesdon had always been a sort of home to me. Mollie was entitled to say anything she liked, but when she spoke it was rather timidly.
“I hear a good deal of talk about you,” she said, “and I can’t help noticing too. Do you think it is quite fair, Ned?”
“Fair to whom?” I asked.
“To Koré Arabin. You’re different from the boys who run after her. You’re a distinguished man with a great reputation. Is it fair to her to turn her head?”
“Is that very likely? What if she has turned mine?”
“Do you really mean that?” she cried. “I never thought of it in that way. Do you honestly want to marry her?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know what I want except that I must stand by her. She’s in an appallingly difficult position, and badly needs a friend.”
“Yes. But there’s only one way in which a man can protect a young woman. Do you mean to marry her?”
“She wouldn’t accept me.”
“But you mean to ask her?”
“It may come to that,” I said.
“But, Ned dear, can’t you see it wouldn’t do? Koré is not the right sort of wife for you. She’s — she’s too — Well, you’ve a career before you. Is she the woman to share it with you?”
“It’s not many months since, at Wirlesdon, you implored my charity for Miss Arabin.”
“Oh, I don’t want to say a word against her, and if you were really desperately in love I would say nothing and wish you luck. But I don’t believe you are. I believe it’s what you say — charity, and that’s a most rotten foundation to build on.”
Mollie, in such affairs, is an incurable romantic.
“I promise never to ask her to marry me unless I am in love,” I said.
“Well, that means you are not quite in love yet. Hadn’t you better draw back before it is too late? I can’t bear to see you making a bad blunder, and Koré, dear child, would be a bad blunder for you. She’s adorably pretty, and she has wonderful qualities, but she is a little savage, and very young, and quite unformed. Really, really it wouldn’t do.”
“I admit the difficulties, my dear Mollie. But never mind me, and think of Miss Arabin. You said yourself that she was English at heart and would be very happy settled in England.”
“But not with you.”
“She wouldn’t accept me, and I may never propose. But if I did, and she accepted me, why not with me?”
“Because you’re you — because you’re too good for a rash experiment.”
“I’m not good enough for her, for I’m too old, as you’ve just told me. But anyhow your argument thinks principally of me, not of Miss Arabin. It is she who matters.”
Mollie rose with a gesture of impatience. “You are hopeless, Ned. I’m sick of you hard, unsusceptible, ambitious people. You never fall in love in your youth, but wait till after forty, and then make idiots of yourselves.”
I had a different kind of remonstrance from Vernon. We saw little of each other in these days beyond a chance word in the street or a casual wave of the hand in the club smoking-room. When I thought of him it was with a sense of shame that I had let him slip so hopelessly out of my life. Time had been when he was my closest friend, and when his problem was also my problem. Now the whole story of his dream seemed a childish fancy.
One night in March I found him waiting for me in my rooms.
“I came round to say good-bye,” he said. “I shall probably leave London very soon.”
It shows how completely I had forgotten his affairs that I did not remember that his particular crisis was drawing near, that, as he believed, the last door of his dream-world would soon be opened.
Then, before I could ask about his plans, he suddenly broke out:
“Look here, I hope there’s no truth in what people tell me.”
His tone had the roughness of one very little at his ease, and it annoyed me. I asked coldly what he meant.
“You know what I mean — that you’re in love with Miss What’s-her-name — the girl I met at Wirlesdon.”
“I don’t know that you’ve any right to ask the question, and I’m certainly not going to answer it.”
“That means that you are in love,” he cried. “Good God, man, don’t tell me that you want to marry that — that tawdry girl!”
I must have reddened, for he saw that he had gone too far.
“I don’t mean that — I apologize. I have no reason to say anything against her.”
Then his tone changed.
“Ned, old man, we have been friends for a long time, and you must forgive me if I take liberties. We have never had any secrets from each other. My own affairs give me a good deal to think about just now, but I can’t go away with an easy mind till I know the truth about you. For God’s sake, old fellow, don’t do anything rash. Promise me you won’t propose to her till I come back in April.”
His change of manner had softened me, and as I saw the trouble in his honest eyes I felt a return of the old affection.
“Why are you anxious on my account?”
“Because,” he said solemnly, “I know that if you married that girl our friendship would be over. I feel it in my bones. She would always come between us.”
“I can’t make any promises of that kind. But one thing I can promise — that no woman will ever break our friendship.”
“You don’t understand. Some women wouldn’t, but that girl — ! Well, I can say no more. Good-bye, Ned. I’ll hunt you up when I come back.”
He left me with a feeling of mingled regret and irritation. I hated to go against Vernon’s wishes, but his manner when he had spoken of Koré, the look in his eyes, the inflection in his voice, conveyed an utter distaste which made me angry. I pictured him at Severns nursing his unreasoning dislike of the poor child. Vernon, as my nephew Charles had said, was a prig, and his narrow world had room only for blameless and vapid virginity. The promise he had asked of me was an outrage.
*****
Yet I kept a promise which I had never made. For suddenly Cinderella disappeared from the ball. After a country-house dance I drove her back to town in my car, and left her at the door of her flat. During the long drive she had talked more seriously than I had ever known her to talk before, had spoken of herself and her affairs with a kind of valiant simplicity. The only sophisticated thing about her was her complexion. All day afterwards my conviction was growing that she was the woman for me, that I could make her not only secure but happy. We were by way of dining with the Lamanchas, and I think if we had met that night I should have asked her to marry me. . . . But we did not meet, for by the evening she was gone.
I looked for her in vain in the Lamanchas’ drawing-room, and my hostess guessed what I sought. “I’m so sorry about Koré Arabin,” she whispered to me. “She was coming to-night, but she telephoned this afternoon that she was unexpectedly called out of town.” I did not enjoy my dinner, and as soon as I could decently leave I hurried off to her flat. It was shut up, and from the porter on the ground floor I learned that she and her maid had left with a quantity of luggage to catch the night boat to France. He was positive that she had gone abroad, for he had seen the foreign labels, and Miss Arabin had told him
she would not be back for months. The keys of the flat had been sent to her solicitors.
With a very uneasy mind I drove to the Ertzbergers’ house in Belgrave Square. Ertzberger had just come in from a City dinner, and his wife seemed to be giving some kind of musical party, for the hall was full of coats and hats and extra footmen, and the jigging of fiddles drifted down the staircase. He took me to his study at the back of the house, and when he heard my news his face grew as solemn as my own. There was nothing to be done that night, for the Continental mail had long since gone, so I went back to my chambers with a pretty anxious mind. I felt that I had let something rare and precious slip out of my hand, but far more that this preciousness was in instant danger. Honestly I don’t think that I was much concerned about myself. I wanted Koré Arabin saved — for me — for every one — for the world. If I was in love with her it was with an affection more impersonal than usually goes by that name. It was as if an adored child had gone amissing.
Regardless of our many engagements, Ertzberger and I appeared on the doorstep of Messrs. Mower and Lidderdale, the solicitors, at the hour when, according to the information given me by telephone, the senior partner usually arrived. Mr. Mower confirmed our fears. Miss Arabin had returned to Plakos; she had been preparing for some weeks for the journey; he had not advised it — indeed he had not been asked his advice nor would he have dared to volunteer it. “A very strong-minded young lady,” he repeated—”I might almost say strong-headed.” She had sold the lease of her flat, and had left no instructions about her return. Yes, she was well supplied with money. Miss Arabin was her own mistress absolutely, for her father had created no trust. He had nothing more to tell us, and Ertzberger departed for the City and I for the Temple.
In the afternoon I was rung up by Ertzberger in my room in the House of Commons. He had been making inquiries, he said — he had his own ways of doing that sort of thing — and he had discovered that Koré had recently sold large parcels of stocks. She had been selling out steadily throughout the winter, and now had practically no investments left. The proceeds had been deposited on current account in her bank. There his information stopped, but he was profoundly disquieted. “That child has all her fortune in cash under her hand,” he said, “and God knows what she means to do with it. Any moment she may beggar herself, and no one can prevent her.”
That night I understood that my infatuation was over, if indeed it had ever existed. I wanted the girl safe, and I did not care who saved her, but I wanted it so much that at the moment nothing in heaven or earth seemed to matter in comparison.
It was now near the end of March, the Courts had just risen, and Parliament was about to adjourn for the Easter vacation. I had a good deal of important work on hand, but I was entitled to a holiday, and I thought I could arrange for at any rate a fortnight’s absence from town. But whether I could arrange it or not I meant to go, for I could no more settle to my tasks than a boy can settle to Tacitus on the day he is playing for his school. When Ertzberger, according to our arrangement, turned up at my chambers that night after dinner, he found me busy with an atlas and a Continental Bradshaw.
“I am going to Plakos,” I said.
“That is good. You are still a young man, and you have been a soldier. It is very good. But if you had not gone, I had decided to go myself.”
“This is Wednesday. Miss Arabin left last night. She will get there — when?”
He made some calculations. “Not before Tuesday. You might overtake her, but I do not think that is necessary. Easter is the danger-point, and the Greek Easter is still a fortnight off. Besides you must stop a day in Athens.”
“I shall want help. Can you get me half a dozen handy fellows I can trust?”
“I had thought of that. Indeed I telegraphed about it this afternoon. I can find you the men — and money, of course, if you want it. I will find you a lieutenant, too, and make all arrangements about transport. That at least I can do. You realize, Sir Edward, that there is a certain danger in this enterprise?”
“I realize that Miss Arabin in a week’s time will be in deadly danger. . . . I must have a day or two to wind up my work here. I think I can leave on Saturday morning.”
As a matter of fact I left London on the Friday night.
PART II
CHAPTER VIII.
I came to Plakos in a blind sea-fog. After a day and a night of storm the wind died utterly, and we made the isle on a compass course, feeling our way in by constant soundings. A thick salt dew hung on every stay and hawser, the deck and bulwarks swam with moisture, and our coats were in an instant drenched as if we had been out in a hurricane. Sea and land alike were invisible. The air was thick and oppressive to the breath, and every muscle in the body felt weak and flaccid. Also there was a strange quiet — only the ripple caused by our slow movement and the creak of sodden cordage. I might have been a shade looking on an island of the dead.
I had reached Athens in record time, but there I found a weariful delay. In spite of Ertzberger’s influence the wheels were clogged. I was met at the Piræus by his agent, one Constantine Maris, whose instructions were to hold himself at my disposal. I took to Maris at once — a young fellow of thirty, who had been in the Greek regular army and had been the right-hand man of Zimbrakis when at Salonika his troops declared for Venizelos. He had been all through the war till it ended in Bulgaria’s submission, had been twice wounded and once in prison, and had been chosen by Ertzberger to represent him in Athens because of his truculent honesty and tireless energy. Both in character and appearance he was more like a Frenchman than a Greek — a Norman, for choice, for he had reddish-brown hair and a high-bridged northern nose. He had the additional merit of being well educated, having put in two years at the Sorbonne: and he talked excellent French. His family were of Athens, but his mother, I think, was from one of the islands. He had the looks and manners of a soldier.
But Maris had found the task set him almost impossible. Ertzberger had bidden him get together a batch of reliable fellows who would obey orders and ask no questions, but as we rumbled Athens-ward from the Piræus in the little train he confessed that such men were not to be found. In the war it was otherwise, but the best had all gone back to the country villages. He had collected a dozen, but he was not enthusiastic about them, except a certain Janni, who had been a corporal in his old battalion. When he paraded them for my inspection I was inclined to agree with him. They were an odd mixture — every kind of clothes from the dirty blue jeans of the stoker to the black coat and pointed yellow shoes of the clerk — ages from nineteen to sixty — physique from prize-fighter to sneak-thief. All had served in the war, however, and the best of them, Janni, had an empty left sleeve. After much consultation we dismissed two and were left with ten who at any rate looked honest. Whether they would be efficient was another matter. Maris proposed to arm them with revolvers, but not till we got to Plakos, in case they started shooting up the town. They were told that they were wanted as guards for an estate which was threatened by brigands, but I doubt if they believed it. The younger ones seemed to think that our object was piracy.
Transport was another problem. I had hoped to be able to hire a small steam yacht, but such a thing was not to be had, and the best we could do was to induce a dissolute-looking little Leghorn freighter, named the Santa Lucia, to go out of its way and touch at Plakos. Maris told the captain a yarn about men being needed there for making a new sea-wall. The boat was bound for the Dodecanese, and would pick us up on her return a fortnight later.
Before we rounded Cape Sunium we got into foul weather, a heavy north-easter and violent scurries of rain. Our ruffians were all sea-sick and lay about like logs, getting well cursed by the Italian sailors, while Maris and I, in the one frowsy little cabin, tried to make a plan of campaign. I found out at once that Maris was well informed about the situation in Plakos, partly from Ertzberger and partly from his own knowledge. He knew about Shelley Arabin’s career, which seemed to be the common talk of
the Ægean. Of Koré he had heard nothing save from Ertzberger, but he had much to tell me of Plakos and its people. They had a name for backwardness and turbulence, and the Government seemed to leave them very much to themselves. There were gendarmes, of course, in the island, but he fancied they didn’t function. But the place had sent good soldiers to Venizelos, and its people were true Hellenes. After an interval when he expatiated on that Hellenic empire of the islands which was the dream of good Venizelists, he returned to their superstition. “That is the curse of my countrymen,” he cried. “They are priest-ridden.” He was himself, he told me, a free-thinker and despised all mumbo-jumbo.
I told him that the trouble was not with the priests, but he did not seem to understand, and I did not attempt to explain.
Our task, as we saw it, was straightforward enough — to protect the House during the Easter season when fear of the girl as a witch and the memory of Shelley’s misdeeds might induce some act of violence. There was also the trouble with the hill folk, and this seemed to him the greater danger. The dwellers in the stony mountains which filled the centre and south of the island had always been out of hand, and, since the winter had been cruel and the war had unsettled the whole earth, he thought it likely that they might have a try at looting the House, which they no doubt held to be full of treasure, since the Arabins had a name for wealth. I could see that he didn’t quite believe in danger from the coast folk, however beastly their superstitions might be. He had the Greek respect for a mountaineer and contempt for the ordinary peasant.
