CHAPTER XV.

(_From Reineke’s Note Book._)

A SILENT BETROTHAL.

When I joined Selaka in his afternoon stroll, he appeared to notice something different in my step and in my eyes. I felt myself as if I sprang rather than walked, and my glance saw nothing distinctly that it rested upon: it was impeded and clouded by the intense illumination from within. Yet never before did the bare, sunny hills look to me more lovely; never did the Greek isles, rising above their happy waters like rose and mauve clouds upon a blue sky, seem more dreamily enchanting. I remember nothing of our conversation. I walked beside the old man, drunk with my own speechless bliss, and answered his questions at random. And all the while my soul sang aloud its pæan, and the whole earth seemed to smile upon me out of one girl’s grave luminous gaze. Inarime! It seemed to me that the sweet air trembled with the shaking impulses of my intemperate gladness.

Two days passed thus. Blind and absent as I was, I could remark the sullen suspicion of Aristides’ manner, no longer vexing with its impertinent familiarity, but repulsing me with insolent sullenness. I paid no heed to this childishness. But I was struck with the fellow’s extraordinary penetration. Whence could he have divined there was aught in me to fear or distrust? There was something of the extreme fineness and subtlety of the animal instinct in his intuition, which completely eluded my observation. But Annunziata simply attributed my restored strength and serene joy to the notoriously beneficial influences of mountain air. She always greeted me with her cordial smile, and sometimes ventured to pat my hand in a motherly way. I delighted in her noiseless activity, and in her sturdy self-reliance. Tears for self I should imagine had never dimmed her bright black eyes, and the lines time had traced upon her brown forehead were not lines of pain and mental travail, but the marks of healthy, contented labour. It was a lesson to watch her carry her water jar from the village fountain, or lay the table, without hurry or anxiety, with the perfect ease of punctuality and order. Selaka, I felt, was studying me, half in perplexity, half in alarm, yet with increasing approval. He liked me, and with the days grew his cautious esteem into precipitate affection.

On the third day from my meeting with Inarime, he joined me in the early morning, as I sat upon the terrace, smoking and revelling in the lovely air. My heart could no longer bear this silence and separation, and my tongue at last resolved to give utterance to its urgent claim.

“Will your daughter remain much longer at Mousoulou?” I asked, conscious that my voice was unsteady from eagerness.

“I have not yet decided,” said Selaka quietly.

“Kyrie Selaka, I have a favor to ask you--the very greatest one man can ask another.”

I looked round into his face as I spoke, and knew I was pale to the lips.

“You wish to see my daughter,” said Selaka gravely.

“Nay, I have seen her. I want you to take me to her.”

The old man sat for awhile motionless as a statue, then he rose, and paced the terrace in severe and anxious reflection.

After a pause, that seemed to me interminable, he stopped in front of me, and looked in silence into my eyes. He shook back his head, as if he had come to a supreme decision, placed one hand on my shoulder, and held his beard with the other.

“Why not?” he asked, and then sat down beside me.

“That is not worthily said, Kyrie Selaka,” I could not help exclaiming, reproachfully.

“I see. You think I should ask ‘why’ rather than ‘why not,’” said Selaka, smiling softly. “And you are right; it is ‘why?’”

“Why?” I cried, impetuously, “because I love her, because I am hers, and she, I know, is mine.”

“Gently, my son, gently,” he interposed, laying his hand soothingly upon mine. “It seems to me that for a German you possess a pretty lively and reckless temperament. That having looked upon my daughter, her beauty should fire your young blood with romantic aspirations, is but natural. That you should ardently wish to see her again, is as it should be. But that you should hurl yourself with desperate passion into this rash and unconsidered decision that you are hers and Inarime is yours--my son, my son, it is not thus that I desire Inarime should be loved. From stormy scenes and the tempestuous fluctuations of passion would I jealously guard her, as from other noxious influences. The state of romantic love I regard, in common with all serious thinkers, as the very worst and most degraded state of bondage into which man can fall. It is equally unreasonable in its sickening depressions and in its passionate anticipations. I can see that it is only fruitful in cruelty, in folly, in stupidity, in crime and reckless blunders. Its miseries are immeasurable, and grievously restricted is its circle of joys.”

“But surely, sir, it was with this kind of romantic love that you loved your wife, Inarime’s mother,” I retorted.

“It was not so, my son. I loved her with the priceless affection that is based upon tranquil knowledge, upon spiritual affinity and inalterable esteem. Had the Gods left her to me, very jealously would I have sought to preserve her from the wintry winds of sorrow and poverty, and harsh experiences. Dear to me was she, as a complete blessing, and profound was my grief when she was taken from me. But I did not pursue her with the unthinking ardour of a burning desire, nor was my soul consumed in its fires. I saw that she was good and serene, and her beauty was an added charm. I sought her in the noontide of life, as one seeks shade in the noontide of day.”

“But, sir, I beseech you, do not judge us all by this high and inhuman ideal. We cannot all be sages. The passions will speak with terrible insistence in youth, however heavy a chain of habit and restraint may encompass them, and I cannot think there is aught unworthy or degrading in their petulant voice. We love not the less nobly and purely because passion is the font from which our love springs. If it prompts imperious exactions, may it not be that it urges sublime devotions? Man has nobly died for the sake of that romantic love you condemn, and what sacrifice can be finer than a woman’s surrender to it?”

“There should be neither sacrifice nor death. Reasonable beings should strive to meet and fulfil the decrees of destiny, in measure and calm acceptance of the laws of nature; not upon any violent urgence of the emotions, allow themselves to be swept away and precipitated into depths like powerless leaves whipped by the blast.”

“But if I recognise the decree of destiny that commands me to love Inarime, must I not obey it?”

“Be temperate; that is all I ask of you. Be just, too, and as little foolish and indiscreet as it is possible for a young man so blinded as you are,” said Selaka, and I thought he did not look extremely offended or discomposed by my impulsiveness.

“And when will you consent to put my discretion and my wisdom to the proof?” I persisted.

“To-morrow morning we will go to Mousoulou.”

To-morrow, Inarime, to-morrow! That was all I could think of as I sat and counted the hours, and my heart now sank within me in the complete prostration of yearning, and then rose to intoxicating heights upon the splendid wings of promise. I walked up and down the terrace all night, and watched the stars, as glorious and varied as the hopes that sprang and wavered and clamoured around me. Oh, the stillness, the soft yet sharp enchantment of a night-watch upon an Ægean island! The distant murmur of the restless sea breaks the silence of the land, and the shadowy hills fall into the dense veil of the valleys. The charm enters the soul like a pang, and it works upon the quickened senses with the subtle mingling of exasperation, of poignant and tranquil feelings. I felt chill as the twilight crept slowly over the night, and the stars began to pale and drop, one by one, out of the dim sky, like extinguished lamps, tracing a faint milky-way where their blue and golden illumination had been. Then quickly shot into the eastern horizon an arch of blood-red cloud, and showed the sea silver beneath it, and over this scarlet bridge appeared the sun, like a ball of living light ready to explode upon the pallid scene. And then the birds of the orchard began their piercing harmonies, and the wide spears of the grasses glistened with their crystal gathering of the night-dews. Day had come; my day, Inarime, and yours.

Contact with cold water did duty for sleep. I felt quite refreshed when I entered the little sitting-room where the coffee and Koulouria were served.

“You are early,” said Selaka, greeting me with an intangible smile, “and yet I am not wrong in believing you were walking on the terrace long after every one had gone to bed.”

I nodded, and drank my coffee as if it were nectar. I almost choked myself in my eagerness to dispatch my Koulouria, and hugely pleased Annunziata by begging another cup of her excellent coffee. One has not just recovered from a fever and held a tryst with the stars without serious result to one’s appetite.

After breakfast, under a delicately-clouded sky, we rode through the episcopal village of Xinara, this time, to my satisfaction, unaccompanied by Aristides. The narrowness of the passage compelled us to ride in single file until we had passed the bishop’s palace and all the gardens and pigeon-holed hamlets with their bright terraces and flowers. We turned up off the path round the great Castro, which, near, looks even more impressive than afar, burnt red and brown with the sun and rain, the wild thyme making a purple and scented haze upon its enormous flanks. Skirting the ruins of Borgo, all the valleys and vine plantations and orchards, girdled with hill beyond hill, burst upon our view in a magnificent panorama. Everywhere the sharp contrast of silver, olive and blue sea, and beneath us a vein of humid light flashed and twisted itself like quicksilver through the plain, until a bar of rocks broke it into an impetuous descent of foam. Silence lay upon the land, and alternately soft and glowing colours were swept across the empty hills by the wind-pursued clouds and the variations of sun-fire. Here and there little petulant torrents dashed noisily down the precipices, to twine themselves in the valleys and resume their wild course, wherever the rocks rose and shot them into frothy music. As we rode through each village, the curs came out, and stood near a group of pigs to examine us with a depressed and listless air, or bark at us from the ledge of a rock in a half-hearted way. Children with matted hair and glances of dull curiosity, surveyed us gravely, and whispered their opinions, and the villagers stared at us with inconvenient candour and solemnity. As we neared Mousoulou, a fine mist began to fall from the upper peaks, like a thin veil gradually thickening until it enveloped the landscape in a grey pall. I enjoyed the prospects of damp mountain scenery, but I could see that Selaka, like all Greeks, was made unhappy and nervous by it.

We reached Mousoulou drenched. A lover may be permitted to shrink from presenting the front of a water-dog to his mistress, and I was keenly relieved to learn that Inarime and her aunt were out when we arrived. An old woman welcomed us, and offered Selaka one sofa of honour and me another. We were administered a glass of cognac, then Selaka left me to listen to the wind howling furiously against the windows, bending the heads of the flowers on the terrace, and freezing my feet as it blew in under the chinks of the five doors that opened off the room. Undeterred by the rain, the villagers came in batches to inspect the stranger--men, women and children. It was a kind of theatrical entertainment for them, with the agreeable merit of being free of charge, and they availed themselves of the occasion with great good-will. The delighted old woman stayed and did the honours of the spectacle, explained me and appraised me with refreshing candour, and after a burst of exclamations, they all stood round perfectly calm, a row of offensive statues.

Can any reader, not experienced, possibly conjecture the nameless irritation of thus being silently, mercilessly stared at, and what black thoughts of murder may rush through the excited brain under it? I think not. When at last I had reached the white-heat of exasperation under this awful Greek gaze, I rose and turned my back on my tormentors.

The landscape was now folded in a grey mist, broken by the lines of the walls, the spires and perforated belfries. Out of this grey picture showed patches of brown earth and dark rock below the draped head of Mount Elias, and the trees looked like ghosts. The sky was a field of colourless cloud, and the flower-heads on the terrace pierced the opaline vapour with eyes of brilliant reproach. On a distant hill-curve a group of animals were shivering, and near by the raindrops made big pools upon the marble pavement. And soon the grey grew to opaque white, and rushed from the brow of Mount Elias like a swift cloud blotting out the meadows and valleys. Where was the glory of the morning? And where was the warmth of my heart?

“Do you know, sir, that I am inclined to think that I have been quite long enough on view?” I cried, when Selaka returned.

Selaka smiled, and I burst into an irritable laugh, which seemed to impress the audience in the light of a new act. They pressed nearer, and broke into inarticulate sounds of wonder and grave approval. I thought they meditated a general embrace, but they contented themselves with keeping the air from me, poisoning the atmosphere, and expectorating profusely.

“Don’t you think, sir, that it would be possible to hint politely that the entertainment is over?” I piteously implored.

Upon a word and gesture of authority, the audience straggled out, and doubtless held a parliament elsewhere to discuss the remarkable phenomenon.

“Surely your daughter is not out in this rain?” I asked, as soon as we were left to ourselves.

“No, she is sheltering in Steni. She accompanied her aunt on a visit to a sick woman.”

I looked round the large nude room, so chill and cheerless after Selaka’s pretty sitting-room. The floor was marked with the wet clogs of the recent explorers, and small rivers traversed it, flowing from our umbrellas. The beams of the ceiling were supported by white arches, and vulgar Italian pictures hung upon the whitewashed walls. It was the dreariest place possible in which to await one’s beloved, and then the sense of dampness, the deafening patter of rain against the windows, the wind roaring and rising in frantic gusts, and earth and sky one inextricable sea of grey! Most utterly wretched did I feel. I had much to do to keep the tears of acute disappointment from my eyes, and depression settled upon me as heavy as the impenetrable vapours outside.

The noonday dinner was served, and like a philosopher Selaka enjoyed the vermicelli soup, the pilau, and dish of larks stewed in tomatoes. I ate, too, mechanically, with my glance and ear strained in feverish intensity for the slightest premonition of Inarime’s return. And as we sat drinking our coffee I could see with rapture that the colourless mist was rolling rapidly off the earth, and above, delicately-tinted clouds were beginning to show themselves upon the slate ground. The sun peeped out through a blurred and ragged veil, and looked as if he intended to dry the deluged world, and pale gold streaked the jagged banks of red and yellow haze. Down the village street came the sound of hoofed feet, and Selaka rushed forward.

I went and stood at a window, and made a screen of the curtain. Selaka had promised, upon my insistent prayer, to leave me but one moment alone with Inarime before introducing me to her aunt. I saw a tall massive woman, wrapped in a blue cloak, enter, and deposit her wet umbrella in an opposite corner with maddening slowness. I glanced behind her, and here stood Inarime enveloped in some brown garment with a knot of red ribbon at her throat. She wore a red hood, and the moist air and quick ride had left the glow of a pomegranate flower upon her cheek. She stood in the middle of the room, and looked grave inquiry at her father. He nodded reassuringly, told her to wait for him there, and took his sister’s arm to lead her into the inner room.

I came out of my hiding-place. There was something so solemn, so ineffable in the moment, that I rejected all speech as inadequate. I simply stood there looking at Inarime as I have never yet looked at any woman, and then I said:--“Inarime!”

I held out both hands. She turned, and without making any movement towards me looked at me. Again her eyes gave me the impression of eyes that are dazzled with light. They were clear as amber, crystal as her soul, and held mine in willing bondage. Before then my pulses had throbbed with expectation and hope; now they were quieted, numbed almost by sheer intensity of feeling in the trace of gazing silence.

“Inarime!” I said again, and this time my voice dropped to a whisper.

Unconsciously she seemed drawn to me, and while our hands met and clasped, our eyes dwelt on each other in grave delight.

“You have not spoken to me, Inarime,” I said.

“Who are you?” she asked, as a wondering child might.

“Has your heart not told you, Inarime?”

Something like fear and humble pleading strove with the mastery of her proud restrained expression. It was so new and perilous to her, that she hardly knew to what she might not have silently pledged herself. She hastily withdrew her hands, but still her eyes rested on mine and sought solution in their depths.

“Oh, I am afraid,” she murmured, and a wave of intangible pain swept over her strong face.

“Not of me, Inarime; not of me,” I entreated, and drew near to gather her hands again.

Before either of us could realise or stay the volcanic influences that impelled us in an irresistible shock, my arms were round her and our lips were one.

* * * * * * *

Here Reineke’s note book, of which I was glad to avail myself, grows too incoherent and impassioned for further use. The author will try to tell the rest of his story.