CHAPTER XIII.

THE PAST OF A POET.

We all have histories. The meanest hind Who turns the steaming furrow can unfold Some story in his uneventful life, Which stirs the wonderment of him who hears, To thoughts bewildered, how so small a stage Can thus contain so great a tragedy.

The Eunice left Southampton on an unpleasantly wet day, and standing on the deck, under a dull gray sky, the three adventurers felt quite dispirited as they watched the receding shores of England veil themselves in chilly mists. Going down the Channel they had moderately fair weather, but no sunlight, and Caliphronas, who was a wretchedly bad sailor, in spite of his Levantine cruisings, retreated to his cabin in a very miserable frame of mind. Both Crispin and Maurice, however, were in good health and spirits, mostly remaining on deck to watch the gray sea heaving dully under the gray sky. In the Bay of Biscay bad weather prevailed as a matter of course, and the yacht tossed about a good deal in the choppy waters. Not until they passed the Straits did they have fine weather, for the first burst of sunlight showed them the giant rock of Gibraltar frowning on the left as they steamed rapidly into the blue waters of the Mediterranean.

Had Maurice so desired, Crispin was quite willing to put in for a day, but the young man was anxious to proceed to Melnos, and the yacht soon left the picturesque sentinel of the Mediterranean behind. The weather now became warm and bright, bringing Caliphronas out of his cabin again, like a brilliant butterfly, to bask in the sunshine. The arid island of Malta came in sight, and they saw its precipitous shores rising sternly from the tideless waters. For a few hours they cast anchor in the Grand Harbor, and went on shore to explore Valetta, with its steep streets, quaint houses, and mongrel population. An afternoon spent in leisurely strolling along the Strada Reale, and looking at the bizarre mixture of Turks, Jews, Arabs, Italians, and red-coated English soldiers, proved an agreeable change after their nine days’ run from Southampton, and they re-embarked in much better spirits than when they left England. Now they were in tropical heat, with a cloudless sky above, and the brave little yacht steamed merrily across the glittering waters, leaving a trail of white foam behind her. Nearer and nearer they drew to the enchanted shores of Greece, and to glowing days succeeded warm nights lighted by mellow constellations and delicately silver moons.

It was when they were in Adria, the ancient name of the sea between Sicily and Greece, that Crispin told Maurice the story of his life. Dinner was long since over, and the three gentlemen lounged on deck smoking the pipes of peace—that is, Crispin and Maurice smoked and lounged, for Caliphronas did neither the one thing nor the other, but paced restlessly about the deck, looking up into the darkly blue sky, and singing snatches of Greek songs.

“Do you see Taygetus, Mr. Maurice?” he said, pointing to the lofty snow-crowned range of mountains in the distance. “This is your first glimpse of Greece, is it not? Yes, of course it is. I am sorry you do not find our shores bathed in sunlight to greet you; still yonder snowy mountain, this calm sea, that serene sky, is beautiful, is it not?”

“Very beautiful.”

Whereat Caliphronas, leaning over the taffrail and looking dreamily at the shores of his native land, broke out into song.

“I would I were hunting on rocky Taygetus, Which kisses the starry sky with snows of chastity, Then might I meet the lost nymph Who beloved by a god was set as a star on high, But fell from thence, and was lost in the snowy wilderness.”

“Taygeta!” said Crispin, who knew the song well. “Yes; she was one of the Pleiades, certainly; but I don’t think she was the lost Pleiad, nor do I think she had anything to do with yonder mountain. If you hunted there, Caliphronas, you would meet Bacchus and his crew, but no nymph.”

“I sing the song as ’twas sung to me,” said the Count blithely, balancing himself on one foot. “This is a land of fancy, not of fact; so why bring in your hard truths to destroy the glory of tradition? No; Taygeta haunts those hills, and if I wandered upward to the snows I would meet her.”

“If you saw a nymph you would go mad,” remarked Maurice, alluding to the old Greek superstition.

“I am mad now, Mr. Maurice,—mad with the scent of wind and wave and shore. Can you not smell the perfumes blowing from the land?”

“No; I’m sure I cannot, nor you either.”

“You are no believer. See, from the moonlit waters arise the Nereides to welcome us to the seas of Poseidon. Arethusa, Asia, and Leucothoe are all waving their white arms, and singing songs of the wondrous caves beneath the waves.”

“Ridiculous!” retorted Maurice stolidly.

“You are no idealist,” said Caliphronas petulantly. “Dull Englishman as you are, the land of romance spreads her wonders in vain for you. Creespeen, you are a poet; behold the daughters of the sea!”

Crispin smiled absently, and tossed his cigarette into the waters which rushed past, glittering in the moonlight with the grayish glint of steel.

“You forget that this is no galley of Ulysses, my friend. A modern steamer, with a noisy screw beating the waters, is enough to scare away all the nymphs in the vicinity.”

“And this is a poet!” cried the Greek indignantly, addressing the stars; “this dull-eyed being who can see no wonders in the seas! Oh, shade of Homer, conjure up for him the island nymph, Calypso, and her lovely train; conjure”—

“I think Homer will have to conjure up himself first,” said Crispin flippantly.

“Which he certainly will not do on the ocean,” added Maurice lazily; “your mighty poet was a land-lubber.”

Caliphronas looked indignantly at them both, then went off in a rage.

“I will go and have a talk to the sailors.”

“Don’t addle their English brains with your classical rubbish,” shouted Crispin satirically; “if you do, they may wreck us.”

“Wreck you!” said the Greek to himself, with a start. “There is many a true word spoken in jest, my friend; perhaps you will be wrecked before we reach Melnos.”

When Caliphronas had gone. Maurice relighted his pipe, which had gone out; and, freed from the chattering of the Count, enjoyed the quiet beauty of the night, while Crispin hummed softly a ballad which Eunice used to sing,—

“Oh, winds and waves, oh, stars and sea, I would I were as blithe and free.”

Above, the sky was almost of a purple color in the sultry night, and the stars, brilliant and large, burned like lamps in the still air. A serene moon, half veiled in fleecy clouds, arose above the chill snows of Taygetus, and a long glittering bridge of light extended from the land to the yacht. The steady beat of the screw, which impelled the vessel through the silent waters, sounded in their ears, blending with the rich voice of Caliphronas, who had climbed up the mast, and was clinging to the weather rigging like a spectral figure in the shadowy glimmer of moon and star.

“The earth breathes fragrant breaths to-night, And the perfume blows from the land. Oh, I can see the waters kissing her shores, Even as I would kiss thee, my belovèd, With thy breath more fragrant than these languid scents, Floating from the distant isles of rose-filled gardens.”

“I wish I knew Greek,” said Maurice, as the Count paused for a moment; “those snatches of song sound so beautiful.”

“They are beautiful,” replied Crispin idly; “I have often thought of translating some of them into English. Listen!”

“I see Dione rising from the waters, A Venus of the moonlight night. Why wavest thou thy arms as ivory gleaming? Why do I see thine eyes flash as the evening star? Thy voice is as the murmur of breathing waves In twilight on a sandy beach. Callest thou me to thy home below? Ah, I will come, and beneath the placid waters Coldly white will I lie on thy cold white breast. But thro’ the door of death must I pass to gain such blisses.”

“’Tis like the lyrics of Callicles in Arnold’s poem,” said Crispin, taking off his cap; “stray fragments of song scattered by the winds.”

“Or like the songs in ‘Pippa Passes,’” suggested Maurice speculatively; “but I am afraid the singing of Caliphronas will not do so much good as Pippa’s.”

A long sigh floated past them on the still waters, like the melancholy cry of a bird, and died away sadly in the distance.

“Calypso sighing for Ulysses,” observed Crispin, without altering his position; “though I dare say it is only the wind moaning through the ropes.”

“Let us think it is the voice calling, Pan is dead!”

“We are classical to-night. Caliphronas has inoculated us with his antique dreams. Well, when one is in fairyland, one must dream romances.”

“Suppose you tell me your romance,” said Maurice abruptly.

“Of my past life? Yes; I will do so; but you must promise to keep it secret.”

“I promise.”

“I am afraid you will think but little of it when you know all; but I promised to tell you, so I will now fulfil my promise. In the first place, you know my name is Crispin.”

“Yes; and have often wondered at its terseness. Have you no surname?”

“No legal surname.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am a natural son.”

“Illegitimate!” said Maurice, startled.

“Yes. Now you see the reason for my returning to Melnos.”

“You wish to find out who you really are.”

“I do; from Justinian.”

“But who is this mysterious Justinian?”

“And this equally mysterious Caliphronas, and Alcibiades, and Crispin. You are in a world of mystery here, and will see many things on Melnos which will excite your wonderment. But come, I will lift a portion of the veil, and place you in possession of facts which may be of use to you in the future.”

“I am all attention.”

Crispin settled himself more comfortably, and, fixing his earnest eyes upon Maurice, began his story without further remark.

“My first memories are of the Island of Melnos, where I was _not_ born. No; I was taken there with my mother when I was an infant; but the land of my birth I do not know. English I am, certainly; but for all I know, ocean may have witnessed my coming into the world. As I grew up, I thought Justinian was my father, for my mother always led me to believe such was the case, and certainly he was very kind to me. This Justinian, of whom you have often heard me speak, is not a Greek, but an Englishman; but of his real name I am ignorant, nor do I know the reason that he lives in this island exile. Now you can see the reason I speak English so well, for from my earliest years I was brought up with the sound of it in my ears; so also was Caliphronas.”

“Is he related to Justinian?”

“No; nor was he born in Ithaca; nor is he a count; nor is his name Caliphronas. Count Constantine Caliphronas, better known in these waters as Andros, comes from the island of the name; and Justinian, struck by his beauty as a child, adopted him as a son, and brought him up with me. The English tongue we were both taught from our cradles; so you now know the reason we both speak it so well. In those early days I always thought Justinian was my father, and Caliphronas was my brother; but as I grew up I was undeceived on these points. My mother died when I was still a child, and I was therefore left to the sole guardianship of this pseudo-Englishman. As I told you, he rules over a kind of patriarchal community in this little-known island; and the life seems to suit him, for he is a kind of freebooter in his way, fierce and lawless, though years have now tamed his spirit to a considerable extent. Caliphronas, or rather Andros, and myself were brought up in a wild sort of fashion,—always in the open air, on the waters, fishing, riding, sailing, fighting”—

“Fighting!” cried Maurice in surprise.

“Yes. Oh, there are strange things in these Greek waters, I assure you! On an adjacent island lived a kind of semi-pirate called Alcibiades, who was, and is, a thorough blackguard. He used to cruise about in a small craft in order to levy blackmail on the inhabitants of the other islands, and in these cruises Andros and myself very often joined. There was no killing, you understand; but sometimes the peasants objected to be robbed, so there was often a fight, ending in broken heads.”

“But the law?”

“Oh, there is precious little law in these parts. Brigandism is not yet extinct, whatever you English may think. Besides, Alcibiades was a moderate sort of pirate, and was cunning enough not to go too far. He would rob a poor man of his last drachma, but he would not cut his throat. I don’t think Justinian blamed him for this piratical existence; indeed, I think he rather envied his wild life, and, had he been young enough, would certainly have joined him in partnership. As it was, he allowed Andros and myself to form part of the band of Alcibiades, which we, wild, uncultured scamps as we were, regarded as a great privilege.”

“And how long did this buccaneering go on?”

“As far as I am concerned, for some years; but as regards Caliphronas, I dare say he is at it yet.”

“What! is he a thief?”

“Oh, no; a thief is a vulgar thing. Caliphronas is a picturesque freebooter, and simply plunders on a large scale. I’ve no doubt his visit to England was paid for out of his ill-gotten gains.”

“And is this Alcibiades still living?”

“Oh yes; you will see him, I have no doubt, for he is a great friend of Justinian’s.”

“But who is this Justinian?”

Crispin paused for a moment and seemed to consider, then replied with great deliberation,—

“I can hardly tell you. He is an Englishman, so you must be content with knowing only that. Later on I may tell you something about him, but not now.”

“Well, and how did you escape from this piratical existence?”

“Oh, Caliphronas was the main cause of my leaving Melnos. After my mother died, I made several discoveries—one, that Andros was not my brother, as I had hitherto supposed; and another, that Justinian was not my father. Being a comparative child, I did not pay much attention to these facts; but when I was about eighteen years of age, I began to ask Justinian questions as to who I really was, but he refused to tell me.”

“Were you always called Crispin?”

“Yes, always. Justinian, in spite of his fierce, wild nature, has a vein of romance in him, and, as he arrived at Melnos with myself and my mother on St. Crispin’s day, called me after that saint. My mother fell in with his humor, and from the time I landed at Melnos I was called nothing else but Crispin.”

“Or Creespeen, as the Count calls you.”

“Yes; Caliphronas is a good English speaker, but he makes mistakes in proper names. You observe he never risks saying Roylands, but always addresses you as Mr. Maurice—Maurice is of course a Greek name.”

“And how was Caliphronas responsible for your leaving Melnos?”

“Oh, it was a kind of Esau and Jacob business. I was Esau, and Andros Jacob, the favored one. Justinian thought me rather a milksop, because I did not care about our piratical excursions with Alcibiades, in which Caliphronas, born scamp as he was, delighted. At all events, Caliphronas, in order to curry favor with Justinian, and secure his own well-being, did his best to estrange us still further, and very soon my adopted father broke out into open hatred of me. One day, when I refused to join in one of Alcibiades’ little trips in search of plunder, he taunted me with being a man of peace, like my father; and, when I demanded who my father was, refused to tell me anything more than that I was illegitimate. From words we came to blows, for both of us were very hot-tempered, and the end of it was that Justinian ordered me to leave the island, much to the delight of Caliphronas, who wanted to secure it to himself.”

“And you left Melnos?”

“Yes; I could not help myself, as Justinian had plenty of scoundrels to do his bidding; and, had he given the word, I have no doubt Alcibiades would have put a stone round my neck, and dropped me into the sea.”

“But, my dear Crispin, all this lawlessness nowadays!”

Crispin shrugged his shoulders with a smile.

“My dear fellow, you gentlemen of England, who live at home in ease, do not know what lawlessness still exists in the East. To be sure, I speak of over ten years ago, and things are better now; still, I think a good many things go on in the vicinity of Melnos which Justice would scarcely approve of; but, as long as nothing very bad happens, why, she winks at small crimes. If I had been dropped into the sea, who would have been a bit the wiser? no one except the islanders, and they would not have troubled themselves over such a trifle, especially as I was not popular among them. Caliphronas, Justinian, and Alcibiades are all their divinities, not a poor poet like me, who shrinks from their scampish ways.”

“So you left Melnos in the end?”

“Yes; like the boy in the fairy tale, I went out into the wide, wide world to seek my fortune. I managed to work my passage to Athens, and arrived there without even the traditional penny. Fortunately, I knew modern Greek and English thoroughly well, so was fortunate enough to obtain a situation as a corresponding clerk in a firm of merchants who traded with England, but I did not remain there long.”

“Where did you make all your money?”

“Ah, that is what I am now going to tell you. Fortune evidently wished to make reparation for having brought me into the world with a stigma on my name, so threw me into the way of a rich Englishman, whom I met at the house of my employer. He heard my story, and was much impressed with it; and then discovered that I had the talent to string verses together, and also a faculty for music. Being passionately fond of such things he made up his mind that he had discovered a genius; and, being without a relative in the world, he adopted me as his son and made me his heir.”

“You seem to have passed your life in being adopted,” said Maurice, who was deeply interested in this romantic history.

“Only twice. First Justinian, then my English father. I need not tell you his name, as I did not take it, preferring to be called Crispin until such time as I discovered my real parent. Well, my benefactor, who was very learned, began to educate me, and also placed me at school. I suppose I made good use of my time, as I soon became sufficiently accomplished to win his approval. We travelled all over the Continent—a great deal in the East—until I was about twenty-seven years of age, when he died at Damascus, and left me heir to all his property, amounting to about twelve thousand a year.”

“Fortunate man!”

“Yes; I thought I was too fortunate, and had some compunction in taking so large an income, fearing lest I might be robbing some relative of my benefactor more entitled to it. When I buried my adopted father at Damascus, I came to England and saw his lawyers, who were quite satisfied with my identity, owing to the papers which I produced. The will, of course, was in their possession, as my benefactor had returned to England when I was at school, and made his will in my favor. The lawyers told me that there were no relatives alive, and that I was justly entitled to spend the money, so that is how I became rich. The rest of my life you know.”

“You published a volume of poems, became the mystery of London, saw Eunice, fell in love with her, and came down to the Grange—yes, I know all that; but have you made no effort to discover who you are?”

“Yes. I went to Melnos three years ago and saw Justinian, but he refused to help me in any way; so I returned to England in despair. Now, however, I am going back with certain knowledge of Justinian’s past life, which I will make use of to force him to tell me what I wish to know.”

“You don’t believe his story about your illegitimacy?”

“No. If I can get the truth out of him I believe I will find I have a right to a legal surname, and I am anxious to establish this fact in order to marry Eunice. As it is, I cannot marry her without inflicting on her the disgrace I feel myself; besides, her mother would not consent to the marriage, nor would you.”

“My dear fellow, I am not so narrow-minded as all that.”

“Still, I know your English prejudices. You say that out of kindness, but if your cousin marries, you would prefer her husband to have a spotless name.”

“Certainly.”

“Then I am going to make Justinian give me one. I know, if he tells the truth, I will discover I have been born in wedlock. Of his own free will he refuses to tell me; now, however, owing to my knowledge of his past, I can force his confidence.”

“And what about Helena?”

“She is Justinian’s daughter. There is no stain on her birth; so if you love her, as I am sure you will, you can marry her without fear.”

“Her father seems rather a terrible old person.”

“He is a scamp, I am afraid. Still, he is a man of good family.”

“How do you know?”

“I have made certain discoveries while in England, and now know more about Justinian than he thinks.”

“Is Helena as charming as she looks?” asked Maurice anxiously.

“Yes,” replied Crispin emphatically. “She is a pure, good woman, and will make you an excellent wife; but you have a rival.”

“Alcibiades?”

“No; Caliphronas.”

“I thought as much,” said Maurice, with a start, remembering the Greek’s jealousy concerning the portrait. “But if he loves Helena, why did he show me her picture, which has been my sole reason for this journey?”

“Wheels within wheels!” replied Crispin significantly.

“More mystery?”

“Yes; there are still some things for you to learn, but I cannot tell you of them now, as I have made a promise.”

“To whom?”

“Caliphronas.”

“Caliphronas!” cried that gentleman, who had approached them quietly; “and what are you saying about Caliphronas?”

“A good many things,” said Crispin rapidly, in Greek. “I have been telling him who I am.”

The Greek flushed with rage, and then he laughed.

“That is your business, but I trust you did not break faith?”

“About Justinian, no; about Helena, no; but I have told him all your early life.”

Caliphronas made a dart at Crispin with uplifted hand, but Maurice sprang up and caught him in his arms, where he writhed like an eel.

“Traitor!” he hissed in Greek; “traitor!”