CHAPTER XXII.

THE APPLE OF DISCORD.

A woman caused the fall of man, A woman caused the fall of Troy; An apple both these woes began, Which brought beneath pale Sorrow’s ban All earthly joy.

For Eve was fair, and Helen fair, Each wrought destruction by her face; They captured hearts in beauty’s snare, And made mankind the burden bear Of their disgrace.

To-day the story we repeat: A woman wins or loses all; She plucks the fruit for us to eat, We taste and find the apples sweet, And then we fall.

The ill-fated Eunice had been wrecked about the middle of August, and it was now nearly the end of September, close on the celebration of the vintage feast, which Justinian determined to celebrate with great splendor, so as to gratify Maurice with an accurate representation of the ancient Dionysia of Athens.

Crispin for the moment had resumed his old occupation of playwright, and had furbished up one of his old dramas, not having the time to write an absolutely new one. In this play both Caliphronas and Helena were to take part, and the author himself, like a modern Æschylus, acted as stage manager, drilling the chorus, arranging the scenery, attending to the music, and coaching the principal actors in their parts. The people of Melnos were also busily preparing for the vintage feast of the first day, and for the Olympian games of the third; but amid all these peaceful occupations Justinian kept a watchful eye on Caliphronas, and neglected nothing that might guard the island against a sudden assault by Captain Alcibiades and his gang.

Completely deceived by the manner of the Demarch, which was Justinian’s local title among his people, Caliphronas, now assured both of Helena and Melnos, eagerly entered into the plans of the cunning old man, and, on returning from a week’s cruise with Alcibiades, revealed a wide-stretching conspiracy among the Levantine Greeks for the capture of Melnos. Far and wide Alcibiades with great art had instilled a belief into the minds of all the idlers, vagabonds, and scamps of the Ægean, that Melnos contained immense treasures, and weekly, leaders of bands of men repaired to Alcibiades’ rocky little island to receive instructions as to how their plans were to be carried out. Of course, the wily old pirate was the leader, and arranged all his schemes in the most dexterous manner, for he gave his commands to those chief men who came to see him, and they, returning to their own islands, communicated such orders to their own followers. By this means Alcibiades had collected quite an army, all eager for plunder, and they had arranged among themselves to attack Melnos, either by the tunnel or the western pass, at the first convenient opportunity.

It may seem strange in the eyes of civilized people that such a conspiracy should be planned and carried out under the very nose of the Greek Government, but all the operations were conducted with great caution; the different portions of the proposed army were scattered piecemeal over the islands of the Ægean, so there was really nothing to arouse the suspicion of the authorities that any revolutionary movement was in course of formation. Besides, Melnos being in the extreme south of the Archipelago and close to Crete, that home of Turkish misrule, any local disturbance would be taken comparatively little notice of, as such disturbances were quite common; so it seemed as though Alcibiades and his brother scamps were going to have things all their own way. Once they captured and plundered Melnos, they had no fear of the future, as, once they dissolved into small companies and returned to their own islands, it would be quite impossible for the Greek Government, even if they did interfere, to punish a body of men which to all appearances had no existence.

The plans of Alcibiades were very simple, for, having arranged with the leaders of the several bodies of men that they would join in his schemes, he commanded that they should all meet on his own island on a certain day,—as yet unfixed,—when in the aggregate they would number quite three hundred men, and could thus storm Melnos, which could only be defended, as they knew, by two hundred, inclusive of women. In fact, the population of Justinian’s island capable of bearing arms, even including the English sailors and his guests, scarcely numbered more than one hundred and twenty men; so when the fiery old Englishman heard from Caliphronas of the strength of the enemy, he saw that the danger was indeed serious.

Melnos, however, was strongly fortified against the inroads of these ill-armed pirates, for the tunnel, defended by its palisade, could hardly be forced if held by a small body of resolute men, and the western pass was commanded by two pieces of ordnance, one on either side, which would sweep down the stormers by the score should they attempt to carry this natural entrance by assault. As to the rest of the island, it was quite impossible for the marauders to climb over the rugged, snow-clad peaks; so what with his cannon, defences, arms of the most modern construction, and his resolute men, Justinian felt that he could defy Captain Alcibiades and his ill-armed crew.

The old Demarch still permitted Caliphronas to remain in his fool’s paradise, as matters were in a delicate position, and he resolved to wait until after the three days’ festival before coming to a perfect understanding with the treacherous Greek. Caliphronas, therefore, regarding himself as entirely favored by fortune, became almost unbearable in his insolence, and had not Maurice known the real facts of the case, a serious quarrel would certainly have taken place between them. As it was, however, the young Englishman saw that the Greek was completely duped by his false prosperity, and would almost have pitied his blind confidence in his good fortunes, had not the arrogance, insolence, and spite of the Count inspired him with the utmost contempt.

Caliphronas, indeed, was hated by every one in the island: by the common people, owing to the haughtiness and scorn he invariably displayed towards them; by the English sailors, who thought him a coward, and had never forgiven his treachery on the night of the wreck, which had cost their captain his life; and by all the inmates of the Acropolis, who despised this brilliant butterfly heartily. Quite unaware of the delicate ground on which he was treading, Caliphronas, in his gorgeous Albanian costume, swaggered about the place in a most offensive manner, and quite assumed the demeanor of a despot, much to the amusement of Justinian, who chuckled grimly as he saw the blind confidence of the Greek. However, it was the calm before the storm, and everything went along smoothly enough, save for an occasional outbreak between Maurice and the Count about Helena, who was a veritable apple of discord between these fiery young men.

Helena herself disliked Caliphronas intensely, as she was only too well aware of the mean, petty soul contained in that splendid body, and his outward beauty had no effect upon her, knowing as she did what a truly despicable wretch the man was. His admiration for her was purely a sensual one, for he knew nothing about true, pure love, and all he wanted was to have this lovely woman to himself, to be his mistress and slave. Doubtless this was the same animal passion as was cherished by Paris, son of Priam, for that other Helen, whose beauty could scarcely have been greater than that of her namesake of Melnos; and Caliphronas as his Trojan prototype was inspired by no purer deity than Venus Pandemos. When the Count paid her compliments, Helena shuddered, so instinctively did her virginal soul feel the impurity of this persistent suitor, and treated him with marked coldness, much to the anger of Caliphronas, who complained bitterly to Justinian of the scorn with which his advances were met.

“My good Andros,” said Justinian one day, when he had been inveighing against the caprices of women, “why do you come to me for assistance? If that handsome face, that fine figure, that smooth tongue, cannot win the affections of a woman, nothing else will.”

“I believe she likes that Englishman,” muttered the Greek, in no wise pleased at the ironical tone of the Demarch.

“I am not responsible for her likes and dislikes,” retorted Justinian coldly, although he heard this remark with much inward satisfaction. “However, you have my promise.”

“And you will keep it?”

“Only on condition that you keep me informed of the schemes of Alcibiades.”

“Oh, I will do that. I will do anything to win Helena, but if you deceive me, it will be the worst day’s work you ever did.”

“There is no necessity to threaten without cause,” replied Justinian, bridling his anger at the insolence of the Count; “you will have both Helena and Melnos, but before announcing this publicly, I wish to wait until after the Dionysia.”

“Very well,” answered Caliphronas, turning on his heel; “a week or so will make no difference to me. But when I am publicly acknowledged as your son-in-law and successor, the first thing I will do will be to turn Crispin and this insolent Englishman out of the island.”

“Well, well, we’ll see about that,” said Justinian, with great indifference; “wait till after the Dionysia.”

After this conversation. Caliphronas went away perfectly satisfied that everything was going in his favor, which was extremely foolish, as he might have guessed something was wrong from the unnatural calmness of Justinian. Formerly the old Demarch had been given to outbursts of fiery wrath when his will was crossed, however slightly; but now he bore the insolence of the Greek so quietly, that a less astute man than Caliphronas would have been placed on his guard by this unusual suavity. The Count, however, blinded by his good fortune, rushed madly forward, unseeing the abyss yawning before him, and deemed that the self-restraint of his proposed father-in-law arose from the feebleness of age. If he could have seen the passion of Justinian when he was once more alone, he would have changed his mind; but this he was unaware of, and his self-conceit and egotistical blindness kept him in perfect ignorance of the approaching storm.

It was with great satisfaction that Justinian saw the great admiration Maurice Roylands had for Helena, and with still greater, when he noticed that his daughter was disposed to look favorably on the suit of the handsome young Englishman. Helena, indeed, in spite of her real simplicity, was a born reader of character, which happy trait she inherited from her father, as she inherited the fair beauty of her Greek mother; and the more she saw of Maurice, the more she loved him for his kindly heart, his honorable nature, and the delicacy with which he treated her. Caliphronas, confident in his manly beauty, paid his addresses with the air of a conqueror,—a mode of wooing which no woman likes, and Helena least of all, as it fired her proud soul with indignation; and when she saw how deferential was Maurice in his courting, she naturally enough preferred the diffident Englishman to the over-confident Greek. True daughter of Eve, however, she was, for, in spite of her dislike to Caliphronas, she could not resist at times the temptation of speaking kindly to him, in order to arouse the jealousy of Maurice. In this she was quite successful; and though Roylands could not but deem her wise to lull Caliphronas into a false security at the present crisis, still he was madly jealous of every look she bestowed on the Greek, and the two suitors were always on terms of ill-concealed enmity with one another.

Of course Helena was quite ignorant of all her father’s plans, and merely treated Caliphronas with unexpected kindness out of pure coquetry, being quite delighted when she saw how such caprice annoyed the man she truly loved. A woman may worship a man, and look upon him as the sole object of her adoration, yet even the wisest, the purest, the kindest woman cannot help teasing her god a little, out of sheer capriciousness. It is playing with fire, certainly, and many women burn their fingers at this perilous game of “I-love-you-to-day-and-you-to-morrow,” yet they will indulge in such coquettish triflings, either to make the man they love value them the more, or out of pure malicious desire to see his anger. Women instinctively know that what is won with difficulty is more valued than that which is gained with ease; and besides, it flatters a man into thinking he is superior to his fellow-creatures in fascinations, when he secures an affection which has fluttered doubtfully here and there before centring finally in his precious self. Think you Cleopatra would have kept Antony so long her slave, had she not stimulated his love occasionally by giving him cause for jealousy? By no means. Octavia was humble, faithful, true, and loving, so Marcus Antonius grew weary of such domestic virtues, and turned to Cleopatra, who kept him in a constant state of alarm lest her fickle nature should choose another lover. Helena knew nothing of Cleopatra’s wiles, but she instinctively knew that the way to win a man is to place a prize almost, but not quite within his reach; so she flirted with Caliphronas, and would have flirted with Crispin, had he given her a chance, yet cared more for Maurice, whom she thus tortured, than for all the rest put together.

To-day she was on her best behavior, however, and was seated with Maurice in the court, weaving a coronal of flowers for her adornment at dinner. Helena was fond of wreaths, and rarely made her appearance at any meal without a chaplet of roses, or ivy and violets, or delicate white lilies adorning her golden tresses. Crispin was in his room, engaged in writing his drama. Caliphronas was holding the above-mentioned conversation with Justinian; and the two young people sat lazily in the sunshine, Maurice smoking cigarettes, and Helena weaving her wreath with myrtle and roses and sweet-smelling violets.

The sun shone brightly on the white marble court, with its treasures of many-colored blossoms, the fountain flashed like fire in the lustrous light, and the white pigeons whirling aloft in the cloudless brilliance of the sky, at times settled down on the roof in milky lines with gentle cooings. Helena, with her hands buried in flowers and many-colored ribbons, was humming a quaint little song of the madrigal type, set to a simple, sweet melody, which rendered it very charming.

“Chloe, take you rose and myrtle, Weave them in a dainty fashion, Deck with such your rustic kirtle, They are type of Colin’s passion. For with roses do I woo thee, Sue thee! woo thee! woo thee! sue thee! Hey, pretty maiden, I come a-courting, Join me, I pray, in such merry, merry sporting, With a fa-la-la-la, pretty maiden.

Colin, take you pansies only, From your dream of love awaken, Deck with such your cottage lonely, They are type of love forsaken. For with pansies do I flout thee, Doubt thee! flout thee! flout thee! doubt thee! Hey, jolly shepherd, come not a-courting, Join will I not in such silly, silly sporting, With a fa-la-la-la, jolly shepherd.”

“Where did you learn that pretty song?” asked Maurice, whom the air struck as familiar.

“My father taught it to me,” replied Helena, putting her head on one side to observe the effect of a newly added rose. “Is it not dainty? Ribbons, and silks, and flowers, and pipings; quite unlike the real shepherds and shepherdesses of Melnos, but deliciously delicate for all that.”

“I wonder where your father picked it up?”

“Oh, father knows plenty of old tunes, and I am so fond of them. Why do you ask?”

“Because, curiously enough, that song was written by a Carolean ancestor of mine, and I cannot think how Justinian came to know it.”

“It is strange, certainly,” said Helena thoughtfully.

“Helena, who is your father?” asked Maurice impulsively.

“Demarch of Melnos.”

“Yes, I know that; but what is his English name?”

“That I cannot tell you,” replied Helena, shaking her pretty head. “I know nothing beyond that he is Justinian, that I am his daughter, and that this is our island.”

“It’s like ‘The Tempest,’ is it not? You are Miranda, Justinian Prospero, and I”—

“And you?” queried Helena, with a slight blush.

“Cannot you guess?” asked Maurice significantly.

The girl laughed, and looked down at her flowers.

“I suppose Ferdinand.”

“Oh, you know ‘The Tempest!’” said the young man, with some surprise.

“I know all Shakespeare’s plays. Do you think I am so very ignorant?”

“I think you are very delightful.”

“Maurice! I thought English gentlemen did not pay compliments.”

“I am the exception that proves the rule,” he replied audaciously. “However, I might have guessed Justinian would have an odd volume of Shakespeare about with him. The Englishman believes in the Bible and Shakespeare, the Englishwoman in the Bible and Burke.”

“Who is Burke?”

“The man that wrote the ‘English Peerage.’”

“What is a peerage?”

“You have read Shakespeare, and do not know what a peerage is! Helena, I’m ashamed of you!”

“If you talk like that, Maurice, I will certainly not give you this rose.”

“Then I won’t talk like that; so give me the rose.”

“Not yet; you must win it first.”

“Helena! you are as hard-hearted as the Chloe of your song.”

“Am I? but if I don’t give pansies”—

“Helena!”

He made a sudden movement towards her of ill-suppressed eagerness, whereupon she, having betrayed herself more than she wished to do, feigned anger to escape from the declaration which she saw was trembling on his lips. Why she did this, it was hard to say, as she loved Maurice very much, and longed to hear him tell of his passion, yet she nipped his declaration in the bud. Why? Ask a woman to solve the mystery; for it is beyond the power of any man to unravel.

“See!” she said playfully; “you have upset all my flowers. Pick them up at once.”

The obedient Maurice went down on his knees before this pretty tyrant and began to collect the flowers. The position was worse than the words, so Helena, seeing the danger, hastily began to talk of the first thing that came into her head.

“Talking about ‘The Tempest’—who is Andros?”

“Ariel for looks, Caliban for wickedness.”

“And Crispin?”

“Crispin is Gonzalo, the honest old counsellor.”

Helena made a pretty grimace, and ordered Maurice back to his chair, which was at a safe distance, and did not admit of any embarrassing endearments.

“Miranda was very fond of Ariel, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but she hated Caliban. Do you like Caliban?”

“Well, I like Ariel.”

“Then what about Ariel-Caliban—Caliphronas?” asked Maurice, vexed at her fencing.

“I can’t bear him—and yet,” continued Helena reflectively, with a certain spice of malice, “there is something nice about him.”

“You can’t bear him, and yet there is something nice about him!” echoed Maurice bitterly. “I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t understand myself.”

“Can I explain you?” asked Roylands eagerly, drawing his chair a little nearer.

Helena hesitated, blushed, then made a very irrelevant remark.

“Tell me about Roylands.”

Maurice very nearly uttered a bad word, he was so angered at her coquetry, but, thinking the best way to pique her was to meet her with the same weapons as she used, at once acceded to her request, much to her secret dismay.

“Stupid!” thought the lady.

“Flirt!” thought the gentleman.

Decidedly these two young people were at cross-purposes.

“Roylands,” said Maurice, pushing back his chair into its former place, “is a large park formerly owned by one of the Plantagenet kings.”

“What is a Plantagenet king?”

“I shall have to give you a book of Mangnall’s Questions to learn,” said Roylands in despair. “_Planta genista_ is the Latin name for broom. Do you know what broom is?”

“Yes; the mountains are sometimes quite yellow with it. Father told me it was called broom.”

“Well, some of the English kings used to wear it in their helmets as a badge, so that is how they got the name of Plantagenet.”

“You are quite a dictionary.”

“I am glad to be so when my pages are turned by so fair a hand.”

This answer nonplussed Helena, and for once she was fain to hold her peace.

“The park,” resumed Maurice, observing this with inward satisfaction, “was given to one of my ancestors by the then sovereign of England, and has been in our family ever since.”

“Is it a pretty place?”

“Well, it has not the exquisite beauty of Melnos, but it is very lovely in my eyes.”

“Is the house like this?”

“No; quite different. Such magnificence would not do for a poor country gentleman like myself. It is an old Tudor house, built in the reign of Henry VIII.”

“I know Henry VIII.,” said Helena vivaciously.

“Shakespeare, I suppose? What a charming way of learning history! Yes, Roylands Grange is a Henry VIII. house of red brick, and is covered with ivy. Green lawns with flower-beds are before the terrace, and the whole is encircled by the park.”

“How lovely it must be, Maurice! And is it all your own?”

“Yes; at least, it is unless my uncle Rudolph turns up.”

“Your Uncle Rudolph!”

“Oh, that is our one family romance. Rudolph Roylands was my father’s elder brother, and they were both in love with my mother. She favored my father, Austin, and the brothers had a quarrel which ended in blows. Austin got the worst of it, and Rudolph, thinking he had killed him, fled. Since then, nothing has been heard of him, and that is quite forty years ago.”

“But how does this affect your owning the Grange?”

“Because I am only the second branch. Uncle Rudolph was the heir to the Grange, not my father; so if he turns up alive, or if he has left heirs, I will have to give up all my property to them.”

“Would you mind very much?” asked Helena in a pitying manner.

“Not at all. I would have once, but now I have a chance of staying in this delightful island, I don’t think it would be such a great loss after all.”

Maurice had hardly said these words when he heard a grunt of satisfaction behind him, and on turning his head saw Justinian standing beside him, in company with Caliphronas.

“So you don’t mind if you lose your English property,” said the Demarch in a peculiar tone.

“No; not when I can stay here. Did you hear the story I was telling to Helena?”

“Some of it. Do you think your Uncle Rudolph is alive?”

“Hardly, after forty years.”

“What is forty years to a long-living race like the Roylands?”

“How do you know we are long living?”

“Why, you told me so yourself,” said Justinian hastily; “but, after all, your uncle may be alive, and claim the property, in which case you will be penniless.”

“Oh, then, I shall stay here as sculptor to your public works.”

The old man laughed approvingly, and nodded his head.

“I will be glad of that. None of my Greeks can sculpture. It is a lost art with the Hellenes since the days of Praxiteles.”

“I will make a statue of Helena here as Venus Urania.”

“Better as Chloris,” remarked Caliphronas, with a forced smile, coming forward; “Chloris, the goddess of flowers.”

“For that charming suggestion,” cried Helena, rising to her feet, “I will give you a rose, Andros!”

“I will treasure it as my life,” he replied in a low, passionate voice, as she fastened the flower in his embroidered jacket.

“What about my rose, Helena?” asked Maurice, who viewed this proceeding with silent rage.

“Here is one for you,” answered Helena quickly; “both roses are red, so you can’t complain I don’t treat you fairly.”

“Perhaps you had better make the roses white, in order to mean silence,” said Caliphronas, pale with anger as he saw Maurice receive a flower; “the red rose means love, you know.”

“Sisterly love,” retorted Helena, looking at him with an undeniable frown.

Caliphronas, with a sudden outburst of rage, tore the flower from his breast, flung it on the pavement, and walked out of the court without a word. Helena in astonishment turned to Maurice, only to find that he also had vanished, but, with more self-restraint than the Greek, had taken his rose with him. Only Justinian was left, and he, looking sadly at his daughter, placed his hand reproachfully on her shoulder.

“My child,” he said reprovingly, “do not make ill blood between these two men by your woman’s wiles. Ate flung the apple of discord on the table of the gods, but it would have done no harm but for woman’s jealousy. Your name is Helena: you are, I doubt not, as fair as she of Troy, so beware lest your beauty be as fatal to Melnos as it was to Ilium.”