CHAPTER XXXI. SELAKA’S LAST WORD.
Winter had lashed the Eastern world with sharp frenzy, and now early spring was raging over the plain of Attica, driving madly in a whirlwind of dust down from the encircling hills, with its breath of ice and its shrewish roar. And soon it would be at its verge, and stand on tiptoe with wistful glance set upon the hurrying summer that so soon would consume its flowers and grasses and chattering rills.
Still Gustav lingered at Athens studying archæology and patiently waiting for Constantine’s message of hope. Exploring expeditions helped him through the long leisure. The last proposed by Miss Winters was to Vari, to do homage to the mythical Cave of Pan, where Plato was dedicated to Apollo and the Muses.
Gustav drove round from his hotel at seven o’clock in the morning to pick up Miss Winters and her paraphernalia, at her lodgings in front of the Columns of Jupiter. Upon the mountains, hue upon hue lay intermelted in one transfused whole of indescribable loveliness. The great forked flanks of Hymettus looked so desolate against the joy of the sky, as to suggest that here had Prometheus been chained and had stamped it with the legacy of permanent sadness. Under the hills stretched on either side wide fields sheeted with blood-red poppies; the birds woke the air with song, and the air was full of the lovely scent of the pine. Gustav’s senses thrilled to the exquisite charm of the hour, and Miss Winters’ gaze was a prayer and a thanksgiving.
When they had devoutly visited the shrine, difficult of access, and had come back into the pine region, flushed and tired and heated by the blaze of sunfire, they were accommodated by a courteous villager with an empty room, into which a table newly-washed and two chairs were introduced as additional helps to lunch. The villager supplied them with boiled eggs, water and bread, which was being baked at the general oven in the middle of the place, and Gustav produced a bottle of Santorin wine, some fruit and cold chicken. For a forlorn lover he ate a very hearty meal, and took an animated pleasure in supplying the absence of attendance.
After lunch they went and sat on a little wooden seat, and while Gustav smoked, Miss Winters, to the complete astonishment of these simple folk, fed all the dogs of the place upon bread and chicken just as if they had been Christians. Greek dogs are never fed, they pick up what they can here and there, and shrink instinctively from man, whose only caress is a kick.
“That old man is very ill,” Miss Winters said at length.
“Which old man?”
“That old heathen of Tenos, of course.”
“Oh! Selaka!”
“Yes. I met his brother yesterday. He was attending somebody in the house, and I asked to see him.”
“Truly, you are a marvellous woman, and a most excellent friend,” said Gustav.
“I reckon I can seize an opportunity, and don’t fail for the want of pluck and keeping my eyes open. The brother is a doctor.”
“I know. Constantine. They call him the King of Tenos.”
“Tenos seems to be the home of idiots. Well, the pagan is very ill—heart-disease—doomed. The doctor is on your side, and says if you will go to Tenos, in about ten days he will be there to meet you, and thinks it not improbable that the old lunatic may be talked into reason before he goes to—Hades or elsewhere.”
Reineke reddened slightly and breathed hard, but he said nothing. The mere hope meant too much for speech. To touch again land so sacred as her island home, to look upon the fastnesses which enshielded her from the world—to see her, feel her, hear her, divine her nearness by every acute sense quickened to an ache. Perhaps——
Thought could go no farther. He rose and flung away his cigarette with a passionate gesture, and began to pace the dusty path while the driver got the horses ready for their return. He seemed to see Inarime’s face, not the landscape, and his heart throbbed with the wonder of it. He was silent during the drive home, and sat till far into the night on his balcony, watching the stars come out in the soft blue gloom and wink and play like illuminated shuttles upon their glossy background.
Ten days later he came to say good-bye to his friend. The charming old lady stood in front of him, and peered into his face with kindly question. A soft smile stirred the grave depths of his dark intense eyes as he gave her back her look, and tenderly lifted her hand to his lips.
“No matter what happens, our friendship must be lifelong,” he said.
“Yes, I mean to fall frantically in love with your wife. You will bring her right along to Washington City to see me, and I’ll have my book on Greece ready, to present you with a copy on your marriage.” She raised herself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
“Now go straight away to Tenos, and I guess you’ll carry the day,” she added.
It was not Aristides who met him this time upon the little quay of St. Nicholas, but insular majesty itself.
“The King of Tenos,” said Gustav, smiling as he shook hands with Constantine.
“The slave of Tenos—the devil take the lot,” cried Dr. Selaka, angrily. “I haven’t a moment to myself once I land on this wretched island. Because they make me deputy, I must look after all their ailments gratis; I must stand godfather for all their children, which means presents illimitable and care for the rest of my days; I must lend my house for marriages, and give marriage breakfasts to all the daughters—dowries sometimes, and last, but not least, I must submit to be carried about the island, up those massacring mountain paths and down destructive precipices, while the idiots fire off pistols and guns in the exuberance of their spirits, until I am smothered with smoke and half-dead with fright.”
“I see there are drawbacks to the glory of a seat in the Boulé.”
“I rather think so. Oh! the monsters! I am compelled to sneak down all the back lanes to escape them. Come this way. Our mules are hidden under yonder filthy archway.”
How familiar the ride seemed to Gustav, although he had only twice ridden through this strange scenery. He recognised every field and hedge, each cleft in the mountains, the cave of Aiolos, and the little forsaken fountain with the figures of St. Michael, St. George and the Virgin Mary roughly carven upon a marble slab by some unknown hand in the seventeenth century. A thin vein of water flowed from the torrent above into the fountain with a tinkling sound that broke the silence very sadly. How desolate in the stillness looked the interminable lines of marble hills stained with burnt thyme and furze, the great jagged rocks tinted with gold and red and purple and grey, forked against the sapphire sky, and the dim grey glades of olives below! Desertion lay upon all, and the beauty was the beauty of neglect and barrenness. And above towered the Castro, slanting down from the upper world, greyer, sterner than ever, with the rocky desert of Bolax behind, and the villages afar, so white and tiny, tangled upon the slopes, curve flowing after curve to the horizon, the cornfields and meadows touching the scene to life, and the sea breaking into the wide green plain of Kolymvithra like a lake. Here and there a forgotten faded lemon showed through the orchards, and the geraniums were as drops of blood upon the leaves. How dear and homelike, how personal it all appeared to him! Inarime it spoke of. No sound came to him but the clamour of the frogs among the moist reeds of the torrent-beds, or the liquid flow of bird music from the trees, broken by occasional farm cries and the bark of watch dogs.
Pericles Selaka knew that his days were numbered. He was filled with the trouble and indecision of his daughter’s future. But the thought of relenting towards Gustav—Daoud Bey, as he now bitterly called him—did not enter his mind. His anger against Gustav was the more unreasonable and fierce because of his affection and admiration for the man. What right had a scholar and a gentleman to prove nothing better than a miserable Turk? Inarime grieved for the fellow. Of course. And did he not grieve for her grief? Were there not moments of yearning to throw off this intolerable cloak of resolution, and send for Gustav to make his daughter happy? Had she not a right to happiness? She was young and beautiful. The thought of such beauty as hers dropping unwedded into the grave exasperated him. But a renegade Turk!
The day of Gustav’s arrival, Selaka was alone in the sitting-room. Inarime had gone to the fountain for Annunziata, who was busy preparing the midday breakfast. By an unaccountable impulse, Selaka’s thoughts flew back to his short married life, and, standing upon the threshold of memory, struck him with the force of reality. Tears shook upon his eyelids, and suddenly he raised his head with a listening air. A delicate breeze seemed to sweep past him, and played about his forehead and hair like caressing fingers. Then it came back again and approached him like a soft regretful sigh. He rose, impelled by an influence which he felt it a pleasure to obey, and followed the sighing breeze. The blinds were drawn to keep out the glare of the noonday sun, and a ray from a chink broke into the twilight in a dazzling river of gold. The air just lifted the blind, and breathed again about his face, this time lingering like a kiss upon his lips; a rose-leaf kiss, that very tender lips might give. He staggered against the framework of the window, filled with a superstitious dread. Was this breath the soul of his dead wife that floated about him with speechless message? Might it not be that she was filled with concern for the coming solitude of her forsaken child? Strive as he might against the insane idea, it grew upon him, and took possession of his frighted senses. A damp perspiration broke upon his brow, the pallor of terror was on his cheek, and his heart beat against his side with suffocating blows.
Hardly knowing why, he held back the blind, and looked down into the courtyard to see if any wind stirred among the flowers. All was still. Not a leaf trembled; the flowers drooped in the drowsy heat of a sultry summer day. He opened the window, and put out his hand. The air was hot and motionless, and the watch-dog lay panting in the shade of a palmtree. He closed the window, drew down the blind, and looked through the soft gloom of the apartment. This time he shivered as the whispering breath struck him full in the face, like a wing brushing past. He stretched out his hands with a cry of protest and alarm, and fell upon the floor in a swoon, with the name of his dead wife upon his lips.
When Selaka opened his eyes, he found himself lying on the sofa, and saw the face of Gustav Reineke bent over his anxiously. He stared in awed amazement, shrank back a little, put up one hand and timidly touched the young man as if to test his reality.
“You are better, sir?” asked Reineke, taking the hand, and he held it in a warm, protective clasp.
“You! Daoud Bey,” muttered Selaka, indistinctly.
“Look on me as Gustav Reineke, I beg you, sir, and my presence will hurt you less. The past is no more for me; have I not promised?” said Gustav, gently.
“I am conquered, Gustav. I give her to you.”
Gustav gasped, and instinctively dropped on his knees beside the sofa. He hid his face on the pillow, and burst into uncontrollable tears. The sick man lay still, and watched him in a state of stupid fatigue and torpor. Somebody entered the room, and crossing, touched Gustav’s shoulder. He sprang to his feet, and met the serene brown glance of Annunziata’s eyes.
“You are welcome, sir, you are very welcome,” she said, and held out both hands, nodding with subdued approval.
Gustav took them, and shook them with a force that almost hurt. Yet he wore the look of a man in a trance.
“You are a good, kind woman. Tell me where she is.”
“She is detained in the village. Go into the garden, and I will send her uncle to fetch her.”
Gustav obeyed her, and passed out into the garden. How changed everything was since his winter visit, eighteen months before. But he hardly noted whither he went as he precipitated himself down the oleander alley. The air quivered with light. The smell of the pines and thyme floated up from the valley upon the summer wind that just stirred the laurel leaves and plumes of the reeds in the torrent below. All abroad sleepy delight, and within an immeasurable joy that touched on anguish! He stood on the gravel path edged with blue and white irises, and looked down upon the little goat road behind the zigzag of spiked cactuses. The shadow of the kids, as they played, wavered upon the silver light that sparkled and shook in liquid masses from the upper rocks.
Would she come by that path? The eternal sunshine and the aching mist of blue dazzled him as did his own overpowering happiness. The rapture of the birds was a fit interpretation of his own rapture, and the lizards, darting in and out of the rocks like shuttles quick with life, were as his beating pulses. He loved everything, the water and flowers, the quaint and tiny insects that flew around him, and the pigeons that flashed through the air with an impetuosity he longed to rival.
A step behind him drained the blood from his heart, and he turned, sick and frightened with the strength of passion.
Inarime was looking at him with equal fear and awe. Slowly and silently their glances drew one another until their hands met, but speech was beyond them. They did not speak at once nor embrace, but remained thus standing and gazing, and then a flame sprang into Gustav’s intense look, and spread like fire over his face.
“Inarime!” he murmured, and opened his arms.
She was in them enfolded, and their lips were one.
“Oh, Gustav, you have come to me,” cried Inarime.
“At last! At long last! Did it seem long to you, dearest?”
“Long! I tried so hard to do without you, but it grew harder each day. But you are with me now, dear one.”
“Not again to leave you, Inarime. My own, how best shall I serve you? How shall I treat you? It is as if a mortal were mated with a goddess.”
“You, too, O love, are to me as a god,” whispered Inarime.
“Nay, nay, beloved, you must not so exalt your worshipper,” protested Gustav, laughing, while he drew her to a stone and gently forced her to sit down, that he might kneel before her, and hold her clasped.
He looked up at her in mute adoration, and smiled. She framed his dusky, glowing face with her hands, and her own, bent over it, looked glorious in its joy.
“Dearest,” he cried, “bliss cannot madden or kill, or I should not now be kneeling here, alive and sane.”
“Oh, Gustav, life is so short. No wonder lovers must have their hereafter. We may not reach an end.”
“Nay, sweet, our life shall not be short; while others merely exist, we shall live our days to the very full. Think of it—a future with each other. Here, hereafter! It cannot be for us other than Paradise.”
“I love you, Gustav.”
“Goddess, I adore you.”
She pressed her cheek against his, and he felt her happy tears.
“My father will need me—us,” she said. “Come.”
They found Selaka waiting eagerly for them. Inarime had not seen him since his seizure, and ran to him with a cry of pain, shocked to see him look so ill.
“My son,” said Selaka, with laboured breath, “I would ask you much, since I have given you so much.”
“There is nothing, sir, you can ask that I will not gladly grant,” said Gustav, taking his hand.
“I would charge you with my dying breath not to resume your hateful name. It would sting me in the grave if my daughter bore it.”
“It shall be as you wish, sir. Inarime will be the wife of Gustav Reineke, and Daoud Bey is no more.”
The old man winced under the name, but feebly pressed Gustav’s hand. Shaken with terror and regret for her own great bliss, Inarime knelt beside the sofa, and looked beseechingly at her father.
“I have one other request to make to you, my children. You have been kept apart long enough. I do not desire that my death should impose a longer separation upon you. If you must mourn me—though I do not desire that either—let it be together. Let not the grave overshadow your wedding joys. Think of me, not as dead but as a disembodied spirit that will hover around and about you in tender concern, sharing your griefs, which it is my prayer may be few, and your delights, which I hope will be many. Weep not for me, Inarime. Death is but a quiet sleep, the grave but rest. You will have your husband. He will be all to you—more even than I. Promise me, my beloved child, that you will not grieve, and that there will be no delay in your marriage.”
Inarime crept closer to her father, and twined her arms round his neck.
“There, there, my girl. Gustav, you will be very tender to her.”
“Oh, sir, my life henceforth will be devotion to her.”
“Thank you, thank you. I feel it will be so. Take her now; comfort her, and dry her tears. That is well. The arms that hold her now are stronger than mine, the breast that pillows her head will henceforth be its best protection. And should a son be born to you, my children, call him Pericles after me, and bring him up to love greatly the great past of my country. Come nearer, my sight grows dim. Call Annunziata, and my brother. I would bid them farewell. You, Inarime, stay close to me. It is with your dear hand in mine that I would go hence into the unknown.”
Constantine and Annunziata were waiting outside. But when they followed Gustav into the dying man’s presence, Selaka had fallen into a doze. No word was spoken. Annunziata wept silently: Constantine’s sobs were the only sound; Inarime knelt watching her father’s face, and Gustav stood over her with his arm about her neck. Selaka’s eyes opened, and flashed with a ray of youth. He uttered his wife’s name in a loud, clear voice, and then the light of life was extinguished.
Gustav bent and kissed Inarime.