Daughters of Men

by Hannah Lynch

In the meantime, how has it been faring with the victim, Andromache? In the first flush of separation, Rudolph was as regular a correspondent as the postal arrangements of the Peloponnesus allowed. His letters breathed artless affection and most gratifying regrets. They described everything he saw at considerable length, and Andromache read them as young ladies will read their first love letters, answered them as candidly, making proper allowance for maidenly reticence; and then devoted herself, with much ardour, to discussing Rudolph with her mother and Julia. All the while the trousseau was progressing rapidly. What dresses to be tried on! what quantities of linen to be embroidered what choice of lace! There was confusion in the little house overlooking the French school, and Themistocles found it more necessary than ever to seek the quiet and seclusion of his own chamber, and there to meditate upon the young lady in the next street and play endless and torturing variations of Schubert’s Serenade. And O what a glorious time it was for Miltiades! how he boasted of his sister’s brilliant future at the mess-table, and walked the town, or rode on his coal-black charger, with his friend Hadji Adam, the light of excitement in his eye strong enough to dazzle the rash beholder! Alas! that these simple joys should be dashed to the ground in disappointment and humiliation! Letters came more rarely upon the second separation, and their tone was more curt and less confiding. There was even a strain of self-reproach in them which Andromache was too unsuspecting to construe. But these signs of storm passed unnoticed by Miltiades. The letter fever, we know, soon declines with young men absent from their lady-loves, and as the months passed the fever gradually abated, and Rudolph, the faithless, lapsed into silence.

Still the trousseau progressed, and still the marriage preparations went forward. One day Miltiades in his barracks was informed that Rudolph had returned to Athens;—he dropped his knife and fork in astonishment. How came it that he was not aware of this? and how came it that Rudolph had not yet made his appearance in the little salon, where the Turkish bomb that had exploded at the feet of Miltiades was proudly displayed? Miltiades sat at home all the day, and waited for Ehrenstein. He was wise enough not to mention this fact to Andromache or to his mother. Perhaps there would be a very simple explanation forthcoming, and why inflict needless pain upon the women? Days went by, however, and still no Ehrenstein. By the soul of Hercules, how can a fellow be expected to stand this kind of treatment? The slaughterer of five thousand Turks sit calmly by, while his sister is being jilted in the most outrageous manner! Certainly not.

Miltiades strode the streets of Athens with a more warlike aspect than ever. The very frown of his brows was a challenge, and the glance of his eyes was a dagger: the crimson plumes of his service cap nodded valorously, his sword and spurs clanked. He twirled his moustache until all the little boys and foot passengers made way for him apprehensively. Still no Ehrenstein appeared. Then came the climax. It was an awful moment when the news exploded,—more fatal far than the Turkish bomb on the table,—that Rudolph had disappeared with Photini Natzelhuber. We will draw the veil of discretion upon the picture of a modern Theseus lashed into impotent fury, and striding through the prostrate forms of his womenfolk in hysterics.

With a Jove-like front Miltiades faced the Austrian Embassy, and held stern council with the Baron von Hohenfels. Of course there was nothing to be done. It was clearly impossible to offer money to a warrior and a hero. Such a thing as breaches of promise are here unknown, and it was equally impossible to collar Rudolph and bring him back to his deserted bride. The baron was conciliatory and courteous, as was his wont; expressed the flattering opinion that Mademoiselle Andromache was far too good for a reprobate like his nephew; hoped Miltiades would allow the baroness the honour of calling upon his mother, Kyria Karapolos, and her family; and placed himself, his house, and everything belonging to him at the disposal of the affronted captain. The interview terminated amicably—how could it be otherwise with the most diplomatic of ambassadors?—Miltiades returned to the bosom of his family, and held a parliament to debate upon proceedings.

Andromache bore her sorrow better than might have been imagined. She necessarily did a little in the way of hysterics, but soon settled down in dreary acquiescence, and spent her days embroidering and practising the piano. The practice of scales may be recommended to jilted young ladies. It soothes the nerves, dulls the imagination, and produces a useful kind of indifference. Young men in similar circumstances prefer, I believe, wine, or cards, or politics,—or worse.

This was the hour in which Maria shone. Very faithfully and lovingly did she tend her young forsaken mistress, hovered over her yearningly, invented delicacies by means of rice, jam, macaroni and tapioca, to tempt the appetite of the most hardened sufferer, sat by her for hours, silently stroking her hair and fondling her hands, and unveiled exquisite depths of tenderness and consideration. Greek servants and Irish servants are the kindest, most affectionate and most absolutely disinterested in the world.

But there was a curious hardness about Andromache’s young mouth: a permanent glitter in her dark blue eyes, that bespoke a cherished design. Of that design she spoke to nobody, but went through the day pretty much as usual, and was grateful to those who remained silent upon her shame. The Baroness von Hohenfels called, was most pathetic, effusive, and strewed her path with good-will. She called again, this time with Agiropoulos, who stared at Andromache through his eyeglass, wore an expensive orchid in his coat, and conducted himself with his usual fascinating audacity.

“Faith!” he said to the baroness. “I should not object to console the little Karapolos myself.”

“That is an idea,” said the Baroness. “I’ll marry you, and then I shall have Rudolph’s perfidy off my mind.”

“Well, now that Photini has deserted me for your charming nephew, it will be teaching Rudolph a nice lesson in military tactics,—to besiege his deserted town, and carry it by storm,—eh, madame?”