“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.”