“Ah, lord, if you would! And then nothing need be said unless—unless you should feel that you would like an English son-in-law. All the English are very rich, I have heard Danaë or some one say.”
“What does Danaë know about the English?” suspiciously.
“I don’t know, lord. She has never seen any of them, has she? I daresay,” meekly, “that it was not Danaë who told me. But why should he come to Strio at all, if he did not desire to present himself for your approval?”
Curiously enough, Armitage was asking himself much the same question—what was he doing off Strio? He had been restless at Klaustra, and had gravely given utterance to the opinion that the sea was calling him. A short cruise in the Egean, and he would return to see what he had long promised himself as a rare delight—the unfolding of spring in the great beech-woods on the mountain slopes. His hosts acquiesced in the most understanding way, and Zoe begged him, if he found himself anywhere in the neighbourhood of Strio, to make a point of visiting the island and seeing how poor Kalliopé was getting on. At Therma it was only polite to pay his respects to Prince Romanos, and ask if he could do anything for him in the islands, and as the Prince wished to send an important parcel to his sister, it was only natural that Armitage, not guessing that it contained the various little clothes and toys which Danaë had made for Janni at different times during her career as his nurse, and was designed to emphasize the completeness of her separation from him for the future, should volunteer to carry it. Thus there was really no choice about the yacht’s destination, but all the same, Armitage had a lurking fear that he was making a fool of himself when his boat took him ashore, and he noticed the critical way in which the inhabitants regarded him. Emancipation had not been by any means wholly a boon to the inhabitants of Strio—rather it had brought about a distinct diminution both of their liberties and their prosperity, owing to the restraints imposed by their union with the mainland kingdom. Therefore the friendliness for England and individual Englishmen, so noticeable in most Greek communities, was conspicuous by its absence, and the truculent looks of the swarthy loafers on the quay made Armitage feel as if he was venturing into a pirates’ lair.
But after all, this was the environment in which his island princess—as he always called Danaë in his thoughts—had grown up, and in which it ought to be possible to see her free and happy, untrammelled by the conventions which had suited her so ill, and he rambled through the tortuous lanes of the little town with great contentment, noting endless subjects for sketches. Then he came suddenly on Prince Christodoridi, on his way to the harbour to visit him on board, and they renewed the acquaintance begun years ago at Bashi Konak, and fraternised cordially. The Despot would hear of nothing but the Englishman’s accompanying him home at once to spend the day, preparatory to coming on shore for a regular visit. He should sketch as much as he liked, examine the Venetian work still extant in the fortress, and there was a little family ceremony that afternoon which he might find it interesting to attend—the betrothal of Prince Christodoridi’s daughter. Armitage was conscious of a distinct shock at first, but he recollected that there were two daughters, and reasoned that it was not likely they would be marrying Danaë off so soon after her return home. Therefore he sent his boat, which was to fetch him off at a certain time, back to the yacht, and returned up the hill to the fortress with his host.
Everything was now ready for the betrothal, and presently the guests began to drop in. Kyrios Smaragdopoulos had rather the appearance of a policeman haling an unwilling prisoner, so sullen was the handsome face of his son, and so unsuited his bearing to his festal attire, which included the widest and whitest and stiffest kilt Armitage had ever seen, and a jacket rich with gold embroidery. Narkissos sat apart and brooded, his father taking no notice of him except to see that he did not run away, and it was a relief when a burly jovial man swaggered in, who was introduced to Armitage as Parthenios Chalkiadi. He had been Prince Christodoridi’s best man and his elder daughter’s godfather, it seemed, and not only took an important part in to-day’s proceedings, but was also to be best man at his goddaughter’s wedding. It was natural he should be in the family secrets, and he whispered loudly behind his hand to Armitage, with a nod towards the gloomy bridegroom, “Wanted the other one!” which caused the guest to regard Narkissos with more interest, as a rejected suitor of Danaë’s. Meanwhile a priest, with flowing hair and beard and a frayed purple robe, had made his appearance with a youthful assistant, and there was a great sound of whispering and giggling through a doorway across which female forms sometimes flitted. Then an old woman looked out and called in an agitated voice for Kyrios Parthenios, and the godfather rolled across the room with great pomp. Above the whisperings of the women his rich voice was clearly audible somewhere in the back regions.
“Well, little one, back just in time to keep your sister from getting married first! She has plenty of time before her. But mercy on us! she’s as tall as you are. Two brides instead of one! We must take care the wrong one doesn’t get betrothed.”
Then it was Danaë! Armitage was conscious of a feeling—not of disappointment; he assured himself it was not disappointment—but of flatness, as if a promising romance had come to an unexpectedly sudden end. But Kyrios Smaragdopoulos had marched his reluctant son to the extemporised altar, on which two gold rings were placed, and a procession was entering the doorway—Parthenios Chalkiadi leading a veiled figure by the hand, another veiled figure supporting the first one closely, and an indeterminate throng of girls and women behind. It was Danaë! Armitage must have started or made a movement of some kind, for her eyes met his with a look which made him turn away as if he had seen something he had no business to see. Shame, misery, reproach, unavailing protest—he read them all in that one glance and the movement of recoil which accompanied it, and he half rose, with a wild impulse to save the girl somehow, though how he had no idea. But attention was diverted from his action by a shriek from the bridesmaid.
“She is fainting! Help, quick! Carry her back!”
Armitage had seen no sign of fainting, but Danaë was undoubtedly lying limp in her sister’s arms, and Kyrios Chalkiadi was looking down at the two in amazement. The women closed round them and hustled them back, and presently the godfather reappeared grumbling.