by John Buchan
He had opened the door to begin his retreat when a lantern appeared in the corridor. It was the woman, and with a finger on her lips she motioned him back into the room.
“My mistress is asleep,” she said, “and it would not be well to wake her. Monsieur will stay here to-night and speak with her in the morning?”
“I will do nothing of the kind,” said Vernon. “I am going back to my boat.”
The woman caught his involuntary glance at the wall paintings, and clutched his arm. “But that is not her doing,” she cried. “That was the work of her father, who was beyond belief wicked. It is his sins that the child is about to expiate. The people have condemned her, but you surely would not join in their unjust judgment.”
“I tell you I will have nothing to do with the place. Will you kindly show me the way back?”
Her face hardened. “I cannot. Mitri has the key.”
“Well, where the devil is Mitri?”
“I will not tell. . . . Oh, Monsieur, I beseech you, do not forsake us. There has been evil in this House enough to sink it to hell, but my mistress is innocent. I ask only that you speak with her. After that, if you so decide, you can go away.”
The woman was plainly honest and in earnest, and Vernon was a just man. He suddenly felt that he was behaving badly. There could be no harm in sleeping a night in the house, and in the morning interviewing its owner. If it was a case of real necessity he could take her and her maid off in his boat. . . . After all, there might be serious trouble afoot. The sight of those hideous rooms had given him a sharp realization of the ugly things in life.
He was taken to a clean, bare little attic at the top of the house which had once no doubt been a servant’s quarters. Having been up all the previous night, his head had scarcely touched the rough pillow before he was asleep. He slept for ten hours, till he was awakened by Mitri, who brought him hot water and soap and a venerable razor with which he made some attempt at a toilet. He noticed that the fog was still thick, and from the garret window he looked into an opaque blanket.
He had wakened with a different attitude towards the adventure in which he found himself. The sense of a wasted youth and defrauded hopes had left him; he felt more tightly strung, more vigorous, younger; he also felt a certain curiosity about this Greek girl who in an abominable house was defying the lightnings.
Mitri conducted him to the first floor, where he was taken charge of by the Frenchwoman.
“Do not be afraid of her,” she whispered. “Deal with her as a man with a woman, and make her do your bidding. She is stiff-necked towards me, but she may listen to a young man, especially if he be English.”
She ushered Vernon into a room which was very different from the hideous chambers he had explored the night before. It was poorly and sparsely furnished, the chairs were chiefly wicker, the walls had recently been distempered by an amateur hand, the floor was of bare scrubbed boards. But a bright fire burned on the hearth, there was a big bunch of narcissus on a table set for breakfast, and flowering branches had been stuck in the tall vases beside the chimney. Through the open window came a drift of fog which intensified the comfort of the fire.
It was a woman’s room, for on a table lay some knitting and a piece of embroidery, and a small ivory housewife’s case bearing the initials “K. A.” There were one or two books also, and Vernon looked at them curiously. One was a book of poems which had been published in London a month before. This Greek girl must know English; perhaps she had recently been in England. . . . He took up another volume, and to his amazement it was a reprint of Peter Beckford’s Thoughts on Hunting. He could not have been more surprised if he had found a copy of the Eton Chronicle. What on earth was the mistress of a lonely Ægean island doing with Peter Beckford?
The fire crackled cheerfully, the raw morning air flowed through the window, and Vernon cast longing eyes on the simple preparations for breakfast. He was ferociously hungry, and he wished he were now in the boat, where the Epirote would be frying bacon. . . .
There was another door besides that by which he had entered, and curiously enough it was in the same position as the door in the room of his dream. He angrily dismissed the memory of that preposterous hallucination, but he kept his eye on the door. By it no doubt the mistress of the house would enter, and he wished she would make haste. He was beginning to be very curious about this girl. . . . Probably she would be indignant and send him about his business, but she could scarcely refuse to give him breakfast first. In any case there was the yacht. . . . There was a mirror above the mantelpiece in which he caught a glimpse of himself. The glimpse was not reassuring. His face was as dark as an Indian’s, his hair wanted cutting, and his blue jersey was bleached and discoloured with salt water. He looked like a deck-hand on a cargo boat. But perhaps a girl who read Beckford would not be pedantic about appearances. He put his trust in Peter —
The door had opened. A voice, sharp-pitched and startled, was speaking, and to his surprise it spoke in English.
“Who the devil are you?” it said.
He saw a slim girl, who stood in the entrance poised like a runner, every line of her figure an expression of amazement. He had seen her before, but his memory was wretched for women’s faces. But the odd thing was that, after the first second, there was recognition in her face.
“Colonel Milburne!” said the voice. “What in the name of goodness are you doing here?”
She knew him, and he knew her, but where — when — had they met? He must have stared blankly, for the girl laughed.
“You have forgotten,” she said. “But I have seen you out with the Mivern, and we met at luncheon at Wirlesdon in the winter.”
He remembered now, and what he remembered chiefly were the last words he had spoken to me on the subject of this girl. The adventure was becoming farcical.
“I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “You are Miss Arabin. I didn’t know—”
“I am Miss Arabin. But why the honour of an early morning call from Colonel Milburne?”
“I came here last night in a yacht.” Vernon was making a lame business of his explanation, for the startled angry eyes of his hostess scattered his wits. “I anchored below in the fog, and an old man came out in a boat and asked me to come ashore. There was a woman on the beach — your maid — and she implored my help — told a story I didn’t quite follow—”
“The fog!” the girl repeated. “That of course explains why you were allowed to anchor. In clear weather you would have been driven away.”
She spoke in so assured a tone that Vernon was piqued.
“The seas are free,” he said. “Who would have interfered with me? Your servants?”
She laughed again, mirthlessly. “My people. Not my servants. Continue. You came ashore and listened to Élise’s chatter. After that?”
“She said you were asleep and must not be wakened, but that I should speak to you in the morning. She put me up for the night.”
“Where?” she asked sharply.
“In a little room on the top floor.”
“I see. ‘Where you sleeps you breakfasts.’ Well, we’d better have some food.”
She rang a little silver hand-bell, and the maid, who must have been waiting close at hand, appeared with coffee and boiled eggs. She cast an anxious glance at Vernon as if to inquire how he had fared at her mistress’s hands.
“Sit down,” said the girl when Élise had gone. “I can’t give you much to eat, for these days we are on short rations. I’m sorry, but there’s no sugar. I can recommend the honey. It’s the only good thing in Plakos.”
“Is this Plakos? I came here once before — in 1914 — in a steam yacht. I suppose I am in the big white house which looks down upon the jetty. I could see nothing last night in the fog. I remember a long causeway and steps cut in the rock. That must have been the road I came.”
She nodded. “What kind of sailor are you to be so ignorant of your whereabouts? Oh, I see, the storm! What’s the size of your boat?�
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When he told her, she exclaimed. “You must have had the devil of a time, for it was a first-class gale. And now on your arrival in port you are plunged into melodrama. You don’t look as if you had much taste for melodrama, Colonel Milburne.”
“I haven’t. But is it really melodrama? Your maid told me a rather alarming tale.”
Her eyes had the hard agate gleam which he remembered from Wirlesdon. Then he had detested her, but now, as he looked at her, he saw that which made him alter his judgment. The small face was very pale, and there were dark lines under the eyes. This girl was undergoing some heavy strain, and her casual manner was in the nature of a shield.
“Is it true?” he asked.
“So-so. In parts, no doubt. I am having trouble with my tenants, which I am told is a thing that happens even in England. But that is my own concern, and I don’t ask for help. After breakfast I would suggest that you go back to your yacht.”
“I think you had better come with me. You and your maid. I take it that the old man Mitri can fend for himself.”
“How kind of you!” she cried in a falsetto, mimicking voice. “How extraordinarily kind! But you see I haven’t asked your help, and I don’t propose to accept it. . . . You’re sure you won’t have any more coffee! I wonder if you could give me a cigarette? I’ve been out of them for three days.”
She lay back in a wicker chair, rocking herself and lazily blowing smoke clouds. Vernon stood with his back to the fire and filled a pipe.
“I don’t see how I can go away,” he said, “unless I can convince myself that you’re in no danger. You’re English, and a woman, and I’m bound to help you whether you want it or not.” He spoke with assurance now, perhaps with a certain priggishness. The tone may have offended the girl, for when she spoke it was with a touch of the insolence which he remembered at Wirlesdon.
“I’m curious to know what Élise told you last night.”
“Simply that you were imprisoned here by the people of Plakos — that they thought you a witch, and might very likely treat you in the savage way that people used to treat witches.”
She nodded. “That’s about the size of it. But what if I refuse to let any one interfere in a fight between me and my own people? Supposing this is something which I must stick out for the sake of my own credit? What then, Colonel Milburne? You have been a soldier. You wouldn’t advise me to run away?”
“That depends,” said Vernon. “There are fights where there can be no victory — where the right course is to run away. Your maid told me something else. She said that the evil reputation you had among the peasants was not your own doing — that, of course, I guessed — but a legacy from your family, who for very good reasons were unpopular. Does that make no difference?”
“How?”
“Why, there’s surely no obligation in honour to make yourself a vicarious sacrifice for other people’s misdeeds!”
“I — don’t — think I agree. One must pay for one’s race as well as for oneself.”
“Oh, nonsense! Not the kind of thing your family seem to have amused themselves with.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was put into a room last night” — Vernon spoke hesitatingly—”and I saw some books and paintings. They were horrible. I understood — well, that the peasants might have a good deal of reason — something to say for themselves, you know. Why should you suffer for that swinishness?”
The morning sun had broken through the fog and was shining full on the girl’s face. She sprang to her feet, and Vernon saw that she had blushed deeply.
“You entered those rooms!” she cried. “That fool Élise! I will have her beaten. Oh, I am shamed. . . . Get off with you! You are only making me wretched. Get off while there’s time.”
The sight of her crimson face and neck moved Vernon to a deep compassion.
“I refuse to leave without you, Miss Arabin,” he said. “I do not know much, but I know enough to see that you are in deadly danger. I can no more leave you here than I could leave a drowning child in the sea. Quick! Get your maid and pack some things and we’ll be gone.”
She stood before him, an abashed, obstinate child.
“I won’t go. . . . I hate you. . . . You have seen — oh, leave me, if you have any pity.”
“You come with me.”
“I won’t!” Her lips were a thin line, and the shut jaws made a square of the resolute little face.
“Then I shall carry you off. I’m very sorry, Miss Arabin, but I’m going to save you in spite of yourself.”
Vernon had his hand stretched out to the silver handbell to summon Élise, when he found himself looking at a small pistol. He caught her wrist, expecting it to go off, but nothing happened. It dropped into his hand, and he saw that it was unloaded.
He rang the bell.
“All the more reason why you should come with me if you are so badly armed.”
The girl stood stiff and silent, her eyes and cheeks burning, as Élise entered.
“Pack for your mistress,” he told the maid. “Bring as little baggage as possible, for there isn’t much room.” The woman hurried off gladly to do his bidding.
“Please don’t make a scene,” he said. “You will have to come in the end, and some day you will forgive me.”
“I will not come,” she said, “but I will show you something.”
Life seemed to have been restored to her tense body, as she hurried him out of the room, along a corridor, and up a flight of stairs to a window which looked seaward.
The last wreath of fog had disappeared, and the half-moon of bay lay blue and sparkling. Down at the jetty were men and boats, but out on the water there was no sign of the anchored yacht.
“What does that mean?” Vernon cried.
“It means that your boat has gone. When the air cleared the people saw it, and have driven your man away. . . . It means that you, like me, are a prisoner!”
CHAPTER XV.
As Vernon looked at the flushed girl, whose voice as she spoke had at least as much consternation in it as triumph, he experienced a sudden dislocation of mind. Something fell from him — the elderliness, the preoccupation, the stiff dogma of his recent years. He recaptured the spirit which had open arms for novelty. He felt an eagerness to be up and doing — what, he was not clear — but something difficult and high-handed. The vanishing of his dream had left the chambers of his mind swept and garnished, and youth does not tolerate empty rooms.
Also, though I do not think that he had yet begun to fall in love with Koré, he understood the quality of one whom aforetimes he had disliked both as individual and type. This pale girl, dressed like a young woman in a Scotch shooting lodge, was facing terror with a stiff lip. There was nothing raffish or second-rate about her now. She might make light of her danger in her words, but her eyes betrayed her.
It was about this danger that he was still undecided. You see, he had not, like me, seen the people of the island, felt the strain of their expectancy, or looked on the secret spaces of the Dancing Floor. He had come out of the storm to hear a tale told in the fog and darkness by an excited woman. That was all — that and the hideous rooms at which he had had a passing glance. The atmosphere of the place, which I had found so unnerving, had not yet begun to affect him.
“My fellow will come back,” he said, after scanning the empty seas. “He has his faults, but he is plucky and faithful.”
“You do not understand,” the girl said. “He would be one against a thousand. He may be as brave as a lion, but they won’t let him anchor, and if they did they would never let you and me join him. I have told you we are prisoners — close prisoners.”
“You must tell me a great deal more. You see, you can’t refuse my help now, for we are in the same boat. Do you mind if we go back to where we breakfasted, for I left my pipe there.”
She turned without a word and led him back to her sitting-room, passing a woe-begone Élise who, with her arms full of clothes, was told th
at her services were now needless. The windows of the room looked on a garden which had been suffered to run wild but which still showed a wealth of spring blossom. Beyond was a shallow terrace and then the darkness of trees. A man’s head seemed to move behind a cypress hedge. The girl nodded towards it. “One of my gaolers,” she said.
She stood looking out of the window with her eyes averted from Vernon, and seemed to be forcing herself to speak.
“You have guessed right about my family,” she said. “And about this house. I am cleaning it slowly — I must do it myself, Élise and I, for I do not want strangers to know. . . . This room was as bad as the other two till I whitewashed the walls. The old furniture I am storing till I have time to destroy it. I think I will burn it, for it has hideous associations for me. I would have had the whole house in order this spring if my foolish people had not lost their heads.”
A “tawdry girl,” that was how Vernon had spoken of her to me. He withdrew the word now. “Tawdry” was the last adjective he would use about this strange child, fighting alone to get rid of a burden of ancient evil. He had thought her a modish, artificial being, a moth hatched out of the latest freak of fashion. Now she seemed to him a thousand years removed from the feverish world which he had thought her natural setting. Her appeal was her extreme candour and simplicity, her utter, savage, unconsidering courage.
“Let us take the family for granted,” Vernon said gently. “I can’t expect you to talk about that. I assume that there was that in your predecessor’s doings which gave these islanders a legitimate grievance. What I want to know is what they are up to now. Tell me very carefully everything that has happened since you came here a week ago.”
She had little to tell him. She had been allowed to enter the House by the ordinary road from the village, and after that the gates had been barred. When she had attempted to go for a walk she had been turned back by men with rifles — she did not tell Vernon how the rifles had been procured. The hillmen had joined with the people of the coast — you could always tell a hillman by his dress — though the two used to be hereditary enemies. That made her angry and also uneasy; so did the curious methodical ways of the siege. They were not attempting to enter the House — she doubted if any one of them would dare to cross the threshold — they were only there to prevent her leaving it. She herself, not the looting of the House, must be their object. Mitri was permitted to go to the village, but he did not go often, for he came back terrified and could not or would not explain his terrors. No communication had been held with the watchers, and no message had come from them. She had tried repeatedly to find out their intentions, but the sentinels would not speak, and she could make nothing of Mitri. No, she was not allowed into the demesne. There were sentries there right up to the house wall — sentries night and day.