Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Better sit down for a few minutes, until the others come up,” suggested the young girl, who was surprised to see him recover himself so quickly. He seemed glad enough to follow her advice, and they sat down together on the mossy bank.

  “It was my fault,” said Hermione, penitently. “It was so foolish of me to ride fast in such a place.”

  “Women care for nothing but galloping when they are on horseback,” said Alexander. It was not a very civil speech, and though Hermione forgave him because he was half stunned with pain, the words rang unpleasantly in her ear. He might have been satisfied, she thought, when she owned that it was her fault. It was not generous to agree with her so unhesitatingly. She wondered whether Paul would have spoken like that.

  “Do you really think you can ride back?” she asked, in a colder tone.

  “Certainly,” he said; “provided we ride slowly. What can have become of uncle John and Griggs?”

  Uncle John and Griggs were at that moment wondering what had become of the two young people. We had ridden on to the top of the hill, and had stopped on reaching the open space near the Khedive’s farm, where there is a beautiful view, and where we expected to find our companions waiting for us. But we were surprised to see no one there. After a great deal of hesitation we agreed that John Carvel, who did not know the forest, should follow the main road down the hill on the other side, while I rode back over the way we had come. I suspected that Alexander and Hermione had taken the wrong turn, and I was more anxious about them than I would show. The forest is indeed said to be safe, but hardly a year passes without some solitary rider being molested by gypsies or wandering thieves, if he has ventured too far from the beaten tracks. I rode as fast as I could, but it was nearly twenty minutes before I struck into the hollow lane. I found the pair seated on the bank, a mile further on, and Hermione hailed me with delight. Everything was explained in a few words. Alexander seemed sufficiently recovered from his accident to get into the saddle, and we were soon walking our horses back towards the maidám of Buyukdere. Neither Alexander nor Hermione talked much by the way, and we were all glad when we reached the tiny bazaar, and were picking out way over the uneven street, amongst the coppersmiths, the lounging soldiers, the solemn narghylè smokers, the kaffejis, the beggars, and the half-naked children.

  On that evening, two things occurred which precipitated the course of events. John Carvel had an interview with Hermione, and I had a most unlucky idea. John Carvel’s mind was disturbed concerning the future of his only daughter, and though he was not a man who hastily took fright, his character was such that when once persuaded that things were not as they should be, he never hesitated as to the course he should pursue. Accordingly, that night he called Hermione into his study, and determined to ask her for an explanation. The poor girl was nervous, for she suspected trouble, and did not see very clearly how it could be avoided.

  “Sit down, Hermy,” said John, establishing himself in a deep chair with a cigar. “I want to talk with you, my dear.”

  “Yes, papa,” answered Hermione, meekly.

  “Hermy, do you mean to marry Paul, or not? Don’t be nervous, my child, but think the matter over before you answer. If you mean to have him, I have no objection to the match; but if you do not mean to, I would like to know. That is all. You know you spoke to me about it in England before we left home. Things have been going on a long time now, and yet Paul has said nothing to me about it.”

  It was impossible to put the matter more clearly than this, and Hermione knew it. She said nothing for some minutes, but sat staring out of the window at the dark water, where the boats moved slowly about, each bearing a little light at the bow. Far down the quay a band was playing the eternal Stella Confidente, which has become a sort of national air in Turkey. The strains floated in through the window, and the young girl struggled hard to concentrate her thoughts, which somehow wound themselves in and out of the music in a very irrelevant manner.

  “Must I answer now, papa?” she asked at last, almost desperately.

  “My dear,” replied the inexorable John, in kind tones, “I cannot see why you should not. You are probably in very much the same state of mind to-night as you were in yesterday, or as you will be in to-morrow. It is better to settle the matter and be done with it. I do not believe that a fortnight, a month, or even a longer time will make any perceptible difference in your ideas about this matter.” He puffed at his cigar, and again looked at his daughter.

  “Hermy,” he continued, after another interval of silence, “if you do not mean to marry Paul, you are treating him very badly. You are letting that idiot of a brother of his make love to you from morning till night.”

  “Oh, papa! How can you!” exclaimed Hermione, who was not accustomed to hearing any kind of strong language from her father.

  “Idiot, — yes, my dear, that expresses it very well. He is my nephew, and I have a right to call him an idiot if I please. I believe the fellow wears stays, and curls his hair with tongs. He has a face like a girl, and he talks unmitigated rubbish.”

  “I thought you liked him, papa,” objected Hermione. “I do not think he is at all as silly as you say he is. He is very agreeable.”

  “I have no objection to him,” retorted John Carvel. “I tolerate him. Toleration is not liking. He fascinated us all for a day or two, but it did not last long; that sort of fascination never does.”

  There was another long pause. The band had finished the Stella Confidente, and ran on without stopping to the performance of the drinking chorus in the Traviata. Hermione twisted her fingers together, and bit her lips. Her father’s opinion of Alexander was a revelation to her, but it carried weight with it, and it aroused a whole train of recollections in her mind, culminating in the accident of the afternoon. She remembered vividly what she had felt during those long minutes before Alexander had recovered consciousness, and she knew that her feelings bore not the slightest relation to love. She had been terrified, and had blamed herself, and had thought of his mother; but the idea that he might be dead had not hurt her as it would have done had she loved him. She had felt no wild grief, no awful sense of blankness; the tears which had risen to her eyes had been tears of pity, of genuine sorrow, but not of despair. She tried to think what she would have felt had she seen Paul lying dead before her, and the mere idea sent a sharp thrust through her heart that almost frightened her.

  “Well, my dear,” said John, at last, “can you give me an answer? Do you mean to marry Paul or Alexander, or neither?”

  “Not Alexander, — oh, never!” exclaimed Hermione. “I never thought of such a thing.”

  “Paul, then?”

  “Papa, dear,” said the young girl, after a moment’s hesitation, “I will tell you all about it. When Paul came, I firmly intended to marry him. Then I began to know Alexander — and — well, I was very wrong, but he began to make pretty phrases, and to talk of loving me. Of course I told him he was very foolish, and I laughed at him. But he only went on, and said a great deal more, in spite of me. Then I thought that because I could not stop him I was interested in him. Paul wanted to speak to you, but I would not let him. I did not feel that my conscience was quite clear. I was not sure that I should always love him. Do you see? I think I love him, really, but Alexander interests me.”

  “But you never for a moment thought of marrying Alexander? You said so just now.”

  “Oh, never! I laughed at him, and he amused me, — nothing more than that.”

  “Then I don’t quite see” — began John Carvel, who was rather puzzled by the explanation.

  “Of course not. You are a man, — how can you understand? I will promise you this, papa: if I cannot make up my mind in a week, I will tell Paul so.”

  “How will a week help you, my dear? Ever so many weeks have passed, and you are still uncertain.”

  “I am sure that a week will make all the difference. I think I shall have decided then. I am in earnest, dear papa,” she added, gravely. “Do you
think I would willingly do anything to hurt Paul?”

  “No, my dear, I don’t,” answered John Carvel. “Only — you might do it unwillingly, you know, and as far as he is concerned it would come to very much the same thing.” And with this word of warning the interview ended.

  When I went home to dinner, I found Gregorios Balsamides seated on the wooden bench under the honeysuckle outside my door. He had escaped from the dust and heat of Pera, and had come to spend the night, sure of finding a hearty welcome at my kiosk on the hill. I sat down beside him, and he began asking me questions about the people who had arrived, giving me in return the news and gossip of Pera.

  “You have a very pretty place here,” he said. “A man I knew took it last summer, and used to give tea-parties and little fêtes in the evening. It is easy to string lanterns from one tree to another, and it makes a very pretty effect. It is a mild form of idiocy, it is true, — much milder than the prevailing practice of dancing in-doors, with the thermometer at the boiling point.”

  “It is not a bad idea,” I answered. “We will experiment upon our friends the Carvels in a small way. I will ask them and the Patoffs to come here next Saturday. Can you come, too?”

  The thing was settled, and Gregorios promised to be of the party. We dined, and sat late together, talking long before we went to bed. Gregorios is a soldier, and does not mind roughing it a little; so he slept on the divan, and declared the next day that he had slept very well.

  XXIII.

  MADAME PATOFF HAD not received the news of Alexander’s accident with indifference, and it had been necessary that he should assure her himself that he was not seriously hurt before she could be quieted. He had been badly stunned, however, and his head gave him much pain during several days, as was natural enough. He spent most of his time on the sofa in his mother’s sitting-room, and she would sit for hours talking to him and trying to soothe his pain. The sympathy between the two seemed strengthened, and it was strange to see how, when together, their manner changed. The relation between the mother and the spoiled child is a very peculiar one, and occupies an entirely separate division in the scale of human affections; for while the mother’s love in such a case is sincere, though generally founded on a mere capricious preference, the over-indulged affection of the child breeds nothing but caprice and a ruthless desire to see that caprice satisfied. Madame Patoff loved Alexander so much that the belief in his death had driven her mad; he on his side loved his mother because he knew that in all cases, just and unjust, she would defend him, take his part, and help him to get what he wanted. But he never missed her when they were separated, and he never took any pains to see her unless in so doing he could satisfy some other wish at the same time. He was selfish, willful, and obstinate at two-and-thirty as he had been at ten years of age. His mother was willful, obstinate, and capricious, but as far as he was concerned she was incapable of selfishness.

  What was most remarkable in her manner was her ease in talking with Professor Cutter, and her indifference in referring to her past insanity. She did not appear to realize it; she hardly seemed to care whether any one knew it or not, and regarded it as an unfortunate accident, but one which there was little object in concealing. As the scientist talked with her and observed her, he opened his eyes wider and wider behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and grew more and more silent when any one spoke to him of her. I knew later that he detected in her conduct certain symptoms which alarmed him, but felt obliged to hold his peace on account of the extreme difficulty of his position. He felt that to watch her again, or to put her under any kind of restraint, might now lead to far more serious results than before, and he determined to bide his time. An incident occurred very soon, however, which helped him to make up his mind.

  One afternoon we arranged an excursion to the ruined castle of Anadoli Kavák, on the Asian shore, near the mouth of the Black Sea. Mrs. Carvel, who was not a good sailor, stayed at home, but Miss Dabstreak, Madame Patoff, and Hermione were of the party, with Paul, Macaulay Carvel, Professor Cutter, and myself. Macaulay had borrowed a good-sized cutter from one of his many colleagues who kept yachts on the Bosphorus, and at three o’clock in the afternoon we started from the Buyukdere quay. There was a smart northerly breeze as we hoisted the jib, and it was evident that we should have to make several tacks before we could beat up to our destination. The boat was of about ten tons burden, with a full deck, broken only by a well leading to the cabin; a low rail ran round the bulwarks, for the yacht was intended for pleasure excursions and the accommodation of ladies. The members of the party sat in a group on the edge of the well, and I took the helm. Chrysophrasia was in a particularly Oriental frame of mind. The deep blue sky, the emerald green of the hills, and the cool clear water rippling under the breeze, no doubt acted soothingly upon her nerves.

  “I feel quite like Sindbad the Sailor,” she said. “Mr. Griggs, you ought really to tell us a tale from the Arabian Nights. I am sure it would seem so very real, you know.”

  “If I were to spin yarns while steering, Miss Dabstreak,” I said, “your fate would probably resemble Sindbad’s. You would be wrecked six or seven times between here and Kavák.”

  “So delightfully exciting,” murmured Chrysophrasia. “Annie,” she continued, addressing her sister, “shall we not ask Mr. Griggs to wreck us? I have always longed to be on a wreck.”

  “No,” said Madame Patoff, glancing at her foolish sister with her great dark eyes. “I should not like to be drowned.”

  “Of course not; how very dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Dabstreak. “But Sindbad was never drowned, you remember. It was always somebody else.”

  “Oh — somebody else,” repeated Madame Patoff, looking down at the deep water. “Yes, to drown somebody else, — that would be very different.”

  I think we were all a little startled, and Hermione looked at Paul and turned pale. As for Cutter, he very slowly and solemnly drew a cigar from his case, lit it carefully, crossed one knee over the other, and gazed fixedly at Madame Patoff during several minutes, before he spoke.

  “Would you really like to see anybody drowned?” he asked at last.

  “Why do you ask?” inquired Madame Patoff, rather sharply.

  “Because I thought you said so, and I wanted to know if you were in earnest.”

  “I suppose we should all like to see our enemies die,” said the old lady. “Not painfully, of course, but so that we should be quite sure of it.” She laid a strong emphasis on the last words, and as she looked up I thought she glanced at Paul.

  “If you had seen many people die, you would not care for the sight,” said the professor quietly. “Besides, you have no enemies.”

  “What is death?” asked Madame Patoff, looking at him with a curiously calm smile as she asked the question.

  “The only thing we know about it, is that it appears to be in every way the opposite of life,” was the scientist’s answer. “Life separates us for a time from the state of what we call inanimate matter. When life ceases, we return to that state.”

  “Why do you say ‘what we call inanimate matter’?” inquired Paul.

  “Because it has been very well said that names are labels, not definitions. As a definition, inanimate matter means generally the earth, the water, the air; but the name would be a very poor definition, — as poor as the word ‘man’ used to define the human animal.”

  “You do not think that inanimate matter is really lifeless?” I asked.

  “Unless it is so hot that it melts,” laughed the professor. “Even then it may not be true, — indeed, it may be quite false. We call the moon dead, because we have reason to believe that she has cooled to the centre. We call Jupiter and Saturn live planets, though we believe them still too hot to support life.”

  “All that does not explain death,” objected Madame Patoff.

  “If I could explain death, I could explain life,” answered Cutter. “And if I could explain life, I should have made a great step towards producing it artifici
ally.”

  “If one could only produce artificial death!” exclaimed Madame Patoff.

  “It would be very amusing,” answered Cutter, with a smile, folding his huge white hands upon his knee. “We could try it on ourselves, and then we should know what to expect. I have often thought about it, I assure you. I once had the curiosity to put myself into a trance by the Munich method of shining disks, — they use it in the hospitals instead of ether, you know, — and I remained in the state half an hour.”

  “And then, what happened when you woke up?”

  “I had a bad headache and my eyes hurt me,” replied the professor dryly. “I dare say that if a dead man came to life he would feel much the same thing.”

  “I dare say,” assented Madame Patoff; but there was a vague look in her eyes, which showed that her thoughts were somewhere else. We were close upon the Asian shore, and I put the helm down to go about. The ladies changed their places, and there was a little confusion, in which Cutter found himself close to me.

  “Keep an eye on her,” he said quickly, in a low voice. “She is very queer.”

  I thought so, too, and I watched Madame Patoff to see whether she would return to the subject which seemed to attract her. Cutter kept up the conversation, however, and did not again show any apprehension about his former patient’s state of mind, though I could see that he watched her as closely as I did. The fresh breeze filled the sails, and the next tack took us clear up to Yeni Mahallè on the European side; for the little yacht was quick in stays, and, moreover, had a good hold on the water, enabling her to beat quickly up against wind and current. Once again I went about, and, running briskly across, made the little pier below Anadoli Kavák, little more than three quarters of an hour after we had started. We landed, and went up the green slope to the place where the little coffee-shop stands under the trees. We intended to climb the hill to the ruined castle. To my surprise, Professor Cutter suggested to Madame Patoff that they should stay below, while the rest made the ascent. He said he feared she would tire herself too much. But she would not listen to him.