Phroso: A Romance

‘What can she have had to do with it?’

‘It may have been planned between her and the assassin.’

‘Oh, and between me and the assassin too, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps, my lord. It is not my place to inquire into that.’

I shrugged my shoulders with an appearance of mingled carelessness and impatience.

‘Well, what do you want of us?’ I asked.

‘You must accompany us back to Neopalia.’

‘Well, where did you suppose I was going? Is this a boat to go for a voyage in? Can I row a hundred miles to Rhodes? Come, you’re a silly fellow!’

He was rather embarrassed by my tone. He did not know whether to believe in my sincerity or not. Phroso caught the cue well enough to keep her tongue between her pretty lips, and her lids low over her wondering eyes.

‘But,’ I pursued in a tone of ironical remonstrance, ‘are you going to leave the Pasha there? The other is a rogue and a murderer’ (it rather went to my heart to describe the useful, if unscrupulous, Demetri in these terms); ‘let him be. But does it suit the dignity of Mouraki Pasha to lie untended on the shore, while his men row off to the harbour? It will look as though you had loved him little. You, four of you, allow one man to kill him, and then you leave his body as if it were the body of a dog!’

I had no definite reason for wishing them to return and take up Mouraki’s body; but every moment gained was something. Neopalia had bred in me a constant hope of new chances, of fresh turns, of a smile from fortune following quick on a frown. So I urged on them anything which would give a respite. My appeal was not wasted. The officer held a hurried whispered consultation with the soldier who sat on the seat next to him. Then he said:

‘It is true, my lord. It is more fitting that we should carry the body back; but you must return with us.’

‘With all my heart,’ said I, taking up my sculls with alacrity.

The officer responded to this move of mine by laying his rifle in readiness across his knees; both boats turned, and we set out again for the beach. As soon as we reached it three of them went up the slope. I saw them kick Demetri’s body out of the way; for he had fallen so that his arm was over the breast of his victim. Then they raised Mouraki and began to carry him down. Phroso hid her face in her hands. My eyes were on Mouraki’s face; I watched him carried down to the boat, meditating on the strange toss-up which had allotted to him the fate which he had with such ruthless cunning prepared for me. Suddenly I sprang up, leapt out of the boat, and began to walk up the slope. I passed the soldiers who bore Mouraki. They paused in surprise and uneasiness. I walked briskly by, taking no notice of them, and came where Demetri’s body lay. I knelt for a moment by him, and closed his eyes with my hand. Then I took off the silk scarf I was wearing and spread it over his face, and I rose to my feet again. Somehow I felt that I owed to Demetri some such small office of friendship as this that I was paying; and I found myself hoping that there had been good in the man, and that He who sees all of the heart would see good even in the wild desperate soul of Demetri of Neopalia. So I arranged the scarf carefully, and, turning, walked down the slope to the boats again, glad to be able to tell the girl Panayiota that somebody had closed her lover’s eyes. Thus I left the friend that I knew not of. Looking into my own heart, I did not judge him harshly. I had let the thing be done.

When I reached the beach, the soldiers were about to lay Mouraki’s body in the larger of the two boats; but having nothing to cover his body with they proceeded to remove his undress frock coat and left it lying for an instant on the shingle while they lifted him in. Seeing that they were ready, I picked up the coat and handed it to them. They took it and arranged it over the trunk and head. Two of them got into the boat in which Phroso sat and signed to me to jump in. I was about to obey when I perceived a pocket-book lying on the shingle. It was not mine. Neither Demetri nor any of the soldiers was likely to carry a handsome morocco-leather case; it must have belonged to Mouraki and have fallen from his coat as I lifted it. It lay opened now, face upwards. I stooped for it, intending to give it to the officer. But an instant later it was in my pocket; and I, under the screen of a most innocent expression, was covertly watching my guards, to see whether they had detected my action. The two who rowed Mouraki had already started; the others had been taking their seats in the boat and had not perceived the swift motion with which I picked up the book. I walked past them and sat down behind them in the bows. Phroso was in the stern. One of them asked her, with a considerable show of respect, if she would steer. She assented with a nod. I crouched down low in the bows behind the backs of the soldiers; there I took out Mouraki’s pocket-book and opened it. My action seemed, no doubt, not far removed from theft. But as the book lay open on the shore, I had seen in it something which belonged to me, something which was inalienably mine, of which no schemes or violence could deprive me: this was nothing else than my name.

Very quietly and stealthily I drew out a slip of paper; behind that was another slip, and again a third. They were cuttings from a Greek newspaper. Neither the name of the paper, nor the dates, nor the place of publication, appeared: the extracts were merely three short paragraphs. My name headed each of them. I had not been aware that any chronicle of my somewhat unexpected fortunes had reached the outer world; and I set myself to read with much interest. Great men may become indifferent as to what the papers say about them; I had never attained to this exalted state of mind.

‘Let’s have a look,’ said I to myself, after a cautious glance over my shoulder at the other boat, which was several yards ahead.

The first paragraph ran thus: ‘We regret to hear that Lord Wheatley, the English nobleman who has recently purchased the island of Neopalia and taken up his residence there, is suffering from a severe attack of the fever which is at the present time prevalent in the island.’

‘Now that’s very curious,’ I thought, for I had never enjoyed better health than during my sojourn in Neopalia. I turned with increased interest to the second cutting. I wanted to see what progress I had made in my serious sickness. Naturally I was interested.

‘We greatly regret to announce that Lord Wheatley’s condition is critical. The fever has abated, but the patient is dangerously prostrate.’

‘It would be even more interesting if one had the dates,’ thought I.

The last paragraph was extremely brief. ‘Lord Wheatley died at seven o’clock yesterday morning.’

I lay back in the bows of the boat, holding these remarkable little slips of paper in my hand. They gave occasion for some thought. Then I replaced them in the pocket-book, and I had, I regret to say, the curiosity to explore further. I lifted the outer flap of leather and looked in the inner compartment. It held only a single piece of paper. On the paper were four or five lines, not in print this time but in handwriting, and the handwriting looked very much like what I had seen over Mouraki’s name.

‘Report of Lord Wheatley’s death unfounded. Reason to suspect intended foul play on the part of the islanders. The Governor is making inquiries. Lord Wheatley is carefully guarded, as attempts on his life are feared. Feeling in the island is much exasperated, the sale to Lord Wheatley being very unpopular.’

‘There’s another compartment yet,’ said I to myself, and I turned to it eagerly. Alas, I was disappointed! There was a sheet of paper in it, but the paper was a blank. Yet I looked at the blank piece of paper with even greater interest; for I had little doubt that it had been intended to carry another message, a message which was true and no lie, which was to have been written this very morning by the dagger of Demetri. Something like this it would have run, would it not, in the terse style of my friend Mouraki Pasha? ‘Lord Wheatley assassinated this morning. Assassin killed by Governor’s guards. Governor is taking severe measures.’

Mouraki, Mouraki, in your life you loved irony, and in your death you were not divided from it! For while you lay a corpse in the stern of your boat, I lived to read those unwritten words on the blank paper in your pocket-book. At first Constantine had killed me – so I interpreted the matter – by fever; but later on that story would not serve, since Denny and Hogvardt and faithful Watkins knew that it was a lie. Therefore the lie was declared a lie and you set yourself to prove again that truth is better than a lie – especially when a man can manufacture it to his own order. Yet, surely, Mouraki, if you can look now into this world, your smile will be a wry one! For, cunning as you were and full of twists, more cunning still and richer in expedients is the thing called fate; and the dagger of Demetri wrote another message to fill the blank sheet that your provident notebook carried!

Thinking thus, I put the book in my pocket, and looked round with a smile on my lips. I wished the man were alive that I might mock him. I grudged him the sudden death which fenced him from my triumphant raillery.

Suddenly, there in the bows of the boat, I laughed aloud, so that the soldiers turned startled faces over their shoulders and Phroso looked at me in wonder.

‘It’s nothing,’ said I. ‘Since I’m alive I may laugh, I suppose?’ Mouraki Pasha was not alive.

My reading and my meditation had passed the time. Now we were round the point which had lain between us and the harbour, and were heading straight for the gunboat that was anchored just across the head of the jetty. Phroso’s eyes met mine in an appeal. I could give her no hope of escape. There was nothing for it: we must go on, we and Mouraki together. But my heart was buoyant within me and I exulted in the favours of fortune as a lover in his mistress’s smiles. Was not Mouraki lying dead in the stern of the boat and was not I alive?

We drew near to the gunboat. Now I perceived that her steam launch lay by her side and smoke poured from its funnel. Evidently the launch was ready for a voyage. Whither? Could it be to Rhodes? And did the pocket-book that I felt against my ribs by any chance contain the cargo which was to have been speeded on its way to-day? I laughed again as our boat came alongside, and a movement of excitement and interest rose from the deck of gunboat and launch alike.

The officer went on board the gunboat; for an hour or more we sat where we were, sheltered by the side of the vessel from the heat of the sun, for it was now noon. What was happening on board I could not tell, but there was stir and bustle. The excitement seemed to grow. Presently it spread from the vessel to the shore and groups of islanders began to collect. I saw men point at Phroso, at me, at the stiffened figure under the coat. They spoke also, and freely; more boldly than I had heard them since Mouraki had landed and his presence turned their fierce pride to meekness. It was as though a weight had been lifted off them. I knew, from my own mind, the relief that came to them by the death of the hard man and the removal of the ruthless arm. Presently a boat put off and began to pull round the promontory. The soldiers did not interfere, but watched it go in idle toleration. I guessed its errand: it went to take up the corpse of Demetri, and (I was much afraid) to give it a patriot’s funeral.

At last Mouraki’s body was carried on to the gunboat; then a summons came to me. With a glance of encouragement at Phroso, who sat in a sort of stupor, I rose and obeyed. I was conducted on to the deck and found myself face to face with the captain. He was a Turk, a young man of dignified and pleasant appearance. He bowed to me courteously, although slightly. I supposed that Mouraki’s death left him the supreme authority in Neopalia and I made him the obeisance proper to his new position.

‘This is a terrible, a startling event, my lord,’ said he.

‘It’s the loss of a very eminent and distinguished man,’ I observed.

‘Ah, yes, and in a very fearful manner,’ he answered. ‘I am not prejudging your position, but you must see that it puts you in a rather serious situation.’

There were two or three of his officers standing near. I took a step towards him. I liked his looks; and somehow his grief at Mouraki’s end did not seem intense. I determined to play the bold game.

‘Nothing, I assure you, to what I should have been in if it had not occurred,’ said I composedly.

A start and a murmur ran round the group. The captain looked uncomfortable.

‘With his Excellency’s plans we have nothing to do – ’ he began.

‘Aye, but I have,’ said I. ‘And when I tell you – ’

‘Gentlemen,’ said the captain hastily, ‘leave us alone for a little while.’

I saw at once that I had made an impression. It seemed not difficult to create an impression adverse to Mouraki now that he was dead, though it had not been wise to display one when he was alive.

‘I don’t know,’ said I, when we were left alone together, ‘whether you knew the relations between the late Pasha and myself?’

‘No,’ said he in a steady voice, looking me full in the face.

‘It was not, perhaps, within the sphere of your duty to know them?’ I hazarded.

‘It was not,’ said he. I thought I saw the slightest of smiles glimmering between beard and moustache.

‘But now that you’re in command, it’s different?’

‘It is undoubtedly different now,’ he admitted.

‘Shall we talk in your cabin?’

‘By all means;’ and he led the way.

When we reached the cabin, I gave him a short sketch of what had happened since Mouraki’s arrival. He was already informed as to the events before that date. He heard me with unmoved face. At last I came to my attempted escape with Phroso by the secret passage and to Constantine’s attack.

‘That fellow was a villain,’ he observed.

‘Yes,’ said I. ‘Read those.’ And I handed him the printed slips, adding, ‘I suppose he sent these by fishing-boats to Rhodes, first to pave the way, and finally to account for my disappearance.’

‘I must congratulate you on a lucky escape, my lord.’

‘You have more than that to congratulate me on, captain. Your launch seems ready for a voyage.’

‘Yes; but I have countermanded the orders.’

‘What were they?’

‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but what concern is it – ?’

‘For a trip to Rhodes, perhaps?’

‘I shall not deny it if you guess it.’

‘By the order of the Pasha?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘On what errand?’

‘His Excellency did not inform me.’

‘To carry this perhaps?’ I flung the paper which bore Mouraki’s handwriting on the table that stood between us.

He took it up and read it; while he read, I took my pencil from my pocket and wrote on the blank slip of paper, which I had found in the pocket-book, the message that Mouraki’s brain had surely conceived, though his fingers had grown stiff in death before they could write it.

‘What does all this mean?’ asked the captain, looking up as he finished reading.

‘And to-morrow,’ said I, ‘I think another message would have gone to Rhodes – ’

‘I had orders to be ready to go myself to-morrow.’

‘You had?’ I cried. ‘And what would you have carried?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘Aye, but I do. There’s your cargo!’ And I flung down what I had written.

He read it once and again, and looked across the table at me, fingering the slip of paper.

‘He did not write this?’ he said.

‘As you saw, I wrote it. If he had lived, then, as surely as I live, he would have written it. Captain, it was for me that dagger was meant. Else why did he take the man Demetri with him? Had Demetri cause to love him, or he cause to trust Demetri?’

The captain stood holding the paper. I walked round the table and laid my hand on his shoulder.

‘You didn’t know his schemes,’ said I. ‘They weren’t schemes that he could tell to a Turkish gentleman.’

At this instant the door opened and the officer who had been with us in the morning entered.

‘I have laid his Excellency’s body in his cabin,’ he said.

‘Come,’ said the captain, ‘we will go and see it, my lord.’

I followed him to where Mouraki lay. The Pasha’s face was composed and there was even the shadow of a smile on his pale lips.

‘Do you believe what I tell you?’ I asked. ‘I tried to save the girl from him and in return he meant to kill me. Do you believe me? If not, hang me for his murder; if you do, why am I a prisoner? What have I done? Where is my offence?’

The captain looked down on Mouraki’s face, tugged his beard, smiled, was silent an instant. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and he said – he who had not dared, a day before, to lift his voice or raise his finger unbidden in Mouraki’s presence:

‘Faugh, the Armenian dog!’

There was, I fear, race prejudice in that exclamation, but I did not contradict it. I stood looking down on Mouraki’s face, and to my fancy, stirred by the events of the past hours and twisted from sobriety to strange excesses of delusion, the lips seemed once again to curl in their old bitter smile, as he lay still and heard himself spurned, and could not move to exact the vengeance which in his life he had never missed.

So we left him – the Armenian dog!