Chapter XIX: Art with a Purpose

Akin to Eirene’s feelings at this time were those of Wylie. As soon as he heard of her arrival in Therma he tried to see her, but was assured that she was too ill to receive visitors. Losing no time, he took ship with Armitage for Morea, and paid a sufficiently exhaustive visit to the rock monasteries on that side of the frontier to make sure that his friends were not and had not been at any of them. There remained only Hadgi-Antoniou, but on trying to penetrate to it he was promptly turned back by the frontier guards, who asserted that he was attempting to lead a Greek band into Emathian territory. Returning to Therma, with the intention of reaching the monastery from thence, he found himself confronted with obstacles of every description. The Vali had become intolerably solicitous for his safety, and refused to let him go without an escort, while declining either to provide the escort or to allow Wylie to raise one for himself. It was the same with the purveyors of guides, horses, servants, all the necessaries of a traveller, but Wylie was stolidly combating one objection after another, when the distant sight one day of Eirene in the Ladoguins’ carriage gave a new direction to his thoughts. His determination to see her was, however, only the prelude to a fresh series of disappointments. Once, and only once, he obtained an entrance into the Scythian Consulate, where he was received by Madame Ladoguin, who in honeyed accents conveyed to him her Royal Highness’s thanks for his past services, and regret that she was unable to see him. Entreaties, arguments, threats, fell powerless against the armour of her suave impenetrability, and though Wylie retired with the determination to try his luck another day, he was not admitted again.

After this, he tried writing to Eirene. His first letter was answered in her name by Madame Ladoguin, and conveyed the same message that he had already received from her lips, but couched in more formal terms, as though to rebuke his presumptuous importunity. Two or three succeeding letters remained unanswered, and those that followed were returned unopened. Bribery was the next resort, and he found many itching palms among the servants and underlings of the Consulate; but it was not long before he was forced to the conclusion that none of his messages had been allowed to reach their destination.

There was a certain obstinacy in Wylie that refused to be baffled. He watched the doors of the Consulate, he laid ambushes at spots which Madame Ladoguin and her guest were likely to pass in their drives. But his adversaries were equally obstinate, and far more subtle. Nicetas Mitsopoulo dogged his movements with unfailing watchfulness, and reported daily, sometimes hourly, to his sister. False information as to the direction to be taken by the ladies in their drives was liberally supplied, and the carriage never issued from the Consulate when Wylie was on the watch. And yet his persistence was not without its effect at last. An Englishwoman would have said that it got upon Madame Ladoguin’s nerves. If this wretched Englishman continued to picket the approaches to her house in this way, some accident must at length give him the interview which he sought, for she could not always be on the watch everywhere. After mature consideration, and consultation with her brother, she took one of those bold steps which are possible only to great minds. She called on the wife of the British Consul-General and requested a private interview, in the course of which she complained to her with deep regret of the ungentlemanly conduct of one of her husband’s nationals. This person had been one of the party captured by brigands at the same time as Madame Ladoguin’s royal guest, and had so far presumed upon the circumstance as to fall violently in love with the Princess, and to persecute her, even now that she had returned to civilisation, with attentions that were as insulting as they were undesired. He waylaid her daily, bribed servants to convey amorous notes to her, and had filled her with such terror and disgust that she could scarcely bring herself to venture beyond the precincts of the Consulate.

To Lady Francis this revelation supplied at once a key to Wylie’s persistent efforts, and a new and intense interest in life. In all innocence she lent herself to Madame Ladoguin’s manipulation, moved by a sincere pity for him, coupled with a gratifying sense of personal importance in thus becoming involved in the love affairs of a royal personage. She conveyed Madame Ladoguin’s appeal to her husband, and Sir Frank, who liked Wylie and was now doubly sorry for him, requested his presence, and talked to him like a father.

“No discredit to you--most natural, I’m sure--but you see, in the case of a young lady of such high rank, this sort of thing won’t do,” was the burden of his song, and the impossibility of convincing him of the truth drove Wylie nearly frantic. Sir Frank persisted in regarding his solemn denials as attempts not to compromise the lady, and sturdily demanded why he laid wait for her and annoyed her with letters if he was not in love with her.

“But don’t you see, sir,” cried Wylie at last, “that the Princess is the last person who saw the Smiths? I only want to know from her the truth about them.”

“But you have heard that they are exploring among the monasteries. Why should you wish to discredit the Princess’s word and that of M. Kirileff?”

“Why haven’t the Smiths written to me? Why can I find out nothing about them? They must want clothes and things--and money. How can they go exploring without it?”

“I see,” said Sir Frank, beginning for the first time to regard the mystery as something more than a figment of Wylie’s brain. “But what exactly do you want to find out from the Princess?”

“I want to ask her where she left them, and in what circumstances, and how they proposed to manage.”

“But you don’t need a private interview for that.”

“I have never asked for a private interview, sir. I shall be delighted to ask her the questions in the presence of yourself and Ladoguin and the full staff of both Consulates.”

“Well, perhaps Lady Francis and Madame Ladoguin would be sufficient for the purpose, and less alarming to the young lady,” chuckled Sir Frank. “I’ll see about it, then. You leave the matter in my hands, and don’t hang about the Scythian Consulate meanwhile--you understand?”

Wylie acquiesced and departed, to rage furiously over the matter in the hearing of Armitage, who was still waiting at Therma to see him through his troubles, and incidentally to make Emathian sketches for the ‘Plastic.’ He listened placidly to Wylie’s wrathful declaration--when his fury at the absolute injustice and stupidity of the accusation allowed him intelligible utterance--that he had been made to look a fool before the whole city. Not even the suggestion of ungentlemanly behaviour appeared to sting him so deeply as the charge of having fallen in love with Eirene.

“Calm yourself,” said the artist coolly, when Wylie had anathematised all concerned to an extent that seemed to him sufficient. “You are the lion in the net; well, will you allow me the honour of being the mouse?”

“What’s this?” growled Wylie, taking up the large envelope addressed to Eirene which his friend placed before him.

“That is a letter from Princess Florence, Duchess of Inverness, introducing an English artist of the name of Armitage to the Princess Eirene Féofan, whom H.R.H. met in France in the spring.”

“And how in the world did you get to know the Duchess of Inverness?”

“I really don’t know, unless I say like the old Italian chap, ‘I also am a painter.’ I had the cheek to ask for a letter in her own writing, lest the Ladoguins should suppress it and answer it themselves, like yours. Of course, I didn’t say why I was so anxious to see Princess Eirene, but the lady-in-waiting says that the Duchess has suggested she should let me wait upon her with my sketches, and perhaps paint her portrait if she happens to want it done. So I suppose she thinks I’m hard up.”

“Well, and am I to go instead of you?” demanded Wylie.

“Oh, blessed innocence! Do you think you would ever be admitted into the Scythian Consulate if you brought a letter from the Emperor of Scythia himself? or that your appearance, and especially your eyes, aren’t known to every bootboy about the place? Of course I shall go. You don’t catch me abusing the Duchess’s kindness by sending an objectionable fire-eater like you--objectionable to Scythia, I mean--to represent me. But I shall have a try at doing your business. What is it you want exactly?”

“To see her, to know from her own lips what has become of them!” cried Wylie. “Tell her that if I still hear nothing of them I shall follow her wherever she goes until I get the truth out of her.”

“Gently. This is eminently a case for the use of guile. Now let us devise a scheme. You must remember that it’s quite possible you won’t be allowed to see her even now. Let us try if we can’t arrange it so that I may manage to get hold of the needed information in any case.”

They laid their plans, and in due time Armitage delivered his letter at the Consulate, where it caused great searchings of heart. As he had anticipated, it proved impossible to treat an introduction from the art-loving British Princess in the cavalier fashion which was good enough for Wylie’s notes, and he was gratified by an intimation that the Princess Eirene would receive him the next day. When he presented himself with his portfolio of sketches, it was no surprise to him to be received first by Madame Ladoguin, who desired to impress upon him, with an unspeakably frank air of taking him into her inmost confidence, that he must not mention in her Royal Highness’s hearing the name of Captain Wylie. He had probably learnt from the rumours of the city of that person’s extraordinary behaviour with regard to the Princess, but he could not possibly guess what pain it had given her. Armitage faced the ambassador with a mien as open as her own.

“Thanks so much for telling me,” he said, in his boyish way. “I don’t suppose I should, in any case, have mentioned him unless the Princess had done it first, but now I’ll be extra careful.”

When he was ushered into Eirene’s presence, he caught a momentary look of disappointment on her face, a glance to see whether any one was following him, which told him in a moment that she had been cherishing the wild hope of seeing Wylie in disguise. The discovery took away half the difficulty of his task, by resolving at once the question whether she was or was not a willing accomplice in the conspiracy of silence. The weary languor of her tones when she asked him where he had studied, and how the Duchess had become acquainted with him, was welcome, as calculated to lull the suspicions of Mme. Ladoguin. It was quickly evident, however, that no temporary assurance was to be allowed to blind that lady’s vigilance. She stood between Eirene and Armitage, and handed to the former each sketch as it was taken from the portfolio. It was not until the entire contents had passed through her hands that she retreated to the end of the table, and sat down with some fancy work. Armitage observed that the work was not of a very engrossing nature, for while her hands were busy with it, her eyes were free to roam as before. Eirene was still looking through the sketches, now guaranteed harmless by her guardian herself.

“It has been a great pleasure to me to see your work,” she said graciously to the painter. “I only wish you had brought more portraits. The Duchess of Inverness says you have painted a half-length of the Duke for her.”

“I have a photograph of it here, ma’am,” and Armitage took the card from a pocket in the portfolio, contriving rather ostentatiously to exhibit first one side and then the other to the vigilant gaze of Mme. Ladoguin, somewhat in the manner of the conjurer who desires to assure his audience that there is no deception.

“Yes, I like that very much,” said Eirene, after studying the photograph carefully; “but I have never seen the Duke--or indeed any of the people you have shown me. Have you no portrait of any one I know?”

“Only one, I’m afraid, ma’am--a sketch of Captain Wylie,” with a deprecating glance at Madame Ladoguin.

“I must have missed that. Let me see it, please.” Armitage produced the portrait from under the others, where Madame Ladoguin had dexterously slipped it instead of passing it on to Eirene. It was a pencil sketch, worked up with a good deal of care. One foot impatiently advanced, Wylie seemed almost to be stepping out of the picture, with a look of reckless resolution on his face.

“Oh, this is lifelike. How well I know that expression!” said Eirene, with a smile and a sigh over the memories called up by the portrait. “But the picture should be coloured. Nothing can do justice to Captain Wylie that does not show the colour of his eyes.”

“This is merely a rough sketch, ma’am. I happened to catch him in an attitude I liked. I tell him I shall work it up into a picture of him terrorising an army with a riding-whip, _à la_ General Gordon.”

“You will be obliged to alter the background, then. Why place a soldier in such sylvan surroundings?”

“Oh, that was a bit of woodland I wanted to get in somewhere,” said the artist frankly. “I was rather proud of it, because I thought I had got the look of that particular kind of bush rather well. You don’t like it, ma’am?” with some disappointment. “Perhaps if you saw it in a better light----?” He moved towards the window, and Eirene turned in her chair.

“I see you have made him sign it. What a bold hand he writes!” she observed easily. “Yes, Mr Armitage, I think I did you an injustice. The growth of that particular shrub must be very difficult to render. It is the sweet-scented plant that grows in thickets, is it not?”

She spoke lightly, almost at random, for Armitage had placed the sketch in her hands upside-down, and all the shading of the bushes was discernible as writing.

“You must manage to receive me. When can I see you? Where are the Smiths? I am certain there has been foul play. I have been trying in every possible way for weeks to get an interview with you, but have been assured that you refused it. Only tell me where Smith and his sister are, and how to help them, and I will give you no more trouble. You cannot be so heartless as to abandon them to no one knows what fate.--James Graham Wylie.”

“When was this taken? Captain Wylie looks thinner than when I saw him,” Eirene went on.

“Two days ago, ma’am.”

“Two days ago? but not here? He is not in Therma? I have several times said that I wished to receive Captain Wylie, to thank him for his services to me, but I was always assured he had returned to India. What does this mean?”

“He is staying at my hotel, ma’am, and I know he is most anxious to wait on you.” Armitage cast a glance at Madame Ladoguin which blended cleverly perplexity and a request for pardon, and she responded to it.

“I am grieved to tell you, madame, that since Captain Wylie’s return to Therma, his conduct has been such as to call down the reprobation even of his own Consul. The kindest thing is to attribute it to a disordered brain. I can’t enter into the details, but it is absolutely impossible for you to receive him.”

“I see,” said Eirene, with a slight frown. “I must ask you, Mr Armitage, to inform Captain Wylie that it is not convenient to me to receive him.”

“It is not for me to question your decision, ma’am,” said the artist, “but I think I could explain things to your satisfaction if you would allow it?” She made no sign, and he continued bluntly, “I fancy, ma’am, that my friend could dispense with paying his respects if you would be good enough to send him the information he wants about Mr and Miss Smith.”

Eirene raised her eyebrows. “I thought it was understood that when I parted from them they were in perfect health?” she said.

“And cheerfulness, madame,” put in Madame Ladoguin. “You have mentioned to me more than once Miss Smith’s extreme cheerfulness when you quitted her.”

“Yes,” said Eirene, with a little smile, “I rather resented her cheerfulness, for I did not like her staying behind, and had exhausted all my powers of persuasion to induce her to return with me to Therma, but in vain. I am afraid that is all I can tell you, Mr Armitage. And now about your own work. Could you undertake a portrait of me--now, while I am still here?”

“I should be highly honoured, ma’am.”

“Then let us decide----” began Eirene, but Madame Ladoguin interposed.

“Dearest Princess, pardon me, but what will Dr Simovics say? He ordered you complete rest from anything that might try the nerves, and you have no idea of the strain of sitting for a portrait. If you like, I can send and ask his advice, but I fear I know what his answer will be.”

“So do I,” said Eirene resentfully. “This means that I must give up my portrait, then. But I must have a picture of yours,” turning to Armitage. “I wonder”--she took up some of the sketches--“whether you would object to try a view of Hadgi-Antoniou from my description merely? I like the pictures of the Morean monasteries extremely, but as I have never seen them they do not appeal to me as Hadgi-Antoniou does.”

“I will try my best, ma’am; but I fear the picture would not be very satisfactory. If you could give me just a rough sketch of your own----?”

“Unfortunately I can’t draw at all. But I suppose I could show you roughly what it is like. I should like a picture of the church, but I know it would be hopeless for me to try to do that. The view must be from the ground below. Now you must not laugh at my crude efforts,” as Armitage supplied her with a pencil and an unused sheet of paper. “The rock goes up, up, nearly straight, like this, and the monastery is at the very top, hanging over in some places. This is the rope and net by which visitors are drawn up. These things which look like caterpillars on the face of the rock are ladders. The monks must have some more to bridge the gaps, but I never saw them in use, and I don’t know where they keep them. Here at the edge of the summit are the monks’ gardens. Don’t expect me to draw bushes as you do.” She was scribbling with intense energy, and Armitage, looking over her, read--

“They are here--Z. in pilgrims’ rooms, M. in underground dungeon. Monks are divided into two parties, Greek and Thracian. Hegoumenos and Greeks friendly but timid. Thracians under Scythian orders. Greeks will yield to definite order from Œcumenical Patriarch for release of prisoners. Be prepared to bribe Thracians heavily, and to threaten, or even use, force. Be secret, or prisoners may be removed.”

“This is an overhanging forest, ma’am, I presume?” asked Armitage. Eirene laughed consciously.

“Oh no, only bushes, and in some places grass.”

“Then--pardon me--I think, perhaps, this kind of touch would express it better.” He took the pencil, and wrote--

“Are you in danger? Can we help you first?”

“I think I shall get you to give me some drawing lessons,” said Eirene admiringly. “Is this it?” and she wrote--

“You can do nothing for me. I shall be taken back to Scythia. Show disappointment about the portrait.”

“If I might venture to offer a suggestion, ma’am, bushes don’t generally wear their branches on the outside,” said Armitage drily, taking the pencil again, and covering Eirene’s writing with light and dark shading bearing a sufficient resemblance to foliage.

“I really must have some lessons,” said she, with renewed admiration. “Chariclea, you are not to tell me that Dr Simovics would object to that.”

“Alas, dearest Princess!” lamented Mme. Ladoguin, who was firm in a not unnatural determination to save herself the wear and tear of the perpetual surveillance any further visits from the artist would entail. “The doctor was most particular in ordering complete rest for mind and eye and hand.”

“If I might have the honour of painting your portrait, ma’am,” ventured Armitage, “I am sure I could manage so that you would find the sittings very little strain. Once we had settled on a characteristic attitude, you could move about as you liked.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be so bad,” said Eirene triumphantly. “You hear, Chariclea?”

“How unfortunate I am, compelled to represent the doctor, and bear the odium of his measures!” cried Mme. Ladoguin distractedly. “I can only say as I did before, let us ask him, madame.”

“I know what that means,” said Eirene, with a pout. “A princess in disgrace is a very helpless person, Mr Armitage.”

“You don’t know what a disappointment it is to me, ma’am,” he answered, while Madame Ladoguin made a deprecating movement. “I had hoped so much from the Duchess’s introduction.”

“When you see her you must tell her that it was not my fault,” said Eirene, scribbling vigorously. “The rock is grey, the walls are white, the roofs red tiles, the bushes grey-green, the sky very blue. I have written the colour on each, so that you may remember. There, Chariclea, what do you think of it?”

Madame Ladoguin viewed the work of art with a caustic eye.

“Indeed, madame, I fear I should hardly recognise Hadgi-Antoniou from your picture of it.”

“Then you must make it right, Mr Armitage,” said Eirene, rising. “Cure its defects instead of mine, if you please.”