Phroso: A Romance

‘Yes, safety.’

‘Ah, yes, you must be safe,’ she said, appearing to awake suddenly to a consciousness of something forgotten. ‘Ah, yes, my lord, you must be safe. Don’t linger, my lord. Don’t linger!’

‘Do you suppose I’m going alone?’ I asked, and, in spite of everything, I could not help smiling as I put the question. I believe she really thought that the course in question might commend itself to me.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t go alone. But I – I can’t cross that awful bridge.’

‘Oh yes, you can,’ said I. ‘Come along,’ and I rose and held out my arms towards her.

She looked at me, the tears still on her cheeks, a doubtful smile dawning on her lips.

‘My dear lord,’ she said very softly, and stood while I put my arms round her and lifted her till she lay easily. Then came what I think was the hardest thing of all to bear. She let her head fall on my shoulder and lay trustfully, I could almost say luxuriously, back in my arms; a little happy sigh of relief and peace came from her lips, her eyes closed, she was content.

Well, I started; and I shall not record precisely what I thought as I started. What I ought to have thought about was picking my way over the bridge, and, if more matter for consideration were needed, I might have speculated on the best thing to do when we reached the outlet of the passage. Suppose, then, that I thought about what I ought to have thought about.

‘Keep still while we’re on the bridge,’ said I to Phroso. ‘It’s not over broad, you know.’

A little movement of the head, till it rested in yet greater seeming comfort, was Phroso’s only disobedience; for the rest she was absolutely still. It was fortunate; for to cross that bridge in the dark, carrying a lady, was not a job I cared much about. However we came to the other side; the walls of rock closed in again on either hand, and I felt the way begin to slope downwards under my feet.

‘Does it go pretty straight now?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes, quite straight. You can’t miss it, my lord,’ said Phroso, and another little sigh of content followed the words. I had, I suppose, little enough to laugh at, but I did laugh very gently and silently, and I did not propose that Phroso should walk.

‘Are you tired?’ she said presently, just opening her eyes for an instant.

‘I could carry you for ever,’ I answered.

Phroso smiled under lazy lids that closed again.

In spite of Phroso’s assurance of its simple straightness the road had many twists and turns in it, and I had often to ask my way. Phroso gave me directions at once and without hesitation. Evidently she was thoroughly familiar with the track. When I remarked on this she said, ‘Oh, yes, I often used to come this way. It leads to such a pretty cave, you know.’

‘Then it doesn’t come out at the same point as the way my friends took?’

‘No, more than a mile away from that. We must be nearly there now. Are you tired, my lord?’

‘Not a bit,’ said I, and Phroso accepted the answer without demur.

There can, however, be no harm in admitting now that I was tired, not so much from carrying Phroso, though, as from the strain of the day and the night that I had passed through; and I hailed with joy a glimmer of light which danced before my eyes at the end of a long straight tunnel. We were going down rapidly now; and, hark, there was the wash of water welcoming us to the outer air and the light of the upper world; for day had just dawned as we came to the end of the way. The light that I saw ahead was ruddy with the rays of the new-risen sun.

‘Ah,’ sighed Phroso happily, ‘I hear the sea. Oh, I smell it. And see, my lord, the light!’

I turned from the light, joyful as was the beholding of it, to the face which lay close by mine. That too I could see now for the first time plainly. I met Phroso’s eyes. A slight tinge of colour dyed her cheeks, but she lay still, looking at me, and she said softly, in low rich tones:

‘You look very weary. Let me walk now, my lord.’

‘No, we’ll go on to the end now,’ I said.

The end was near. Another five minutes brought us where once again the enfolding walls spread out. The path broadened into a stony beach; above us the rocks formed an arch: we were in a little cave, and the waves rolled gently to and fro on the margin of the beach. The mouth of the cave was narrow and low, the rocks leaving only about a yard between themselves above and the water below; there was just room for a boat to pass out and in. Phroso sprang from my arms, and stretched out her hands to the light.

‘Ah, if we had a boat!’ I cried, running to the water’s edge.

Had the luck indeed changed and fortune begun to smile? It seemed so, for I had hardly spoken when Phroso suddenly clapped her hands and cried:

‘A boat! There is a boat, my lord,’ and she leapt forward and caught me by the hand, her eyes sparkling.

It was true – by marvel, it was true! A good, stout, broad-bottomed little fishing boat lay beached on the shingle, with its sculls lying in it. How had it come? Well, I didn’t stop to ask that. My eyes met Phroso’s in delight. The joy of our happy fortune overcame us. I think that for the moment we forgot the terrible events which had happened before our eyes, the sadness of the parting which at the best lay before us. Both her hands were in mine; we were happy as two children, prosperously launched on some wonderful fairy-tale adventure – prince and princess in their cockle boat on a magic sea.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ cried Phroso. ‘Ah, my lord, all goes well with you. I think God loves you, my lord, as much as – ’

She stopped. A rush of rich colour flooded her cheeks. Her deep eyes, which had gleamed in exultant merriment, sank to the ground. Her hands loosed mine.

‘ – as the lady who waits for you loves you, my lord,’ she said.

I do not know how it was, but Phroso’s words summoned up before my eyes a vision of Beatrice Hipgrave, pursuing her cheerful way through the gaieties of the season – or was she in the country by now? – without wasting very many thoughts on the foolish man who had gone to the horrid island. The picture of her as the lady who waited for a lover, forlorn because he tarried, struck with a bitter amusement on my sense of humour. Phroso saw me smile; her eyes asked a wondering question. I did not answer it, but turned away and walked down to where the boat lay.

‘I suppose,’ I said coldly, ‘that this is the best chance?’

‘It is the only chance, my lord,’ she answered; but her eyes were still puzzled, and her tone was almost careless, as if the matter of our escape had ceased to be the thing which pressed most urgently on her mind. I could say nothing to enlighten her; not from my lips, which longed to forswear her, could come the slightest word in depreciation of ‘the lady who waited.’

‘Will you get in, then?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Phroso; the joy was gone out of her voice and out of her eyes.

I helped her into the boat, then I launched it; when it floated clear on the water of the cave I jumped in myself and took the sculls. Phroso sat silent and now pale-faced in the stern. I struck the water with my blades and the boat moved. A couple of strokes took us across the cave. We reached the mouth. I felt the sun on my neck with its faint early warmth: that is a good feeling and puts heart in a man.

‘Ah, but the sea and the air are good,’ said Phroso. ‘And it is good to be free, my lord.’

I looked at her. The sun had caught her eyes now, and the gleam in them seemed to fire me. I forgot – something that I ought to have remembered. I rested for a moment on my oars, and, leaning forward, said in a low voice:

‘Aye, to be free, and together, Phroso.’

Again came the flash of colour, again the sudden happy dancing of her eyes and the smile that curved in unconquerable wilfulness. I stretched out a hand, and Phroso’s hand stole timidly to meet it. Well – surely the Recording Angel looked away!

Thus were we just outside the cave. There rose a straight rock on the left hand, ending in a level top some four feet above our heads. And as our hands approached and our eyes – those quicker foregatherers – met, there came from the top of the rock a laugh, a low chuckle that I knew well. I don’t think I looked up. I looked still at Phroso. As I looked, her colour fled, fright leapt into her eyes, her lips quivered in horror. I knew the truth from her face.

‘Very nice! But what have you done with Cousin Constantine?’ asked Mouraki Pasha.

The trap, then, had double jaws, and we had escaped Constantine only to fall into the hands of his master. It was so like Mouraki. I was so much aghast and yet so little surprised, the fall was so sudden, our defeat so ludicrous, that I believed I smiled, as I turned my eyes from Phroso’s and cast a glance at the Pasha.

‘I might have known it, you know,’ said I, aloud.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE UNKNOWN FRIEND

The boat still moved a little from the impulse of my last stroke, and we floated slowly past Mouraki who stood, like some great sea-bird on the rock. To his cynical question – for it revealed shamelessly the use he had meant to make of his tool – I returned no answer. I could smile in amused bitterness but for the moment I could not speak. Phroso sat with downcast eyes, twisting one hand round the other; the Pasha was content to answer my smile with his own. The boat drew past the rock and, as we came round its elbow, I found across our path a larger boat, manned by four of Mouraki’s soldiers, who had laid down their oars and sat rifles in hand. In the coxswain’s place was Demetri. It seemed strange to find him in that company. One of the soldiers took hold of the nose of our boat and turned it round, impelling it towards the beach. A moment later we grated on the shingle, where the Pasha, who had leapt down nimbly from his perch, stood awaiting us. Thoughts had been running rapidly through my brain, wild thoughts of resistance, of a sudden rush, of emptying my revolver haphazard into the other boat, aye, even of assassinating Mouraki with an unexpected shot. All that was folly. I let it go, sprang from the boat, and, giving my hand to Phroso, helped her to land, and led her to a broad smooth ledge of rock, on which she seated herself, still silent, but giving me a look of grief and despair. Then I turned to the Pasha.

‘I think,’ said I, ‘that you’ll have to wait a day or two for Cousin Constantine. I’m told that bodies don’t find their way out so soon as living men.’