Up and down the long terrace in front of the Grange walked Crispin, and, from the rapt expression of his face, it would seem as though he were composing poetry; but, as a matter of fact, he was thinking about Eunice. The course of their true love did not run smooth by any means, for Mrs. Dengelton, having found her daughter in the company of the poet, had marched off the former in order to lecture her about the latter. The substance, therefore, having been taken away, Crispin was left with only the shadow; in other words, from speaking to Eunice, he was reduced to thinking of Eunice, which was not by any means so pleasant a position of affairs.

This uncomfortable state of things was due to the discovery made by Mrs. Dengelton, that her daughter had the previous evening been engaged in moongazing with the poet, a fact which the astute Parrot extracted with wonderful dexterity from her reluctant daughter. Mrs. Dengelton had talked a good deal about the family romance, as related to the Rector and Maurice, whereupon Eunice, having been asked questions concerning the same, was forced to admit that she had been absent during the recital. Her mother at once pounced down on this damaging admission like a hawk, and pressed the poor girl so mercilessly with questions, that she was obliged to tell of that pleasant half-hour on the terrace in company with Crispin.

On making this discovery, Mrs. Dengelton was too wise to reproach her daughter, and thereby run the risk of making her deaf to the voice of the charmer, i.e., resist her mother’s desires in connection with matrimony. No, the elder lady said nothing about what she considered to be an act of madness, but privately determined to keep Crispin and Eunice apart by every means in her power. She was on the watch this morning, and, having finished the daily papers,—for Mrs. Dengelton prided herself on her universal knowledge of what was going on in the world,—went out to look for Eunice, who had disappeared. As she expected, she found her in the company of the poet, whereupon she made some ladylike excuse,—Mrs. Dengelton was an adept at telling white lies,—and took Eunice away to her room, where she kept her busy with letter-writing.

Crispin, therefore, deprived of the company of his inamorata, was by no means in a cheerful mood, and regretted that Eunice had not sufficient strength of mind to defy her mother, and end all his trouble by marrying him without delay. He had a very impulsive nature, and would have liked to sweep away these obstacles by sheer force of insistence that the marriage should take place at once; but his impulses were in a great measure restrained by experience in the school of the world, and he saw that it would be wiser to watch and wait. Already he was seriously thinking of ending his visit, and returning to town, in order to enlist his great friend, Lady Bentwitch, on his side, as such a fashionable personage might be able to talk Mrs. Dengelton into assenting to the marriage; but in spite of his strength of character he was reluctant to leave Eunice even for the short space of a week. So, like the ass between two bundles of hay, he could not quite make up his mind which course to take, when he saw Maurice coming leisurely along the terrace, and the conversation which ensued between them enabled him to at once settle his future movements.

When the master of Roylands reached his side, Crispin was struck with the unusual vivacity of his face. The gloomy look which it generally wore had quite disappeared, and in its place was an alert, eager expression, which showed that Maurice was deeply interested in some important matter.

“My dear Roylands,” cried Crispin in astonishment, “why this transformation? Yesterday you were plunged in gloom, to-day Romeo on his way to Juliet looked not so happy. Who is the enchanter—or shall I say enchantress—who has worked this miracle?”

“The Rector has been giving me a lecture,” said Maurice gayly, lighting a cigarette; “a terrible lecture, which reminded me of the days when I made false quantities in Latin verse, and translated good Greek into bad English.”

“Ah, you ought to have a lecture every day if it benefits you in this way. You are much pleasanter as Sancho Panza than as Don Quixote.”

“Explain!”

“Well, the squire was always merry, and the knight doleful; so I like you as the former more than the latter.”

“I am afraid we have changed characters, Crispin. You are the Knight of the Rueful Countenance now.”

“Eunice”—

“Cela va sans dire,” said Maurice, leaning his elbows on the balustrade. “Oh, do not look so astonished, Monsieur Cupid! I am not so blind but what I can see how things stand between you and Psyche.”

“You take credit to yourself when none is due,” replied Crispin significantly. “Mr. Carriston drew your attention to our position. You did not see it for yourself.”

“That is true enough; but how did you guess that the Rector told me?”

“Because you were too much wrapped up in yourself to notice unhappy lovers.”

“Unhappy lovers?”

“Yes. I love Eunice, and my affection is returned; but there is an obstacle which prevents our marriage.”

“And this obstacle?”

“Is yourself.”

“I?”

“You! Mrs. Dengelton wants Eunice to marry you.”

“There’s always two to a bargain,” said Maurice grimly. “I don’t want to marry Eunice.”

“Oh, you don’t love her?”

“As a cousin, yes; as a possible wife, no.”

“Then there is some chance for me?”

“I should say there was every chance for you,” remarked Roylands in a friendly manner. “You are young and famous, you know every one, you go everywhere, you are the adored of the gentle sex; so what more can Eunice or her mother desire.”

“Eunice desires nothing—except myself; but as for Mrs. Dengelton, she thinks I am poor.”

“Oh! and are you poor?”

“No; on the contrary, I am very well off.”

“Then why don’t you place all your perfections before my dear aunt, and persuade her into consenting to the match.”

“I don’t want to do so—yet,” said Crispin, with some hesitation.

“Why all this mystery?”

“I cannot tell you just now, but you may be certain there is nothing wrong about the mystery. I will satisfy Mrs. Dengelton on all points shortly, and then, perhaps, I will have the felicity of being your cousin-in-law.”

“I wish you good luck.”

“You would not object to my marrying your cousin?” asked Crispin timidly.

“I?” said Maurice in amazement. “Certainly not! I believe in love matches; but, of course,—though I have but little to say in the matter,—I would like to know who you are, where you come from, and all that, before you become the husband of Eunice.”

“I will explain everything to your satisfaction—shortly.”

“The sooner the better for your own sake.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Crispin, with some hauteur.

“I mean as regards Eunice,” explained Maurice quickly. “If you don’t tell my aunt of your intentions, and put yourself right as regards money and position in her eyes, she will marry Eunice to some one else. Failing me,—and I have not the slightest intention of marrying my dear cousin,—she will angle for another rich man, who will probably not be so blind to the charms of Eunice as I am. In that case, my poor Crispin, I am afraid it will be all up with you.”

“What you say is very true,” replied Crispin reflectively. “I will speak to Mrs. Dengelton before I leave the Grange.”

“I cannot understand what you are making all this mystery about.”

“Because I am proud,” rejoined the poet, with a flush on his dark cheek. “I cannot explain myself now, but I will some day, and then you will see I have a good reason for my reticence.”

“So be it. But at present you are a riddle.”

“Well, I suppose I am,” said Crispin smilingly; “but one which will shortly be explained, and, like all riddles, turn out to be very disappointing. By the way, you might offer me one of those excellent cigarettes.”

“Certainly,” answered Maurice, holding out his open case. “Unlike Caliphronas, you are fond of smoking.”

“Caliphronas! Who is he? what is it? man, woman, or child, or something to eat?”

“The first—a Greek. Count Constantine Caliphronas.”

“Phoebus! what a name!” ejaculated Crispin, lighting his cigarette. “Who is he?”

“A Greek nobleman.”

“Humph! I mistrust Greek noblemen.”

“Well, they have got a bad name,” said Maurice quite apologetically; “but I don’t think this one is a chevalier d’industrie.”

“The exception which proves the rule, perhaps,” replied Crispin idly; “but really I have no right to call the Greeks names, as on the whole they are not bad. I have a good many friends among the countrymen of Plato.”

“Do you know Caliphronas?”

“Ah, that I cannot tell until I see him.”

“Well, you will see him soon, as he is coming to stay here for a few days.”

“Stay here!” said Crispin in some surprise. “My dear Roylands, is not this a very sudden friendship?”

“It is not a friendship at all.”

“Well, when a man asks another to his house to stay—to be introduced to his relatives—it is uncommonly like friendship.”

“I am not so conventional as most Englishmen,” said Maurice impatiently, “and therefore do not act by rule. I daresay I should have made inquiries about the past of this Greek before asking him to my house; but, as far as that goes, you are a riddle yourself.”

Crispin’s sallow cheek flushed at this home thrust, but he had great self-command, and replied quietly enough,—

“That is rather a hard thing to say of me. I thought you were my friend.”

“Pardon me, old fellow,” said Roylands penitently. “I did not mean to be so rude. I have an abominable temper, and should be kicked for saying such a thing in my own house.”

“I will let you off the kicking,” replied Crispin, recovering his good-humor. “As you very truly say, I am a riddle; but I will explain myself soon. Still, this Count Caliphronas”—

“Do you know the name?”

“I have a faint idea I have heard it before.”

“In Greece?”

“Most probably. I know the isles of Greece very well.”

“Ah, is that a quotation from Byron, or a pointed remark? In other words, is it serious or a chance shot?”

“The latter—I only quoted from ‘Don Juan.’ Why do you ask?”

“Because this Count does come from the isles of Greece. He says he was born in Ithaca.”

“Ah, he is not reticent about himself,” said Crispin dryly. “I will tell you what I think of him when I see him. At present I cannot recall the name precisely, though I fancy I have heard it before. Meanwhile, tell me all you know about him.”

“I am afraid that is but little. He arrived this morning at Roylands, with a letter of introduction to the Rector from the Archdeacon of Eastminster, and came to luncheon at the Rectory. During our conversation, he complained of how badly he was put up at the Royland Arms, and as I knew Carriston would ask him to stay at the Rectory, a thing I know he dislikes doing, as he hates strangers in his house, I took the bull by the horns, and asked Caliphronas to come here for a time. He accepted, and is coming with his traps this evening.”

“Was it only for the sake of taking the burden off Mr. Carriston’s shoulders that you gave your invitation?”

“Not exactly. This Caliphronas is a splendid-looking fellow, and I asked him to sit to me for my statue of Endymion.”

“Oh! is he worthy to be a model?”

“My dear Crispin, he has the most perfect figure for a man I ever saw in my life; wonderfully handsome, and with a wild, untamed air about him that is quite unique.”

Crispin listened to this speech without moving a muscle, but a strange look came into his eyes.

“Have you ever read ‘A Strange Story,’ by Lytton?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes, several times,” replied Maurice, somewhat astonished at the irrelevancy of the question.

“Then does this man resemble Margrave, the hero of the book?”

“In what way?”

“In every way except the mysticism. Is he an ardent lover of Nature? Does he talk a lot about classical times? Is he impulsive and utterly selfish?”

“As to the last quality, I have not yet had an opportunity of judging, but for the rest, you have described him exactly.”

“Caliphronas!” murmured Crispin in a pondering manner.

“Do you know him?”

Crispin did not answer at once, and seemed to be making up his mind as to what he would say. At last he turned to Maurice with an enigmatic smile on his face, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Not as far as I can recollect. That description I have given as applied to Margrave would suit a good many Greeks. They are mostly handsome, and, especially among the islands, from living so much in the open air, imbibe a great love for Nature. Naturally, as they have no modern glories to talk about, they boast of ancient times and ancient heroism. They are all impulsive, so you see I simply described the Greek at large, not this one in particular.”

“But you have described him exactly.”

“I tell you the description suits any Greek, as I have explained.”

“Then you don’t know this man?”

“No; I know no one of the name of Caliphronas,” replied Crispin, with a slight emphasis on the last word.

Maurice did not notice the quibble, and with cheerful good-humor dismissed the subject from his mind, as, after all, this mystery, with which he enveloped the Count, might turn out to be but an unworthy suspicion. Plenty of Greeks come to England, and one more or less did not matter. He would trouble his head no more about this man who had dropped from the clouds into this dull little village, but make use of him as a model, and then say good-by to him with the best grace in the world. Once he left the Grange, it was unlikely he would ever cross his path again, as Maurice had not the slightest intention of going to Greece, and looked forward to a humdrum life at Roylands for the next few years. How little did he know what was in store for him, and that from this appearance of Count Caliphronas dated a new era in his life.

Meanwhile, Crispin, who in reality knew a good deal more than he chose to tell, was watching him keenly. “You must not relapse into your gloomy fits again,” he said, laying his hand lightly on his friend’s arm.

“I do not intend to,” replied Maurice cheerfully. “No; I now see the excellence of the Rector’s advice. Take an interest in life, and you will be happy. I am taking an interest in life—in your wooing of Eunice, and in Caliphronas.”

“Why Caliphronas?”

“Because he is my Endymion in the flesh. I am going to create a wonderful statue, Crispin, the like of which has not been seen since the days of Canova. As to this riddle of Caliphronas, we will solve him together.”

“Perhaps the solution may be easier than you think.”

“Crispin, you know something about this man!”

“Nonsense! I tell you I know no one called Caliphronas.”

“Names may be assumed,” said Maurice shrewdly, “and I am sure you have met the owner of this one before.”

“I meet so many people,” replied Crispin carelessly, “it is probable I may have seen him; but really I can tell you nothing about him—yet.”

“Ah! then you will some day?”

“My dear Roylands,” said Crispin impatiently, “Caliphronas and his past life is becoming quite a mania with you. I don’t know the man, but from your description, I fancy I have met him, though, as I said before, such description would apply to dozens of other Levantine Greeks. When I see him I will tell you if I recognize him; but what then? he may be only a casual acquaintance, and therefore I will not know his history. If you mistrusted his looks, you should not have asked him to the Grange.”

“My dear fellow, it was on account of his looks I did ask him. He is my Endymion, remember. But you are right; I am making a mountain out of a molehill, still, there is some excuse for me. A unique specimen of humanity like Caliphronas does not appear every day in a village like Roylands, so it is natural I should be curious about him. But there, we will say no more about your brother mystery. I am going to have an interview with my bailiff, and you may thank your stars, my friend, you are a poet, and not a landed proprietor.”

Maurice sauntered away laughing, looking by no means the kind of man to overburden himself with work; but Crispin remained leaning over the balustrade of the terrace, gazing absently at the silver spray of the fountain glittering in the sunlight, and thinking deeply.

“I wonder what he wants here,” thought the poet, with a frown on his expressive face. “A man like that does not come down to a quiet village for nothing. Can it be to see me? No! that is impossible, as he could not know I was here. Curious I never saw him in London, for he must have been there at the same time as myself, unless, indeed, he has just arrived in England. He has some scheme in his head, I am certain—if I could only see him alone and fathom his motives! Oh, you fox you! Cunning as you are, I will foil you. It is no good. You are after my friend, I’m sure of that.”

He walked forward a few paces, still pondering, then resumed his soliloquizing in a muttered tone.

“Roylands said this Caliphronas was coming over about six o’clock. He is staying at the Royland Arms, so I think I will walk over there and see him; but no, that will attract attention, and I wish to tell Roylands nothing yet. I will send a note; no, that will not do. Ah! I have it. I will wait at the park gates and speak to him before he comes up to the house. No one will know, and I can find out the reason of his presence here.”

Decidedly this poet was a remarkably mysterious person, not only as concerned his own personality, but also as regarded this brilliant stranger who was so equally enigmatic. If Maurice found his life dull now, it evidently was not going to be so for any length of time; and, although he knew it not, the elements of romance had come into it in the most unexpected way in the persons of Crispin and Constantine Caliphronas.

Having made up his mind, the poet thought no more about the Greek, but strolled round the side of the house to see if Eunice was at her window. He knew that Mrs. Dengelton especially affected a small boudoir in the left wing of the Grange, the window of which was only slightly raised above the terrace, and at this window Crispin felt sure Eunice would be. Fortunately for himself, he was right in his conjecture, for on arriving in sight of the casement, he saw Eunice sitting at it in a dejected attitude, evidently expectant of a visit from her lover.

“Miss Dengelton!” he said cautiously, not knowing but that the dragon might be within hearing, and therefore adopting society manners.

“She has gone out of the room for a few minutes,” said his lady in a frightened whisper. “Do go away.”

“What! when the coast is clear! Not if I know it.”

“I expect her back every minute.”

“Very well; till she arrives we can talk about ourselves, and even when she does we can surely chat about the weather.”

“I heard you laughing with Maurice.”

“Yes; he is quite gay to-day. He has found a model for his statue of Endymion.”

“Some village bumpkin?”

“No, a Greek gentleman.”

“A Greek! and pray what is a Greek doing down here?”

Crispin shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m sure I don’t know. You will see him to-night, so don’t fall in love with him.”

“Why should I?”

“He is very handsome.”

“I don’t care for handsome men, they are so conceited.”

“Humph! that is not a compliment to me.”

“Well, you are not conceited, are you?”

“Nor handsome.”

“You are handsome enough for me, at all events,” said Eunice coquettishly.

“What a charming compliment!” replied Crispin gayly; “for that I will give you a rose.”

“Hush! here comes my mother.”

But Crispin, alas! had not heard the warning, and, having plucked the finest rose he could see, returned to the window, to find himself confronted by the gaudy figure of The Parrot, whose beady eyes sparkled maliciously as he approached.

“What! a rose for me, dear Mr. Crispin?” she said, stretching out her hand, in which Crispin was unwillingly compelled to place his flower; “how kind of you! The young men of to-day are gallant after all. Look, Eunice, is not this flower charming? almost as charming as you are, Mr. Crispin. The Rose of Sharon—oh, Shiraz—you see I’ve read your book. Now, I have no time to talk, my dear Mr. Crispin, so you must go away for the present at all events. We will meet at luncheon, and if you are very good you may bring me in another rose.”

Mrs. Dengelton, having thus vanquished the enemy, disappeared with her daughter and shut the window, upon which poor Crispin walked away in a rage.

“Old cat!” he said, which was certainly neither polite nor poetical.