“What is truth?” asked Pilate, but to this perplexing question received no answer, not even from the Divine Man, who was best able to give a satisfactory reply. In the same way we may ask, “What is love?” and receive many answers, not one of which will be correct. The reason is simply, no one knows what love is, though every one has felt it. The commonest things are generally the most perplexing, and surely love is common enough, seeing it is the thing upon which the welfare, the pleasure, nay, the continuity, of the human race depends. Yet no one can define this every-day passion, because it is undefinable. “’Tis the mutual feeling which draws man and maid together.” True, but that may be affection, which is a lesser passion than love. “’Tis the admiration of a man or a woman for each other’s beauty.” Nay, that is but sensuality. “’Tis the longing of two people of the opposite sexes to dwell together all their life.” Why, that is only companionship. Affection, sensuality, companionship, all three very pleasant, very comforting, but Love is greater than such a trinity. He may not give pleasure, he may not bring comfort, but, on the contrary, may make those to whose hearts he comes very unhappy. Love is no mischievous urchin, who plays with his arrows; no, he is a great and terrible divinity, who comes to every mortal but once in life. We desire him, we name him, we delight in him; but we know not what he is, where he comes from, or when he will leave us.

These reflections were suggested to Maurice by the extraordinary feelings with which this dream-face of Helena inspired him. Never before had he felt the sensation of love—not affection, not admiration, not desire, but strong, passionate love, which pervaded his whole being, yet which he could not describe. He had not seen this woman in the flesh, he was hardly certain if she existed, for all the evidences he had to assure him that there was such a being were the portrait and the name, yet he felt, by some subtle, indescribable instinct, that this was the one woman in the world for him. Maurice, who had hitherto doubted the existence of love, was now being punished for such scepticism and was as love-sick as ever was some green lad fascinated by a pretty face. “He jests at scars who never felt a wound;” but Maurice did not jest at scars now, for the arrow of Cupid, shot from some viewless height, had made a wound in his heart which would heal not till he died; or, even granting it would heal, would leave a scar to be seen of all men.

It was the old story of Ixion over again. Here was a man embracing a cloudy phantom of his own imagination, for, granting that this beautiful face belonged to a real woman, Maurice knew nothing about her, yet dowered her with all the exquisite perfections of feminality. He dreamed she would be loving, tender, and womanly, yet, for aught he knew, the owner of that lovely face might be a very Penthesilea for daring and masculine emulation. But no; he could not believe that she would unsex herself by taking upon her nature the rival attributes of manly strength, for the whole face breathed nothing but feminine delicacy. That broad white brow, above which the hair was smoothed in the antique fashion; those grave, earnest eyes, so full of sympathy and purity; that beautifully shaped mouth, like a scarlet flower, speaking of reticence and womanly shrinking. No; he was quite sure that she was an ideal woman, so therefore worshipped her—unseen, unheard—with all the chivalrous affection of a mediÆval knight.

Day and night that faultless face haunted his brain like some perfect poem, and, waking or sleeping, he seemed to hear her voice, full and rich as an organ-note, calling on him to seek her in that Island of Fantasy whereof the Greek had spoken. Was she indeed some fairy princess, detained in an enchanted castle against her will? was this mysterious Justinian, whose personality seemed so vague, indeed her jailer, guarding her as the dragon did the golden fruit of the Hesperides? and was Caliphronas a messenger sent to tell him of the reward awaiting him should he take upon him vows of releasing her from such thraldom, and accomplish his quest successfully? Curious how the classic legends and the mediÆval romances mixed together in his brain, yet one and all, however diverse in thought, pointed ever to that beautiful woman dwelling in an enchanted island sea-encircled by the murmurous waves of the blue Ægean.

True, he had fallen in love, and thus regained in one instant the interest in life which he had lost erstwhile; but the object of his adoration seemed so far away, her personality, about which he could only obscurely conjecture, was so lost in dream-mists, that the cure of his melancholia seemed worse than the disease itself. He again became sad and absent-minded, grieving—not, as formerly, for a vague abstraction, for something, he knew not what—but for an actual being, for an unfulfilled passion which seemed in itself as elusive a thing as had tormented him formerly. The indistinct phantom which had engendered melancholia had taken shape—the shape of a beautiful, smiling face, which mocked him with the promise of delight probably never destined to be fulfilled.

All his guests noticed this lapse into his former melancholy, but none of them guessed the reason save Caliphronas, who was beside himself with rage at the discovery. The stratagem with which he proposed to draw Maurice to Melnos had succeeded beyond his highest expectations, but he was very dissatisfied with his success, and began to wonder if Crispin was not right after all concerning the folly of presenting a possible rival to the woman he desired for himself. The woman was to be the reward of his success; he had made use of that woman’s pictured loveliness to achieve that success, and by so doing had complicated the simplicity of the affair by introducing a third element, that of a rival’s love, which might place an obstacle in the way of his receiving the reward. It was Mephistopheles showing Faust the phantom of Gretchen, and the same result of love for an unseen woman had ensued; but then, Mephistopheles was not enamoured of the loveliness he used as a bait to catch his victim, whereas Caliphronas was. However, it was too late now to alter the matter, for the Greek could see that Maurice had almost made up his mind to go in search of this new Helen of Troy, and if he succeeded in gaining her heart, circumstances might arise with which it would be difficult to grapple.

After all, when Caliphronas compared the Englishman’s every-day comeliness with his own glorious beauty, he felt that no woman would refuse him for such a commonplace individual as his possible rival. But, again, Caliphronas was aware that Helena valued the inward more than the outward man, in which case he suspected he had but little chance in coming off best. Pose as he might to the world, Caliphronas knew the degradation of his own soul, and when this was contrasted with the honest, proud, straightforward nature of Maurice Roylands, it could be easily seen which of them the woman would choose as best calculated to insure her happiness. Besides, the love which had been newly born in Maurice’s heart was a highly spiritual passion, with no touch of grossness, whereas the desires of Caliphronas were purely animal ones for physical beauty. In point of outward semblance, he would have been a fitter husband for the exquisite beauty of this woman, but as to a marriage of souls, which after all is the only true marriage, the one was as different from the other as is day from night.

Maurice said nothing to Crispin about the portrait, and though the latter guessed from his abstraction that Caliphronas had played his last card with that hidden loveliness, he made no remark, for the time was not yet ripe to unfold the past. If, however, Maurice went to Melnos, Crispin, as he had told Caliphronas, determined to accompany him, as much on his own account as on that of his friend. Truly this poet was a riddle, and so also was the Greek; but it is questionable if Maurice, with his open and above-board English life, was not a greater riddle than either of these mysterious men, seeing that his perplexity was a thing of the soul, vague and intangible, the solving of which meant the settling of his whole spiritual life; whereas the lighting of the darkness with which Caliphronas and Crispin chose to enshroud themselves was simply a question of material existence. The ParcÆ held the three tangled skeins in their hands: Clotho now grasped the intricate threads; Lachesis was spinning the actions which were to lead to the unravelling of these riddles of spiritual and material things; and Atropos was waiting grimly with her fatal scissors to clip the life-thread of one of the three. But the question was, which? Ah, that was yet to be seen! for the middle Destiny was yet weaving woof and warp of words, actions, and desires, the outcome of which would determine the judgment of the Destroying Fate.

Of all this intrigue, in which he was soon to be involved, Roylands was quite ignorant, as he already had his plan of action sketched out. He would go to Melnos with Constantine Caliphronas, he would see this dream-woman in the flesh, and if she came up to his ideal, he would marry her, at whatever cost. Alas for the schemes of clever Mrs. Dengelton! they were all at an end, simply because a man had seen a pretty face, which he elevated into the regions of romance, and made attractive with strange mysteries of fanciful attributes. But Mrs. Dengelton did not know this, and, ignorance being bliss, still hinted to Maurice of matrimony, still threw him into the company of Eunice; while, as a checkmate to her plans, and to aid Crispin, Maurice still puzzled the good lady with hints of marriage one day, and neglect of Eunice the next. Eunice herself saw through it all, and was duly grateful to Maurice; so the only blind person was Mrs. Dengelton, who but perceived the delightful future which might be, not the disturbing present that was; if she had, her lamentations would have surpassed those of Jeremiah in bitterness and violence.

On such an important matter as going to the East in search of a mistress for Roylands Grange, Maurice felt naturally anxious to consult his old tutor, and accordingly one morning walked over to the Rectory, where he found Mr. Carriston as usual pottering about among his rose-trees. The hot sun of July blazed down on that garden of loveliness, and the sweet-smelling roses burned like constellations of red stars amid the cool green of their surrounding leaves.

“This is decidedly a rose-year,” said the good Rector approvingly, as he looked at the brilliance around him; “I have never seen such a fine show of flowers. My nightingales should sing their sweetest here, if the tale of their love for the rose be true. Did you ever see such a glow of color, Maurice?

But I don’t think the poet saw finer roses than mine, even in Southern Italy.”

“‘Rosa regina florum,’” remarked Maurice, smiling.

“Eh! you match my quotation from Ausonius with a wretched little saying culled from your first Latin reading-book. My dear lad, I am afraid my labor has been in vain, for your Latin is primitive.”

“No doubt it is,” assented Maurice cordially, “but I have not the gift of tongues. I would that I had, as it will be necessary in the East.”

“The East!” repeated Carriston, sitting down under his favorite elm-tree. “What is this? Are you thinking of visiting the cradle of humanity?”

“Yes; the summer is nearly over, so like a swallow I wish to fly south to the blue seas of Greece.”

quoted the Rector genially. “Do you know Gautier’s charming poem? I wish I could go with you to see the land of Aristophanes.”

“Why not come?”

“Nay, I am too old a tree to be transplanted. The comedies alone must take me on the wings of fancy to Athens. What would my parishioners do without me? or my roses, for the matter of that? Still, I would like to be your travelling companion, and we could visit together those places which we read of in your days of pupilage. You will see Colonos, where the Sophoclean nightingales still sing; and the Acropolis of Athena Glaucopis, the ringing plains of windy Troy, and the birthplace of the Delian Apollo. Truly the youth of to-day are to be envied, seeing how easy travel has been made by steam. Happy Maurice! the Iron Age will enable you to view the Golden Age with but small difficulty.”

“Yes, I will be delighted to see all those famous places you have mentioned, sir; but I have a stronger reason.”

“Indeed! And that reason?”

“Is this.”

Maurice placed the portrait of Helena in the hands of his old tutor, and awaited in silence his next remark. Mr. Carriston adjusted his pince-nez, and gazed long and earnestly at the perfect beauty of the woman’s countenance.

“‘Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?’” he quoted from Marlowe; “upon my word, I would not be surprised to hear it was. A beautiful woman, Maurice; she has the loveliness of the Argive Helen.”

“And the name also; she is called Helena.”

“Ah! then I understand she is a real woman?”

“Flesh and blood, according to Caliphronas.”

The Rector put down the picture with a sudden movement of irritation quite foreign to his usual courtly manner.

“I do not like Count Caliphronas,” he said abruptly. “Did he give you this portrait?”

“Yes.”

“Humph! And may I ask whom it is intended to represent?”

“A Greek girl, called Helena, who lives in the Island of Fantasy.”

“The Island of Fantasy?” repeated the Rector in a puzzled tone.

“I mean the Island of Melnos, in the southern archipelago of Greece.”

“How did it come by the extraordinary name of Fantasy?”

“Caliphronas called it so,” said Maurice carelessly.

There was silence for a few moments, and the Rector rubbed his nose in a vexed manner, as he by no means approved of the frequent introduction of the Greek’s name into the conversation, but hardly saw his way how to prevent it. At length he determined to leave the matter in abeyance for the present, and reverted to the question of Helena.

“Is it for the sake of this woman you are going to the Levant?” he asked, picking up the picture and tapping it with his pince-nez.

“Yes.”

“Is this not rather a mad freak?”

Maurice did not answer for a moment, but moved uneasily in his seat; for, although he was quite prepared to be discouraged in his project by the Rector, he by no means liked the displeased tone in which he spoke. Mr. Carriston waited for an answer to his question, so Maurice was at length forced to give him one, and burst out into a long speech, so as to give his tutor no opportunity of making any remark until he had heard all the views in favor of such Quixotism.

“I daresay it is a mad freak, sir, but not so very insane if you look upon it from my point of view. You know I have never been in love—true, I have always been fond of women and delighted in their society, but I have never had what you would call a passionate attachment in my life, nor did I think, until a few days ago, I was capable of such a thing. But when Caliphronas was sitting to me for Endymion, he happened to let fall that portrait, and told me it was one he had taken of a Greek girl at Melnos. As I admired the beauty of the face, he made me a present of the picture, and my admiration has merged itself in a deeper feeling, that of love. Oh, I know, sir, what you will say, that such a passion is chimerical, seeing I have never beheld this woman in the flesh, but I feel too strongly on the subject to think I am the victim of a heated imagination. I love this woman—I adore her! she is present with me day and night. Not only her face—no! It is very beautiful, but I can see below that beauty. She has a soul, a lovely pure soul, which I worship, and I am anxious to see the actual living, breathing woman, so as to make her my wife.”

“Your wife! Are you mad, boy?”

“No, I am not mad, unless you call love a madness. Oh, I know it is easy for one to advise calmly on the woes of others. But can you not feel for me? You have been in love, Mr. Carriston, and you know how such a passion overwhelms the strongest man. Caution, thought, restraint, prudence, are all swept away by the torrent. It is no use saying that this passion I feel will pass, for I know it will not; it is part of my life. Till I die I will see that face before me, sleeping or waking. Why, then, should I pass the rest of my days in torture when I can alleviate such mental suffering? I am going to this unknown island, I will see this unknown woman, and if she comes up to the ideal being I have created from the picture in my mind, I will marry her. It may not be wise, it may not be suitable; but it is, and will be inevitable.”

The old man listened in astonishment to this lava-torrent of words which swept everything before it. He could hardly recognize his former calm-tempered pupil in this young man, whose flashing eyes, eloquent gestures, and rapid speech betrayed the strength of the passion which consumed him.

“‘Ira brevis est,’” quoth the Rector wisely; “I think love is the same.”

“My madness of love will last all my life—yes, forever!”

“Forever is a long time.”

“Rector,” said Maurice entreatingly, “what do you advise?”

“I advise nothing, dear lad,” replied Carriston quietly; “what is the use of my giving advice which is opposed to your own desires, and therefore will be rejected?”

“True! true!” muttered Maurice, frowning. “I must go to Melnos and convince myself of the truth of the matter. See here, sir, at present I am worshipping a creature of my own creation, with the face of that picture, but with the attributes of fancy. This chimera of the brain, as you will doubtless term her, haunts me night and day, so the only way to lay this feminine ghost is to see her incarnate in the flesh. She may be quite different from what I conceive, in which case I will be cured of my fancy; on the other hand, she may realize entirely my conception of beauty, purity, and womanliness: if she does, I will make her my wife, that is, of course, if she will have me for her husband.”

“As you put the matter in that light,” said Mr. Carriston, after a pause, “I advise you to go to Melnos.”

“You do?”

“Decidedly! It is best to end this torture of the imagination, which I also know only too well. See this woman, if you like, but be sure she is all you desire her to be before making her your wife.”

“There is no fear that I will let my heart govern my brain in such an important matter.”

“There is a great fear,” replied the Rector gravely, glancing at the picture; “a young man’s heart is not always under his control, and this woman has the beauty which inspires madness. Helen of Troy, Cleopatra of Egypt, Mary of Scotland, Ninon de l’Enclos of France, they were all LamiÆ, and their beauty was ever fatal to their victims.”

“Lovers,” corrected Maurice quickly.

“Victims,” reiterated Carriston firmly; “or, if you will, lovers, for the terms are synonymous.”

“Well, I will take your advice, sir, and go to the East in search of this lovely Helena of Melnos, but I promise you I will not be a victim.”

“I hope not, but I fear so.”

“You need not,” said Roylands gayly, delighted to have won over the Rector to his side. “I will come back alone, cured, or with a wife, and more in love than ever.”

“How will you find this island?”

“Oh, Caliphronas”—

“As beautiful and as false as Paris of Troy,” interrupted the Rector quickly, whereat Maurice shrugged his shoulders.

“Possibly he is, but I do not think I have anything to fear from him.”

“There is certainly no reason why he should be your enemy, yet I feel convinced he is so.”

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you unless I advance the Dr. Fell theory as an argument; but, to speak openly, my dear Maurice, this Greek seems to me to be like a sleek, soft-footed panther, beautiful to look on, but dangerous to meddle with.”

“I am not going to meddle with him. He is simply returning to his home in Greek waters, and I will go with him. After we reach Melnos, very likely he will return to Ithaca.”

“Perhaps.”

“My dear old tutor,” cried the young man, laughing, “you are full of fears, first of this Helena, again of this Greek. Ten to one I will find both equally harmless.”

“I trust so; but I do not like your travelling alone with this Count Constantine.”

“I am not going to do so. Crispin is coming also.”

“Ah!” said Carriston in a satisfied tone; “I am glad of that, for I like that young man very much. I am sure he is an honorable, straightforward fellow.”

“You are inconsistent. His life is as mysterious as that of Caliphronas, yet you trust the one and mistrust the other.”

“I do; it is a matter of instinct. Well, here is your Helena; I hope you will find the original as beautiful as the picture.”

“I hope so too,” answered Maurice, restoring the photograph to his pocket.

“By the way,” observed the Rector abruptly, “what about Eunice?”

“Oh, she will not mourn me, for she has already consoled herself with Crispin.”

“Humph! I thought as much; and what does your aunt say?”

“She says nothing because she knows nothing.”

“Do you think that is wise?”

“No, I do not; so I am going to ask Crispin to explain who he is, what he is, and all about himself, before he leaves with me for the East. If his replies are satisfactory, I will try and persuade my dear aunt to consent to the match; but you may depend upon it, my dear Rector, if I find anything wrong with our poet, I will do my best to prevent his marriage with my cousin.”

“That is as it should be, but I fancy you will find Crispin an honest man.”

“You seem quite taken with him.”

“Yes; I am curiously drawn to that young man. Why, I do not know; but, from the frequent conversations I have had with him, he seems very honest and good-hearted, whereas your handsome Greek is, I am convinced, a worthless scamp.”

“Well, we will see how your predictions are fulfilled. But I must be off,” continued Maurice, glancing at his watch, “it is past one o’clock. Will you not come over to luncheon with me?”

“What! and leave my roses, which need water in this hot sun! Go away, sir, and don’t ask impossibilities.”

Maurice laughed and went away, while the Rector returned to his roses, and thought over the interview. He was doubtful as to the result of Maurice’s quest for a wife, but, knowing the sterling good sense and honorable nature of his pupil, judged it best to let him take his own way.

“Everyman must dree his weird,” said Carriston, watering-pot in hand. “However this journey turns out, it will do Maurice good, for if it does not gain him a wife, it will at least banish the evil spirit which is spoiling his youth.”

Meanwhile the object of this soliloquy was striding up the avenue of the Grange at a rapid pace, and whistling gayly, out of sheer light-heartedness. Never before had he felt so happy, a circumstance which suddenly made him pause in his lilting, as he thought of the saying of an old Scotch nurse.

“I hope I am not fey,” he said to himself; “surely this joy does not prognosticate sorrow. No; I will not look on it in that gloomy light. I am going in search of Helen,—Coelebs in search of a wife,—and if I find her as lovely as she seems to be, why, then”—

And he began whistling again, from sheer inability to express his feelings in cold, measured words. As he neared the house, the rich tenor voice of Caliphronas rang vibrating through the still air. His song was, as usual, one of those Greek fragments he was so fond of singing, and even the modern Greek tongue, debased as it was by centuries of foreign influences, sounded pliable and liquid as the vowelled words soared upward like swift-darting swallows. How bare and bleak seems the translation, bereft of its Hellenic sonorousness of speech!—

Caliphronas was standing on the steps of the terrace, with his classic face uplifted to the serene sky, and, as he sang the song, with his hand resting lightly on the white marble vase near him, he looked the incarnation of blooming adolescence.

“Ha!” he cried, as Roylands nimbly mounted the steps; “I was just wondering where you were. What have you been doing, Mr. Maurice?”

“I have been talking to the Rector, and for the last few moments I have been watching you, my Attic nightingale. Modern costume spoils you, Caliphronas, as it would spoil any one, so hideous is it. You should be draped in white robes, bear an ivory lyre, and minister to Apollo the Far-Darter.”

“Alas!” sighed the Greek, with sudden sadness in his eyes; “Pan is dead, and with him Apollo. I have been born too late, for my soul is Athenian, and longs for the plane-trees of Ilissus. But enough of this classicism, and tell me why you look so merry.”

“Because I have made up my mind to go with you to Melnos.”

Caliphronas smiled in an enigmatic manner, and sang two lines from his song,—

“What do those words mean?” asked Maurice abruptly.

“Ah, that you will discover when we reach Melnos!”