All preparations having been made, it was decided to start for Greece about the end of July; and these modern Argonauts were in the highest spirits at the prospect of the coming voyage,—Caliphronas because his object was gained, and Roylands would soon be on his way to the island of Melnos; Crispin because he had come to a comfortable understanding with Mrs. Dengelton; and Maurice for the simple reason that he was going to see in the flesh this beautiful vision of fancy which haunted his brain. The Grange was to be left to the guardianship of the housekeeper, and its master, giving up, at least for the present, a life of ease, was about to embark on one of those adventurous expeditions so dear to the hearts of our restless young Englishmen. Mrs. Dengelton and Eunice had arranged to stay with Lady Danvers in London, and the good old Rector still remained in his sleepy village, looking after his parishioners, his Aristophanic translation, and his beloved roses.

In company with Maurice, the poet had taken a journey to Southampton to see if the yacht was all in order for the projected voyage, and had stayed there three days to attend to all necessary matters. The Eunice was a beautiful little craft, schooner-rigged fore and aft, and was manned by an excellent crew; so with all this luxury the three adventurers looked forward to having a very pleasant time. It was now the season when the halcyon broods on the waves, so they expected a smooth passage to Melnos, and as all three were capital sailors, even if they did have stormy weather they cared very little for such a possibility. Caliphronas, delighted at leaving this dull island for his own brilliant skies, was beside himself with delight, and talked incessantly of the pleasures in store for them on the Island of Melnos.

On the evening before they left England, Maurice invited the Rector to a farewell dinner; and the company assembled round the hospitable table of the Grange were very merry indeed, perhaps with the exception of Eunice, who was somewhat sad at the prospect of parting from her poet. The weather was still dull and gray, and it was only the prospect of a speedy departure that kept Caliphronas bright; but as that departure took place next day, he was in the gayest spirits.

“We are the New Argonauts,” he said merrily, with the affectation of classicism which distinguished him; “we sail for the Colchian strand.”

“It is to be hoped we find no Medea there,” observed Crispin with a smile.

“No; our Medea is no sorceress, but a daughter of Venus, the modern Helen of Troy. Mr. Maurice is her Jason. You, Crispin, are Orpheus.”

“And you, Count?” asked Maurice, amused at this fancy.

“I?” said Caliphronas lightly. “Well, I hardly know. Shall I say Hercules?”

“Or Hylas,” suggested the Rector idly.

“Neither!” interposed Crispin pointedly. “We will take a passenger from another famous ship, and call him Ulysses, the craftiest of the Greeks.”

Caliphronas frowned at this somewhat uncomplimentary remark, but immediately recovered his gayety, and burst out laughing.

“Oh, I do not mind in the least. Ulysses, by all means. After all, he had some very pleasant times with Circe, Calypso, and such-like ladies.”

“You seem to know your Homer, Count,” said the Rector, rather surprised at the classical knowledge of this ignorant young man.

“Or his LempriÈre,” muttered Crispin significantly.

Decidedly Crispin was not polite; but, truth to tell, the prospect of a voyage in company with a man he disliked was almost too much for him, and it took all his self-restraint to prevent him breaking out into open war against the Greek. Caliphronas knew this, but, appearing to take no notice of such a hostile attitude, resolved to bide his time, and make Crispin suffer for such insolence at the first opportunity. It seemed as though poor Maurice would not have a very pleasant time of it, cooped up in a vessel with these two enemies; but, doubtless, when Crispin played host in his own yacht, he would treat the Count in a more courteous fashion. This was exactly the view Crispin took of the matter; and as he knew, according to the laws of hospitality, he would have to be scrupulously polite to Caliphronas on board The Eunice, he was taking advantage of the present time, and giving his humor full rein in the direction of his real feelings. If he could only have prevented Caliphronas coming by such a display of hostility, he would have been very glad, as he mistrusted the Greek very much; but Caliphronas was impervious to the shafts of irony, and, as long as he gained his ends, did not care what was said to him or of him. This brilliant stranger was a man entirely without pride, and would put up with any insults rather than jeopardize his plans by resenting such discourtesy. It was the last opportunity Crispin would have of showing his real feelings, so he took advantage of it; and though it was scarcely gentlemanly of him to do so, the Count was such an unmitigated scoundrel that honorable and courteous treatment was entirely lost on him.

However, Eunice overheard his ironical remarks, and looked reproachfully at him, whereon Crispin restrained his temper, and strove to be delightfully amiable, no very easy task in his present frame of mind. With this good resolve he talked as pleasantly as he was able, and heard Caliphronas romance about his fictitious life without contradicting him, which he felt sorely inclined to do. It must not be forgotten that Crispin had hitherto led a semi-civilized life, and had not acquired that knack of concealing his likes or dislikes so necessary in our artificial society; besides which he was a very honest-minded man, and, knowing the true story of Caliphronas, the deliberate lies, flashy manner, and snake-like subtlety of the Greek annoyed him.

Maurice also distrusted the Count, especially after his conversation with Crispin regarding the real name, career, and character of the man; but, being more versed in the science of deception, behaved admirably towards his guest in every way, thereby deceiving Caliphronas to take all this enforced suavity for actual good-fellowship. As to the Rector, he was extremely punctilious in his behavior, and neither by word nor deed showed his dislike of this sleek-footed panther, who was about to bear away his favorite Maurice into unknown dangers.

“You must bring us all kinds of things from Greece, Maurice,” said Mrs. Dengelton in her usual gushing manner. “I adore foreign ornaments—those silver pins, you know, like Italian women wear, and Moorish veils, and Algerian lamps—so delightful—they fill up a room wonderfully.”

“Yes, and make it look like a curiosity-shop,” replied Maurice, laughing. “Oh, my dear aunt, you may depend I will bring you all kinds of outlandish things; but as to Italian pins, Moorish veils, Algerian lamps, I don’t suppose I will find any of those sort of things in Greece.”

“What will I bring you?” asked Crispin, as he held open the door for Eunice to pass through.

They were beyond the hearing of the table, Mrs. Dengelton had sailed on ahead to the drawing-room, so they were virtually alone.

“What will I bring you?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yourself,” she replied in the same tone. And Crispin returned to his seat with the delightful conviction that Eunice was the most charming girl in the world, and he was certainly the most fortunate of poets.

The Rector poured himself out a glass of his favorite port, and began to converse with Caliphronas; while Maurice and Crispin, lighting their cigarettes, chatted about the yacht, her sea-going powers, the question of stores, the anticipated time she would take to run down to the Ægean, and such-like marine matters.

“Will you pay us another visit, Count?” asked the Rector, more for the sake of starting a conversation than because he really cared about such a possibility.

“No, I do not think so. I am going to be married and settle down in my own island.”

“Ithaca?”

Caliphronas laughed a little on hearing the name.

“Yes; on Ithaca.”

“Are you a politician?”

“I? No. I care not two straws for the reconstruction of the Greek Empire, the recovery of Byzantium from the Turks, or any of those things which agitate my countrymen. No. I am a terribly selfish man, sir, as you will doubtless think. I only want to live in happiness, and for the good of my fellow-creatures I care nothing.”

“Is that not rather an egotistical way of looking at life?”

“Doubtless, sir, from your point of view, but not from mine. You are a priest of your Church, what we call a Papa in my country, and live the life of the soul, while I live the life of the body. You believe in self-abnegation—I in self-satisfaction. With this beautiful world I am content, but you rack your soul with longings for the life beyond the grave. In a word, I am real, you are ideal; but I am the happiest.”

“The happiness of the beasts which perish!” said the Rector emphatically.

“Well, the beasts, as a rule, have a very good time of it during their lives; as to the rest, we all perish at last.”

“The body, but not the soul.”

“Ah, that I do not know. I may have a soul, but I am not certain; but I have a body, and as long as that is at ease, why should I trouble about things in the next life?”

“Do you ever think of the hereafter?”

“Never! If I die, I die! While I live, I live! I prefer present certainty to future doubt.”

Mr. Carriston was silent, as he did not care about arguing theology with this subtle Greek, whose religion, whose philosophy, assumed Protean forms to meet every objection. He was full of sophistry and double dealing, an unfair adversary in every sense of the word, and was so encased in his armor of self-complacency and egotism, that he could never be brought to look at things either spiritual or material in any light than that which satisfied the selfishness of his own soul. The Rector, therefore, avoided the threatened argument, and applied himself to his wine, which was a much more agreeable task than attempting to convince this egoist that the supreme aim of life was not the pampering of the passions of the individual man.

“Apart from the theological aspect of the case,” said Carriston good-humoredly, “it is rather a mistaken thing to live only for one’s self. Where ignorance is bliss, I grant; but, because you know no higher life than that of the body, you at once assume that there can be no happier existence.”

“Oh, I do not say that,” answered Caliphronas lightly. “No doubt you people who mortify the flesh, who listen to the voice of conscience, who consider the soul more than the body, and who look upon this life as a preparation for a future existence, are happy in your self-torturings. All that sort of thing came in with Anno Domini, and made the mediÆval ages a hell of anguish; but I—I am a Greek—a pagan, if it pleases you—who looks on this world not as a prison, but as a garden wherein to live happily. Your mourning Man of Sorrows is entirely opposed to our joyous Apollo, your gloomy views of life to our serenity of temperament. The difference is plain: for you, a Christian, cannot understand the joyous songs of Paganism; I, a pagan, shudder at your penitential psalms of Christianity. We would neither of us ever convince the other, therefore an argument which has not a common basis from which to start is unprofitable.”

“I am not going to argue,” replied Carriston, smiling, “and I agree with you that arguments are unprofitable. Unless the change takes place in your own breast, it would be worse than useless for me to attempt to reason with you. But you are evidently not of the opinion of an Elizabethan ancestor of mine, among whose papers I discovered the following lyric:—

“Your Elizabethan ancestor was not healthy-minded,” said Caliphronas coolly; “if he had been he would never have written such silly verses. It is your unhealthy life, your unhealthy bodies, which breed such restlessness in you.”

“At all events, that restlessness has made England what she is,” replied the Rector, rather nettled at the rudeness of the Greek.

“A land of money-worship, a land of noisy steam-engines, a land of poverty and wealth—extremes in both cases. Yes, I quite believe your restless spirit has brought you to this satisfactory state of things. Come, sir,” added the Count, with a charming smile, seeing the Rector was rather annoyed, “let us agree to differ. For me, Greece—for you, England; for me, Nature—for you, Art. Two parallel straight lines cannot meet.”

Carriston laughed at this way of settling the question, but made no further remarks, and after a desultory conversation between all four gentlemen had ensued, they went into the drawing-room to join the ladies.

Mrs. Dengelton was engaged on her everlasting fancywork; and Eunice, with a rather disconsolate look on her face, was idly turning over the pages of a book. Crispin stole quietly behind her and glanced over her shoulder. It was a volume of his poems, and he felt flattered.

“And to think,” said Mrs. Dengelton, without further prelude, “that you will be so far away from home to-morrow.”

“The world is my home,” cried Caliphronas gayly.

“We Englishmen are narrower in our ideas,” observed Maurice dryly; “we look on England as our home.”

“Ah, there’s no place like home,” sighed the Honorable Mrs. Dengelton sentimentally.

“If by home you mean England, I am very glad of it,” retorted the Count audaciously; “I would rather live in exile in Greece. But come, I will say no more evil things about your beloved island of fogs.”

“If you do, I will sing ‘Rule Britannia,’” said Maurice, laughing.

“What is that?”

“Our national song. Do you know any national songs of your country.”country.”

Caliphronas smiled with an expression of supreme indifference.

“No; I know nothing of patriotism. I have never given it a thought. All my songs are of love and wine.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Dengelton in a shocked tone; “really, Count, you say the most dreadful things!”

“Other times other manners,” observed the Rector humorously. “Horace, for instance, said things which would shock you, my dear Mrs. Dengelton.”

“I’ve no doubt about it,” retorted the lady viciously; “but, thank heaven, I do not know Latin.”

“But you know French, aunt,” said Maurice wickedly; “and I am afraid Gyp, George Sand, and Belot, are quite as bad, if not worse, than the Latin poet.”

“Maurice,” replied Mrs. Dengelton severely, unable to parry this attack, “remember your cousin is in the room.”

“I beg your pardon, aunt.”

“And now, Count Caliphronas,” said the good lady, thus appeased, “suppose you sing us one of your songs.”

“I am afraid it will shock you,” replied the Count slyly.

“Oh dear no! none of us know Greek.”

“That is hardly complimentary to me, who have given up all my life to the study of the Greek poets.”

“I don’t mean you, Rector, but the young people.”

“Oh, I do not mind singing,” said Caliphronas, going to the piano; “if the words of my songs were translated, you would find them very harmless. They only contain the language of love known to all the world.”

“Will I play for you?” asked Crispin, looking up from the poem he was reading to Eunice.

“If you would be so kind.”

“What will you sing?” said the poet, sitting down at the piano. “No love, no wine to-night. It is our last meeting in England, so sing some song of farewell.”

“Will I sing ‘The Call to Arms’?”

“Yes, that will be stirring enough.”

Whereupon Caliphronas sang that patriotic song, which was written by some modern Hellenic TyrtÆus during the War of Independence. Crispin afterwards translated it into the metre of Byron’s famous “Isles of Greece” for the benefit of Eunice, who was anxious to know the words which, clothed in their Greek garb, rang through the room like the inspiriting blare of a trumpet.

When the song was finished, Caliphronas turned away silently, and Carriston, who was seated near, saw to his astonishment that the eyes of the emotional Greek were suffused with tears.

“That man has some noble traits,” he said to himself as he noticed this; “he is moved by the wrongs of his country.”

“What a fine ringing melody!” cried Eunice, whose eyes were flashing with excitement.

“It is like ‘Chevy Chase,’” said Maurice quickly, “and stirs the heart like the sound of a trumpet.”

“The poet was evidently inspired by Byron,” remarked Crispin, idly fingering the piano keys; “I expect he wrote it after the ‘Isles of Greece,’ song. Ah, a Greek should have written that.”

“I am afraid the days of AlcÆus are past,” replied the Rector, who had understood a considerable portion of the song, owing to his acquaintance with the ancient Attic tongue; “Greece prefers Anacreon. Still she won her freedom bravely.”

“And to what gain?” said Caliphronas bitterly; “to be ruled by a Danish prince. Better the republics of Athens, Sparta, and Thebes, than such playing at monarchy.”

“To revive the ancient government you must have the ancient patriots, poets, and scholars.”

“That I am afraid is impossible. No, the glory has departed from Greece. Centuries of oppression have crushed the creative faculty out of her.”

“Oh, let us hope, when the Greek Empire is reconstructed, we will have a new Pindar, a new Sophocles, a new Plato.”

“That is a dream of the lyre, not of the sword,” replied Caliphronas, carelessly glancing at his watch. “By the way, it is very late, and, as we have to be up early, I suppose we ought to retire early.”

“I am quite with you, Count,” said Mrs. Dengelton, rolling up her work. “Come, Eunice, we must get our beauty sleep.”

“Humph! the mother needs it more than the daughter,” thought Crispin, but did not give vent to this very uncomplimentary remark, and hastened to give the ladies their candles.

“Are you going to bed, Caliphronas?” asked Maurice, when the ladies had gone. “We intend to smoke.”

“Going to shorten your lives,” replied the Count, smiling. “No; I am like Mrs. Dengelton, I require my beauty sleep;” and at that he also departed.

The Rector, in company with his two young friends, went to the smoking-room, and had a pleasant conversation, but it was noticeable that all three gentlemen carefully avoided mentioning the name of Caliphronas. Decidedly the Greek was not in favor, and, in spite of the good impression he had created in the Rector’s mind by his patriotic emotion, that gentleman showed how deeply rooted was his distrust by his parting words to Crispin.

“Remember, I leave Maurice in your hands, Mr. Crispin,” he said in a faltering voice; “he is very dear to me, and you must protect him from all danger.”

“My dear Rector, I am not a child,” interposed Maurice, rather nettled; “nor are we going to the wilds of Africa.”

“You may meet with worse enemies than the savage beasts of Africa,” replied the Rector obstinately. “I do not trust your friend Caliphronas.”

“Be content,” said Crispin, shaking the Rector warmly by the hand, “I will watch over Maurice; and as to Caliphronas you need not be afraid of him. I know the man.”

“And know any good of him?”

“Ah, that is a secret at present; but you may be sure he will not harm Maurice while I am near.”

“One would think we were going into danger, the way you talk,” said Roylands impatiently, “instead of a pleasant cruise in Greek waters.”

“The New Argonauts,” observed the Rector, laughing. “Good-night, Mr. Crispin. Good-night, my dear lad; come over and say good-by to-morrow.”

The Argonauts promised, and the Rector, quite at peace concerning his dear pupil, departed.

“You doubt Caliphronas; the Rector doubts Caliphronas,” said Maurice, when the old man had gone. “I am getting rather wearied of such doubts.”

“Well, I will set your doubts at rest in—say a week’s time.”

“And are your revelations startling?”

Crispin shrugged his shoulders.

“Not very; it all depends upon what you call startling. Really I have made by my talk this molehill of a Caliphronas into a mountain of dissimulation and deceit. He is not a good man, but I have no doubt he is as good as his neighbors.”

“The mystery which environs him fascinates me.”

“No doubt; the unknown is always attractive,” replied Crispin sententiously. “But after all, when I tell you everything, you may be disappointed. The mountain may only bring forth a mouse, you know. But, at all events, I look forward to some pretty lively times.”

“Where?”

“In the Island of Melnos. My dear innocent Englishman, you are being drawn into a network of intrigue and duplicity, but, as I hold all the threads in my hand, you will come out all right in the end.”

“You puzzle me! I hope I will come all right out of this mystery.”

“I heard a vulgar saying at a music hall which applies to this case and to you,” said Crispin gayly; “it was, ‘Keep your eye on your father, and your father will pull you through.’”