CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Lloyd steamer made its way into the harbour of Piræus twelve hours overdue. Scherer, who had left Berlin on the twenty-third, had thought to arrive in Athens on the last day of February. Now, as he put his foot on land this morning of March 1st, he asked himself whether the omen was a favourable one or otherwise. He had unwillingly to admit that he was superstitious, and would have done much to rid himself of this "sign of weakness," as he named it. In this he was successful for the most part, but the superstitious mood always reappeared when he had something important on hand.

And this day seemed to him an important one. Scherer's serious and thoroughgoing methods of negotiation, his ways of thinking and of feeling, had now depended upon the reports of this woman for something like nine months, a woman he had had under personal observation for no more than a couple of weeks and with whom he had talked intimately for one evening only. Her quick perceptions and her practical good sense had amazed him at the outset, and it was not until he had received proof of her capacity that the fact of her beauty began to penetrate his mind and senses. Just as his intellect built up the separate elements of the world of things, gradually, into a synthetic whole, so had he pieced together, bit by bit, the atoms which went into the composition of this strange young woman. On the evening when they had dined together, he had for the first time got a more or less coherent picture, but even then the splendid unity of form and content baffled him.

How could all this be encompassed within the framework of one woman, he had asked himself. The unusual tension of his nerves had informed him that it was, indeed, the woman in her which stirred him. When he sent her to see after his interests in the Near East, he hardly realized how much he had been influenced by the fear lest her presence near him might distract him from the work he had in hand. He wanted to have her at a distance; and yet, when she had gone, he found he missed her sorely.

The purely business nature of their correspondence (for never a word of personal news slipped into their letters from either side) removed her to an objective distance. But when rumour coupled her name with the count's, when gossip became rife in political circles, a feeling of envy began to stir in Scherer's heart. For just as Scherer was many other things besides being a clever thinker, and Count Münsterberg many things besides being a Don Juan, yet this fundamental contrast between the two men was bound in the end to lead to friction. They realized the possibility themselves. There was, indeed, a conflict in Scherer's mind. The more his own representative, by her intimacy with the representative of the country, was able to turn this friendship to Scherer's account, the more uneasy did he become; and yet the count's passion was welcome as the confirmation of Scherer's personal impression of the young woman.

The news of the tragedy had first reached the circles in which he moved with Linnartz's gloss on it, a gloss not only expressing the baron's personal pique, but likewise subservient to the design of advancing the writer in his career. To most people, therefore, the fatal shot was the symbol of time's revenges against a man of adventurous temperament; and no one thought that the countess's honour might be tarnished by such an interpretation, for every one considered her blameless. Meanwhile, those in the know had learned the true motives that lay at the back of the affair. A week after the first tidings had come to hand, the second version was all the rage, and was the more readily believed because of its piquant implications. Scherer had guessed the truth almost at once, and had pierced to the heart of Baron Linnartz's intrigue. It speedily became obvious that Linnartz was going to fight tooth and nail against Münsterberg's last wishes in the matter of a successor to the ambassadorial post. Scherer set about countering Linnartz's activities. Diana had not interrupted her correspondence with her employer. On the contrary, she furnished him with such a wealth of detail that he was able to confute page after page of Linnartz's first report to the foreign secretary.

Although as business man and as observer Scherer had felt the count's death keenly, yet at the same time this removal of a rival had made him easier in his mind, especially at first. As he paced up and down his library that night, he could not help exclaiming: "She is free!" Next day came her wire: "Compelled to leave. Wassilko." Nothing more. No reason given for her sudden departure, no mention of where she was going. The major had coded the message himself, so that it need not go through the office; and it was unlikely that its contents caused any curiosity at the capital seeing that every one's interests were otherwise engaged. So Scherer waited. He was confident of hearing from her as soon as she was in a position to communicate with him anew. As for seeing Diana in Berlin, he knew this was unlikely, for she would have to avoid the metropolis for a time. When, a week later, he received her first dispatch, it came from Athens. He thereupon made up his mind to leave town and seek her out.

He was fond of Athens from of old. As a young man he had been attracted to that place in preference to Rome, for he had been trained in the humanities and he loved to come into close contact with the relics of the most orderly and magnificent of civilizations. Again, fairly recently, on the return voyage from Ceylon, he had renewed his earlier impressions, and come nearer perhaps to understanding the secrets of Athens' attraction. But he was not the man to yield to a romantic lure, and to crown these early weeks of spring by an intrigue with a lovely woman. He had come here with a definite purpose, for he had resolved to ask Diana to marry him. His chances, he surmised, would be all the better if he tried his luck soon, while she was still stunned by her recent adventure, and when the security of a comfortable home such as he had to offer would make a specially strong appeal.

He sent his luggage on to the hotel where he had ordered a room. Ignoring even the light railway linking harbour to town, he set forth on foot for Diana's quarters. It was now ten o'clock; the morning was bright, and so warm that every one was sporting summer attire. He was informed that the lady had gone out early. Scherer took a seat on the terrace, turning his back on the sea he had been gazing at so many days, and facing the Acropolis. From no other point, it would appear, could so fine a view of the temple be obtained, for the west front lay fully exposed, and from this distance, the slight damages in the pediment were invisible. One therefore got the impression of a well-preserved building. Scherer knew the view of old, and enjoyed it once again in the morning radiance which seemed to filter through the very substance of the structure.

"I wonder how long she'll be?"

What with the dazzling light, and a certain restlessness that had come upon him, he got up and made for the marble hall which ran round the inner side of the terrace. Force of habit led him to the table where journals of all sorts lay; and since he had not seen his own newspaper since leaving Trieste he seized upon that one first. "It must have come by a faster boat," thought he, "by way of Venice most likely." His feelings were mixed as he scanned these familiar columns; for in part he contemplated them with the boredom of an expert weary of the stale tricks of journalism; and in part he was animated by a wish to detect some flaw which would after all prove his presence at the head of things to be indispensable.

He sat leaning back, his legs crossed. One saw light-grey trousers, a huge newspaper hiding most of the reader's body, and a face in profile to the entrance. It was thus Diana glimpsed him on her return. A whole minute she stood looking at him, unnoticed, motionless, after her first gesture of surprise. "Scherer!" At that instant she became acutely aware that she was a woman.

Scherer put down his paper, and saw Diana, who stood smiling at him from the doorway. He rose and went calmly up to her, while she moved towards him, her gait timed to a nicety so that it was a trifle slower than his.

"My word, she is beautiful," thought the man.

Diana, whom he had always before seen dressed in light colours, now stood before him clothed entirely in black. Her tightly clinging gown was almost too narrow in the skirt to be fashionable, and her wide-brimmed hat was not such as were being worn at the time. A long silver chain hung down to below the waist-line; gauntlet gloves of grey doeskin were pulled well up the forearm. A huge bunch of Greek violets was pinned into her bodice at the breast. Her face was tanned as he had always seen it; but she looked slimmer, and prouder of mien, than his memory of her had led him to expect. Though her lips were parted in a smile, they seemed to him more reticent than ever, and sad. She stretched out a hand in welcome:

"Good-morning. So you've come all the way to Phaleron to read your own paper! When did you arrive? How did you get here? You look the picture of health!"

Her voice rang out clear and steady. His voice, too, sounded like true metal as he answered:

"You are looking well, likewise; and since, as each new day dawns, Dame Rumour has it that tomorrow you will die, I thought I'd look you up so as to give her and all of them the lie." They laughed.

"Are you going to stay down here?" asked she.

"No, in the town."

"Got some decent rooms?"

"I hope so. I've not seen them yet, only just landed, came here straight from the boat."

"It's a shame to have kept you waiting! I usually go up to the hill of the gods in the morning."

Scherer thought: "Her questions are apt. Now she knows that I have come on her account, her use of the word 'waiting' makes the whole thing clear."

Diana thought: "So soon? He lets me know at once that he has come here only to see me. Probably he has a definite scheme in mind."

She proposed a walk along the sea-front, and while questioning him about everything and anything in which they were mutually interested (though naturally avoiding a reference to the duel and its consequences), her eyes travelled over the coastline, the hills, and the islands and, lest this semi-political conversation should dissipate itself in chatter about the landscape, she drew his attention to the works then in progress for the fortification of the shore, and to the new hangar for the seaplanes. Scherer showed a lively interest, and yet he was at pains to bring the talk back to personal topics. After a while he said with a smile:

"May I express a wish that even here, though you are on furlough, you will continue your work? ..."

She laughed, but more out of courtesy than because she was amused.

"There's twelve sounding. Shall we go in to lunch?"

As Scherer awaited her in the hall his mood underwent a change. Diana had stirred him to the depths. She seemed so alone; as she walked along by the blue sea, a forlorn little figure in black, mourning for the beloved, the scent of those wonderful violets around her, her form outlined through the folds of her tightly fitting dress, she had, all unawares, awakened the man in Scherer. He, who had left his artificially warmed office in the capital where the lords of winter still held sway, had paced the deck of a little steamship for days, his heart beating in anticipation, had hoped to find her shaken by her recent experiences. He had, besides, for many years voluntarily renounced all intimate friendship with women. Diana had always appealed to him; now it was the feminine in her that made a special impression; indeed, at this moment she affected him more than any woman had ever done before. So greatly were his senses stirred that he, usually so self-controlled, could not keep his thoughts off her, but needs must allow his errant fancy to follow her to her room and picture her as she slipped off her morning dress and put on an afternoon gown. He even went so far as to regret his tactfulness in taking rooms elsewhere, and wished he had put up at her hotel. But when she came back she was in the same black dress, and said as they passed into the dining-room together:

"I like wearing black just now, and anyway nobody knows me here...."

As luncheon was nearing an end, Scherer said:

"It is nine months since for the first and only time we sat at table together."

"So long, already?"

"To a day. It was on the first of June."

"How is your beautiful house?"

"My house is empty."

Her hand went to her bosom with a gesture as of defence. Then, to give herself countenance, she took the flowers from her bodice and asked the waiter for a glass of water into which she put the drooping violets.

"They are rather tired, poor things. But it's amazing how quickly they revive. I buy a big bunch every morning. My room is full of them. In no land I have ever visited have I come across such huge violets. Nor have I ever experienced such a spring. Yes, they come from Attica. So different from the small, modest violets of the north. Huge blossoms which seem to open melancholy eyes as if to express the language of passion."

She spoke very quietly, almost to herself; but her last words seemed to him a sign, or, at least, they seemed to give him permission to broach the subject of his thoughts.

"Are you vexed that I should have looked you up?"

"No, no; I am grateful to you for coming. I've been alone for three weeks with only Mary to talk to. She's my old servant, who came away with me in the little sailing boat."

"Did you have favourable winds?" This was the first he had heard of the method of her escape.

"One day it was a bit slack, but otherwise brisk, mainly from the north-east."

"It was good of you to think of wiring."

"I did not dare to be more explicit. The prince made himself responsible. Oh, no, it was the major who saw after it. And it was he who managed to smuggle me out of the port."

Scherer was glad that the major's name had come up. He seized his opportunity to say:

"... The major loves you."

Diana looked up quickly.

"Did he tell you that?"

"Very nearly."

Diana thought: "Felix is absolutely incorrigible. What can I do to distract Scherer's mind?"

"Do you know that you've just come in time for the carnival?" she said aloud. "The whole town is full of music and laughter. Nearly a week it lasts. Shall we go and have a look at it?"

They agreed to meet later at his hotel. He bade her good-bye for the time, and went to his rooms. Here he changed, read his correspondence, answered what was necessary. Then he stepped out on the balcony which looked on to the gardens adjoining the royal palace, and on to the big square. Every minute the number of masqueraders increased; they must form at least half of all those who are now promenading the streets, he thought. The bright colours swamped the sober greys and blacks of everyday fashion. As soon as he caught sight of Diana driving up, he went downstairs to meet her, and soon they were lost in the crowd of merry-makers.

In order not to be too conspicuous, she had put on a grey dress, and a violet-coloured veil almost covered her hat. As they reached the corner by his hotel, they stopped, and for a moment they were completely surrounded. Women and boys, addressing them in a medley of languages, were pressing their wares upon them: great branches of apple blossom, round and resplendent like buxom women; delicate pink almond sprays, willowy and tall; huge bundles of blue hyacinths; cascades of yellow tulips; and, conspicuous among them all, the huge bunches of violets whose dreamlike flowers seemed to resent the restricting string which bound them together.

"These people know me," said Diana, laughing. "I have to trundle the whole cart load off to Phaleron most days. Today..."

Suddenly, she had an idea. She separated one lad from his comrades, gave him a note, and told him to take the whole contents of his handcart to the hotel and ask the porter to put them in Herr Scherer's room. Scherer gathered from her gestures what she had in mind, and, turning to another vender, bought a bunch of violets for her to wear. He gave it to her, saying:

"So little, for so much."

His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. It was the first time she had known him to be deeply moved. "He is indeed poor, this man; for all his millions could not buy that barrow of flowers I (who tomorrow may be penniless) have just sent to his room!"