Marianne and the Rebels

But none of this penetrated to Marianne where she lay deeply and blissfully asleep.

By the time the Jason was under way again, she had long sailed away on a dream ship, as swift and white as a seagull, that was bearing her off to some unknown but happy destination. Yet it bore the tragic features of the man she loved as she had seen him last, and, as the white boat sailed on, the face was left behind and sank into the waves, crying out piteously. Then it would return, only to recede once more as soon as Marianne stretched out her arms to it.

There was no way of telling how long the dream lasted, reflecting Marianne's unconscious thought which for days had vacillated between hope and despair, between love, bitterness and regrets, but when she opened her eyes to the real world again, the mists had all blown away, taking the renegades with them, and all was sunshine. Yet the impression remained, embedded in her flesh like a poisoned arrow.

Now, finding herself once more back in surroundings that recalled bygone days, Marianne, who through all her dangers had thought of little beyond the fight for life and liberty, became a prey to bitter regrets. The ship's cabin reminded her of another where she still would have preferred to be, for all the agonies that she had suffered there and even if she had known there were still more to endure.

Waking alone in that small, enclosed space, she was made all the more sharply aware of the extent to which she was alone with her shattered dreams in a pitiless world of men, struggling still, like a wounded seagull, to reach a haven where she might find herself a niche to lick her wounds and breathe again.

To think that there were women on this mad earth, which was tossing her back and forth like a bottle in the ocean, who were able to live only for their home and children and the man who provided for them! Women who woke each morning and went to sleep at night with the reassuring warmth of their chosen life's companion! Women who brought their children into the world in peace and joy! Women who were women and not pawns on a chessboard! Who led ordinary lives instead of wandering like gipsies at the mercy of some insane power that seemed to take a malign pleasure in spoiling everything.

Now that she knew she was on her way to Constantinople, where she had so dreamed of being, Marianne discovered that she no longer wanted to arrive. She did not want to be plunged once more into an unknown world, peopled with strange faces and strange voices, where she would be all alone, so terribly alone! And, by one of fate's grim ironies, the ship that was carrying her there bore the name of the man she loved and now believed that she had lost for ever.

'It's my own fault,' she told herself bitterly. 'I tried to force destiny to my own will. I tried to make Jason give in to me, and I didn't trust his love! If it were all to do again, I'd tell him everything, straight out, and then if he still wanted me I'd go with him wherever he wanted, and the farther the better!'

Only it was much too late now and the feeling of powerlessness that swept over her was so overwhelming that she burst into tears and sat sobbing loudly with her head on her knees. It was thus that Theodoros found her when he poked his head round the cabin door, drawn by the noise.

Marianne was so deep in her misery that she did not hear him come in. He stood for a moment, staring at her, not knowing what to do, as awkward as any man in the presence of a woman's grief he does not understand. Then, realizing that her tears were fast becoming hysteria, that she was trembling like a leaf and uttering little inarticulate moans and was almost on the verge of suffocation, he turned up her face and, quite deliberately, slapped her.

The sobbing ceased abruptly. Her breathing also, and for a second Theodoros wondered if he had not struck too hard. Marianne was gazing at him with wide, sightless eyes. She might almost have been turned to stone, and he was just about to give her a shake to rouse her out of her weird trance when she spoke, suddenly, in a perfectly normal voice:

'Thank you. That's better.'

'You frightened me,' he said after a moment, with a sigh of relief. 'I couldn't think what was the matter. You slept well enough. I know because I've been in several times.'

'I can't think what came over me. I was having weird dreams and then when I woke up I started thinking – oh, of things that are lost to me.'

'You were dreaming of this ship. I heard you – you spoke the name.'

'No, not the ship… a man of the same name.'

'A man you – love?'

'Yes, and shall never see again.'

'Why? He is dead?'

'Perhaps. I do not know.'

'Then why do you say you'll never see him again? The future is in God's hand and until you have seen your lover's body in the grave you cannot say that he is dead. How like a woman to waste energy on tears and regrets while we are still in danger! Have you thought yet what you are going to say to the captain?'

'Yes. I shall say I'm going to Constantinople to visit a distant relative. He knows I have no near relations left. He will believe me.'

'Then hurry up and get your story straight, because he's coming to call on you in an hour. The man in white told me that. And he gave me these things for you to try and dress yourself. They have no proper women's clothes on board. I'm to bring food for you.'

'I won't have you going to all this trouble on my account. A man like you!'

A swift smile illuminated his craggy face for an instant.

'I am your devoted servant, Princess. I must play my part. These people seem to think it only natural. Besides, you must be hungry.'

In fact, the mere mention of food had been enough to remind Marianne that she was dreadfully hungry. She ate everything that was brought to her, then had a wash and arranged the piece of silk, which Sir James must have bought to take home, in the manner of a classical robe. After this she felt better.

It was a much more self-possessed Marianne who waited for Sir James to make his promised visit and, when he was seated on the only chair, thanked him for his hospitality and for taking such good care of her.

'Now that you are rested,' he said, 'won't you tell me, at least, where I am to take you? As I told you, our course is for Constantinople but—'

'Constantinople will suit me perfectly, Sir James. That is where I was going when – when I was wrecked. I took ship, oh, it seems a very long time ago now, to visit a member of my father's family there. He was French, as you know, and when I fled from England I went to France to try and trace any relatives who might still be living there. There were none, except for one elderly cousin not in very good odour with the present regime. She told me that there was another distant relative of ours living at Constantinople who would certainly be glad to see me, and that after all, travel broadened the mind. So I went, but on account of the wreck I was obliged to spend several months on the island of Naxos. That was where I found my servant, Theodoros. He rescued me from drowning and looked after me like a mother. Unfortunately, the pirates came…'

Sir James's whiskers twitched in a smile.

'He is certainly devoted to you. It was lucky for you that you had him with you. Very well, then. I'll take you to Constantinople. If the wind holds, we'll be there in five or six days from now. But I'll make a landfall at Lesbos and see if I can get hold of some clothes for you. You can hardly go ashore dressed as you are. Very pretty, I grant, but just a trifle improper. Although, of course, this is the east…'

He was talking volubly now, made easier by Marianne's half-confidences, and enjoying both the brief excursion into the past and the prospect of a few days' voyage in her company to revive, for both of them, a nostalgic vision of the green lawns of Devonshire.

Marianne was content to listen to him. She was still a little shaken to discover how easily the lies had come to her – and been accepted. She had mingled truth and fiction with a readiness that left her both startled and alarmed. The words had simply come of their own accord. She was even beginning to find that, with practice, she was actually enjoying the part she had to play, even though there was no audience but herself to applaud her performance. Most of all, it was necessary to act naturally, that most difficult of all arts, because failure would be met not with hoots and cat-calls, but with prison or even death. Even in the awareness of her danger there was something exciting that gave a fresh spice to life and made her understand a little of what it was that gave a man like Theodoros his power.