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Title: His Excellency's English Governess

Author: Sydney C. Grier

Release date: August 23, 2021 [eBook #66115]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIS EXCELLENCY'S ENGLISH GOVERNESS ***

 His Excellency’s English
 Governess

 By
 SYDNEY C. GRIER

 AUTHOR OF “A CROWNED QUEEN,”
 “LIKE ANOTHER HELEN,” “THE
 WARDEN OF THE MARCHES,” Etc.


(_Fourth in the Modern East series_)


 BOSTON
 L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
 _MDCCCCII_




 COPYRIGHT.

 _Copyright, 1902_
 By L. C. Page & Company
 (Incorporated)

 Published June, 1902




 CONTENTS.

 I. A GIRL GRADUATE
 II. “THERE WAS A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT”
 III. A MOST ADVANTAGEOUS OFFER
 IV. THE SHINING EAST
 V. A NEW EXPERIENCE
 VI. A PERIOD OF PROBATION
 VII. “IN INMOST BAGDAT”
 VIII. A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
 IX. LITERATURE AND POLITICS
 X. A CUP OF COFFEE
 XI. A DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT
 XII. IN SEARCH OF HEALTH
 XIII. INSTRUCTION AND INTROSPECTION
 XIV. A SPOKE IN HIS WHEEL
 XV. AFTER ALL----
 XVI. A MURDEROUS INTENT
 XVII. AN IDYLL, AND ITS ENDING
 XVIII. GATHERING CLOUDS
 XIX. “BETWIXT MY LOVE AND ME”
 XX. INTERCEPTED LETTERS
 XXI. CONFEDERATES
 XXII. A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION
 XXIII. THE END OF EVERYTHING
 XXIV. PRISONERS
 XXV. “THE VOICE OF ENGLAND IN THE EAST”
 XXVI. A DREAD TRIBUNAL
 XXVII. PRACTICAL JOKES




 HIS EXCELLENCY’S ENGLISH
 GOVERNESS

 CHAPTER I.
 A GIRL GRADUATE.

It was Presentation-day at the University of London. The date was
somewhere in the latter half of the present century,--not this year,
nor last year, nor the year before that, when you, dear reader, or
your brother or cousin, may have graced the scene in cap and gown--but
so long ago that the graduates and undergraduates of to-day were still
in the nursery taking practical lessons as to the value of tactual
perception, or forcing an undesired entrance into the realms of
knowledge by way of the spelling-book and the Latin Primer. The day
was a lovely one in May, and the spring sunshine poured in through the
high windows of the theatre on the Chancellor in his Court suit and
gold-embroidered gown, on the members of the Senate in their crimson
and scarlet robes, and on the reporters scribbling away for dear life
at their table. There was the usual throng of admiring friends and
relations in the gallery and the back seats, and the usual inner
semicircle of presentees, looking like a bed of gorgeous and not
always harmonious flowers, from the vivid colours of their gowns and
hoods. A modern observer would have noted only one point of marked
difference from a similar scene to-day, and this was the absence of
the serried ranks of lady graduates. There were only two or three
women to be presented, and they looked pale and nervous, but
dauntlessly resolved to do their duty to the end. In those days it was
an achievement to gain possession of a London degree, and these girls
felt that the eyes of England and of the world were upon them. They
were conscious also of furnishing the sensation of the day, for a
woman had obtained the prize for French in the B.A. Final, and the
second place in Honours for Mental and Moral Science, for the first
time on record, and the friends of female education were jubilant.
Miss Arbuthnot, the principal of the South Central High School, in
which Cecil Anstruther had received her education, looked fully two
inches taller than usual as she led her pupil up to the Chancellor’s
dais, and the little knot of friends and teachers in the gallery
applauded frantically, while even the men who had been ignominiously
left behind in the race were magnanimous enough to do their share of
clapping. The parliamentary representative of the University referred
especially to Miss Anstruther in his regulation speech, and the noble
Chancellor himself pressed her hand and congratulated her with even
more than his ordinary paternal suavity of manner. As for Cecil’s own
feelings, she was so much embarrassed by the cheering, the publicity,
and the difficulty of carrying her cap, her diploma, and her prize,
and finding a hand to give the Chancellor at the same time, that she
did not breathe freely until she was safely back in her seat, with her
companions in misfortune eagerly inspecting her new possessions.

A little later, and the grand function was over. The Chancellor and
the members of the Senate had filed off solemnly, like the chorus of a
Greek play, the reporters had closed their note-books and decamped
with much less ceremony, and the theatre was deserted, save by a few
presentees who were displaying their medals and diplomas to impatient
friends. Cecil paused at the door on her way to the robing-room with
Miss Arbuthnot.

“I’m quite sorry to say good-bye to the dear old place,” she said; “I
have been here for the Matriculation, the Intermediate, and the B.A.,
and now again to-day, and I know the pattern of the ceiling and all
the mouldings on the walls by heart.”

“I only wish you would come here again for the M.A. and the D.Lit.,”
said Miss Arbuthnot. “That is my one sorrow with regard to you, Cecil,
that you are ending your academical course at this point.”

“But, you see, I have really no choice,” said Cecil. “The children at
home are getting older, and I must either teach them myself or earn
money to help with their education. And you know, Miss Arbuthnot, I do
so much dread going among strangers, and I want to stay at home if I
possibly can. If I could have got a post in the School, of course----”

“That would not be good enough,” replied Miss Arbuthnot with decision.
“Public opinion has yet to be roused on the subject of High School
teachers’ salaries. No, Cecil, what I should like for you would be
something quite different. As for teaching your little brothers and
sisters, I believe it is a task at once beyond and beneath your
powers. You are much better fitted to instruct older children, and you
are not at all suited to cope with very naughty ones, such as I
understand them to be. I can’t prophesy success for you.”

“But what could I do?” asked Cecil.

“I think you should try for a post as finishing governess in some good
family, where you would be properly treated,” said Miss Arbuthnot.
“Abroad, perhaps; I believe the Russians treat their governesses very
well. You are not a specialist, Cecil--that is another thing I regret,
you would have gained the University scholarship for Mental and Moral
Science if you had been--but you are good all round. Well, we mustn’t
stay talking here. I will see you to Victoria, and then I must hurry
back to the School. Only remember, if you do not succeed with the
children, let me know. I am often asked to recommend thoroughly
first-class governesses, and I will do my best for you, dear child.”

Miss Arbuthnot’s voice trembled a little as she concluded, for she had
grown very fond of her head pupil, and honestly believed that she
could have done anything she liked in the way of passing examinations.
It had been a great pleasure to the elder lady to have this ardent
young disciple always at hand, to sympathise with her plans and to
become imbued with her views, nor was Miss Arbuthnot at all unmindful
of the honour reflected on the School by the girl’s success. The cause
of female education in general, and the South Central High School in
particular, were the objects to which Miss Arbuthnot’s life was
devoted, and the cause gained no small lustre from the ovation Cecil
had received at the Presentation, and the comments which had been made
thereon in the various speeches, and which might be looked for from
the Press.

The principal’s expectations in this respect were not disappointed.
The London dailies remarked on Cecil’s success in a style
half-flattering, half-contemptuous, and at greater or less length
according to their interest in the subject, and the country papers
took up the strain, and carried it on in their several ways. In
particular, the ‘Whitcliffe Argus,’ the chief organ of Cecil’s native
place, devoted nearly half a column to setting forth, rather late in
the day, in a dialect of journalese peculiarly its own, the honours
gained by the “daughter of our esteemed fellow-townsman the much
respected Vicar of St Barnabas’.” The paper was pounced upon, and the
paragraph read aloud in a stentorian voice by one of Cecil’s younger
brothers, a particularly rampant specimen of that troublesome race,
when the ‘Argus’ was delivered at St Barnabas’ Vicarage. No subject
had been further from Cecil’s mind as she sat at the head of the
dinner-table, with flushed cheeks and rather dishevelled hair, and a
worried look which contrasted sadly with the hopeful aspect she had
worn when she bade farewell to Miss Arbuthnot little more than a month
before. Mrs Anstruther was away on a visit, and to Cecil had fallen a
task sufficient to appal the stoutest heart, that of keeping in order
the seven small half-brothers and sisters who sat round the table, and
whom no one but their own genial, boisterous Irish mother had ever
succeeded in managing.

The Anstruther children were the terror of Whitcliffe. Their mother
said that they had excellent hearts, and this was very possibly true,
but it was also painfully evident that they had no manners, and a very
small amount of conscience. Add to this the possession of tremendous
animal spirits, splendid lungs, and most inventive brains, and it will
be seen that the life of a conscientious elder sister, who held
pronounced views of her own on the subject of education, was not
likely to be an easy one among them. Of all those who tried to govern
them Cecil was perhaps the least successful, for she was gentle,
methodical, and somewhat old-maidish in her ways, and each of these
tendencies militated strongly against her. She got on very well with
Mrs Anstruther (indeed, no one who knew that stout, untidy little
lady, with her blue-grey eyes and her soft, drawling brogue, could do
otherwise), and loved her almost as much as if she had been her own
mother, but the children did not take to her. Even now, after a
morning spent in wild efforts to clear away the things they left
about, undo the mischief they had done, and efface generally the
traces of their baleful existence, she could not eat her dinner in
peace. Patsy was spilling his pudding on the carpet, Loey feeding the
cat from his plate, and when Cecil leaned across the table to rescue
Eily’s glass of water from imminent peril of destruction, Terry seized
the opportunity of pulling out all her hair-pins. And all this time
Fitz was roaring out the paragraph from the ‘Argus’ in his loudest
tones.

“Fitzgerald!” came in a stern voice from the lower end of the table,
where sat Mr Anstruther, with a book propped up against the dish in
front of him; “don’t make that noise. Why don’t you keep the children
quiet, Cecil? My dear!” and Mr Anstruther’s eye-glasses went slowly
up, to be focussed on Cecil’s dishevelled tresses, “what have you been
doing to your hair? It is in a most disgraceful state. What is all
this row about?”

“Why, daddy,” cried Loey, otherwise Owen, “it’s what we’ll do with
Cissie’s money we’re talking about.”

“You will do nothing with it,” returned Mr Anstruther, severely, for
the point was rather a sore one with him. “Your sister will spend the
money as she likes, without consulting a set of little dunces like
you.”

“Oh, papa, but I mean to do something for them,” cried Cecil. “I have
been so glad ever since I heard I had got the prize to think that I
should be able to help you with it. The money will pay the boys’ fees
for one term, or help with their books, at any rate.”

“You are very good, my dear child, in wishing to be of use, but what
can fifteen pounds do towards educating four boys, who have not brains
enough among them all to get a ten-pound scholarship, nor steadiness
and sense of honour enough to go to and from the Grammar-School like
gentlemen? What with their school-fees, and the bills I have to pay
for the damage they do, it needs a millionaire to look after them.”

And Mr Anstruther rose abruptly from his seat, said grace, and
departed to his study. It was a constant disappointment to him that
only his eldest daughter had inherited his own scholarly tastes, and
that his younger children, although dowered with their mother’s
splendid bodily health, had inherited also her distaste for steady
mental work. Sometimes the disparity made him a little unjust to
Cecil, as if his disappointment were her fault, and the sense of this
struck her to-day so keenly that, worn-out and discouraged, she pushed
back her chair from the table and burst into tears. The children stood
around in impotent alarm; then, their consciences no doubt pricking
them, one after another crept softly from the room. For a little while
Cecil sobbed hopelessly; then a sudden resolution came to her, and she
started up. Miss Arbuthnot’s words had returned to her memory, and she
saw that if she could not be useful with the children at home, she
might at any rate help to provide the money necessary to give them the
education they so greatly needed. With ferocious haste she twisted her
soft auburn hair into a rough knot, secured it by sticking in the pins
in handfuls, and dashed away the tears from her brown eyes, now
blurred and piteous with crying. Without giving herself time to
repent, she sat down at the writing-table in the window, and began to
write. The chair and table shook with her sobs as she did so, but she
scrambled through her letter as fast as she could, sealed and stamped
it, and then, snatching up her hat, rushed across the road to the
pillar-box with the important missive, determined not to trust any of
the boys.

All this afternoon Cecil, to use Biblical language, “went softly in
the bitterness of her soul,” for the step she had just taken marked
the downfall of many hopes. Throughout her school career, which had
cost her father very little, owing to the number of prizes and
scholarships she had won, her aim had been to make use of her
knowledge in instructing her half-brothers and sisters. Recollections
of past failure in holiday-times had not deterred her from setting to
work again with enthusiasm, but after rather less than a month’s trial
she was compelled to admit that the result was unsatisfactory. She
knew that under ordinary circumstances she was an interesting teacher
and a good disciplinarian,--experience in teaching classes at the
South Central School had assured her of this,--and she had not
reckoned on the opposing influence which was to render all her efforts
nugatory. The children were the only subject on which Mrs Anstruther
and Cecil were gravely divided in opinion, but on this one point they
differed exceedingly. Mrs Anstruther insisted that Cecil was trying to
break the children’s spirits, and she made it her business to rescue
them from this untoward fate on every possible occasion. Derided by
her pupils and unsupported by their mother, her rules set aside, and
her punishments continually remitted, it is little wonder that Cecil
decided to give up the contest in despair. There seemed to be
something in her that aroused all the wickedness of which the children
were capable; and only this morning a final touch had been put to her
misery by a remark of her father’s, to the effect that he wished Cecil
would leave her brothers and sisters alone, for they were always far
worse with her than with any one else. That Mr Anstruther should say
this was the most unkindest cut of all, and Cecil felt that her last
support in the home was gone.

The next morning, just as breakfast was over at St Barnabas’ Vicarage,
great excitement was caused among the children by the sight of a
telegraph-boy coming up to the house. Six of them met him at the door,
and conveyed the missive in triumph to Cecil, to whom it was
addressed, offering meanwhile various suggestions as to the nature of
the contents. It was with some difficulty that she succeeded in
rescuing the envelope untorn, and in acquainting herself with the
message.


 “M. Arbuthnot to C. Anstruther.

 “Come to me at once for two or three days. Have heard of something for
 you.”


Cecil read the words in astonishment, with all the children dancing
and yelling round her like wild Indians. They were still in the hall,
and Cecil was too much engrossed by the telegram to try to calm them,
until the study door opened, and her father’s tired face looked out.

“Really, Cecil,” he began, “I think, when you know I am preparing my
sermon, you might----” But his voice was drowned by the children.

“Daddy, Cissie’s got a telegram. We wouldn’t go to school until she
would tell us what it was. She’s going to London, isn’t she?”

“What does all this mean, Cecil?” asked Mr Anstruther, wearily, and
his daughter put the telegram into his hand.

“Well,” he said, when he had read it, “you have asked Miss Arbuthnot
to find you a situation, I suppose? After all, perhaps it is the best
thing you can do.”

“And you must let me help with the boys then, papa,” said Cecil,
eagerly. “I think I am pretty sure to get a good salary, you know, and
I can take one of them, at any rate, off your hands.”

“Very well, my dear. It is impossible not to feel grateful for such a
proposal. Patrick, leave off teasing that cat, and go to school with
your brothers. If you can get your things ready for the 11.55 train,
Cecil, I will walk down to the station with you.”

Cecil dashed up-stairs, and spent the next hour in wild efforts to get
her box packed, which was a work of difficulty, with Eily, Norah, and
Geraldine standing around, advising, touching, criticising, meddling
in a way that nearly drove her mad. Happily Mrs Anstruther was to
return before lunch, and she therefore felt less compunction than she
would otherwise have done in leaving her flock to their own devices.
By dint of superhuman exertion she managed to be ready by the
appointed time, and kissed the children all round, admonished them not
to quarrel, rushed into the nursery to remind the nurse to put on
their clean pinafores before their mother’s return, and gave hasty
parting directions about lunch to the cook. Then there was a hurried
walk down to the station, in which she endeavoured vainly to keep up
with her father’s long strides, and a brief farewell on the platform.
Cecil shook hands with Mr Anstruther (he had an invincible objection
to being kissed in public, principally owing to the fact that his wife
and younger children were especially given to the practice), and he
put her into a ladies’ carriage just as the train was about to start.

Leaning back in her place, Cecil spent her time during the journey in
speculations as to the situation found for her. Was she to be
principal of some newly-founded High School, where the extent and
freshness of her acquirements would counterbalance the defects of her
youth and comparative inexperience? Or was she to be governess in a
private family, possibly on the Continent, possibly in some stately
English home, where she would be treated with frigid courtesy, and
shunned and criticised as a “learned lady”? She sighed as she revolved
these possibilities in her mind, and wished once more that she might
have remained at home. But regrets were vain, the train was nearing
Victoria, and on the platform stood Miss Arbuthnot, to whom Mr
Anstruther had telegraphed from Whitcliffe that Cecil was on her way.

“I am glad you have come at once, Cecil,” she said, as they left the
station in a cab, “for I can give you a rare treat for to-night. What
do you think of tickets for both of us for the Conversazione at
Burlington House, to meet all the great people?”

“How splendid!” cried Cecil, with sparkling eyes. “And the situation,
Miss Arbuthnot?”

“Oh--ah--the situation. Of course that is the chief thing, after all.
Well, you and I are to meet the lady and gentleman at Daridge’s Hotel
to-morrow, and lunch with them afterwards.”

“Oh, then it is a private family?” asked Cecil.

“Private? Oh, well--yes. Not a school at all.”

Miss Arbuthnot seemed not to wish to say anything more, but presently
she began to question Cecil as to her dress for the evening, betraying
a solicitude as to her appearance which surprised the girl.

“Of course, I ought to have told you to bring your best evening gown,”
she said, “but I never thought of it, and it would have been rather
awkward to mention it in a telegram. What have you? the black velvet
with your mother’s lace? It is rather old for you, but after all that
is no drawback. You see, Cecil,” smiling at her pupil’s puzzled face,
“we are all very proud of you. You have done the School great credit,
and I should not wonder if you were to find yourself a little bit of a
celebrity in a small way to-night. So you see why I want you to look
well, that you may uphold the honour of the South Central.”




 CHAPTER II.
 “THERE WAS A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT.”

Miss Arbuthnot’s well-meant solicitude had the effect of making
Cecil very nervous as the evening approached, and at last she actually
entreated to be allowed to stay behind at the School and spend a quiet
hour or two with the governesses, instead of going to Burlington
House. But Miss Arbuthnot would not hear of this, and insisted on
supervising her dressing personally, almost hustling her into the
carriage at last.

“Nonsense, my dear, nonsense!” she said, vigorously, when they were
fairly started. “You really must get rid of this foolish timidity, or
you will be fit for nothing. I should have been seriously displeased
if you had not come. Not only would it have been very rude, for it is
a great favour to get a ticket, but there are several people I want
you to see, a very old friend of mine for one. You have heard me speak
of Elma Wargrave?”

“One of the pioneers?” asked Cecil.

In Miss Arbuthnot’s circle the early workers in the cause of female
education were always designated by this respectful term.

“Yes, I see you know whom I mean. She and I were great friends when we
were girls, and we had almost decided to start school-keeping
together. She was most enthusiastic about it, and used to talk of the
joy of devoting her whole life absolutely to the great work. But,
unfortunately, she went to stay with some relations, and while with
them she fell in with a young Scotch soldier, Sir Dugald Haigh. He was
ridiculously poor, for his father had spent everything he could lay
his hands on, and mortgaged the estates, so that Sir Dugald had
scarcely more than his Artillery pay upon which to support an empty
title and two people. But Elma married him and went out to India at
once, and she has travelled about with him ever since in all sorts of
outlandish places and horrible climates. I believe they have been very
happy, and Sir Dugald is high in the Service, and has lately been made
Consul-General and political agent at Baghdad, so I suppose they are
not pinched any longer now. I don’t grudge them their happiness, my
dear,” added Miss Arbuthnot, slowly, “but I have never been able to
help regretting that Elma should have given up such a work for the
sake of that very ordinary little man.”

“I am quite anxious to see them,” said Cecil. “Is Sir Dugald in
England as well as Lady Haigh?”

“No, she is here alone. Some trouble broke out in the country just as
they were starting, and Sir Dugald would not take his furlough. But
here we are. Now, my dear child, forget yourself, and think of the
people you will see.”

In spite of this excellent advice, Cecil still felt very nervous when
they had laid aside their wraps and she was following Miss Arbuthnot’s
sweeping satin train up the steps and into the crowded and brightly
lighted rooms of the Academy. She did not know that she made a very
pretty picture herself, with her fresh colouring and coils of bright
hair set off by the black velvet dress, with its deep cuffs and
standing collar of old lace, but Miss Arbuthnot perceived this and
rejoiced to know it, not caring at all that her own plain, sensible
face, adorned with the inevitable _pince-nez_, formed an excellent
foil for Cecil’s girlish charms.

At first Cecil wanted to stand aside in some quiet corner, and watch
the throng of noted people moving about, and learn all their names,
but Miss Arbuthnot was a celebrity herself, and was, moreover, a woman
of many acquaintances, who had all some kind or complimentary word for
her young companion, when they recognised her or heard who she was.
Still, it seemed to Cecil that her friend was watching anxiously for
some one who had not yet appeared, and that she was manifestly
relieved when a stout elderly lady, chiefly remarkable for the
possession of a very prominent set of teeth, made her way through the
crowd and joined them, greeting Miss Arbuthnot with effusion, and
turning an expansive smile on Cecil.

“And this must be our young friend the lady graduate,” she said,
looking at her kindly. “You must introduce us, Marian. I should like a
talk with Miss Anstruther.”

“Cecil,” said Miss Arbuthnot, rather nervously, “I want to introduce
you to Lady Haigh. We were speaking about her just now.”

Cecil was nothing loth to make acquaintance with the lady who had
given up so much for the sake of her young Scotch soldier, and whose
defection Miss Arbuthnot still mourned so bitterly, and she acquiesced
at once when Lady Haigh suggested that they should retire to a quiet
palm-shaded seat among the statuary, and have a chat, while Miss
Arbuthnot was taken possession of by a distinguished cleric who had
also been one of the pioneers of the education movement. Lady Haigh
proved to be as kind as she looked, and showed herself very much
interested in Cecil’s career. She asked as many questions as though
she wanted to write her biography, and asked them, too, as if she were
really interested in the answers, and not asking merely for
politeness’ sake. Then she inquired all about the girl’s home
circumstances, and learned all that Cecil would tell her about Mr and
Mrs Anstruther and the rest of the family at St Barnabas’ Vicarage,
and then she changed the subject of the conversation abruptly, and
began to talk about her own doings in Baghdad. It seemed to be a
fairly pleasant life on the whole, and Lady Haigh showed herself by no
means desirous of underrating its attractions.

“You see, my dear, although it is dreadfully decayed since the days of
the Khalifs and the ‘Arabian Nights,’ yet it is a very interesting
place still. The society is really not bad, for there are nearly
always travellers or officers of some sort passing through, and they
all come to the Residency. Then the assistant political agent comes up
sometimes from Basra, and of course there are clerks and secretaries,
but they are mostly Armenians or East Indians. There is generally a
gunboat in the river, too, and when it is lying off the Residency we
are really quite gay. Then there are the officials at the other
consulates, but socially speaking, and between you and me, they are
rather a dull set. But there are a few of the Jews and Armenians in
the place who are travelled and cultivated people, and quite friends
of ours. Then, of course, it is very interesting when you get to know
some of the Turkish ladies, and it is curious to study the mixture of
nationalities in such a place as Baghdad. I often say that it reminds
me of nothing so much as of Nuremberg or one of those German cities of
the Middle Ages, at the time of their annual fairs.”

“I should love to see it,” said Cecil, drawing a long breath, “but I
shall never be able to afford an Eastern trip until I am quite old.
When the boys are all off my hands, I mean to save up, so that I can
travel about wherever I like when I am an ancient spinster. It would
scarcely do for me to go out now and set up a girls’ High School under
the shadow of the Residency, would it?”

“Scarcely,” laughed Lady Haigh; “and I am afraid, too, you would
hardly get pupils enough to make it pay, except possibly among the
Greeks and Armenians. The Turkish ladies are kept very closely
secluded, and although the Pasha is very anxious to do what he can to
introduce European customs, yet he is not even backed up by his own
harem.”

“It must feel like being in the ‘Arabian Nights’ to live in Baghdad,”
said Cecil.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out something about it from one of the
natives?” asked Lady Haigh, indicating a tall, olive-complexioned
gentleman a short distance off, clad in irreproachable evening-dress
and a fez cap. “That is Denarien Bey, an Armenian gentleman whose
family has lived in Baghdad for many generations. He is in England at
present on some business for the Pasha, and would be delighted to tell
you anything you wanted to know.”

She beckoned with her fan, and Denarien Bey came forward with much
alacrity. He bowed very politely when he was introduced, but Cecil
fancied that she saw a start of dismay when he caught her name. She
assured herself afterwards, however, that it must have been only
fancy, for he was most attentive, answered all her questions about
Baghdad, and escorted her to the buffet and catered for her as
punctiliously as any Englishman. At last he took her back to Miss
Arbuthnot, and the strange, delightful evening was over. Cecil passed
the sleeping hours of that night in a wild whirl, in which visions of
Baghdad in the golden prime of good Haroun-al-Raschid were peopled
with the gorgeous throngs she had seen at Burlington House, and the
President’s bow and hand-shake had some occult connection with the
black eyes and hooked nose of Denarien Bey, and with the diamonds and
Indian embroidery of the “Mother of Teeth,” as her Armenian friend had
informed her that Lady Haigh was called in Baghdad. Towards morning
she had a less extravagant dream, relating to the foundation of the
High School she had laughingly proposed, and including the appearance
of his Excellency Ahmed Khémi, Pasha-Governor of Baghdad, in full
uniform and blazing with orders, to give away the prizes at the end of
the first term. From this delightful vision Cecil was roused by a
visit from Miss Arbuthnot, who came to her room to see whether she had
overslept herself, and again displayed considerable interest in
ascertaining what dress she intended to wear.

Breakfast over, and Miss Arbuthnot’s modest victoria at the door to
convey Cecil to meet her fate, the principal grew nervous again. Cecil
was far more collected than she was, and got together her testimonials
and certificates with a calmness which was extremely creditable. At
last they were ready to start, and, after what seemed a miraculously
short drive, arrived at Daridge’s Hotel. Cecil’s courage was beginning
to fail her now, and she felt her limbs trembling as she followed Miss
Arbuthnot into the hall, and thence up the wide staircase, preceded by
a peculiarly gorgeous domestic in livery. Presently this individual
opened a door on one side of a lofty corridor, and ushered them into
a room filled with gentlemen. Cecil caught Miss Arbuthnot’s arm.

“This can’t be the right room. He’s taking us into a committee meeting
by mistake,” she whispered.

“No, my dear, it is all right,” said Miss Arbuthnot, and marched on
undauntedly, Cecil following, and experiencing something of the
feeling which must have actuated Childe Roland when he came to the
Dark Tower.

The gentlemen rose as they entered, and one of them, in whom Cecil
recognised her last night’s acquaintance, Denarien Bey, came to shake
hands; while, to complete her mystification, she caught sight of Lady
Haigh smiling and nodding at her from the other side of a long table.
Denarien Bey placed chairs for the new arrivals--a proceeding which
reminded Cecil forcibly of the words sometimes met with in the reports
of trials, “the prisoner at the bar was accommodated with a
seat,”--and then returned to his place, so that Cecil had time to look
about her.

There were some eight or nine gentlemen present, the chief of whom
seemed to be a grey-haired man at the end of the table. His face was
in some way familiar to Cecil, but it was not at first that she
remembered that she had seen him in close attendance on the Turkish
Ambassador on his way to some State function. Next to him, on either
side, sat Lady Haigh and Denarien Bey, and then came several
vivacious, dark-eyed gentlemen in fezzes, who talked among themselves
with a great deal of gesticulation, and seemed to bear a kind of
national likeness to the Armenian envoy. Somewhat apart from the rest
sat a stout elderly Englishman, with a stolid and unconvinced
expression, and a general air of being present to keep other people
from being imposed upon. There was also a secretary--a slim,
dark-skinned youth in spectacles, who scribbled notes in a large
clasped book, when he was not nibbling his pen and staring at Cecil;
and lastly, at the very end of the table, Cecil and Miss Arbuthnot
themselves. Cecil was in a hopeless state of amazement and
mystification, feeling, moreover, a terrible inclination to giggle on
finding herself the cynosure of all the eyes in the room. What could
it all mean? Was it possible that Ahmed Khémi Pasha, who was said to
be fond of European innovations, was going to found a High School in
Baghdad? and was she to take charge of it? But no; Miss Arbuthnot had
said that the situation was to be in a private family. What could be
going to happen?

There was a little low-toned conversation between the two gentlemen at
the head of the table, and then Denarien Bey spoke.

“We have heard, mademoiselle, that you are willing to accept a
situation as governess out of England--a course seldom adopted by
young ladies of your high attainments. This suggested to her
ladyship,” he bowed to Lady Haigh, “and myself the idea that you might
be found the proper person to undertake a charge of a very delicate
and important nature. Before saying more, I must impress upon you that
all that passes here is in strict confidence, whether the result of
this interview is satisfactory or the reverse.”

Cecil bowed, and he went on--

“I think I shall scarcely be committing an indiscretion if I mention
in the present company that his Excellency Ahmed Khémi Pasha, whom I
have the honour to represent here, intends to make his third son, Azim
Shams-ed-Din Bey, his heir. A cause may be found for this in the
unsatisfactory character of his Excellency’s eldest son; and there are
also other family reasons which render it imperative. His Excellency
has always felt a profound admiration for the English people, and this
has of late so much increased that he is anxious to secure an English
governess for the Bey, who is now about ten years old. As I was about
to visit England, his Excellency thought fit to confide to me the duty
of finding a lady with suitable qualifications who would be willing to
accept the post, and I, feeling the charge too heavy for me, even with
the kind and experienced help of her ladyship, have taken the
precaution of associating with myself my good friend Tussûn Bey,”
here he bowed to the old gentleman at the head of the table, “and
these other kind friends.”

There was another interlude of bowing, and Denarien Bey continued--

“The special qualifications which his Excellency desired me to seek in
the lady who is to have the charge of his son are these: she must be
capable of carrying on and completing the Bey’s education in all but
strictly military subjects; she must be young and--and--well, not
disagreeable-looking, that the Bey may feel inclined to learn from
her; she must be discreet and not given to making mischief; and she
must have been trained in the best methods of teaching. May I trouble
you, mademoiselle, to bring your testimonials to this end of the
table?”

Somewhat surprised, Cecil rose and carried her bundle of papers to
him, while the other gentlemen all turned round on their chairs to
look at her, apparently to ascertain whether she fulfilled the second
condition satisfactorily.

“I think, gentlemen,” said Tussûn Bey in French, “that if
Mademoiselle Antaza”--he made a bold attempt at the unmanageable
name--“finds herself able to accept the situation, his Excellency will
be much gratified by her appearance. She is thoroughly English.”

“_Vraiment anglaise!_” ran down the table, as all the gentlemen gazed
critically at the tall slight figure in the severely simple tweed
dress and cloth jacket, with the small close hat and short veil
crowning the smooth hair. Cecil returned blushing to her place, while
Denarien Bey explained to his assessors the purport of the various
testimonials; and the secretary, finding Miss Arbuthnot’s eye upon
him, made copious notes. After a time the papers were all returned to
Denarien Bey, the gentlemen making remarks upon them in two or three
strange-sounding dialects; and after receiving a paper from the
secretary, the Pasha’s representative proceeded to explain the terms
which were offered.

The salary proposed was a large one, but the Pasha was anxious that
his son’s course of study should be uninterrupted, and it was
therefore his endeavour to secure for it an unbroken period of five
years by the following plan. Cecil was to sign an agreement, if her
services were engaged, to serve for two years, and on the expiration
of this term she could, if she was willing, at once sign another bond
to remain three years more, after which she was to be entitled to a
large extra bonus in consideration of her labours in conducting Azim
Bey’s education to a successful close. If Cecil broke the agreement,
she was to forfeit the salary for all but the time she had actually
served; but if it was broken by the Pasha for any cause excepting her
misconduct, the balance was to be paid to her. By the end of the five
years Azim Bey would be fifteen, and old enough to be emancipated from
female control, and Cecil might return to her own country after an
uninterrupted absence of five years.

Cecil’s heart sank as she listened. When she heard the amount of the
salary offered, she had eagerly calculated what she could do for the
boys with it, and the mention of the bonus raised high hopes in her
heart, until she realised the conditions under which alone it was to
be gained. Actually to expatriate herself for five whole years! Never
to see England, or her father, or cheerful little Mrs Anstruther, or
any of those dear dreadful children for five years! It was too
appalling. She was on the point of rising and refusing the situation
point-blank, but she found that Denarien Bey was speaking again.

“You will take until the day after to-morrow to consider this,
mademoiselle. I will peruse carefully your testimonials, if you will
be good enough to leave them with me; and if they prove satisfactory,
as I have no doubt will be the case, and you decide to accept the
terms offered by his Excellency, Lady Haigh’s return to Baghdad to
rejoin her husband will afford an excellent opportunity for your
journey thither. This proposal comes from her ladyship herself, and I
do not doubt that you will rejoice to avail yourself of it. I would
remind you that there is no obligation upon you, when you have served
for two years, to sign the further bond for three years more, although
his Excellency is anxious to secure this, and offers such a handsome
present with the view of obtaining it. I thank you for your presence
here to-day, mademoiselle, and will not trouble you any further.”

The whole assembly rose and bowed as Cecil and Miss Arbuthnot passed
out, Lady Haigh following them closely.

“Come to my sitting-room,” she said; “you are going to lunch with me,
you know. Denarien Bey will be coming in as soon as he has got rid of
his friends, and then we can pick his brains to some purpose.”




 CHAPTER III.
 A MOST ADVANTAGEOUS OFFER.

“Come in, come in,” said Lady Haigh, hospitably, leading the way
into her sitting-room. “Well, Cecil, my dear (for I really must call
you so), were you very much astonished at the sight of that formidable
array? Wasn’t it just like Denarien Bey to make such a tremendous
business of it? I suppose it’s his nature to like to have a great fuss
about everything.”

“But hadn’t the Pasha appointed the council of selection?” asked Miss
Arbuthnot.

“Not a bit of it,” laughed Lady Haigh. “Of course, for one thing,
Denarien Bey was in a terrible fright. If Cecil turned out
unsatisfactory, or if he bungled the business in any way, he might
lose his head. So he gets together as many people as he can with whom
to share the responsibility, so that he can put the blame on them if
anything goes wrong, while some of them are too strong for the Pasha
to touch, and the others are out of his reach. But it was simply a
desire to make a great business of the matter which made him drag poor
old Tussûn Bey here from the Embassy.”

“Yes; I could not quite see what he had to do with it,” said Miss
Arbuthnot.

“Why, my dear Marian,” cried Lady Haigh, “he is the Pasha’s agent in
the Embassy. Of course it is not called so. We say that he is
‘connected with the Pasha by old ties of friendship,’ but that only
means that he is in his pay. He is originally and officially an
ordinary secretary of Embassy; but his private and particular business
is to watch over the Pasha’s interests, and warn him of any danger
from his enemies here, either in the Embassy or in our own
Government.”

“And all the other gentlemen, who were they?” asked Cecil.

“The Easterns were various Levantines and Armenians settled in London,
also devoted to the Pasha’s interests. Some of them are in his pay,
and some of them pay him. Of course what he gives them is called
remuneration for services performed, and what they give him is called
a present, or a tribute of respect, or something of that sort.”

“My dear Elma!” said Miss Arbuthnot, “I had no idea of the network of
corruption into which you were leading us.”

“Corruption?” said Lady Haigh. “You might call it corruption in
England, but for Ahmed Khémi Pasha it is really only self-defence. He
knows that he is surrounded by spies and people who are longing to see
him make a false step, and then report it at Constantinople, poor man!
Of course I don’t defend his methods; I only say that from his point
of view he has some excuse for them. His position is frightfully
insecure. And that reminds me, you noticed the Englishman who watched
over our conference just now?”

“Yes,” said Miss Arbuthnot and Cecil together.

“That was Mr Skrine, the Pasha’s banker, with whom Denarien Bey is
staying. It is said that Ahmed Khémi invested £50,000 with him only
last year, as a precaution, of course, in case he should be obliged to
take flight.”

“But what is he afraid of?” asked Cecil; “has he done anything?”

“He has not committed any crime, if that is what you mean--not what is
considered a crime in the East, at any rate. But he has committed the
offence of existing, and of being the Pasha-Governor of Baghdad, and
that alone makes him innumerable enemies. His reforms and his
innovations have made him a good many more, and so the poor man has
need of all the friends he can get to counteract their influence.”

“But can he trust Denarien Bey? Isn’t he an enemy?” asked Cecil.

“Denarien Bey stands or falls with Ahmed Khémi Pasha, as things are
at present. He is too deeply committed to his cause to be able to
dissociate himself from it.”

“But he is an Armenian,” objected Cecil, “and I thought the Armenians
hated the Turks?”

“Theoretically, all Armenians hate and despise all Turks, and the
Turks return the compliment with interest,” said Lady Haigh, “but
practically they often find each other very useful. I daresay that
Denarien Bey in his foolish moments, and when he is quite sure there
are no spies about, talks of independence, and glorifies Holy Russia
as the protector of the enslaved. But in everyday life he remembers
that he is not a patriot hiding in the hills, with a long gun and a
few rags for all his possessions, but a prosperous citizen, with a
wife and family to support, and a reputation to keep up. I don’t know
what might happen if a revolution really came, and seemed very likely
to be successful. I fancy that Denarien Bey would find political
salvation then; but for anything short of that, I think he will stick
to the Pasha.”

“Lady Haigh, don’t you believe in any one?” Cecil’s tone was one of
absolute dismay, and Lady Haigh laughed pleasantly.

“Not in many Armenians, dear, at any rate--or many Easterns, for that
matter. I will give you a warning, Cecil. If you wish to keep your
faith in human nature, don’t marry a consul-general in the East. When
you have knocked about as much as I have, you will know what I mean.
Of course there are exceptions. Ah! here is Denarien Bey at last. Now
we can have lunch, and a really interesting talk.”

Cecil was still suffering under the shock caused by Lady Haigh’s want
of faith in oriental human nature, and she was very silent at first.
But the other two ladies kept up a brisk conversation with Denarien
Bey, and presently she became interested against her will.

“Of what nation is the Pasha?” she asked at last, when the rest had
been discussing the various reforms which his Excellency had lately
introduced.

“It is very difficult to say,” replied Denarien Bey, meditatively. “I
should think it probable that he has mingled Turkish, Circassian, and
Egyptian blood in his veins. Nothing is known of his antecedents, but
in Turkey we care little about that. When he first rose to distinction
it was alleged that he himself did not know who his parents were, but
he disproved the calumny by producing his mother, and installing her
as the head of his harem.”

“And a most disagreeable woman she is too,” said Lady Haigh, with deep
feeling. “I really don’t know a more intolerable person. It is a
perfect penance to have to go and pay my respects to her, which is one
of my official duties.”

“But why is not the Pasha’s wife the head of his harem?” asked Cecil.

“Which?” asked Denarien Bey, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Oh, has he more than one? I thought he was an enlightened kind of
man,” said Cecil.

“He had already two wives when he came to Baghdad,” said Denarien Bey.
“You can suppose that his mother chose them for him, if you like,
mademoiselle. But his third and favourite wife, the mother of Azim
Bey, was an Arab, the daughter of the sheikh of the great Hajar tribe.
So you see it is as well that there was some one to keep order in the
harem, or the wills of these three ladies might have clashed.”

“But how can the Pasha choose Azim Bey to succeed him if he has two
sons older than he is, as you said when we were in the other room?”
asked Cecil.

“Not to succeed him, mademoiselle. Surely nothing that I said could
have suggested to you such an idea? In Turkey we do not believe in
hereditary honours, except in the case of the sovereign, and even then
it is the eldest prince in the royal family who succeeds, not
necessarily the eldest son of the late king, by any means. But with
respect to a pashalik like that of Baghdad, any son of the present
Pasha is the very last person on whom the Padishah would think of
conferring it at his death. In one or two generations a clever family
might gain the allegiance of the whole province, and succeed in
detaching it from the empire. It would be the height of folly to
permit such a thing. No, our young friend Azim Bey will be only a
private person, or if he wishes for public office, he will have to
make his way, like the sons of your own viceroys and
governor-generals. Of course there will be many advantages on his
side. He would have experience, friends, and plenty of money, which,
after all, is the great thing with us.”

“Then how is he the Pasha’s heir?” asked Cecil.

“He will succeed to the bulk of his property,” answered Denarien Bey,
“and that is by no means contemptible.”

“But what about the two elder sons?” asked Cecil.

“That is a long story,” said Denarien Bey. “The Pasha’s eldest son,
Hussein Bey, was brought up by his mother and grandmother in
retirement while his Excellency was struggling to his present
position, and he grew up a very strict and bigoted Mussulman. Ahmed
Khémi is, as you, mademoiselle, have heard, a man of liberal and
enlightened opinions, and as soon as he sent for his household to
Baghdad, trouble began. Whatever the Pasha did was bitterly opposed by
his son, who was supported by the influence of the palace harem. At
length things became so bad that Hussein Bey was banished, but he is
still concerned in every plot which is set on foot by the more
fanatical among the Moslems to get rid of the Pasha, and he hates,
perhaps not unnaturally, his half-brother, Azim Bey. I believe that
his mother and grandmother have some wild idea that he may be able, if
properly supported, to depose his father and succeed him. Such a case
has occurred once during the present century, but it is not in the
least likely to be repeated, and they are not the right people to
bring it about, in any case.”

“And the second son?” asked Cecil.

“Ah, the difficulty about Mahmoud Bey was of a different kind. His
Excellency was much at Constantinople before he became Pasha, and
while there he associated a good deal with certain members of the
European colony at Pera, who were not, perhaps, altogether the best
company he could have found. Among these was a Frenchman named Cadran,
who acted as tutor to the young Mahmoud Bey, and made himself very
useful to his father. When his Excellency came to Baghdad, M. Cadran
accompanied him, and was even allowed to give French lessons to Naimeh
Khanum, the Pasha’s eldest daughter, who was then very young. Suddenly
it was discovered that he was trying to induce the young lady to elope
with him, and was doing his best to gain her attendants over by
bribery. Of course the fellow was sent off at once, and unfortunately,
he was sent off so quickly that he was able to present a claim for
damages. The French Government took up the matter, and the Pasha was
forced to pay very heavily. Some time before, it had been arranged
that Mahmoud Bey was to finish his education in France, and he was
sent to the École Polytechnique. That was all very well, but when he
had finished his course of study, he refused to come back. He was
enjoying himself in Paris, with Cadran at his elbow, and his
Excellency was in communication with the French Government on the
subject, when the Bey died suddenly and all was ended.”

“And so Azim Bey is the only one left?” said Cecil.

“Just so, mademoiselle. Emineh[01] Khanum, his mother, was, as I have
said, the Pasha’s favourite wife, and on her deathbed she induced him
to promise to make her son his heir. That was just after Mahmoud Bey’s
first refusal to come home, and his Excellency was so angry that he
consented at once. But it was a foolish wish of the poor mother’s to
see her son the heir, for his brothers became incensed against him
immediately, and he is a mark for the hatred of the whole harem. Now
that his mother is dead, there is no one to protect him, and the
Um-ul-Pasha (mother of the Pasha) and the other two wives hate him for
the sake of the two elder sons. His Excellency has been obliged always
to take him with him wherever he went, and to keep him in the
_selamlik_ (the men’s part of the house), instead of the harem when at
home, to save his life; but he finds that the Bey, from being so much
with men, is growing precocious and conceited, and he desires
therefore to obtain a governess for him.”

“But what made him wish for an Englishwoman?”

Denarien Bey smiled grimly.

“It is not easy, mademoiselle, to find ladies of other nationalities
who combine the necessary qualifications. A Frenchwoman might have
been obtained, but after what I have told you, you will not be
surprised to hear that his Excellency would not allow a French person
to enter the palace, much less to have the charge of his son. For the
English, on the contrary, he has the highest admiration, and would
have liked to send the Bey to be educated at one of your great public
schools. The desire, however, of keeping him under his own eye, and
the fear of a repetition of his experience with Mahmoud Bey, induces
him to prefer this method, if it can be found practicable.”

Shortly after this Denarien Bey took his departure, after again
expressing his earnest hope that Cecil would see her way clear to
accepting the post offered her. When he was gone, Lady Haigh rose.

“Come, Marian,” she said to Miss Arbuthnot, “you and I are going to do
our shopping. You promised me the whole day, you know. Cecil is going
to sit down and write a glowing description of the situation the Pasha
offers her to her father, and say how much she longs to take it.”

“But I don’t in the least think that papa will let me go, Lady Haigh,”
said Cecil, waiving the remark about her personal wishes.

“If he won’t, he is a much more foolish man than I think him,” replied
Lady Haigh, in her most uncompromising manner; “and I shall consider
it my duty to write him an urgent letter of remonstrance.”

“When you go back, Lady Haigh,” asked Cecil, suddenly, “shall you go
to Beyrout and Damascus and then across the desert to Baghdad?”

“When _we_ go back, my dear Cecil,” corrected Lady Haigh,
impressively, “we shall go by the P. & O. to Karachi, then by another
steamer to Basra, and then by another to Baghdad. I am not an
adventurous young lady disposed to be sentimental over Bedouin
wanderers, and I have no wish to go through unnecessary hardships, nor
yet to be captured by insurgent Arabs and held to ransom, and so I
fear that you will have to be content to accompany the steady-going
old woman by this humdrum route.”

“But I am quite sure that papa will never let me go,” repeated Cecil,
confidently, with a sigh that was not all of sadness.

For æsthetic reasons she would be sorry not to see Baghdad, but
everything else seemed to combine to make her dread going there. She
was so strongly convinced that her father would share her feelings,
that she gave herself a great deal of trouble in trying to compose a
letter to him which should be scrupulously fair, and place all the
advantages of the situation in their proper light. The letter once
written and sent off, she felt quite at ease in her mind, and was even
disposed to mourn gently over the chance she was losing. It was Miss
Arbuthnot, and not Cecil, who betrayed excitement when Mr Anstruther’s
answer arrived, and waited with bated breath whilst it was opened.

“I am sure he won’t let me go, Miss Arbuthnot,” Cecil had said,
smiling, as she took up the envelope; but on glancing through the
letter she uttered a cry, and looked up with a piteous face of dismay.

“Oh! Miss Arbuthnot, he wants me to go--at least, he says that it
seems a most excellent offer, and he is coming up to town early
to-morrow morning to see about it and to talk to you.”

“Well, my dear, it only confirms the high opinion I have always held
of your father’s judgment. I expected he would say just this.”

“It only shows how dreadfully I must have failed at home if papa is so
anxious to send me away,” said Cecil, on the verge of tears.

“My dear child, if you will only look at things in a sensible light
instead of determining to make yourself out a martyr, you will
remember that Mr Anstruther is probably thinking only how much you
could help with the boys’ education.”

But Cecil refused to be consoled, and her only comfort lay in the hope
that Mr Anstruther would find the post unsatisfactory when he came to
look into its conditions a little more. But she was out when he
arrived, and he was ushered immediately into the presence of Miss
Arbuthnot and Lady Haigh, who both assured him that Cecil was an
extremely fortunate girl to have such a chance.

“You see,” said Miss Arbuthnot, “Cecil has done so very well that an
ordinary situation as governess or High School mistress is not to be
thought of for her. But here is an almost unique post waiting for her
acceptance in which she may do work which might well be called making
history. It is true that she must bind herself for five years or so,
but this is less of a drawback in her case than in others. I do not
myself think that she is likely to marry--at any rate, not early--for
she is a little fastidious in her tastes,--not that this is to be
regretted, but rather admired.”

Mr Anstruther almost blushed when he heard his daughter’s future thus
candidly discussed. It had not occurred to him to regard marriage in
the light in which it appeared to Miss Arbuthnot--as a kind of
devouring gulf which swallowed up the finest products of the female
education movement--and it seemed to him indelicate to estimate
probabilities so openly. But both ladies were so evidently unconscious
of Miss Arbuthnot’s having said anything improper that he quickly
recovered his composure and listened undisturbed to Lady Haigh’s
_exposé_ of the advantages of the scheme. The consequence was that
when Cecil came in her father’s last doubts had been removed, and he
was ready to bid her God-speed in her enterprise.

“Oh! Miss Arbuthnot, must I go?” she asked despairingly, when Mr
Anstruther had hurried off to catch his train for Whitcliffe, and
Cecil and the principal were at tea in the latter’s sanctum.

“That is for you to decide,” answered Miss Arbuthnot.

“That is just what papa said,” wailed Cecil; “but I don’t want to
decide.”

“That means that you don’t want to go to Baghdad?” said Miss
Arbuthnot.

“I want to go if it is right,” said Cecil; “but how am I to know
whether it is right? Don’t you think it seems like going into
temptation?”

“Temptation of what kind?” asked Miss Arbuthnot. “Temptation to become
a Mohammedan, do you mean? No, my dear Cecil, I cannot honestly say
that I think the side of Islam you will see at Baghdad is likely to
attract you to it.”

“Now you are laughing at me,” said Cecil, reproachfully.

“Dear child, I want to help you. If you feel that there is a work to
be done in Baghdad, and that you are called to do it, go; if not, stay
at home.”

“But I am not to have anything to do with Azim Bey’s religious
education. Denarien Bey said that the Pasha would look after that.”

“You can show him a Christian life, and you can exercise a Christian
influence,” said Miss Arbuthnot. “You have the honour of England and
of Christianity in your hands, Cecil, and it will be your work to
remove prejudice and to set an example of honesty and
incorruptibility.”

“But how am I to know that it is my work?” asked Cecil again.

“Cecil!” said Miss Arbuthnot, more in sorrow than in anger, “do I hear
one of my girls talking like this? This work is offered to you, and
you doubt whether it is meant for you. Your father, considering you a
reasonable being, leaves the decision to you, and you will not
decide.”

“But I had so much rather he had told me outright either to go or to
stay,” pleaded Cecil. “I can’t bear deciding for myself.”

“Timidity again, Cecil. So far as I can make you out, you are
convinced that you ought to go, but you want to stay.”

“I do really want to do what is right, Miss Arbuthnot, but it feels so
dreadful to be going so far away from every one.”


  “‘I only know I cannot drift
   Beyond His love and care,’”


quoted Miss Arbuthnot, reverently.

“Oh! Miss Arbuthnot, you all want to drive me to Baghdad,” cried
Cecil, with tears in her eyes.

“Is not that very thing the leading you are looking for?” asked Miss
Arbuthnot.

“I think it must be,” said Cecil, slowly. “Say no more, Miss
Arbuthnot--I will go.”




 CHAPTER IV.
 THE SHINING EAST.

A very busy time followed upon Cecil’s decision. Her agreement with
the Pasha had to be signed at once, before Denarien Bey left London,
though it was not to come into force until she reached Baghdad. It was
an imposing document, written in French, Arabic, and Turkish, with an
English translation thoughtfully appended, and Denarien Bey signed it
on the Pasha’s behalf, Lady Haigh adding her signature as a witness.
Two lawyers and several interpreters assisted in drawing up the deed,
and the extraordinary stipulations considered necessary by one party
and the other became a subject of mirth for both. When this legal
business was ended, Cecil went down to Whitcliffe for her farewells,
and found that her prospective departure had cast such a glamour over
her in the eyes of the younger children, that they regarded her with a
mixture of awe and envy delightful to behold. She was early informed
that she was expected to see and describe in full both Noah’s Ark and
the Tower of Babel; while the mere mention of Nineveh, Babylon, and
the Euphrates filled the youthful minds with an expectant wonder,
which would have been surprised by no result of her prospective
travels, however astounding.

Mrs Anstruther was chiefly concerned as to the fate of a box of plain
and fancy needlework, the fruit of the labours of the St Barnabas’
working-party during the past winter, which was destined for Mrs
Yehudi, the wife of a Jewish missionary labouring at Baghdad among his
own people,[02] and which Cecil was requested to deliver in person.
It was so delightful to think that Cecil would be able to write her a
special account of Dr and Mrs Yehudi’s work, to be read aloud at the
working-party, said Mrs Anstruther, who believed fervently in her
step-daughter, and thought that she was the most wonderful young woman
in the world. Perhaps it was this very faith which made her, in
Cecil’s present state of mind, appear unsympathetic, for her
imagination was vivid, and ran riot among the gorgeous possibilities
of the situation, having been nourished principally on a careful study
of the ‘Arabian Nights,’ which Mrs Anstruther regarded as a sort of
introductory guide-book to modern Baghdad.

Taken altogether, the last few weeks at Whitcliffe were so
heart-breaking that Cecil was almost relieved when the day arrived for
her departure. She had still ten days or so to spend in London in
getting her outfit, and her father was to come up to see her off, but
this must be the final farewell to Mrs Anstruther and the children.
Cecil could almost have gone down on her knees to beg to be allowed to
stay, if that would have done any good, so utterly desolate and lonely
did she feel in view of the prospect which lay before her; but the
remembrance of Miss Arbuthnot’s strictures came over her, and helped
her to depart without quite breaking down. But it was very hard, and
when once the train was fairly on its way she withdrew into her corner
and cried. What were all the splendours and potentialities of her
future position compared with the row of tear-stained faces she had
seen on the platform, as she leaned out to get the last sight of the
station? Through all her wanderings that picture would remain
imprinted on her mind, its comic elements unperceived, and all
appearing as saddest earnest. Other people, whose attention was
attracted by the family group, laughed to behold Mr Anstruther
forcibly restraining Patsy and Terry, whose paroxysms of grief
threatened to land them on the rails, while Fitz stood by, with his
hands deep in his pockets, trying hard to whistle, and thereby prove
his manhood. Eily, Norah, and Geraldine, wiping their eyes vigorously
with abnormally dirty pocket-handkerchiefs, did not detract from the
moving effect of the scene upon a disinterested bystander, nor did Mrs
Anstruther, who had little Loey in her arms, and wiped her eyes upon
his jacket. Indeed, a cynical passenger in Cecil’s own compartment, on
hearing the tempest of wails and sobs which heralded the departure of
the train, remarked that the members of that family were evidently
trying to compete against the railway-whistle, and that they stood an
excellent chance of success. He had only jumped in as the train moved
off, and did not guess Cecil’s relationship to the family in question,
but his wife nudged him fiercely and frowningly, and he said no more.

During her ten days in London Cecil had little time to give to grief.
It was an incessant rush from shop to stores, and from stores to shop,
a whirl of choosing things, and being fitted, and packing and
superintending. She had not only her own things to get, but an
assortment of the best and newest books and teaching appliances for
her future schoolroom at Baghdad. For this she had _carte blanche_
from the Pasha, and was further empowered to order a certain number of
books on educational subjects to be sent out to her every year. Cecil
had always (except at the moment of teaching her young brothers and
sisters) felt a pride and pleasure in her profession as teacher, and
she hailed with joy this proof of the high estimation in which his
Excellency also held her office. Miss Arbuthnot luxuriated as much as
she did in the newest educational inventions, but it was with an
unselfish, altruistic delight, for the governors of the South Central
High School had no mind for experiments, and preferred to wait until a
new idea was several years old before adopting it.

At last all was ready, and books and maps and school furniture were
safely packed and sent on board ship in company with Cecil’s own
modest outfit. It had been arranged that she was to adopt a
modification of the native costume when at Baghdad, so as to avoid as
far as possible shocking the susceptibilities of the Moslems in the
Palace, and her personal luggage was therefore comparatively small in
bulk; still, it represented a good deal of care and thought, and Cecil
and Miss Arbuthnot heaved sighs of relief when it was off their minds.
The next business was the farewell to the old School, where the girls
and governesses, most of whom knew Cecil well, and nearly all of whom
regarded her with admiring envy, entertained her at supper, and
presented her with an elaborate dressing-case, in returning thanks for
which she so nearly broke down that Miss Arbuthnot had to finish the
speech for her.

This was on the very last evening before her departure, and the next
day her father came up by the first train from Whitcliffe, and Lady
Haigh gave her up to him until three o’clock. If Cecil had been
inclined to think that she had caused more disappointment than joy to
her father, she was undeceived by those last few hours spent alone
with him, when he allowed a corner of the veil of reserve which
usually shrouded his inner feelings to lift, and let her see something
of what she really was to him. To poor Mr Anstruther, however, on
looking back on it, the interview did not seem to have been at all
satisfactory, for he had been thinking for days past of things he
ought to say to his daughter, and after it he was continually
remembering others which he ought to have said, none of which had
occurred to him at the time. As it was, he gave her many pieces of
advice as to her behaviour, her occupations, her influence over her
pupil, her Sundays, and so on, interspersed with periods of sorrowful
silence, which were far more eloquent than his abrupt and painful
counsels. Thus the time passed as they walked up and down the Thames
Embankment together, or sat down and pretended to admire the
flower-beds, and then they made their way slowly to the place where
they were to meet Lady Haigh. Miss Arbuthnot had heroically denied
herself the last sight of her pupil that she and her father might be
alone together as long as possible, and thus Cecil had no one but Mr
Anstruther to think of as she leant out of the carriage window for a
last look at his tall spare figure and lined face. It was the last
look for five years, and five such years!--too much to have faced if
she had known what they were to bring.

It seemed to Cecil afterwards that Lady Haigh must have talked on
quietly and continuously, without making a pause or expecting an
answer, from the time they left the hotel until they reached the
docks. It was kindly intended, no doubt, that Cecil might have time to
cry a little and recover herself, but as a means of conveying
information it was a failure. Lady Haigh told Cecil all about the
captain and officers of the steamer by which they were to travel, and
by which she herself had returned to England. She also remarked that
her own Syrian maid had gone on board already with the luggage and
would give Cecil any assistance she might need during the earlier part
of the voyage, since the attendant who had been specially engaged for
her would not join them until they reached Egypt. They were to break
their journey at Alexandria and pay a visit of a week or two to Cairo,
where a married sister of Lady Haigh’s was living, whose husband
occupied a prominent post in the _entourage_ of the then Khedive. Here
also they were to be joined by a cousin of Lady Haigh’s, who had just
been appointed surgeon of the hospital attached to the British
Residency at Baghdad, and who was to escort them during the rest of
their journey. By means of this one-sided conversation the chasm
caused by the actual parting was bridged, and Lady Haigh beguiled the
time of dropping down the Thames and settling their cabin with similar
pieces of information, while, when they were once fairly at sea, Cecil
was too ill to be able to think of any but strictly personal miseries.

For once the agents’ rose-coloured forecast of the voyage proved to be
correct. The steamer did not meet with bad weather, nor did her
engines break down, and she accomplished the distance in rather less
than the average time, but Lady Haigh refused to listen to Cecil’s
plea for a day or two in Alexandria, and insisted on hurrying on at
once to Cairo.

“My dear,” she said, “all this”--with a contemptuous wave of her hand
towards the fine houses on either side of the broad street through
which they were driving--“all this is modern, European, French,
tasteless! You want to enjoy your first sight of Eastern life, you
say? Very well, then thank me for taking you at once where you will
really see it, and not this wretched half-imitation.”

“But the sky! the palm-trees! the people! the colours, Lady Haigh!”
cried Cecil in an ecstasy.

“Nonsense, my dear--nothing to what you will see at Cairo!” and Cecil
was forced to be content.

A short railway journey brought them to Cairo, and they found Mr
Boleyn, Lady Haigh’s brother-in-law, waiting to meet them. They drove
to his house in a luxurious carriage, with running footmen and a
magnificent coachman, and Cecil left the talk to her two companions,
and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the new pictures which met her
eye on every side. It seemed to her that she would have liked that
drive to go on for ever, and she was genuinely sorry, tired though she
was, to reach the Boleyns’ house, although she ought to have felt more
sympathy for Lady Haigh, who had not seen her sister for over twenty
years. It seemed to Cecil, however, that both ladies would have
acquiesced cheerfully in an even longer separation, for they could not
forget the time when Lady Haigh had been a clever and irrepressible
younger sister, and Mrs Boleyn had felt it her duty systematically to
snub her. Life in the tropics had not suited the elder sister as well
as it had the younger, and Mrs Boleyn was tall and gaunt and withered,
with a tendency to exult over Lady Haigh, because she (Mrs Boleyn) had
always said that Elma would soon be tired of her studies and her talk
about Women’s Rights, and would marry like other people.

“But she didn’t say that at all, my dear,” Lady Haigh confided to
Cecil when they were going to their rooms. “What she always said was
that I should never get a husband because of my ridiculous notions.”

These ancient hostilities were renewed at dinner over the mention of
Dr Egerton, the gentleman who was to escort the travellers for the
rest of their way.

“Charlie has not arrived yet, I see,” Lady Haigh said pleasantly, as
they sat down to the table.

“No, and he is not likely to arrive, so far as I can tell,” said Mrs
Boleyn. “The temptations of Port Said have probably been too much for
him. What good you expect a feather-pated rattlebrain like that to do
at Baghdad, I don’t know! I don’t consider that you have done yourself
at all a good turn, Elma, in inducing Dugald to get him appointed
there.”

“Charlie is a good fellow, and I want him to have a chance at last,”
said Lady Haigh, stoutly. “He has been unfortunate in his superiors
hitherto.”

“I consider that his superiors have been extremely unfortunate in
him,” said Mrs Boleyn, with crushing calmness.

“Well, we shall see,” said Lady Haigh, peaceably. “I hope to do what I
can to smooth his path, and Dugald will make allowances which another
man would not, perhaps.”

“I call it a very foolish and ill-advised thing to bring him to
Baghdad,” persisted Mrs Boleyn; but as her sister did not accept the
challenge, the matter dropped.

Mr Boleyn ate his dinner industriously without taking any notice of
the little dispute, and Cecil felt that his plan was the wisest, after
she had received two or three snubs from his wife in the course of the
evening for injudiciously endeavouring to change the subject of the
conversation when it seemed to be verging upon dangerous ground. Mrs
Boleyn’s manner and appearance did not tend to recommend her opinions
to the casual observer, and Cecil espoused Lady Haigh’s side of the
case so warmly in her own mind that she really did not need the
further assurance which her friend gave her when they went to their
rooms that night, and she found herself summoned to Lady Haigh’s
balcony for a talk.

“I really can’t let you go to bed, Cecil, without putting you right
about poor Charlie Egerton. You mustn’t let Helena prejudice you
against him, for she has a way of finding something unpleasant to say
about every one. I think you know me well enough by this time, my dear
child, to be sure that I should not be likely to countenance anything
really unsatisfactory or wrong; but the fact is that, as I said,
Charlie has been unfortunate. He is very clever, and a most delightful
fellow, but he and his superiors always manage to rub one another the
wrong way. I daresay he is very eccentric, and likes to mix with the
natives more than Englishmen in the East generally do, but several
great men have done the same, and it is only a matter of taste, after
all, not a crime. He is very outspoken, too, and perhaps too much
disposed to be hail-fellow-well-met with every one he comes across. I
verily believe that if he met the Viceroy himself”--Lady Haigh spoke
with bated breath--“out for a walk, he would enter into conversation
quite coolly and offer him a cigar, just as if he was a man of his own
standing. If the Viceroy was a nice sensible sort of man and took it
all as it was meant, it would be all right, but if he was angry and
tried to snub him, Charlie would be very much hurt, perhaps indignant,
and would probably let him know it. You can imagine how a man of this
sort comes into collision with some of our stiff-and-starched
officials. They can’t understand a surgeon, with not so very many
years’ service, trying it on with them in that way, and they consider
it impudence; so they snub him, and that produces a coldness. Then
Charlie comes across some abuse, or some piece of official neglect
which he thinks it his duty to expose, and I should fear, my dear,
that, remembering the past, he doesn’t do it as tenderly as he might.
Then there are reports and complaints and censures, and finally Dr
Egerton is requested to resign. This has happened two or three times.”

“A good man, no doubt, but perhaps not a very wise one,” was Cecil’s
comment.

“That’s just it, my dear--as good as gold, but with no worldly wisdom
whatever. Well, I have got Sir Dugald to use his influence to get him
this post at Baghdad, and I only hope he may keep it. But now I see
Marta glaring at me like a reproachful ghost for keeping her up so
long, so I must send you away, Cecil. To-morrow night you also will
have begun to learn what a tyrant a confidential maid may become.”

Cecil laughed, and said she meant to enjoy her last evening of
freedom, which she did by writing a long letter to her father, and
describing to him all that she had seen since her landing at
Alexandria. Consequently, she overslept herself the next morning and
did not wake until Marta brought her in a cup of tea, and informed her
that her maid had come and was waiting to see her.

“I didn’t know that Eastern people got up so early in the morning
now,” said Cecil to herself as she dressed. “I thought they were
always about half a day late, but I suppose this is a unique
specimen.”

“Come, Cecil,” said Lady Haigh, tapping at her door, “don’t you want
to speak to your maid? She has been waiting quite a long time.” And
Cecil hurried through her toilet obediently, and, coming out of her
room, found a tall, severe-looking elderly Syrian woman talking to her
friend.

“Her name is Khartûm,” said Lady Haigh, turning to Cecil, “but she is
always called Um Yusuf--mother of Joseph, that is. It is the custom in
Syria, you know. She has been a widow a good many years, and her son
is a soldier in the Turkish army. Her last situation was at
Constantinople, where she was nurse to the children of Lord Calne, the
late Ambassador, so she knows a good deal about the ins and outs of
Court life, and will be able to give you all the needed hints as to
etiquette, and so on. Of course I shall always be glad to tell you
anything; but then you will not have me continually at hand, and
really good manners in Turkey are a very complicated business.”

In fact, Um Yusuf’s duties were those of a duenna quite as much as a
maid, and she was well fitted in appearance for the post. She wore the
long black silk mantle of the respectable Egyptian woman, which
enveloped her from head to foot, and Lady Haigh commended the costume
as exceedingly sensible and responsible-looking.

“You will have to accompany Miss Anstruther everywhere,” she said to
the maid; “and I am sure I can depend upon you to help her with your
experience whenever she feels puzzled.”

“She too young,” said Um Yusuf, bending her black brows on Cecil for
the first time. We spare the reader the good woman’s pronunciation,
while preserving her eccentric grammatical style. “Why she not stay
home and get married? Tahir Pasha’s daughter have governess, old lady
with spectacles, not like this. Azim Bey very bad boy. Laugh at
Mademoiselle Antaza.”

“That is cheering news for you, Cecil,” said Lady Haigh, laughing;
“but I don’t think you’ll be frightened. Miss Anstruther knows
something about naughty boys, Um Yusuf. She has four brothers at
home.”

“English bad boy not like Toork bad boy,” said the imperturbable Um
Yusuf; “Azim Bey wicked boy, read bad books, go do bad things. My
cousin in Baghdad tell me all about him.”

“A boy of ten who reads bad books!” cried Lady Haigh. “I didn’t know I
was bringing you to face such a monster of juvenile depravity, Cecil.
These Eastern children are very precocious, I know, but I never
thought of this particular form of wickedness. Well, my dear, I think
you will conquer him if any one can. But now it is breakfast-time, and
we are going to the bazaars afterwards with the dragoman, so we must
not be late. You can go to your sister Marta, Um Yusuf, and she will
show you the way about the house. She can tell you all you want to
know, too, so you need not trouble to try to read Miss Anstruther’s
letters.”




 CHAPTER V.
 A NEW EXPERIENCE.

“There!” said Lady Haigh, “what do you think of that, Cecil?”

They were sitting on the divan in a little cramped-up shop in one of
the bazaars, with tiny cups of black coffee before them, and all
manner of lovely fabrics--silks and muslins and brocades and
gauzes--strewn around. The proprietor of the establishment, an elderly
Moslem with a long beard, was exhibiting listlessly a rich, soft silk,
as though it was not of the slightest consequence to him whether they
bought anything or not. Leaning against the door-post was the
gorgeously attired dragoman whom Mr Boleyn had ordered to attend the
ladies in their shopping, and who made himself actively objectionable
by insisting on explaining everything that met their eyes, regardless
of the fact that Lady Haigh was an old Eastern traveller, and that
Cecil had read so much about Egypt that, but for her ignorance of the
language, she could have acted as cicerone in a Cairo street as well
as he could.

At the sound of Lady Haigh’s voice, Cecil, whose seat was nearest the
street, turned with a start, for her eyes had wandered down the long
dim arcade and among the many-coloured figures thronging it.

“I think it will do very well,” she said, and withdrawing her eyes
resolutely from the street, devoted herself to listening to the
energetic bargaining carried on between her friend and the shopman
with the dragoman’s assistance. It was very oriental, of course, but
it spoiled the poetry of the scene, and she was glad when Lady Haigh
at last rose and left the shop, after paying for the silk and
directing it to be sent to the house.

“Caffé-house, ladies,” said the dragoman, when they had gone on a
little farther; and Cecil looked with much interest and curiosity at
the building he pointed out. It was a large, low room, with one side
open to the street, crowded with men sitting on the divans and
smoking, or drinking coffee out of cups which stood beside them on
little low tables. The group was a motley one, and Cecil, as soon as
her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, began to try and make out
by their costume the nationality of the different items that composed
it. Following the sound of a loud distinct voice speaking in some
unknown tongue, her gaze reached the speaker, and she saw to her
amazement that he was a European, or at any rate a sunburnt,
dark-haired young man in ordinary English dress. Lady Haigh’s eyes
followed hers, and seemed to make the same discovery at the same
moment, for their owner recoiled suddenly, and, seizing Cecil’s arm,
led her away.

“Storree-teller tell tale, ladies,” remarked the dragoman, but Lady
Haigh appeared to be stifling irresistible laughter, and Cecil
wondered whether the story-teller were an oriental Mark Twain.

“I know that boy will be the death of me!” cried Lady Haigh, finding
her voice at last. “My dear, it’s Charlie!”

“Charlie? Dr Egerton, your cousin?” gasped Cecil.

“The same, my dear. This is one of his freaks. You know I told you how
fond he is of mixing with the natives wherever he goes. Now I daresay
he has been a week in Cairo without ever letting Helena and her
husband know he was here, staying in some wretched little native inn,
and prowling about the bazaars all day.”

Cecil’s private thought was that Dr Egerton’s tastes in the matter of
hotel accommodation must be peculiar, though she herself acknowledged
the fascination of the bazaars; but she had not time to make any
remark on the subject, for they heard some one running after them, and
turning, beheld the coffee-house hero himself.

“Cousin Elma!” he cried, shaking hands with her, “I am so dreadfully
ashamed not to have known you. I had a dim idea that there were some
English ladies there, looking into the room, but I didn’t in the least
know who it was until a Baghdadi, who happened to be among the
audience, said--I mean, told me you were there.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings, my dear boy. I know he
said, ‘O my Effendi, behold the Mother of Teeth,’ now didn’t he?” and
Lady Haigh laughed long and heartily.

“You are cruelly hard on my poor little attempts at politeness, Cousin
Elma. You will give your friend an awful idea of me. Oh, by the bye,”
with intense eagerness, “what have you done with the old lady? Is she
at Cousin Helena’s? How do they get on together?”

“My dear Charlie, what old lady? I have not the faintest idea whom you
mean.”

“Why, the lady graduate, the instructress of youth, Mentor in a pith
helmet and spectacles, the new female Lycurgus,--his Excellency’s
English governess?”

“Charlie, have I never told you not to run on at such a rate? I want
to introduce you. This is Miss Anstruther, officially known as
Mademoiselle Antaza, his Excellency’s English governess.”

“Impossible!” cried he, aghast.

“Really,” said Cecil, with some pique in her tone, “everybody seems to
think it their duty to impress upon me that I am very young and very
giddy for the office. I am rather tired of it.”

“My dear Miss Anstruther,” said Charlie Egerton, solemnly, “I only
wish I were Azim Bey!”

“Charlie, for shame!” cried Lady Haigh. “I will not have you tease
Miss Anstruther. Remember that you will be companions all through our
voyage to Baghdad, so you must behave properly. Cecil, my dear, you
must not mind this wild boy. He is always getting into trouble by
means of his tongue, and never takes warning. Charlie, I want to know
how it is that you have not turned up at Helena’s house. She hasn’t an
idea that you are in Cairo at all.”

“Cousin Helena’s house would be a desert to me without you, Cousin
Elma; surely you know that? I felt it so acutely when I came, that I
determined not to show myself there until you were safely arrived. I
strolled round each day and had a talk with the _bowab_ (doorkeeper),
and so learned the news. I knew you were expected last night, and I
meant to present myself in decent time for dinner this evening. I’ll
do so still unless you have any objection.”

“I only hope,” said Lady Haigh, rather absently, “that you won’t talk
nonsense of this kind to Helena. She won’t understand it, you know.”

“If you wish it, Cousin Elma, I will confine my conversation
exclusively to Miss Anstruther. I couldn’t venture to talk nonsense to
her, so that ought to keep me safe.”

“My dear Charlie, nothing but a gag would keep _you_ safe,” said Lady
Haigh, with deep conviction. “And now we are going in here to do some
shopping, and we don’t want any gentlemen to interrupt us, so good-bye
until this evening.”

He turned away with a rueful look which made both ladies laugh, and
disappeared obediently among the brilliant crowd, Lady Haigh only
waiting until he was out of earshot to inquire anxiously what Cecil
thought of him.

“He seems rather talkative,” said Cecil, expressing her thought
mildly. “An empty-headed rattle,” was what she said in her own mind,
and Lady Haigh, as if guessing this, took up the cudgels at once on
her cousin’s behalf.

“Oh, that’s nothing but nervousness, my dear. You would really never
guess that Charlie is simply afraid of ladies, especially young ones.
He talks like that just to keep his courage up. But he is not like
some men, all on the surface. There’s plenty of good stuff behind.
Why, you mightn’t think it, but he can talk eight or nine Eastern
dialects well enough to make the natives think him an oriental, and
there are not many of whom that can be said. I’m afraid all his
cleverness has gone in that direction, instead of helping him on in
the world. Natives always take to him wonderfully, but when you’ve
said that you’ve said all, or nearly all.”

Even after this, Cecil still thought that Lady Haigh’s fondness for
her cousin made her very kind to his virtues and decidedly blind to
his faults; but she was a little ashamed of this hasty generalisation
after a discussion she had with him that evening, and felt obliged to
confess that there was more in Dr Egerton than she had thought. Dinner
was over, and they were sitting out in the open court of the Boleyns’
house. Mr Boleyn had been obliged to go out to attend some official
function, and the voices of Lady Haigh and Mrs Boleyn, as they
discussed, more or less amicably, reminiscences of their youth,
mingled pleasantly with the soothing plash of the fountain. A severe
snubbing from Mrs Boleyn during dinner had failed to reduce Charlie to
silence or contrition, but now he seemed to enter into Cecil’s mood,
and waited meekly until she chose to speak. To Cecil, lying back in
her chair in a bower of strange creepers and flowering-shrubs,
watching the moonlight as it crept over the walls of the house and the
more distant minarets of a mosque a little way off, it seemed almost
sacrilege to talk. But she awoke at last to the fact that she was not
doing her duty by her companion, and reluctantly broke the delightful
silence by the only remark which would come into her mind.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she asked, softly, and Charlie awoke out of a
reverie, and made haste to answer that it was heavenly.

“I have longed for this all my life,” said Cecil, “and Lady Haigh says
that Baghdad will be even better.”

“Better? in what way?” asked Charlie.

“More Eastern, you know,” said Cecil, “but I can’t imagine anything
more perfect than this.”

“I see that you are one of the people who feel the fascination of the
East,” said he.

“Who could help it?” asked Cecil. “It is a fascination, there is no
other word for it. Kingsley says that a longing for the West is bound
up in the hearts of men, but I think that in this age of the world the
reverse is true. I daresay if I had ever been in America it would be
different; but now it seems to me that all the romance is gone from
the West, and that it is all big towns, and gold-mines, and wonderful
inventions, and rush. The East seems so mysterious and reposeful, so
old, too, and so picturesque.”

“And yet,” said Charlie, “you want to change it all, and import into
it the newest ideas in religions and the latest Yankee culture. You
would like all those mysterious veiled women, with the beautiful eyes,
whom you saw to-day, to be turned into learned ladies in tweed frocks
and hard hats, with spectacles and short hair.”

“No, indeed,” said Cecil, “that is not my ideal at all. A modification
of their own style of dress would be much more suitable to them than a
bad copy of ours. And they couldn’t all be learned, but they all ought
to know a good deal more than they can at present, poor things! If
they were only better educated, it would be much easier to introduce
reforms Denarien Bey says that most of Ahmed Khémi Pasha’s plans are
thwarted by his harem.”

Charlie groaned. “I beg your pardon, Miss Anstruther,” he said, “but
my feelings were too much for me. An Eastern I can respect, a European
I can pity, but a Europeanised, Europeanising Turk like Ahmed Khémi I
can only detest.”

“I can’t hear my employer spoken against in that way,” said Cecil.

“Your employer? So he is. Well, Miss Anstruther, I can forgive him
anything, since he is bringing you to Baghdad.”

Cecil frowned. “I really cannot imagine,” she said, severely, “how a
person like yourself, who admires quiet so intensely, can talk so
much.”

“That is the fault of the two natures in me,” said Charlie, gravely,
though he was inwardly shaking with laughter over this amazing snub.
“As a European, I am bound to talk and go on like other people, to be
feverishly busy, and if I have no work of my own, to hunt up other
people’s and set them at it. Then I get sick of it all, and go off and
become an Eastern. Perfect idleness is then my highest idea of
happiness, and I am quite content to sit for a whole day in the
tent-door with an Arab sheikh, exchanging platitudes on the
inevitability of the decrees of fate, at intervals of half an hour.”

“But have you ever tried that?” asked Cecil, laughing.

“Tried it? I do it periodically, whenever I can get hold of a
sufficiently unsophisticated sheikh. It doesn’t do to go to the same
people twice. They always find out somehow afterwards who you really
are, and spot you the next time. But the desert life is wonderful,
simply wonderful! The mere thought of it makes me long to go out there
and begin it again this moment. It is so free and irregular. You pass
from tremendous exertion to absolute idleness.”

“And while you are idle the poor women do all the work,” interrupted
Cecil, unkindly.

“Yes, that is where Eastern and Western notions clash,” said Charlie.
“There must be some drawbacks even to desert life, and one scarcely
feels called upon to go about lecturing to the Arabs on the proper
treatment of their wives.” He looked at Cecil mischievously, but she
declined to be drawn into an argument on the subject of women’s
rights, and asked--

“Have you ever spent a really long time in the desert?”

“That depends on what you consider a long time,” he answered. “When I
was in Persia I went with a caravan of pilgrims from Resht to Kerbela,
which took some time, and a good part of the way lay through the
desert. Of course the pilgrims were not always the most delightful of
fellow-travellers, and one couldn’t help objecting very strongly to
the companionship of the dead bodies which were carried along slung on
mules to be buried at Kerbela. It was rather wearing, too, to have to
be on your guard the whole time lest you should betray yourself, for
the pilgrims are not particular, and would have torn you to pieces as
soon as look at you. But it was great fun, all the same. There was
pleasure even in the risk, and then it’s not many Europeans that get
the chance of seeing the holy places. All that, and the desert as
well.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Cecil. “Do you mean that you pretended
to be a Mohammedan?”

“Yes,” answered Charlie, smiling. “I assure you that I am not one
really, Miss Anstruther.”

“I don’t see that that makes it any better,” said Cecil. “You mean
that you dressed up and went through all the ceremonies just as if you
had been a Mohammedan, and said all the prayers, and never meant it?
Of course they are wrong, but they believe in their religion, and it
can’t make it right for us to do things of that kind. Besides, for you
it was acting a lie.”

“Well, I don’t know. It never struck me in that light,” said Charlie.
“I’m afraid I looked upon it as part of the joke, Miss Anstruther.
Well, perhaps not of the joke--as part of what had to be gone through
to ensure success. You see, I had an object. I was studying the
dissemination of cholera by means of these caravans of pilgrims, and I
wanted to do it thoroughly, so I thought I would go in for the whole
thing. But I might perhaps have done it and stopped short of that.
I’ll remember another time.”

“Charles,” said Mrs Boleyn’s voice, “perhaps you are not aware of the
lateness of the hour;” and after this delicate hint, Charlie took his
departure. During the remainder of their stay in Cairo, he made a
point of appearing at unexpected times, and helping the travellers to
organise expeditions to the Pyramids and other points of interest, but
he turned a deaf ear to Lady Haigh’s hint that he ought to volunteer
to come and take up his quarters at the Boleyns’, and at this they
could scarcely wonder. Before the end of their stay, Cecil, though
declaring emphatically that she was not in the least tired of Cairo,
began to display great eagerness to reach Baghdad, and Lady Haigh made
no pretence of disguising her desire to do the same.

“Helena and I agree better apart, my dear,” she explained frankly to
Cecil. “One really can’t quarrel much in letters, but when we are
together we can’t do anything else.”

This was already sufficiently obvious, and it is probable that no one,
unless perhaps Mr Boleyn, was sorry when the time came for the
travellers to journey to Port Said, there to resume their interrupted
voyage. Lady Haigh and Cecil, with their two maids, and Dr Egerton,
with his Armenian boy Hanna, made an imposing party, and excited no
small amount of curiosity and speculation in the minds of the
passengers on board the P. & O. boat. Lady Haigh was never a woman to
do things by halves, and from the moment that she came on board she
took by sheer force of character the place she felt was her right,
although in the present case it was conceded to her without opposition
as soon as it was known who she was.

“Have you noticed,” said Charlie Egerton to Cecil, one night in the
Red Sea, “that my dear cousin is perceptibly growing taller and more
imposing in appearance? Her foot is on her native heath now. This side
of Suez we are under the beneficent sway of the Indian Government, and
her position is assured, whereas at home she might have been anybody
or nobody. You will observe the majesty of her demeanour increase
continually, until, when she reaches Baghdad, you will recognise in
her every gesture that she represents the Queen-Empress.”

“But surely that is Sir Dugald’s business?” laughed Cecil.

“Sir Dugald can’t do everything. He can’t render the Um-ul-Pasha and
the other ladies at the Palace the civilities which are imperatively
due to them, and he can’t conciliate or madden the ladies of the
European colony by delicately adjusted hospitalities as she can. If I
may say so, Cousin Elma represents the social half of her most
gracious Majesty, and Sir Dugald, the Balio Bey as they call him, the
administrative half.”

“And which is the more important?” asked Cecil.

“Too hard. Ask me another,” said Charlie.

“Well, which of them rules the other?” asked Cecil.

“That is a delicate point,” returned Charlie, “and opinions naturally
differ; but if you ask me, I should say that Sir Dugald does it in
reality, but that Cousin Elma thinks she does, and so both are
satisfied.”

“Well, I think I should prefer it the other way,” said Cecil,
meditatively, and Charlie laughed.

“That is exactly what I should have imagined,” he said. “But, joking
apart, you can see that others consider that Cousin Elma has a right
to think a good deal of herself. Look at the people here, for
instance. Happily, we have no very big-wigs on board, or there might
be trouble. In any case, Cousin Elma, as the wife of a major-general,
would carry things with a pretty high hand among the army set, but
there would be difficulty with the wives of the bigger civilians. But
it’s all right with them too now, because Sir Dugald is a political.
They know their duty too well to be unpleasant, and besides, it is
quite on the cards that Sir Dugald might be useful to any of them any
day, if it was desired to find a nice out-of-the-way berth for some
unfortunate relative who had fooled away his chances, as Sir Dugald
sympathetically remarked to me was my case, the only time I saw him.”

If Charlie expected an indignant contradiction, he was disappointed.
Cecil looked away over the sea, and smiled involuntarily.

“I was wondering whether you had talked away your chances,” she said,
for they were on sufficiently intimate terms now to allow of little
hits like this.

“That’s exactly what I did do,” he said. “You may be surprised to hear
it, Miss Anstruther, but I have a very inconvenient conscience,
especially with regard to the things which other people leave undone.
They say that in England abuses are good things on the whole, because
people get up a separate society for the removal of each one, and this
affords occupation to many deserving persons; but in the East they’re
good for a man to come to grief over, and nothing more. If you will
only let things alone you’re all right, but if you make a fuss it’s
like fretting your heart out against a stone wall. Why, in my last
district--my last failure, if you please--I found there was cholera
brewing. I have studied the subject particularly, as I think I have
mentioned to you before, but because I could see a little further than
the rest of them they called me faddy and an alarmist. I told them
what measures ought to be taken, but the man above me, pig-headed old
brute! squashed all my representations. If ever a man deserved to be
carried off by cholera, that fellow did. At last the cholera came, and
I wrote him a letter that he had to attend to. The precautions I had
recommended were taken--it was too late, naturally, but we checked the
thing before it had gone very far--and I was recommended to resign.
Insubordination and so on, of course.”

“But were you obliged to be insubordinate?” Cecil ventured to ask.

“No, it was too late, like the precautions. He couldn’t pretend to
disregard the cholera, but I had to relieve my mind.”

“That was a great pity,” said Cecil, and would say no more.




 CHAPTER VI.
 A PERIOD OF PROBATION.

At Karachi there came the first interruption to the smoothness which
had hitherto marked the journey. Lady Haigh had expected to be met at
this point by the gunboat which was under Sir Dugald’s orders, and was
generally occupied in patrolling the Shat-el-Arab and the Persian Gulf
for the protection of British interests, and she had intended to make
a triumphal voyage and entry into Baghdad by its means. But instead of
the gunboat there came a telegram from Sir Dugald to say that the
services of the _Nausicaa_ were imperatively required in the opposite
direction, and that the travellers must therefore come on in the
ordinary way. Unfortunately, however, they had missed the regular
steamer to Basra, and Lady Haigh, who had developed an extraordinary
desire to have the journey over, insisted that they should take
passage on another that happened to be starting. Charlie Egerton
protested loudly against this, declaring that he knew what those
wretched coasters were like--ramshackle old things, creeping along and
touching at all sorts of unheard-of ports, and staying for no one knew
how long. They would probably reach Basra not a day sooner than if
they had waited for the next steamer; and if they were fated to lose
time on the journey, why not spend it at Karachi, and take the
opportunity of showing Miss Anstruther a little of India? But here
Lady Haigh looked at him with mingled sorrow and impatience, and
simply reiterated her determination to press on.

The voyage on the coasting steamer was a new experience to Cecil. The
vessel was old, the cargo mixed, the crew also mixed--in fact,
everything was mixed but the society, and that was extremely select,
since it was confined to their own party. The captain and mate,
overawed by the presence of two ladies on board, withdrew themselves
as much as possible from the cabin, though they fraternised with
Charlie, as every one did, when they could get him alone. Day after
day the vessel steamed past the same low shores, with coral-reefs
stretching out to sea, and ranges of low hills in the distance behind.
Several times, during the first part of the voyage, she touched at
queer little towns of square, white, flat-roofed houses, with high
towers, where the inhabitants could catch what wind there was, rising
up among the feathery date-palms. There were Englishmen at all these
places--telegraph officials, clerks, and agents--who talked
Anglo-Indian slang, and did their best to render life endurable by all
manner of Indian expedients. After this there was a considerable
stretch of coast without any port, and the captain and mate developed
an inclination to take things easily and to let the ship look after
herself. The first result of this was that the steamer ran ashore one
night, taking the ground quite quietly and gently on a reef connected
with an archipelago of small islands. The captain blamed the mate,
whose watch on deck it was; the mate blamed the captain, who knew
these waters better than he did; and both united in blaming the
steersman, the charts, and the compass. The blame having been thus
equitably distributed, the belligerents agreed to bury the hatchet and
try and get the ship off; and as it appeared to be necessary to shift
the cargo for this purpose, tents were constructed for the passengers
on the nearest island. To these they were very glad to retreat, for
the ship had heeled over to such a degree that the floor of the cabins
was a steep slope, at the foot of which everything from the other side
of the room gradually collected.

Here, then, on this nameless island, with its palm-trees and its
spring of water, were all the materials for a latter-day idyll. A
shipwreck, a desert island, a prolonged picnic, everything was
complete, and yet one or two things spoilt it altogether, so that the
episode would scarcely be worth mentioning save to show how Lady
Haigh’s schemes went wrong. Charlie did not fail to remind her that he
had counselled her to wait at Karachi, and pointed out that she, at
any rate, would have been much more comfortable there. Their desert
island was so far complete that there was even a likelihood of pirates
in its neighbourhood, although Cecil, who had a robust and healthy
faith in the past exploits of the British navy, and in the _Pax
Britannica_ established in Indian waters at this period of the
century, could never be brought to believe that Charlie was doing more
than trying to frighten her when he mentioned them. The greatest
drawback to the place was its extreme smallness. There could be no
exciting explorations, journeys made in single file through dense
forests right into the heart of the island, because there was no
forest and so very little island. There could be no hope of
discovering volcanoes, caves, traces of previous inhabitants, wild
beasts, or any other commonplaces of desert-island travel, because
there was no room for them. If Lady Haigh was in her tent and wanted
Cecil, she knew that she must be either sitting in the shade outside,
or standing under the palm-trees looking out to sea, for there was
nowhere else. Again, there were no hardships--not even the semblance
of any. The ladies were not so much as obliged to make their own beds,
for, besides their two maids, there was one of the ship’s stewards, a
Zanzibari boy, who was always on shore at their service. On board this
luckless youth was perpetually falling from the rigging or into the
hold, and he was sent on land to keep him from doing any more damage
to himself or to other people. No doubt it would be pretty and idyllic
to describe how Charlie Egerton picked up sticks and lighted the fire
in order that Cecil might prepare the breakfast, but it would not be
true; for, in the first place, there were no sticks, but a portable
stove brought from the vessel, which burned petroleum; and, in the
second place, the ship’s cook was still responsible for the meals. In
fine, this was a shipwreck with all the modern improvements.

Perhaps it was this fact which rendered the relations of the castaways
different from those usually observed under such circumstances. The
crew did not go off in the boats, abandoning the vessel and the
passengers, nor did they broach the rum-casks. They worked as hard and
were as obliging and respectful as before, and brought queer fishes
and shells for the ladies to see when they found them. When the
captain and mate walked along the reef at night to what was still
called the “cabin dinner,” they still ate in silence, and when the
meal was over, the mate felt it his duty at once to go and see what
the men were doing, and when he did not come back, the captain
invariably went to see what was keeping him, and did not come back
either. As for the men, they appeared in great force on Sunday
evening, when hymns were to be sung, and again one week-day, when a
concert was got up after work was over, the sailors in their clean
clothes, with very shiny faces and very smooth hair, and the Lascars
in gorgeous raiment of all the colours of the rainbow, but otherwise
the passengers saw less of them than they had done on shipboard.

The archipelago to which the desert island belonged was not all
uninhabited. There were two good-sized islands in it which supported a
considerable population, and the castaways made two expeditions to the
larger of these. The people were all bigoted Moslems, who testified
extreme horror at the sight of the unveiled faces of Lady Haigh and
Cecil, and regarded the whole party with feelings of lively
disapprobation. Their own women were wrapped up from top to toe
whenever they ventured out of doors, and their faces were additionally
protected by a thick horse-hair mask, so that it is possible that it
was the discomfort of this arrangement which made the men fear a
domestic rebellion as the result of the visit of the Frangi ladies.
For the rest, the islanders lived a good deal on fish, and apparently
also threw away a good deal, and dried a considerable quantity for
future consumption, which made their streets unpleasantly odoriferous,
and there were few attractions in their surroundings to counterbalance
this defect, until, in extending the area of their observations, Cecil
and Charlie made a great discovery. Lying among the hills which backed
the little town was a valley filled with prehistoric ruins, and beyond
this again an ancient cemetery. To Cecil this find was as a
trumpet-call to utilise her detention in a way which would command the
gratitude of the learned world by demonstrating, possibly finally, the
real origin of the Phœnicians, and Charlie required little persuasion
to induce him to help her. Accordingly, they returned to the island
the next day, prepared for business. Photography was not practised
then as it is now, but Cecil intended to sketch the ruins, and Charlie
was to hire natives to begin excavations under his direction.
Unfortunately, these proceedings did not meet the views of the
inhabitants. To them it appeared certain that the strangers were going
to search for hidden treasure, with the necessary result of exposing
the island to the wrath of the defrauded ghostly guardians of the
spoil, and they expressed their dissent so strongly that the baffled
explorers were thankful to be able to return to their boat in safety,
the people hurling maledictions and more substantial missiles after
them. This is the reason why, so far as Cecil is concerned, the
Phœnician problem remains still unsolved.

“I could soon make friends with those island fellows if I had them by
myself,” remarked Charlie as they rowed away, with rather a wistful
look back at the shore.

“But, my dear boy, why don’t you, then?” cried Lady Haigh, with marked
inhospitality. “Go over by yourself and live among them until we get
the ship off. We could easily let you know when we were ready to
start, and we should get on quite well without you.”

“Yes, do go if you would rather,” said Cecil.

“It’s likely, isn’t it?” was his sole reply, and no more was said.
Under ordinary circumstances, Lady Haigh felt sure, he would have been
off to those islanders for a week or a month, even though it had
involved the sacrifice of all his interests in life, and the fact that
he did not succumb to their attractions now showed that there was some
very potent influence at work to detain him. What that influence was,
Lady Haigh had no difficulty in guessing. Charlie’s behaviour as his
cousin’s escort had been most exemplary, but she did not flatter
herself that it was her society he sought. Charlie could never have
been anything but a gentleman, but the assiduous way in which he had
attended upon Cecil and herself since they had left Cairo bespoke
something more than mere politeness. He had found out the way to catch
Cecil’s attention now, and he used it. He was full of the most
enthralling anecdotes and stories, narratives of his own adventures,
and accounts of the queer people he had met in his wanderings, and he
proved that his tales were as potent to interest a graduate of London
University as a knot of listeners in a Cairo coffee-house. It was he
who, by his extraordinary yarns, whiled away the long days on the
island; and they were very long sometimes, for both ladies were
anxious to reach their journey’s end, and chafed somewhat at the
enforced detention. Happily there was no fear that the interruption to
their voyage would cause anxiety to their friends, for the ways of the
coasting steamers were known to be so erratic that no one would think
of theirs as missing for a long time, and by that time they would
probably have been picked up by the next regular steamer from Karachi;
but to Cecil, who was nervously anxious to get to her work, the delay
was a weary one. Under these circumstances Charlie’s power of
discoursing for hours together came as a great relief. Cecil laughed
at him in public, and in private teased him occasionally, in a
dignified way, about his extraordinary flow of conversation; and yet
felt, though she never confessed it to herself, that Baghdad would not
be quite the land of exile she had pictured it, and endured the long
delay very philosophically on the whole.

“I really think that Azim Bey will be grown up by the time I reach
Baghdad,” she said one day, when the crew had been patiently shifting
and reshifting the cargo for some time without producing any
perceptible effect on the ship’s position.

“Are you afraid of getting out of practice, Miss Anstruther?” inquired
Charlie. “Because I shouldn’t a bit mind your keeping your hand in by
teaching me a little. We could get up a stunning schoolroom by putting
one of those flat rocks for a blackboard, and you could instil some
mental philosophy and moral science into me. They never could make me
learn any when I was a boy, and all I’ve picked up since is entirely
practical and quite contrary to all received rules, so that I should
be glad to learn how to think properly.”

“Nonsense, Charlie,” said Lady Haigh, wagging her head wisely; “Miss
Anstruther is anxious to get to her proper work, and doesn’t want to
waste her time on you. If you really want to please her, help the men
to get the ship off, so that we can go on again.”

“Cruel, cruel woman!” he cried. “No sentiment about Cousin Elma, is
there, Miss Anstruther? Well, after that, if my humble efforts can do
anything, we shall not be here much longer, though the mate did remark
airily, when I offered to help, that they didn’t want any landsmen
meddling about. But at any rate, if we wait two or three months
longer, we must be picked up by the mail.”

As it happened, the mail came in sight that very evening, and at once
hove to in answer to the signals from the stranded ship. By the united
efforts of the two crews the coaster was got off, and at length
proceeded on her way, to the great joy of the majority of her
passengers. With Charlie Egerton, however, it was otherwise, for not
only did he regret the pleasant time which was past, but there was a
look in Lady Haigh’s eye now and then which betokened a lecture in
store, and as he guessed what would be the subject of this, he made it
his constant endeavour to avoid it.

“I really feel quite sorry to leave our island now, don’t you, Lady
Haigh?” asked Cecil, as they stood on deck, watching the tops of the
palm-trees disappear beneath the horizon. “Our life there has been so
quiet, a sort of pause between our hurry in starting and the new work
to which we are going.”

“Nonsense, my dear Cecil; you are just like a cat. You can’t bear to
be moved,” said Lady Haigh, with more force than politeness. “There
are some people who would grow sentimental on leaving a prison, if
they had only been there long enough.”

Such impatience was so rare with Lady Haigh that Cecil sank into an
awed silence, and sentimentalised no more over the island. The second
part of the voyage proved to be as safe and pleasant as the first part
had been disastrous, and the captain was merciful enough to make only
short halts at Bushire and Mohammerah. When Basra was reached, it was
found that the services of the gunboat were not yet available, and as
there was little in the town, half-busy and half-ruinous, to allure to
a longer stay, Lady Haigh swallowed her pride sufficiently to let
Charlie take passage for the party in one of the steamers plying to
Baghdad. They were again the only passengers, and were accorded a sort
of semi-royal honour which amused the two younger members of the party
very much, but which seemed only natural to Lady Haigh. The river
voyage was very pleasant, especially when they left behind the
Shat-el-Arab, which was scarcely to be distinguished from the sea, and
entered the Tigris. Villages half hidden in forests of palm, long rows
of black Bedouin tents pitched in the more open spaces, and the people
themselves, wild and suspicious enough, but rudely prosperous and in a
way well-dressed, afforded constant interest to Cecil. Even better was
the distant view of the mountains of Luristan, which was obtained
about mid-way in the journey, the lofty summits covered with perpetual
snow towering above the nearer expanse of feathery green and the
swiftly flowing river at its foot. Cecil sat so long trying in vain to
reproduce in a sketch the full effect of the contrast that she worked
on into the twilight, and was forced at last to desist with a
headache. Upon discovering this fact, Charlie showed himself so
assiduous in moving her deck-chair about for her, and in trying to
arrange her cushions more comfortably, that the sight seemed to
irritate Lady Haigh.

“My dear,” she said at last to Cecil, “you will never be better on
deck here. You are tired out. Go to bed at once, and then you will
wake up fresh and well to-morrow.”

Cecil smiled an assent, and after wishing the others good night,
disappeared into her cabin. Lady Haigh waited impatiently until she
had been gone some little time.

“Charlie,” she said at last, in a low voice, “I want to speak to you.”

“Yes, Cousin Elma?” he made answer, without any suspicious show of
alacrity. “What a start you gave me, though! I was thinking.”

“What about?” asked Lady Haigh, sharply. Then, as his eyes
involuntarily sought the direction in which Cecil had disappeared,
“The usual subject, I suppose? Charlie, I always foretold that when
you did fall in love you would go in very far indeed, but I didn’t
guess how far it would be. This is what comes of not caring for
ladies’ society.”

“Exactly. One lady is enough for me,” he returned--“present company
always excepted, Cousin Elma, of course. But seriously, did you ever
know any one like Miss Anstruther?”

“Now we are well launched into the subject on which I wished to speak
to you,” said Lady Haigh. “Allow me, Charlie, as being in a certain
sense Miss Anstruther’s guardian, to ask you your intentions?”

“To speak to her to-morrow if I can only get her alone, and marry her
as soon as possible, if she will have me,” he replied, promptly.

“So I thought. Well, Charlie, all I have to say is that you are to do
nothing of the kind, however often you may manage to see her alone.”

“Really, Cousin Elma, I believe that Miss Anstruther is of age, and
capable of managing her own affairs.”

“Don’t put on that high and mighty manner, Charlie. I am advising you
for your good and hers. Do you know anything of the footing on which
Miss Anstruther stands here?”

“Once or twice she has mentioned some sort of agreement to remain a
certain time, but I imagine it would not be difficult to get that set
aside.”

“My dear boy, that is all you know about it! Miss Anstruther is
solemnly pledged to remain in this situation for two years. In some
sort of way, I am her security for doing so. Now, I ask you, as an
honourable man, would you be acting rightly if you induced her to
break this agreement, or could you respect her if she showed herself
willing to break it in order to marry a man of whose very existence
she was not aware when she signed it?”

“Very well, Cousin Elma. I will be satisfied with a two years’
engagement, then.”

“You will have nothing of the sort with which to be satisfied,
Charlie. I will not allow you to speak to Miss Anstruther until the
two years are over. Then, if you like, you can say what you want to
say before she signs the second agreement to serve for three years
more. I will leave the matter in her hands then, and you shall have
your chance, but you are not to speak to her now.”

“And may I ask the reason of this extraordinary prohibition?”

Charlie’s tone was dogged and haughty, but Lady Haigh answered
unflinchingly.

“Consider, my dear boy. Let us suppose first that Cecil accepts you.
You know that she is in a very delicate position, and will need in any
case to walk very warily. You know what the Baghdadis are, you know
the miserable scandals which circulate so wonderfully among the
foreign colony in such a town as this. To have her name connected with
yours would at once destroy all the poor girl’s chances of success,
while afterwards her position will be more assured and she will know
better what she is doing. Leave her in peace for these two years,
Charlie; surely it is not such a very great thing to do for her sake?
It is important for her to obtain her salary undiminished, too. You
will see her once a-week at least, so you will know that she is well
and happy, but don’t disturb her in her work by trying to make her
fond of you.”

“What next?” cried Charlie. “But you know she might refuse me, Cousin
Elma. What then?”

“I think it is most probable that she would. She takes an interest in
you, Charlie, but I don’t believe she cares for you at all in the way
you want. Well, you know that she is to spend Sunday at the Residency
whenever she is at Baghdad. Now do you think that she would find any
peace and comfort in her Sundays if she were always obliged to meet a
rejected lover with reproachful eyes? You would make her life a burden
to her.”

“I might go away,” he murmured, dolefully enough, for it is one thing
to despair of your own chances, and quite another to have them
pronounced hopeless by some one else.

“Yes; and sacrifice your prospects irretrievably just as Sir Dugald
has got you this post, in the hope that you would do better here with
him than you have hitherto. I suppose you would intend such a move as
a gentle intimation to poor Miss Anstruther that your ruin lay at her
door? No, don’t be furious, my dear boy; I only say it looks like it.
You would go away with some of those wild Arabs or Kurds, I presume;
but would that be much better than living a civilised life at Baghdad,
and seeing Cecil every Sunday?”

“You are too horribly practical and calculating, Cousin Elma. Not to
speak to her for two years is dreadful. How can I stand it?”

“It’s better than being refused, at any rate,” said Lady Haigh. “But
you know, Charlie, I can’t promise that she will listen to you then,
even if she has learnt to care for you. She is a very conscientious
girl, and quite feels, I believe, that she has a special mission
here.”

“Hang missions!” cried Charlie, rebelliously. “Pretty girls have no
business with them. Why can’t they leave them to ugly old women?”

“Like myself, I suppose?” said Lady Haigh. “Thank you, Charlie--no,
don’t apologise. Well, you see if Cecil believes that she has a
mission to finish Azim Bey’s education, she will probably feel bound
to continue it for the five years specified. If she thinks it her
duty, I believe she will do it.”

“So do I,” said Charlie, seriously. “I had rather not be weighed in
the scale against Miss Anstruther’s duty. I’m afraid I should go to
the wall. But five years, Cousin Elma! Do you know how old I shall be
then?”

“Nonsense!” cried Lady Haigh; “what’s five years at your time of life?
It’s we old people who can’t spare it. Why, anything may happen in
five years.”

A good deal was to happen, more than either Charlie or Lady Haigh
anticipated.

“Well,” said Charlie, “at least I shall see her once a-week. I must
live on that, I suppose, and endure the rest of my time. Now, Cousin
Elma, I have listened to you a good deal, so you must just listen to
me a moment. Did you ever know a girl like her, so sweet and gentle,
and so awfully good? I believe she could do anything she liked with
me, and she doesn’t see it a bit. You know what I mean; she doesn’t
seem to understand compliments, she always wants to talk sense. And
the worst of it is, that whatever I say now she never thinks I’m in
earnest. I know it’s my fault; you’ve told me over and over again not
to talk so fast, but I can’t help it when--well, when I particularly
want to make a good impression, you know, and now she won’t take me
seriously. And I don’t want her to think that I am always playing the
fool,--what can I do?”

“If you ask me,” said Lady Haigh, “I think it is a very good thing,
for your own sake, that you have now two years in which to show Cecil
that you really are in earnest. She has always taken life very
seriously, so that you are rather a new experience to her, you see;
but I think she is beginning to understand you better, if that is any
comfort to you.”

“Thanks awfully, Cousin Elma. I know it’s all my own fault. You
mustn’t think I want to reflect on her. She’s unique, but she’s
absolutely perfect.”

“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, you are a sad fellow!” cried Lady Haigh. “Now,
good night.”




 CHAPTER VII.
 “IN INMOST BAGDAT.”

“My last day of this!” said Charlie to himself the next morning, as
he went on deck. It was a sad thought, and he tried hard to be duly
miserable, but the morning was so fine and the air so clear that he
could not help whistling, in a sort of sympathy with nature; and then
Cecil came on deck, looking as bright and fresh as the day, her
headache all gone, and it became his duty to invite her to join him in
a promenade, since the morning was a little chilly. It was impossible
to feel melancholy long under such circumstances, and he soon found
himself rattling away in his usual style, and predicting all kinds of
delightful times at Baghdad. Lady Haigh, having once declared her
pleasure, had perfect confidence in Charlie’s sense of honour, and was
even a little sorry for him, and therefore she did not declare that
she and Cecil were busy, and send him off to talk to the captain, a
perverse habit which she had developed of late, but allowed him to
remain beside her, and instruct Cecil in the habits and folk-lore of
the wild tribes on the river-banks. Thus the day passed pleasantly
until, towards evening, Cecil, who was looking ahead, uttered a cry of
delight as the steamer swung round a bend in the river. Before them
lay Baghdad, bathed in the sunset light, which brought out in all
their brilliance the green and turquoise hues of the tiles with which
the domes of the mosques were inlaid, and the gilded casing of the
minarets; while other buildings, ordinarily most prosaic and unlovely,
looked mysterious and beautiful rising from the sea of foliage which
everywhere surrounded them. Palm, orange, and pomegranate trees filled
the gardens which spread over the flat country as far as eye could
reach, and even the ruined walls of the city, emerging here and there
from the expanse of green, lost their meanness and looked imposing.

“This is really Baghdad!” said Cecil, with a sigh of contentment.

“And I am sure you are longing to walk through the enchanted streets,”
said Charlie.

“Of course,” said Cecil. “When do we land, Lady Haigh? Is it soon?”

“Naturally, the steamer will stop opposite the Residency for us to
land,” said Lady Haigh with dignity. “Don’t worry about your things,
my dear child. Um Yusuf will see to them, and if you really like to
look at Baghdad, it’s a pity you shouldn’t.”

They had reached the city now, and were passing between terraced
gardens, with elaborate gateways leading to the water, and queer,
brightly-painted boats bobbing about in the current. There were
fanciful summer-houses in some of the gardens, and Cecil strained her
eyes to catch a glimpse of the veiled beauties who ought to be
reclining gracefully in the shade. Then came a more crowded quarter,
with old mansions of brown brick overhanging the water, coffee-houses
with highly decorated gables and terraces where companies of men were
sitting smoking and talking, newer-looking dwellings with latticed
balconies, and trees--trees everywhere. Cecil gazed on in breathless
admiration, but her raptures were suddenly interrupted.

“There’s the dear old rag!” cried Lady Haigh, in an ecstasy of mingled
patriotism and affection, and Charlie Egerton took off his hat to the
Union-Jack which floated over the Residency. Cecil awoke from her
dream with a start. The steamer was slowing down as it approached a
great house, standing at the end of a long garden, with a terrace
overlooking the water, and an avenue of aged orange-trees. The flag
scarcely fluttered in the light breeze, and all the garden looked
dreamlike and peaceful. Only on the terrace was there a certain amount
of bustle, and presently a boat put forth from the steps and shot
towards the steamer. From the pomp and circumstance which
characterised this embarkation, Cecil divined that the boat carried
Sir Dugald Haigh, and she began to feel rather nervous. It would be
idle to deny that Charlie’s conversation had infected her with a
certain amount of prejudice against her Majesty’s Consul-General at
Baghdad. For this very reason she had resolved to meet him with an
exaggeratedly open mind, and to look very carefully for his good
points. After all, Lady Haigh’s early devotion and long affection
ought to weigh more than Dr Egerton’s dislike, especially since he was
so notoriously addicted to disagreeing with his superiors.

With this in her mind, Cecil stood observant in the background while
Sir Dugald gained the deck and greeted his wife. She saw a thin,
almost insignificant-looking man, with a skin like parchment, and a
small, carefully-trimmed grey moustache. In his dress there was
visible a precision so extreme as almost to appear affectation, and
his manners were the perfection of elaborate politeness. Sir Dugald
Haigh at Baghdad was eminently the right man in the right place. The
Indian authorities who appointed him knew that he would never wantonly
or ignorantly outrage the prejudices nor shock the susceptibilities of
the most jealous and sensitive oriental; but they knew also, and
rejoiced in the knowledge, that under the silken glove the iron hand
was always ready. Sir Dugald could insist and threaten when it was
necessary--nay, he could even bluster, in a dignified and most
effective way--and the Pashas and Sheikhs with whom he had to deal
knew that, when he had once put his foot down, they might as well try
to shake the Great Pyramid as to move him.

Something of all this Cecil read in her cursory observation of him,
but she had only time to hear Charlie’s muttered remark, “The very
incarnation of red tape!” before she found herself summoned forward by
Lady Haigh.

“And this is Miss Anstruther!” said Sir Dugald, as he bowed and shook
hands. There was nothing offensive about the remark--it expressed a
kindly interest, possibly admiration--but Cecil saw Sir Dugald raise
his eyebrows very slightly as he uttered it. Before long she was to
learn to watch his eyebrows narrowly, for they were the most
expressive feature of his face, betraying all the feelings of worry,
impatience, amusement, or concern, which the rest of his visage was
under much too good control to show. Now they said, “Far too young!
Not nearly backbone enough for such a place!” while Sir Dugald’s lips
were saying--

“Welcome to Baghdad, Miss Anstruther! It is a long time since we have
had the honour of a young lady’s company at the Residency.”

Then he greeted Charlie, with a courteous ease of manner, and a kindly
expression of a hope that he had come to stay this time, which made
Cecil decide that if the hope should not be fulfilled, the provocation
would come from Charlie’s side and not from Sir Dugald’s; and then
they went on shore. The Residency proved to be a fine old house, built
round two courtyards, which, as Charlie told Cecil, corresponded to
the account he had given her of the special functions of Sir Dugald
and Lady Haigh, since one was devoted to business and the other to
social purposes. The ground-floor rooms in the family courtyard were
low and dark, but those on the floor above them large and airy, with
broad verandahs supported on curiously carved wooden pillars. Cecil,
casting a hurried glance in at the various doors as Lady Haigh took
her to her room, carried away a confused memory of fretted ceilings
inlaid with coloured marbles, walls panelled with looking-glasses, and
gilded mouldings, and again she sighed with satisfaction. The Baghdad
of good Haroun-al-Raschid had not quite disappeared yet.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Cecil was summoned to
the drawing-room to receive a messenger from the Pasha. This proved to
be Ovannes Effendi, his Excellency’s secretary, a clever-looking young
Armenian with a marvellous gift of tongues. He proffered his
employer’s felicitations on mademoiselle’s safe arrival, inquired
anxiously whether she had an agreeable journey, and concluded by
entreating that she would take up her abode in the Palace at her
earliest convenience.

“Let me see,” said Lady Haigh--“this is Saturday. We can’t let you go
before Monday morning, Cecil, but you and I will go and pay our
respects to the Palace ladies this afternoon.”

Having received his answer, Ovannes Effendi retired, after formally
presenting Lady Haigh and Cecil, in the Pasha’s name, with several
trays of fruit and sweetmeats which had been carried after him by a
corresponding number of porters. The idea was so thoroughly oriental
that Cecil forgot the untempting nature of the sweetmeats to a Western
taste, and noted the little attention joyfully in her diary. It was
evident that the Pasha, at any rate, was anxious to do all in his
power to show her that she was a welcome guest; but when they prepared
for their visit to the harem that afternoon, she found that Lady Haigh
entertained distinct misgivings as to their reception by the ladies.

“It is our duty to pay them a formal call, my dear,” she said,
vigorously completing an elaborate toilet the while. “I have no doubt
that that horrid woman, the Um-ul-Pasha, will give us a bad half-hour,
but it is better that I should be there to help you to face her.”

To get to the Palace it was necessary to mount ridiculously small
donkeys, which picked their way carefully among the inequalities and
mud-heaps of the narrow winding streets; while a small army of
servants, headed by two gorgeous cavasses in gold-embroidered
liveries, who kept back the crowd with whips, gave the occasion the
dignity which would otherwise have been sorely wanting to it. It was
irritating, if not exactly disappointing, to find on reaching the
Palace that all this grandeur had been wasted, since the answer
returned to their inquiries by the stout negro who kept the door of
the harem, after long colloquies with an invisible maid-servant
within, who was apparently displaying an undue eagerness to catch a
glimpse of the Frangi ladies, was that the Um-ul-Pasha was indisposed,
and that visitors were therefore not received in the harem that day.

“That is all her spite,” said Lady Haigh, as they picked their way
back to their donkeys. “She is no more ill than I am. If she had been
indisposed this morning, Ovannes Effendi would have known it, and told
us not to come, but now she thinks she has slighted you, and given me
a slap in the face. Very well, Nazleh Khanum, we shall see!”

But here, just as they were about to mount, Ovannes Effendi overtook
them, and after expressing the Pasha’s sorrow that their trouble
should have been in vain, begged them to honour his Excellency’s poor
abode by deigning to rest for a few minutes, assuring them that his
employer would be much hurt if they did not. On Lady Haigh’s
acquiescence, he ushered them into a large room furnished in European
style, where they found their old acquaintance, Denarien Bey, talking
to a very stout gentleman in a very tight frock-coat and a fez. Lady
Haigh’s salaam warned Cecil that this was Ahmed Khémi Pasha himself,
and she imitated her friend’s reverence as faithfully as she could
when she was brought forward and presented. The Pasha was all
politeness, evidently anxious to atone for his mother’s incivility,
and insisted on sending for coffee and sherbet at once. While the
refreshments were being consumed, he kept up a slow and stately
conversation with Lady Haigh respecting the journey, pausing with
special care to compose each sentence before uttering it. It was
evident that he had had a purpose in view in inviting them in, for
presently he nodded to Denarien Bey, who took up the conversation in
his turn. Lady Haigh told Cecil afterwards that this was because the
Pasha now disliked intensely speaking French, and was by no means a
master of English, which he was yet too proud to speak badly.

“His Excellency’s heart is much rejoiced by this happy meeting,
mademoiselle,” said Denarien Bey; “since he can now impress upon you
certain cautions which you will find all-important in your new
sphere.”

“I will do my best to conform to his Excellency’s wishes,” murmured
Cecil, nervously.

“First, as regards your own position, mademoiselle. You are aware that
the state of public opinion here obliges you and your pupil always to
remain in the harem while you are at the Palace, while yet it is from
the harem that the gravest dangers threaten the life of Azim Bey.” He
glanced rather fearfully at the Pasha as he said this, but meeting
only a nod of acquiescence, went on. “It has therefore been arranged,
mademoiselle, that the quarters occupied by yourself, the Bey, and
your attendants, shall be in a separate courtyard, to which none but
yourselves shall have access. Thus, while technically in the harem,
you will in reality be separated from it, and the door will be guarded
by a negro called Aga Masûd, who was the faithful attendant of the
Bey’s late mother. His special duty will be to prevent the entrance of
emissaries from the harem. It is his Excellency’s most earnest wish
that Azim Bey should never cross the threshold of the harem but in
your charge, and that while there you should never let him out of your
sight. The slaves are not to be trusted.”

He said this apologetically, and as if in explanation, but Cecil knew
that he was pointing at much more exalted persons than the slaves. It
was the Um-ul-Pasha and his Excellency’s wives who were not to be
trusted with the life of the boy so nearly related to them, and she
began to feel more than ever the great responsibility of her post.
After a few more unimportant remarks, Lady Haigh rose to go, but the
Pasha detained her, begging Cecil also to remain.

“I have sent for my son,” he said, “and I hear him coming.”

As he spoke, there appeared in the doorway a small thin boy, looking
like a miniature edition of the Pasha in his long black coat, with his
dark, solemn, old little face surmounted by the usual tasselled cap.
When he saw Cecil, his expression brightened suddenly.

“_C’est enfin Mdlle. Antaza!_” he cried, in an ecstasy of delight, and
he ran forward and salaamed, raising her hand to her lips. The Pasha
interposed, and reminded him to salute Lady Haigh, which he did, and
then retired behind his father’s chair, watching Cecil all the while
with grave, unchildlike eyes.

“You will come soon, mademoiselle?” he said entreatingly as they took
their leave. “When my father is busy I have no one now.”

“Mademoiselle is coming on Monday, Bey,” said Lady Haigh kindly, and
the boy looked somewhat comforted. With his father and Denarien Bey he
escorted the two ladies to the gate, and they rode home quietly, Cecil
pondering over what she had seen of the Pasha and his little son. But
it was strange how completely the Residency was like home to her
already. It seemed to be a bit of England, and when once she had
crossed its threshold again, the Palace and its occupants were like
the fabric of a dream, while Sir Dugald, Charlie Egerton, and one or
two Englishmen who happened to be passing through Baghdad, and were
staying at the Residency, took their places.

“Well, what do you think of our friend Sir Hector Stubble?” Charlie
asked her that evening, when they were sitting out on the verandah
after dinner.

“I suppose you mean Sir Dugald,” said Cecil, “and I don’t like the
name. I think Lord Stratford de Redcliffe was a splendid man, and I
never can forgive Grenville Murray for drawing him so unfairly. I
suppose the fact is that he saw him in the light of his own
grievances, just as you look at Sir Dugald through the medium of your
prejudice.”

“Not a prejudice, Miss Anstruther, honestly not,” said Charlie. “We
are antagonistic by nature, and we rub each other the wrong way
already. You would scarcely think we had had time to have words
together yet, would you?”

“Already?” said Cecil. “It’s absurd!”

“Well,” said Charlie, “I told him that the hospital was quite behind
the times, and horribly short of stores, and he as good as refused to
do anything to it.”

“Possibly,” said Cecil, “he did not relish the stores being demanded
in a your-money-or-your-life sort of tone.” Charlie laughed
uncomfortably.

“You always contrive to put me in the wrong, Miss Anstruther. The fact
is, he said one ought to be very careful with public money, and that
he was not prepared to sanction the expenditure of any more at
present. Then the prison, it is not in a particularly sanitary
condition----”

“But that can’t be Sir Dugald’s fault,” objected Cecil.

“Oh, I don’t mean the town prison; I haven’t been poaching on the
Pasha’s preserves just yet. I mean our private prison here, in the
Residency. Now, Miss Anstruther, don’t say that you will never be able
to dine here again in peace, on account of the shrieks of tortured
victims ringing in your ears in the pauses in the conversation. The
place isn’t so bad as all that. In fact, I daresay it’s a model jail,
as things are here.”

“And you forget that you are in your beloved unchanging East, where no
one makes any reforms,” said Cecil. “I am very sorry that you have
taken this prejudice against Sir Dugald. I think he is a delightful
man, and so kind.”

“How could he be otherwise than kind to you?” Charlie wished to know.
“It is to his unfortunate subordinates that he shows his other side.”

“And I have no doubt they deserve it,” retorted Cecil, crushingly. “I
do hope you will try to get on with him, and not start with the idea
that you are bound to quarrel with him, because you have got on badly
with your superiors before. If you are determined to bring about a
dispute, I suppose it will certainly come, no matter how forbearing
Sir Dugald may be, but that is not a very wise spirit in which to set
to work. Surely you must see it yourself, don’t you? This is really an
excellent chance for you, you know, and Lady Haigh will be dreadfully
disappointed if you throw it away.”

“Oh, I mean to stick to the place,” said Charlie eagerly, somewhat to
Cecil’s surprise. “I do really intend to stay on, unless I am driven
away. But you must let me have the privilege of telling my woes to
you, Miss Anstruther, and getting a lecture in return. I take to
lectures as a duck takes to water; you ask Cousin Elma.”

Cecil laughed, and as Lady Haigh came just then to ask her to sing,
she had no more talk with Charlie. The next day was her first Sunday
in Baghdad, the prototype of nearly all her Sundays for five years.
There was an English service, conducted by Mr Schad, the colleague of
Dr Yehudi in his mission-work among the Jews, and Cecil felt that she
had never fully appreciated the beauty of the Liturgy until she heard
it read, with a strong German accent, in this far land. It took her
back to her father’s beautiful church at Whitcliffe, and to the dingy
and ornate edifice in a city street, which she had attended in her
school-days, and it linked her with the services held in both places
to-day. She treasured every hour of that Sunday, which slipped by all
too quickly, and left her to face the duties and responsibilities of
her new position.

On the Monday morning she dressed herself, with great reluctance, in
her official costume, lamenting that she could not wear European
dress, as she might have done without difficulty in Constantinople or
Smyrna. But, after all, the long loose gown, falling straight from the
shoulders, and only caught in at the waist with a striped sash, would
be very comfortable in the hot weather, though the wide, trailing
sleeves would be dreadfully in the way. What Cecil disliked most in
the costume was the head-dress, a little round cap, with a gauze veil,
which could be brought over the face in case of need, depending from
it behind. To wear this it was necessary that the hair should be
plaited in a number of little tails, and allowed to hang down, since
any arrangement of coils must interfere either with the cap or with
the flow of the veil. For outdoor wear there was provided a huge linen
wrapper, which enveloped the wearer from head to foot, but Cecil had
resolutely refused to don the hideous horse-hair mask worn under this
by the Baghdadi ladies. The absurdity of her appearance so overcame
her while dressing, that she projected a caricature of herself for the
benefit of the children at home; but even then she did not realise the
difficulty of shuffling through the courtyard in her yellow slippers,
and of mounting the donkey which was waiting for her. Lady Haigh had
mercifully got all the gentlemen out of the way; but her own mirth was
contagious, and she and Cecil relapsed into little explosions of
laughter several times in the street.

Arrived at the Palace, they were conducted to a miniature courtyard,
the buildings around which bore traces of having been lately painted
and done up. The gate occupied the greater part of one side, guarded
by the faithful Masûd, a gigantic and particularly ugly negro. The
rooms on the other three sides were like those at the Residency, low
and mean-looking on the ground-floor, but large and lofty above.

“The apartments of Azim Bey,” said their guide, a tall Circassian
woman who spoke French, with a wave of her hand towards the rooms on
the right; “the apartments of mademoiselle,” indicating those on the
left; “the Bey Effendi’s study and reception-room,” showing that in
the middle.

“We will look at your rooms, Cecil,” said Lady Haigh, and they mounted
the stairs leading to the verandah. The “apartments” were three in
number, and comprised a bedroom and sitting-room for Cecil, and a
bedroom for Um Yusuf, opening out of her mistress’s. Another staircase
led from the verandah to the roof, which was flat and surrounded by a
parapet, with several orange-trees in great pots to give shade in hot
weather.

“But you won’t be able to stay up here when it is really hot, Cecil,”
said Lady Haigh, “except just at night. You will have to spend the day
in the cellars. We do it ourselves--every one does in Baghdad--and
it’s not often that the thermometer is more than 88° down there.”

They descended from the roof and entered the rooms. The bedroom
furniture was evidently a “complete suite,” of the most
highly-polished mahogany, imported from Europe at some trouble and
expense. The things in the sitting-room were of the same style, but
one or two chairs seemed not to have survived the journey, for their
places were filled by a common Windsor arm-chair, and a very ornate
Louis XV. _fauteuil_, with gilded and twisted legs. On a side-table
was a gorgeous gilt clock, which did not go, and the walls were
decorated with fearful oleographs, and one or two theatrical
portraits, which the guide pointed out with great pride.

“Well, Cecil, my dear,” said Lady Haigh, sitting down in the gilt
chair, while the two servants retired into the verandah. “I think you
will be very comfortable here. I see that they have forgotten one or
two things, but I will send you those from the Residency. I am very
glad that you have Basmeh Kalfa to superintend your little household.
She was head _kalfa_ (which means an upper slave) to Azim Bey’s
mother, so she will look after you well. You will have to be careful
just at first, until you get into the ways of the place. Be sure if
you ever come to the Residency in European dress to put on that sheet
over it. It will pass muster in the streets. And do mind never to go
outside your own courtyard without the sheet on. This place is your
castle, you know, and not even the Pasha dare put his nose in without
your consent. If you should hear rather a commotion at the gate, and
Masûd comes striding along, shouting _Dastûr! Dastûr!_ at the top
of his voice, pull your veil over your face at once. _Dastûr_ means
“custom,” and is the warning that a man is coming. It will probably be
the Pasha coming to see how the Bey is getting on with his lessons, or
some old man who comes to teach him the Koran, but be sure you
remember. And, my dearest child, you must never go anywhere without Um
Yusuf. She must be always with you--in lesson-time, recreation, coming
to us, everything. You must never be impatient, and think she is
spying upon you. It is her duty to keep you always in sight, and she
knows it. And now I must be going. Basmeh Kalfa, I leave Mademoiselle
Antaza and her nurse in your charge. Take care of them.”

“Upon my head be it, O my lady,” responded Basmeh Kalfa, impassively.




 CHAPTER VIII.
 A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

Lady Haigh was gone, and Cecil felt very desolate. Everything seemed
so new and strange, and she was so far removed from every familiar
face, except the severe and respectable one of Um Yusuf, that she felt
almost inclined to sit down and mourn over her isolation, but she had
too much to do. With Um Yusuf’s help she set to work to unpack her
possessions, and speedily found that the proceeding was an object of
interest to the other denizens of the courtyard. Basmeh Kalfa took a
seat on the floor uninvited, and made remarks on the things as they
were lifted out; and Ayesha, Azim Bey’s nurse, who was also a
privileged person, came across from the building opposite, and posted
herself in an advantageous position. Hovering on the verandah were
several black women, the under-servants of the establishment, who had
forsaken their work and come to see the show; and Masûd himself was
hard put to it to restrain his curiosity sufficiently to keep his post
at the gate. None of the interested watchers offered to help in any
way, but all commented audibly on the strange things they saw, and
especially on the books and photographs. They were particularly amazed
and delighted by the transformation effected in the sitting-room with
the help of a hammer and nails, some folding bookshelves, a bracket or
two, and some extra pictures, and it began to look quite habitable to
Cecil herself. There were still two or three large cases containing
the books and school-appliances which had been ordered for Azim Bey to
be unpacked, and she went with Um Yusuf, attended by her admiring
train, to see whether there was any place for their contents in the
room pointed out by Basmeh Kalfa as the Bey’s “study.” Here there was
a raised dais, occupying about half the floor, and covered with a rich
Kurdish carpet, the lower part of the room being matted. On the dais
was the divan, covered with thick silk, and amply furnished with
cushions of various sizes. There were two or three little inlaid
octagonal tables scattered about, but no other furniture, and the
walls were decorated with arabesque designs and inscriptions from the
Koran. To desecrate such a room with prosaic blackboards and raised
maps could not be thought of, and Cecil decided to wait to unpack them
until she could consult her pupil as to their arrangement.

Azim Bey was absent with his father on an expedition to visit his
married sister at Hillah, the ancient Babylon, and Cecil did not see
him at all that day, so that she and Um Yusuf had tea together in
solitary state. She spent the evening in writing home, describing her
new abode fully for the benefit of her brothers and sisters, and went
to bed early; for although candles were provided, no light was visible
in any of the surrounding buildings, and silence reigned over the
Palace. It seemed very lonely and unsafe, in a strange house, to sleep
in a room with open windows and doors that would not lock; and Um
Yusuf dutifully placed her bed against her mistress’s door, so as to
be able to repel any attempted invasion, but none came.

The next day Cecil awoke early. It was a fine cool morning, and the
sun was shining brightly, tempting her out of doors. As soon as she
was dressed she went down into the garden, followed by Um Yusuf, to be
greeted by a squeal of delight from her pupil, who rushed to meet her
and presented her with a large and formal bouquet. He had evidently
been tormenting the gardener with questions as to the why and
wherefore of things, for Cecil fancied that she saw an expression of
relief on that functionary’s face as he withdrew discreetly and
precipitately when he saw the veiled figures. Azim Bey walked solemnly
beside his governess for a little way, pointing out the beauties of
the garden, then, with a side-glance up at her face, he stole a little
brown hand into hers and remarked--

“You are my mademoiselle, and I know I shall like you. I have had no
one kind to talk to for a whole year, ever since my sister Naimeh
Khanum was married to Said Bey and went to live at Hillah, except my
father, and he is always busy. But you are going to stay here, and you
will tell me everything I want to know. Denarien Bey has told me that
you have many brothers, and you will tell me about them, won’t you?
When shall we begin lessons, mademoiselle?”

“As soon as you like,” said Cecil, smiling, for it was refreshing to
meet with a boy who looked forward to lessons with pleasure, and then
she unfolded her difficulty with respect to the school furniture. To
her amusement Azim Bey took her doubts as an insult.

“But yes, mademoiselle, of course I want all the books and maps in my
reception-room. It is to be made to look like a schoolroom; I will
have it exactly like a schoolroom in England. The things shall be
unpacked and put there at once.”

And he hurried her back to the house, summoned sundry servants, and
set them to work to open and unpack the cases. Cecil expected that he
would offer to help in the work, but he was far too fully conscious of
his rank for that, and sat solemnly on the divan beside her, issuing
his orders. Nor would he allow her to help either, for when she
started up to show the servants by example the proper way of putting
up a blackboard, he desired her peremptorily not to incommode herself,
but to tell him what was wanted and he would direct the servants. At
last, after the expenditure of much breath on the part of Azim Bey,
and some fruitless impatience on that of Cecil, the work was done, and
the walls of the great room decorated with maps and charts and tables.
A large supply of books was neatly arranged on the dais until
bookshelves could be procured, and in the lower part of the room were
placed a regular school-desk and seat for the pupil, and a high desk
and chair for the teacher, together with the blackboard, which Azim
Bey regarded with loving eyes. He wanted to set to work at once, but
Cecil, seeing old Ayesha looking at her distressfully, suggested
mildly that they should breakfast first, since she had only had a cup
of tea on rising. Her pupil assented graciously, and breakfast was
brought in on trays which were placed on two little tables, one for
Cecil and one for Azim Bey, while Um Yusuf, the nurse, and one or two
other women-servants sat down in the lower part of the room to await
their turn.

After breakfast lessons began, and Cecil found that her pupil knew
nothing whatever of English, and must begin that, as well as most
other subjects, from the beginning. He could read Arabic and Turkish,
however, and his French astonished her. It was so fluent, so
idiomatic, so exceedingly up-to-date, so freely sprinkled with
Parisian slang, that she wondered where he could have picked it up.

“From M. Karalampi, who was once attached to the French Consulate,” he
told her,--“and elsewhere,” he added, with a meaning look which made
her wonder.

The first morning was a type of all that followed. Azim Bey’s day
began with a visit to his father while he dressed, when he employed
his time in asking the impossible questions dear to the heart of small
boys all the world over, which the Pasha now generally parried by
referring him to Mademoiselle Antaza. A walk in the garden, and
breakfast with mademoiselle, followed this, and then came lessons. As
a learner, Azim Bey was almost perfect. He was so quick that Cecil
felt thankful that he knew so little to begin with, or she would have
been afraid of his outstripping her. As it was, she foresaw a time
when she would have to study hard to keep ahead of him, and this made
her rejoice that she had arranged with Miss Arbuthnot to keep her
supplied with the newest works on the principal subjects which she
taught.

But the care of her pupil in lesson-time was the least of Cecil’s
duties. The lonely little fellow attached himself to his governess in
the most marvellous way, and would scarcely allow her out of his
sight. When she went to the Residency on Sundays he moped so
persistently all day that the Pasha was almost tempted to give
permission for him to accompany her there, but refrained, partly for
fear of his being made a Christian, but much more for fear of the
outcry which would be raised on the subject by the Baghdadi zealots.
Wherever the Bey went, Cecil must go. Even if he appeared at any State
function in the Pasha’s hall of audience, she must be present as a
spectator in the latticed gallery which was appropriated to the ladies
of the harem, so that she might be ready afterwards to answer his
questions and appreciate his remarks, while he never went out without
her except in his father’s company. Her influence over him became
generally recognised, until at last even the Um-ul-Pasha, who had
taken no notice of her whatever since her unsuccessful call with Lady
Haigh, began to consider her a power to be reckoned with. The amiable
old lady had been so busy of late in carrying on a secret
correspondence with her eldest grandson, the rebellious Hussein Bey,
and in keeping him supplied with money, that she had paid slight
attention to the little household, which was theoretically in the
harem, yet not of it, and it struck her now with considerable force
that she had allowed herself to commit a great mistake in tactics.

The first intimation Cecil received of a change of front on the part
of the Um-ul-Pasha was a formal invitation to attend the great lady’s
reception with her pupil on the day of Bairam. Such an invitation was
equivalent to a command, and it was furthermore imperative that Azim
Bey should pay his respects to his grandmother at the feast, lest it
should be inferred that she had utterly cast off both the Pasha and
himself, and Cecil therefore prepared to go. Etiquette required that
Um Yusuf, old Ayesha, and Basmeh Kalfa should go too, and they were
all escorted by Masûd to the door of the harem, where he delivered
them into the charge of the principal aga.

It was now May, and the ladies were occupying the summer harem, a
pleasant English-looking building, standing in a flower-garden, and
furnished partly in European style. It was too early in the day as yet
for any but family visitors, but the Pasha had already paid his
respects to his mother and departed. The Um-ul-Pasha sat in the seat
of honour, the corner of the divan, in the great reception-room, with
the Pasha’s two wives beside her. One of these ladies was an invalid,
the other gentle and easy-going, and both were entirely under the
dominion of their mother-in-law, an imperious little tyrant with a
withered face and bright black eyes. It was easy to imagine what a
flutter Azim Bey’s impetuous, high-spirited Arab mother must have
caused in the dove-cotes here, and with what feelings the other wives
must have regarded their supplanter, and the Um-ul-Pasha the rebel
against her authority. Nothing of this was allowed to appear now,
however. Azim Bey kissed the hands of the ladies, who each made some
carefully uncomplimentary remark, either on his appearance or
dress--remarks which would have wounded Cecil’s feelings if she had
not known that they were made with the view of averting the evil eye.
The three servants kissed the hems of the ladies’ robes, and passed on
to join the throng of their intimates in the lower part of the room,
and Cecil, after a deep reverence to each of the exalted personages,
was graciously requested to sit down. She was used to sitting on
cushions on the floor by this time, and obeyed at once, while the
Um-ul-Pasha prepared to talk to her through the medium of Mademoiselle
Katrina, a plump Levantine lady in a red and green silk dress, who
lived in the harem, and acted as secretary, interpreter, and messenger
to the great lady. The customary compliments and a few unimportant
remarks were first exchanged, and then the Um-ul-Pasha came to
business.

“You are English, are you not?” she asked through Mdlle. Katrina.

Cecil answered in the affirmative.

“Is it true that it is the custom in your country for young people to
settle about their marriage for themselves, without their parents
arranging the matter?” was the next question, to which also Cecil
returned an unsuspecting reply, all unprepared for what was to follow.

“Then why are you not married?” asked the Um-ul-Pasha, bending her
black brows on her visitor, much as Um Yusuf had done in asking the
same question. The query was certainly an embarrassing one, and Cecil
answered blushingly that in England it was customary for the gentleman
to take the initiative in matters of the kind, and, well----. But it
was unnecessary for her to say any more, the inference was obvious,
and the expression on the Um-ul-Pasha’s face, faithfully copied on the
countenances of the other ladies, and respectfully reflected on that
of Mdlle. Katrina, said, “And no wonder!” It was an uncomfortable
moment, and to make the situation still more awkward, some mischievous
sprite prompted Azim Bey to put in a remark on his own account.

“When I am grown up, _I_ shall marry mademoiselle,” he said, in his
shrill little voice, and then sat and hugged himself in happy
consciousness of the bombshell he had thrown into the group. Cecil
would have felt a keen pleasure at the moment in shaking him, and his
grandmother’s fingers twitched as though she longed to have him by the
throat. Mdlle. Katrina seemed actually to grow pale and shrunken with
horror, and the other two ladies subsided into limp heaps on their
cushions, murmuring breathless exclamations of terror and dismay. It
was the Um-ul-Pasha who recovered herself first, and she hailed the
opportunity of administering a snub to her grandson and his governess
at the same time.

“You speak foolishly, Bey,” she said, in her haughtiest tones, “and I
am surprised that Mdlle. Antaza has not taught you better. She knows
very well that if I had not full confidence in her integrity, I should
advise my son, your father, to send her back to her own country at
once on account of that foolish speech of yours. As it is, such
nonsense as this makes me doubtful of the wisdom of keeping her here.”

Cecil flushed hotly, and would have risen and taken her departure, but
her pupil answered without the slightest trace of confusion.

“But you always hated her coming, madame, and when my father refused
to listen to you, you would not eat anything for a whole day. It is my
father who has brought mademoiselle here, and he will not send her
away.”

“Bey, don’t be rude to your grandmother,” said Cecil, reprovingly, and
the entrance of coffee and cakes here relieved the tension of the
situation. The Um-ul-Pasha became markedly gracious once more, and
insisted upon taking a sip from Cecil’s cup, and breaking a piece from
her cake, to show her good faith, but the only effect which this
exaggerated affability produced upon those chiefly concerned was
expressed by Azim Bey’s remark to his governess as they departed--

“Mademoiselle, the Um-ul-Pasha is intending something. It is not
poison this time; I wonder when we shall know what it is! Did you hear
my grandmother say to Mdlle. Katrina as we came away, ‘When the wife
of the Balio Bey comes, see that she is admitted when no other
visitors are present’? So you will hear all about it from the Mother
of Teeth.”

“You know that I have told you not to speak of Lady Haigh by that
name, Bey,” said Cecil, severely. “The wife of the Balio Bey should
always be mentioned with respect.”

Sir Dugald Haigh was the Balio Bey, the word being a corruption of
_bailo_, the title of the Venetian Ambassador to the Porte in the
middle ages, and the name spoke volumes to every inhabitant of
Baghdad, so that Azim Bey submitted to the correction meekly. As he
had prophesied, Cecil heard from Lady Haigh a full account of her
interview with the Um-ul-Pasha when they next met, on the occasion of
Queen Victoria’s birthday, which fell close after Bairam that year,
and on which all the English in the region kept holiday. Cecil spent
the day at the Residency, as it had been carefully specified in her
agreement with the Pasha that she should do, and she did not feel at
all averse from a short return to civilised dress and English society.
Lady Haigh told her the story in the evening, when they had a few
minutes to spare before the arrival of the guests for the dinner-party
which was _de rigueur_ on the occasion.

“I have simply laughed over it ever since, my dear,” said Lady Haigh;
“but I must tell it you quickly, or these people will be coming. Put
in plain language, the Um-ul-Pasha is willing to give you a handsome
outfit and dowry if you marry at once, just as if you were one of her
own favourite attendants.”

“And was any particular gentleman indicated?” asked Cecil.

“Certainly; it is Ovannes Effendi, the Pasha’s secretary. Nazleh
Khanum put the case very plainly from her own point of view. She said
that you had evidently failed to get married in your own country, or
you would not have come out here, and that you were wretchedly thin,
and had no idea of improving either your eyes or your complexion. As
for Ovannes Effendi, she said that he was in a good position, and
would make a kind husband. He was also a Christian--she laid great
stress upon that point of suitability--and could be trusted to marry
thankfully any lady the Um-ul-Pasha might be pleased to recommend to
him.”

“And what did you say?” asked Cecil, laughing.

“Well, my dear, I said that I was much obliged to Nazleh Khanum for
her kind intentions, but that I intended to make your settlement in
life my concern. I said that I had no doubt whatever of being able to
find you a husband as soon as ever you wanted one. In fact, I repaid
the Um-ul-Pasha with interest for the slight she put upon us when you
first came. I had to put it in oriental style, you see, or she
wouldn’t have understood it, but it makes me laugh whenever I think of
it. Imagine the luckless Ovannes Effendi suddenly saddled with a
London B.A. for a wife! Oh, there are those people! Let us go into the
drawing-room.”

The dinner-party over, a number of other people came in who had been
invited to a garden-_fête_, a style of entertainment to which the
grounds of the Residency were peculiarly adapted. Carpets and cushions
were strewn upon the terraces, the buildings were all illuminated, and
to crown all, there were two bands of music, European and native,
playing against each other, so as to satisfy every taste. The evening
was to close with a grand display of fireworks, and Cecil, looking for
a spot whence she might obtain a good view, found Charlie Egerton by
her side.

“There’s a capital place here,” he said, “and just room for two. I
haven’t spoken to you all day, and I’ve scarcely seen you all the
evening.”

“But you ought to be helping Sir Dugald to entertain the guests,” said
Cecil.

“But you are a guest,” he retorted, quickly, “and the rest have the
fireworks to entertain them. Besides, have you no compassion for the
sorrows of a poor wretch who has been trying in vain to entertain two
wholly unsympathetic ladies at the same time during the whole evening,
and could only approach success by making Mrs Hagopidan laugh at
Madame Denarien, and Madame Denarien feel shocked at Mrs Hagopidan?”

“What a very edifying conversation!” laughed Cecil. “But I saw you
talking to Madame Petroffsky part of the time.”

“Only for a moment, and the merest politenesses, I assure you. I can’t
bear emancipated women, they are all so dreadfully alike. Now don’t
take up the cudgels for them, please, Miss Anstruther. I have no doubt
that Anna Ivanovna is an excellent person, but she is not my ideal.
Besides, we quarrelled the last time we had an argument, and I hear
that she speaks of me now as _ce lourdaud de médecin anglais_. Could
a self-respecting man be expected to put up with that?”

“But the other two are not like her,” said Cecil.

“No, indeed,” said Charlie. “Her worst enemy could not call Madame
Denarien an emancipated woman. By the way, what a comment it is on
Denarien’s modern culture and occidental tastes! He marries a girl
brought up in a Syrian convent, whose teachers have been French nuns
of medieval views. She can repeat a few Latin prayers, work
embroidery, and make sweetmeats, and has pronounced ideas on the
possibility of enhancing her beauty by dyeing her hair and using white
and red paint liberally. But she is absolutely uneducated and can’t
talk a bit. She can sit and smile sweetly, and that is all. A doll
could do as much.”

“Yes, she is a very fair specimen of the beautiful uneducated Eastern
woman whom you admired so much a short time ago,” said Cecil,
wickedly. “But what can you find to say against Myrta Hagopidan?”

“Do you call each other by your Christian names already?” asked
Charlie, in pretended alarm. “I hope I have not said anything much
against her, Miss Anstruther. I had no idea that you were on such
affectionate terms with our bride.”

“My favourite governess went from the South Central to be principal of
the Poonah High School, where Myrta was educated,” said Cecil, “and
she lives so close to the Palace that I am often able to go in and see
her. You have no idea how delightful it is to have some one with whom
one can talk shop again. One’s school-days are really the happiest
time in one’s life, you know, at least to look back upon. And then she
is so pretty and bright.”

“Yes,” said Charlie, “she is smart, which emancipated women are not,
as a rule. But she is out of her element here. She comes to Baghdad
fresh from her school, brimful of modern notions, and thinks she can
lead society here. It won’t work. The English look askance at her as
being ‘a kind of native, don’t you know?’ and the rest do not
understand her. And really a woman whose happiness depends upon
society and society papers can’t find Baghdad congenial.”

“But her happiness doesn’t depend on them,” said Cecil. “She has a
great many interests, and she helps Mr Hagopidan with all his English
correspondence.”

“Then I have misjudged her,” said Charlie. “See how much more clearly
the feminine mind penetrates into character! I generalised hastily
from the fact that Mrs Hagopidan plied me with second-hand Simla
gossip and last season’s Belgravian personalities, which I detest.”

“Poor thing!” said Cecil; “she was only trying to suit your tastes.
She never talks to me like that.”

“And now,” went on Charlie, meditatively, “she proves to be an
excellent wife and a clever and businesslike woman.”

“I never like judging people from casual impressions,” said Cecil,
“but sometimes it is very hard not to do it. That tall dark man, for
instance, who is talking to Madame Petroffsky--I don’t like him. I
have seen him once or twice at the Palace, crossing the outer court
with the Pasha, and he always seems to me to be--what shall I
say?--slippery.”

“I should say that you had described him exactly,” said Charlie. “He
is a peculiar product of centuries of contact between European and
Eastern diplomacy, and he is particularly slippery. He is a Levantine
Greek, and his name is Karalampi.”

“Oh, I have heard Azim Bey talk of him,” said Cecil. “He told me he
taught him French.”

“I think Azim Bey may be very thankful that he has got into other
hands,” said Charlie.

“Why?” asked Cecil.

“Well, one hears a good deal about Karalampi which one doesn’t care to
repeat, but I can tell you what he is. The Pasha employs him as a spy
on the various consulates, and the consulates use him as a spy on the
Pasha and on each other. How he contrives to play them all off against
one another I don’t know, but I suppose he gives each employer his
turn. He used to be attached to the French Consulate, but no doubt his
present position is more lucrative. He does people’s dirty work for
them. Of course he is not officially employed by any one, but if you
could question Sir Dugald you would find out that more than once M.
Karalampi had furnished important information in the nick of time and
had been suitably rewarded.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Cecil, indignantly. “Who told you?”

“Azevedo, the old Jewish banker, a great crony of mine. Most of my
friends are Jews, Turks, infidels, or heretics, somehow.”

“Well, one can never tell what people will pride themselves upon,”
said Cecil, looking away. “But such a choice of friends----”

“I never said I was proud of it,” he said, quickly.

“No, your tone said it for you,” said Cecil; “it implied that it was
original and uncommon to have such a circle of acquaintances. But if
you are so fond of Jews, why don’t you get to know Dr Yehudi?”

“What, the fat old padre down in the town?”

“Yes; you seldom have him here on Sundays, because he knows so many
more languages than Mr Schad, and so does more mission-work. He can
speak an extraordinary number of modern dialects, and knows Syriac and
Chaldee and all the old languages as well.”

“Oh, I have heard them talking of him at Azevedo’s. To mention his
name there is like waving a red rag before a particularly furious
bull. And so he is one of those expensive people, converted Jews? You
know it costs, they say, a thousand pounds to convert one Jew. I
should like to see one. I’ll go and look him up.”

“I hope you will,” said Cecil, quietly.

Charlie looked at her a moment to discover whether she was angry with
his speech.

“Don’t you mind my saying that about the thousand pounds?” he asked.

“Why should I?” said Cecil. “Can you say that a soul, whether Dr
Yehudi’s or any one else’s, is not worth so much? But when you know
him, you will be better able to judge for yourself.”




 CHAPTER IX.
 LITERATURE AND POLITICS.

“I have made the acquaintance of your old friend,” Charlie said to
Cecil a few Sundays after this conversation.

“Oh, you mean Dr Yehudi,” said she. “How do you like him?”

“My Western mind admires him extremely, because he is so tremendously
in earnest, but my Eastern mind is disgusted by his restlessness. Why
can’t he let people alone? He must always be attacking some one’s
cherished beliefs or pet foibles. If I was really an Eastern, I
suppose I should regard him as a prophet, and become a disciple. But I
really do believe there is something in it.”

“Something in what?” asked Cecil.

“Well--in the conversion of Jews, in spite of the thousand pounds. Old
Yehudi is such a splendid fellow--with his power and talents he might
have done almost anything if he had remained a Jew, but he has given
it all up, and the way the Jews here hate him for it! He has a
fascination for them, though; they go and argue with him by the hour,
and then leave the house tearing their clothes and calling down curses
upon him. But he’s awfully good to them, and the Moslems respect him
tremendously. He seems to do a great deal of good in one way and
another, but I can’t help thinking he would do better as a medical
man. It must be a hopeless kind of work preaching to a set of poor
wretches so horribly afflicted as some of them are.”

“Why don’t you offer to go and help him?” asked Cecil.

Charlie looked confused.

“How did you know?” he said. “Of course I can’t give up my time to
anything of the kind now, but I did say something to him one day about
throwing up this place and working under him. What do you think he
said to me? He looked me over very slowly, and said, ‘My goot yong
friend, you are what we call a rolling stone, never staying long in
one place. In the Missions this is as bad as in the worldly affairs.
Let me see you staying where you are for five years, working
faithfully under the goot Balio Bey, and then come to me again.’ That
was rather rough on me, wasn’t it? I wonder how he knew that Sir
Dugald and I didn’t exactly hit it?”

“He knows Sir Dugald, and he is beginning to know you,” said Cecil;
“and by his putting it in that way, he meant to show that it was not
Sir Dugald’s fault.”

“I am doomed to be snubbed to-day,” said Charlie, and went off
laughing to visit his hospital. Cecil felt more light-hearted than
usual about him that night. Generally his erratic ways and strange
acquaintances weighed upon her mind a good deal, but she felt more at
ease now that he had learnt to know the versatile and friendly Dr
Yehudi. He would be better employed in discussing Talmudical theology
or Syriac roots with him, even if no higher themes were touched upon,
than in gathering scandal about Sir Dugald and the foreign consuls
generally from old Isaac Azevedo. Cecil had taken a rather hastily
founded dislike to this old man, of whom she knew only by hearsay. It
even made her doubtful of the correctness of her own estimate of M.
Karalampi, to find it confirmed by reports from such a quarter. But a
corroboration of Charlie’s opinion of Azim Bey’s former teacher was
speedily to be provided from an independent source.

Cecil’s relations with her pupil continued to be of the happiest
character. In the seclusion of their own courtyard he was almost
always with her. He was perfectly content to be silent if she was
busy, and possessed the happy faculty of being able to do nothing and
yet not get into mischief. But stories were what he delighted in, and
all the pranks of Fitz, Terry, Patsy, and Loey were recounted over and
over again, until he knew the boys as well as their sister did. It was
a remarkable and gratifying thing about him that he never seemed
inclined to imitate any of these tricks. He was too much grown up,
indeed, to do anything of the kind, and it was from this very fact
that Cecil’s first great difficulty in dealing with him arose.

It so happened that she was not called upon to face this difficulty
until one day in the height of summer, when she was feeling unusually
weak and exhausted. She was only just recovering from an attack of
fever, and the heat seemed stifling, even in the semi-darkness of the
cellar schoolroom, with its carefully shaded windows close to the
ceiling. She had succeeded in getting through the morning’s lessons
somehow, but she found it impossible to provide Azim Bey with his
daily instalment of story. Upon this he volunteered to tell her a
story instead, while one of the negresses sat by and fanned her, and
she prepared herself to listen with considerable interest. Whatever
the story was, Azim Bey seemed to be quite excited about it, and she
wondered whether he had inherited the Arab gift of improvisation. He
sat thinking for a few minutes, and then, with very little preface,
began to pour into her horrified ears such a tale as made her hair
almost stand on end. At first she could only gaze at him in speechless
horror as he spoke, accompanying his words with much vigorous
descriptive action, but at last she found her voice, and burst forth
with crimson face--

“Bey, be silent! How dare you repeat such things? Where did you learn
that?”

“In a book, mademoiselle, a delightful book. Ah, magnificent!” he
added, slowly, smacking his lips as if he enjoyed the recollection.

“Who gave it you?” gasped Cecil.

“M. Karalampi: he has given and lent me many, for two--three years.
Ah, the dear pink and yellow books, how I love them!”

“And you have been reading these books ever since I came, and you
never told me!” said Cecil, in deep reproach. Her pupil became
penitent at once.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” he cried, flinging himself down beside her, and
seizing her hand, “he told me not to tell you. He said the English
hated French books, and could not understand them, and he used to send
them into my apartments at night. But at last I thought I would see
whether you did understand. O mademoiselle, my dear mademoiselle, why
are you weeping?”

“Because I am not fit to have the charge of you,” said Cecil, sadly,
dashing away the gathering tears. “I never thought of this. Oh, Bey, I
trusted you!”

“Don’t weep, mademoiselle, you are good; it is I that am wicked, vile,
a beast! I will give them up--I will read no more. We will burn them
all. I will never speak to M. Karalampi again. I promise,
mademoiselle.”

“How did you first learn to know M. Karalampi?” asked Cecil.

“My father wished me to take lessons in French, mademoiselle, and M.
Karalampi offered to teach me, and then he said that I should learn
best in reading by myself, and he would borrow some books for me from
the French Consul.”

“So he lent you these dreadful books?”

“Yes, mademoiselle. What do you think of him?”

“I am not going to say what I think. His behaviour is infamous.”

“Ah, he is a wicked man then, mademoiselle?”

“Wicked is no word for it. Bey, you will keep your promise--you will
burn these books?”

“I will, mademoiselle, I have given you my word; but it is like
burning a piece of myself. What shall I do with nothing to read and
all my pocket-money gone? for I have just sent to M. Karalampi what I
owed him.”

“You shall have English books,” said Cecil, with sudden resolution.
“You have no idea of the delightful books English boys read--books
that will do you good instead of harm. We will read them together
first, and when you know more English you shall read them by yourself.
I can borrow one or two from the Residency until we can write home for
more.”

“Very well, mademoiselle. We will burn the bad books--we will not
retain one. O women, bring wood into the courtyard, and fire.”

The negresses obeyed in some surprise, which was only natural,
considering the character of the weather; but Cecil and her pupil were
both too much in earnest to care for the heat, and mounted the stairs
at once to the courtyard, where the servants arranged a goodly pile.
It was not in Azim Bey’s nature to conduct such a ceremony as this
without all the pomp possible, and having installed Cecil in an
arm-chair in the verandah, he headed a small procession of slave-women
to his own rooms and superintended their return with their arms full
of pink and yellow volumes. Under his direction the leaves were torn
out in handfuls and piled on the wood, and he himself heroically set
fire to the pile. Cecil sat with a thankful heart watching the printed
pages curl and blacken. She remembered now Um Yusuf’s remark about
Azim Bey’s reading bad books, and the way Lady Haigh had laughed at
it, but the possibility of such a constant inflow of corrupt
literature as M. Karalampi had brought about had never occurred to
her. On the principle of striking while the iron was hot, she
proceeded next to cut off the supply. When Azim Bey had satisfied
himself that not a scrap of the obnoxious books remained unburnt, he
was summoned to write to M. Karalampi. Under Cecil’s superintendence,
but in his own phraseology, the boy expressed his thanks for M.
Karalampi’s kindness in the past, while remarking politely that he
would not trouble him for any further specimens of French literature.
When this letter had been despatched by a special messenger, Cecil
breathed more freely, and wrote a little note to the Residency, asking
Lady Haigh to send her any boys’ books she might happen to have.

Without Cecil’s intending it in the slightest, her hasty scribble
produced an extraordinary effect at the Residency. As has already been
said, she had been suffering from fever, and had not, in consequence,
been able to avail herself of her Sunday liberty for a fortnight. She
had been attended by the Pasha’s own physician, who had gone in person
to the Residency to report to Lady Haigh on the condition of his
patient, but Lady Haigh was not satisfied. She herself had hurt her
foot and could not get to the Palace to see Cecil, and she was nervous
and low-spirited about her, and feared that she was not properly taken
care of. The hurried pencil note, with its uneven writing, seemed to
her to confirm her fears, and she was hobbling to Sir Dugald’s office
to look for him and insist upon his doing something, when she
remembered that he had gone to see the Pasha. Happily she came across
Charlie instead, and he sympathised fully with her apprehensions.

“Yes, Cousin Elma, it does look bad. It seems to me very much as if
they were keeping her shut up and she couldn’t write without exciting
suspicion. She gets hold of a scrap of paper and scribbles as plain a
message as she dares without actually asking for help. You see from
the writing that she must have been agitated and excited. I certainly
think that this note ought to be answered in person.”

“And my wretched foot!” groaned poor Lady Haigh.

“Oh, I’ll go for you, Cousin Elma,” said Charlie, hastily. “It might
not do to wait until Sir Dugald comes back. I don’t feel at all sure
about that illness of Miss Anstruther’s. It may be all a fraud on the
part of the _hakim bashi_ (doctor). At any rate, if you will write a
note saying that I am the surgeon of the Residency come to see
Mademoiselle Antaza professionally, they must let me in. Of course, if
you have the books, I may as well take them with me, in case it’s all
right.”

About an hour afterwards, in consequence of this colloquy, Cecil and
her pupil, who had begun their evening lessons, were disturbed by
hearing Masûd’s warning cry of “_Dastûr! Dastûr!_” Much surprised
that the Pasha should pay his son a visit at this unwonted hour, Cecil
and the other women hurriedly assumed their veils, presenting thereby
an extremely grotesque aspect to Charlie as he approached, preceded by
the much-perturbed Masûd. He could not help laughing to see the women
instantaneously transforming themselves into closely swathed bundles
at his appearance, and Azim Bey marked his levity with displeasure.

“This gentleman is an acquaintance of yours, mademoiselle?” he
inquired frigidly, noticing that Cecil started.

“How do you do, Dr Egerton?” she asked, in some confusion. “May I
present to you Dr Egerton from the English Consulate, Bey?”

Charlie composed his features and bowed with due solemnity, and then
delivered his burden of books with a polite message from Lady Haigh.
Having done this, he seemed to intend his visit to be considered as a
friendly call, for he made several vain attempts to thaw the cool
reserve of Azim Bey, who sat regarding him with disapproving eyes.
Cecil was on thorns, fearing that her pupil would proceed to say
something rude, and it was scarcely a matter of surprise to her when
he remarked in his clearest tones--

“At this period of the day, monsieur, mademoiselle and I are engaged
with our studies. As I am certain that mademoiselle has no desire that
these should be interrupted by the visits of her acquaintances, I may
remark that if Milady Haigh has any message to send after this, it
will be unnecessary for M. le docteur to put himself to the pain of
bringing it.”

Cecil turned crimson, and even Charlie looked confused for a moment.
But his presence of mind did not forsake him, and he bowed politely,
regretted that he had trespassed on the patience of mademoiselle and
of the Bey, and took his departure.

“I do believe that little beggar’s inclined to be jealous,” he said to
himself as he left the Palace and went back to the Residency,
satisfied about Cecil, and thinking no more about Azim Bey and his
ways.

Cecil dared not say anything to her pupil about his rudeness, fearing
lest he should think she had some personal feeling in the matter.
After all, she was not sorry that Dr Egerton should have received his
_congé_ so decisively, for it would never have done if he had taken
it into his head to call again, and she was only thankful that the
incident of the books should have ended so happily.

But she was reckoning without her host, for the incident was not yet
terminated. Two or three days after the destruction of the French
novels, Azim Bey came in from a ride with his father in a state of
high self-satisfaction.

“It is not good to speak kindly to a wicked man--to treat him with
distinction--is it, mademoiselle?”

“To treat him with distinction? Certainly not,” said Cecil.

“Well, mademoiselle, I have treated the wicked man rightly; for M.
Karalampi is a wicked man, is he not? You said so yourself.”

“I know I did; but I didn’t mean you to be rude to him, Bey,” answered
Cecil, in some alarm. “What have you done?”

“We passed him to-day, mademoiselle, walking with the French Consul,
and I refused to take the slightest notice of either of them; for the
Consul must also be wicked, since he lent M. Karalampi the books at
first. Well, presently, when we halted, M. Karalampi approached me
with an air of familiarity, and inquired with sorrow how he had
offended me. I told him that I did not desire any further association
with him, and that I no longer considered him as one of my intimates.”

The boy was so well pleased with himself for this that none of Cecil’s
lectures on rudeness could produce any effect on him, and she dropped
the subject in despair. But the French Consul and M. Karalampi did not
see the matter in the same light, and they did their best, happily
with only partial success, to found a diplomatic complication upon the
incident. A note to the French Government complained of the pernicious
influence exercised by England in the household of Ahmed Khémi Pasha,
and in ornate and highly complimentary language deprecated the
interference of ladies in politics. Cecil was gallantly described as a
young woman profoundly learned, with manners the most distinguished, a
countenance charming and altogether spiritual, and a bearing at once
modest and intrepid, _Anglaise des Anglaises_. The sting of this
description was intended to be in its tail, and the writer went on to
say that this young girl, so innocent, so unsuspicious, was only the
tool of unscrupulous persons behind the scenes. Here followed a highly
coloured portrait of Sir Dugald Haigh, who was described as “this
inscrutable automaton of a man,” “this impassive murderer of poor
Hindus” (it is scarcely necessary to remark that the latter was a
purely fancy touch, probably borrowed from the colonial methods of the
writer’s own nation), as a crafty schemer and a Machiavellian plotter.

The note produced a good deal of effect, and there was a debate upon
the subject in the French Chamber, while at Westminster certain
M.P.’s, whose tender consciences were wounded by the thought of
England’s exercising influence anywhere, questioned the Government
upon it, and Cecil received through Sir Dugald a vague and formal
caution which might have meant anything or nothing, and the matter
dropped.

The English books which Cecil procured to replace the vanished novels
proved extremely successful in accomplishing her object. Azim Bey
devoured them eagerly, and held long conversations upon them with his
governess afterwards. To her great amusement, the characters he
discussed with most appreciation were those of the villain and of the
capable person who acted as _deus ex machinâ_, and cleared up
everything at the end of the story. He pursued the history of the
villain’s machinations with breathless interest, and generally carped
at his ignominious downfall when virtue triumphed, declaring that such
a man would never have let himself be conquered by such feeble means.
On the other hand, the character of the wealthy old gentleman who
adopts deserving orphan boys and starts them in life, takes
necessitous heroes into partnership, and bestows timely fortunes on
penniless heroines, suited the vein of rather eccentric benevolence
which was noticeable in him. Further reading brought him to wish to do
something for the poor--and this not only in the way of giving alms to
beggars in the street, which he did carefully as a religious duty. He
wished to go amongst them and help them to raise themselves; and when
his father absolutely refused to allow him to do anything of the kind,
he demanded that his governess should find him some substitute for
this employment. After some cogitation, Cecil suggested that he should
take an interest in Dr Yehudi’s Mission-schools, the best managed
institution of their kind in Baghdad; and Azim Bey set to work at
once, and gave the Pasha no peace until he had granted him leave to
visit them.

It would be difficult to say whether the Bey or his entertainers felt
the honour of this visit more acutely, but the programme was gone
through in a thoroughly successful way. Azim Bey inspected all the
buildings, listened to the children’s lessons, asked them a few
questions himself, and finally sent out one of his servants to buy
sweetmeats to distribute among them--all with a stately and paternal
air modelled on that which the Pasha wore on similar occasions. He was
so supremely well satisfied with himself that, when the ceremony was
over, he accepted the Yehudis’ invitation to afternoon tea, and
handled his cup and saucer as though to the manner born, or as if he
had rehearsed the scene carefully beforehand, as he generally did when
he was to meet Europeans. They were a very pleasant little party in
the cellar of the Mission-house,--Mrs Yehudi pouring out her woes to
Cecil in a corner on the subject of her husband’s irrepressible
activity, and her conviction that he would kill himself with work;
while Dr Yehudi, genial, rotund, and erudite, conversed with Azim Bey
in the purest Arabic, when the harmony of the occasion was marred by
the entrance of a visitor. Unfortunately, it was not one of the Jewish
rabbis who were wont to come and argue with Dr Yehudi, nor even one of
the Turkish gentlemen who sometimes honoured him with a visit for the
sake of his many talents, but Charlie Egerton. As he advanced
cautiously towards his hostess in the dim light, Azim Bey’s brow grew
black, and Cecil turned first red and then white, as she realised that
her pupil’s suspicious mind had instantly concluded that the meeting
here was prearranged. Ever since Charlie’s visit to their courtyard,
Azim Bey had maintained a violent dislike of him, and refused to hear
his name mentioned, alleging that he had forced his way into the
Palace with the express design of insulting him and of thrusting
himself upon Mdlle. Antaza.

A prejudice of this kind could not be dealt with by argument, and
Cecil had refrained from attempting it, but now she wished that she
had not done so, for even the Yehudis perceived at once that something
was wrong. The only unconcerned person was the intruder himself, who
complimented Mrs Yehudi on her tea, chaffed the Bey on the subject of
his gloomy countenance, and otherwise did his best to make things
comfortable. But his efforts were in vain. No sooner had Cecil set
down her tea-cup than her pupil rose.

“I am sorry to hasten you, mademoiselle, but it is time that we
return. M. le pasteur, may I entreat you to command my servants to be
summoned? Accept, madame, the assurance of my most distinguished
consideration, and of my eternal gratitude for your hospitality. Allow
me to enjoy the hope of one day partaking of it again.”

“May I ride with you as far as the Palace?” said Charlie to Cecil in a
low voice, but Azim Bey heard him.

“No, monsieur, pray do not trouble yourself to move. Your attendance
is not required. You understand me?”

“Perfectly, Bey,” responded Charlie, and Azim Bey and his attendants
mounted and rode off, the Bey keeping a sharp eye upon Cecil, with the
view of preventing any lingering farewells. When they were well on
their way, he demanded--

“Is this Dr Egerton always at the Mission-house when you go there,
mademoiselle?”

“Certainly not,” said Cecil.

“That means every time but once, I suppose?” he asked, rudely.

“You forget yourself, Bey,” said Cecil, in grave reproof. “I am not
accountable for Dr Egerton’s movements, but I can tell you that I have
never met him at the Mission-house before, and that I had no idea
whatever that he would be there to-day.”

Azim Bey grunted and changed the subject, absolutely refusing to refer
to it again. He refused also to attend the prize-giving at the school,
to which he had been looking forward, and gave Cecil as few chances as
possible of going to the Mission-house. Nor did his precautions end
here. Dr Yehudi received a confidential hint from Denarien Bey,
warning him not to entertain persons from the British Consulate so
frequently at his house, as the fact of the constant presence there of
such individuals was creating a suspicion in high quarters that the
work was being carried on for political ends. The old missionary had
no alternative but to lay the case before Charlie, who perceived that
he was out-manœuvred, and was obliged to accept the situation. Lady
Haigh laughed at him, but he felt himself an innocent and much injured
individual.




 CHAPTER X.
 A CUP OF COFFEE.

For more than a year Azim Bey continued to be sulky on the subject
of the Mission-school, although in everything else he was a pattern
pupil. His intended career as a public benefactor seemed destined to
end abruptly with Charlie Egerton’s appearance in the Yehudis’
parlour, and Cecil could not be wholly sorry for this, since political
feeling in the city was not in a state to make house-to-house
visitation either safe or pleasant. Matters were going rather badly in
the pashalik just now. Two or three scanty harvests had been followed
by famine, and the general distress was increased by the fact that the
Pasha, who was much in want of money, had chosen this singularly
inopportune moment for imposing a duty on the importation of foreign
corn, a course which was strongly resented. Bands of marauders
infested the country districts, and the constant expeditions necessary
to keep the main trade-routes open involved an expenditure of men and
money which could with difficulty be met. Hussein Bey, the Pasha’s
disaffected eldest son, who had been “lying low” for some time, had
reappeared as the leader of one of these bands, and was doing his best
to stir the populace to revolt. His wrongs, in being set aside for his
younger brother, who was being brought up as half a Christian, were in
every one’s mouth, and many people did not scruple to attribute the
misfortunes of the province to the malign influence of the
Englishwoman who was scarcely ever absent from Azim Bey’s side. The
position she enjoyed in the Palace was constantly attributed to
witchcraft; and there were even those who said that things would never
be right in Baghdad until Azim Bey and his governess were--well,
disposed of. By degrees matters went from bad to worse. Riotous mobs
beset unpopular officials in the streets, and more than one house was
attacked and rifled. The Pasha shut himself up in the Palace, with a
strong guard on duty night and day, and none of the household ventured
out without an escort. When Cecil went to the Residency she was
attended by a small army of soldiers and cavasses, and even these
could scarcely keep back the howling mobs. Still no actual danger
touched her personally, and she was inclined to adopt Sir Dugald’s
consolatory opinion that the bark of the Baghdadis was always worse
than their bite, and that the latter might be considered, in
mathematical language, as a negligible quantity, when something came
to pass one day which showed her in what a perilous position she and
her charge really stood at this time.

After lessons on this particular morning, Azim Bey despatched one of
the slave-women to bring some coffee. The negress was longer than
usual on her errand, and he waxed impatient, but she reappeared at
last, hurrying in with three tiny jewelled cups on a silver tray. One
cup was for herself, for it was her duty to taste the beverages
supplied to the Bey, the remaining two for him and for Cecil. As the
woman set the tray down on the little octagonal table, Azim Bey gave
it a slight twist so as to bring the cup which had been nearest to her
hand opposite to himself. Her hand was already outstretched to take
it, and she paused in surprise and hesitated.

“Taste the coffee, O Salimeh,” said the boy, authoritatively.

Rather doubtfully, Salimeh stretched her hand across the tray, took
the cup which was in front of her young master, and drank off the
contents.

“Now drink another,” said Azim Bey.

“O, my lord, they are for thee and for mademoiselle,” remonstrated the
woman, with a note of anxiety in her voice which attracted Cecil’s
attention. “How shall I drink my lord’s coffee?”

“Drink it,” said Azim Bey, shortly, fixing his eyes upon her.

As though fascinated by his gaze, she slowly stretched out her hand
and took up another cup, raised it half-way to her lips, and paused.

“Drink it,” he repeated, gazing at her, while her dark face grew pale
and ghastly-looking with terror, until in a sudden frenzy she dashed
the cup to the ground.

“O, my lord, pardon thy servant,” she sobbed, flinging herself on her
knees and grovelling before him. “God has made my lord very wise.
There is death in the cup.”

“Drink the other,” said Azim Bey, unmoved.

His voice had been so calm throughout that it was only now that Cecil
realised that she had barely escaped taking a prominent part in a
tremendous tragedy. She interposed hastily.

“Bey, you cannot mean to make her drink it if it is poisoned? It will
kill her.”

“She would have killed you and me, mademoiselle. Get up and drink it,
thou granddaughter of a dog!” he added to the wretched woman, who was
weeping and howling at his feet.

“But it is not for you to punish her,” remonstrated Cecil. “She may
have been terrified into doing it. It ought to be inquired into.”

“It shall be,” said Azim Bey, grimly, and he summoned Masûd from the
door. With the poisoned cup held to her lips, Salimeh confessed that
she had been bribed to leave the tray of coffee on the ledge of a
window which looked into the harem enclosure, and to turn her back for
a moment. She had held in her hand the cup she intended for herself,
so as to make things safe, but she could only guess what had been done
to the other two. It took longer to find out who had been the other
party to the dreadful transaction, but after a lengthy
cross-examination she confessed that it was Zubeydeh Kalfa, the
Um-ul-Pasha’s head-slave. When this conclusion was reached, Azim Bey
turned a meaning glance on Cecil.

“This case must go before my father, mademoiselle,” he said; “it is
too much for me to deal with. No doubt he would much prefer that I
should settle it for myself and not involve him in trouble with my
grandmother, but it is too serious. An example must be made. Take the
woman away, O Masûd, and keep her safely until the Pasha can give
thee orders about her.”

“Upon my head be it, O my lord,” responded Masûd, with a grin, and
dragged away the miserable Salimeh, shrieking and praying for mercy.

“Did you know beforehand that the coffee was poisoned, Bey?” was the
first question Cecil asked her pupil when they were alone.

“We in Turkey learn to expect such incidents in times like these,
mademoiselle,” said the boy, with lofty, almost _blasé_,
condescension, “and I have long been looking out for some token of the
kind from my grandmother or my brother, but I knew no more about this
attempt before it was made than you did.”

“Then how did you discover it?” asked Cecil, with natural curiosity.

“Perhaps, mademoiselle, you may not have observed that I am of a
somewhat suspicious nature? Any unnecessary action or unusual
occurrence sets me to reflect upon the reason for its happening. Apply
this to our experience to-day. I send the villanous Salimeh for
coffee. She is much longer than she need be in bringing it, and
returns to the room hastily, and with an air of disturbance. My
suspicions are aroused, but I say nothing, knowing that no one looks
so foolish as the person who imagines perpetually that plots are being
directed against him. I merely turn the tray partly round, secure that
the would-be murderess will not murder herself. Her very first
movement confirms my suspicions, and if any further assurance is
wanted, it is supplied by her later behaviour. There you have the
whole thing.”

“It is very dreadful,” said Cecil, with a shudder; “but you will ask
his Excellency to deal gently with her, Bey?”

“Gently, mademoiselle?” and a smile broke over Azim Bey’s solemn
countenance. “Is she to have liberty to murder us successfully another
time? Besides, an example is necessary, and she is the only culprit
that can be reached. Zubeydeh Kalfa may possibly be seized, but to
defend herself she would implicate her employers, and then the matter
could not be hushed up.”

“But this is not justice, Bey,” remonstrated Cecil.

“No, mademoiselle, it is policy,” said Azim Bey, unabashed.

And the dictates of policy were followed in the investigation which
succeeded. No one who heard of the matter doubted for an instant that
the Um-ul-Pasha had planned the murder of her younger grandson in the
interests of Hussein Bey, but all Ahmed Khémi Pasha’s efforts were
directed to prevent the slightest whisper being breathed against his
mother. He guarded with the utmost loyalty the good name which she had
perilled so rashly, and succeeded in preventing any open declaration
of the truth. Zubeydeh Kalfa was got rid of by being married to a
former pipe-bearer of the Pasha’s, who was going to live in Mosul, a
town which has a Pasha of its own, and where gossip concerning the
Palace harem at Baghdad would therefore be at a discount. Salimeh
disappeared. Cecil was left in doubt as to her fate, and could never
discover what had become of her. All that Azim Bey would say when
questioned was that she had gone to a far country, but whether she had
been put to death, or disposed of in the same way that Zubeydeh Kalfa
had been, Cecil never knew. Masûd and the women-servants who had seen
and heard what had happened received handsome presents to induce them
to keep the matter quiet, and Cecil was astonished by the gift of a
gold watch of abnormal size, with a richly jewelled case and a massive
chain. Its value was considerable, and she exhibited it at the
Residency with surprise and delight, until Lady Haigh told her that it
was intended as a bribe to make her hold her tongue. She was horrified
at this, and wished to return it to the Pasha at once, but Lady Haigh
objected.

“You don’t intend to publish abroad your belief that the Um-ul-Pasha
tried to poison you and Azim Bey, I suppose?” she said; “so why not
keep the watch, if you are going to earn it?”

“But the Pasha will think that I am silent on account of his having
given it to me,” said Cecil.

“Of course he will, my dear; and if you give it back, he will take it
as a sign that it is not valuable enough, and he will go on piling up
his bribes, but he will never understand your scruples. Orientals
don’t indulge in such luxuries, and why should you not let the poor
man have the happy feeling that your silence is secured, since it is
so after all?”

Cecil was silenced, but not convinced, and put the watch by, for her
pleasure in it was spoilt. Presently she had to encounter another
argument from Charlie Egerton, to whom the news of the attempted
murder had filtered through the gossip of the servants and the
streets. He was horrified to learn the danger she had been in, and
urgently desirous that she should at once quit the Palace and take
refuge at the Residency. To his great concern, Cecil refused to do
anything of the kind. It was true that she had felt nervous and
unstrung for a few days after the shock of the sudden danger and
escape, but since then she had pulled herself together and looked the
situation boldly in the face. She was ashamed of the hasty impulse
which had seized her to seek refuge in flight, and determined to
remain at the post of duty. Hence, when Charlie attacked her, he found
her armed at all points.

“It isn’t right,” he said, vehemently. “You are in constant danger.
They may catch you off your guard at any moment, and there you are,
alone in that great place, with traitors all round you.”

“I am not afraid,” said Cecil. “Don’t you know that ‘each man’s
immortal till his work is done’? My work certainly lies at the Palace,
and while I can, I hope to do it.”

“That would be a poor consolation if you and your work both ended
together,” said Charlie, bitterly, too much in earnest to pick his
phrases.

“Why?” said Cecil. “We know that I shan’t die so long as there is any
work at all left for me to do, so that if I am killed it must mean
that my work is done.”

“I can’t see it as you do,” said Charlie, conscious that this was not
what he meant at all; “and I have no wish to try, either. You are
wrought up and overstrained just now. I see that you are taking your
life in your hand, and going into fearful danger quite needlessly.”

“But it’s not needlessly,” said Cecil; “it’s my duty. Why, suppose
that cholera, or the plague, broke out here, would you shut yourself
up and refuse to go among the people? I know you wouldn’t. You would
work night and day, and never think of the danger.”

“That’s different,” said Charlie. “It would be my business to do it. A
fellow would be a cad not to. But I wouldn’t let you do it, as you
know. It’s a very different thing going into danger oneself, and
seeing you go.”

“But you will have to submit to it, Charlie,” said Lady Haigh’s voice.
“Cecil, my dear, I want you.” And Charlie’s chance of breaking down
Cecil’s resolution was gone.

In his desperation, when Cecil was about to return to the Palace, he
applied to Sir Dugald, and was politely snubbed for his pains.
Certainly, Sir Dugald admitted, he was bound to afford protection to
all British subjects, but he could not force any of them to avail
themselves of it, and he pointed out the painful absurdity of the
situation which would be caused by any attempt to detain Cecil at the
Residency against her will. Such an argument had little effect upon
Charlie, but Sir Dugald’s ruling characteristic was the fear of being
made to look absurd, and he really felt that this consideration
settled the matter. Charlie poured out his woes, as usual, to Lady
Haigh, who attempted to console him by the reflection that the
Um-ul-Pasha was not likely to make another effort at poisoning just
yet, since her intended victims would be on their guard, to which he
replied that she would probably be counting on this very confidence as
to her intentions, and thus be emboldened to renew her attack.

In the little courtyard which formed Cecil’s world during six days out
of every seven, public opinion agreed with Lady Haigh rather than with
Charlie. It was the general feeling that although no public reference
had been made to the Um-ul-Pasha’s share in the conspiracy, yet the
danger of detection had approached sufficiently near to give her a
very good fright, and that she would make no further attempt on her
grandson’s life for the present. The Pasha’s prevailing fear was lest
more violent means might now be employed, and some band of brigands
subsidised to effect the desired object. His Excellency was between
two fires. On one side were the Hajar Arabs, the tribesmen of Azim
Bey’s dead mother, who had espoused the boy’s cause with
characteristic and troublesome ardour, and threatened to murder the
Pasha if he allowed any harm to come to him; and on the other the rest
of the powerful Arab tribes of the neighbourhood, who had no special
interest in Hussein Bey, but adopted his cause on account of its not
being that of the Hajar. With these were the majority of the
Baghdadis, some because of a natural instinct for opposing the powers
that be, others because they sincerely attributed to Azim Bey and the
Englishwoman the misfortunes of the time.

On account of this danger from brigands and from the disaffected
Arabs, the Pasha forbade his son ever to go beyond the city walls,
except in company with himself and his large escort. This prohibition
fell hardly upon Azim Bey, who found his daily rides much curtailed
and his weekly hunting-parties almost entirely stopped; but Cecil held
sole command in their own courtyard, and would not permit any evasion
of his Excellency’s orders. Her pupil felt it very dull, and at last,
when he grew thoroughly tired of rambles confined to the garden, began
to ask again about the Yehudis and their work. Hearing that the yearly
prize-giving at the schools was again approaching, he became much
interested; and when Cecil hinted that he might possibly be invited to
preside at the ceremony, his excitement rose to fever heat. An
announcement that the children had been taught to sing an Arabic
version of “God save the Queen,” so arranged as to refer to the Sultan
instead of to her most gracious Majesty, and an elaborate letter in
Turkish from Dr Yehudi, adorned with many flourishes, both literary
and caligraphical, and requesting the honour of his presence, decided
him to go, were it only with the view of encouraging loyalty in the
rising generation. Even in this exalted state of mind, however, he
exacted a solemn promise from both Cecil and Dr Yehudi that Dr Egerton
should not be invited. This once settled, he bent himself to the task
of obtaining his father’s permission to go--a formality which the
deluded Cecil had imagined to have been complied with long before.

After all, the Pasha was not very difficult to coax into consent, for
he was specially anxious to stand well with England just then, and he
had a vague idea that there were a good many people there who took an
utterly incomprehensible interest in such an unimportant and far-off
object as the Jewish Mission-school at Baghdad. But although he was
willing that England should know of his tolerant behaviour, he was
particularly anxious that the news of it should not spread in Baghdad,
lest the mob should seek revenge at once against the Christians and
against Azim Bey by burning down the Mission-house, in which case his
Excellency would have to make good the damage. For this reason, Azim
Bey was informed, to his great chagrin, that he must go quite
privately to the prize-giving, without any pomp and circumstance
whatever, for fear of exciting the populace. Not a word was to be
breathed of the matter to any one but the parties immediately
concerned; there was to be no military escort, no long train of
servants, only the two nurses and the donkey-boys to attend upon Cecil
and himself, and Masûd to give an air of respectability to the
outing. All were to wear their plainest clothes, even the donkeys were
not to be decked with their State trappings, and the route was
strictly to be limited to unfrequented streets. Was there ever such a
poor and mean caricature of the gorgeous pageant Azim Bey had proposed
to himself? Still, it was a great thing to get out of the Palace for a
day, and the anticipated delights of playing Lord Paramount at the
prize-giving consoled the boy under his disappointment.

The ride from the Palace to the Mission-house was undertaken in the
quietest part of the day, when there were few people in the streets,
and it passed without any hostile manifestation or even any
recognition of the riders. This fact delighted Cecil, but her pupil
seemed to be a little piqued. He had been looking forward to an
exciting and perilous transit, and this was rather tame in comparison;
but his grievance was forgotten when the Mission-house courtyard was
safely reached, and he found that the buildings were decorated with
flags, and that all the school-children were drawn up in line to
receive him. When once he had dismounted, he drew himself up with an
exact imitation of his father’s rather pompous stride on State
occasions, greeted Dr and Mrs Yehudi and Mr and Mrs Schad with great
urbanity, and passed on to the house with them between the lines of
children, bowing graciously right and left in his progress, as Cecil
had told him was the custom of royalty in England. At the examination
which followed he sat gravely in his chair and made sage remarks on
what he heard, while the musical drill delighted him excessively. He
distributed the prizes without the least shyness or awkwardness, and
consoled the less fortunate children with sweets, a form of comfort
which appealed very strongly to himself. He was an interested
spectator of the games which followed, and of the feast to which the
children at length sat down, and only consented to tear himself away
at Cecil’s repeated entreaties, assuring his hosts that he had enjoyed
himself extremely, and would have liked to remain until night.

Cecil was not so happy, for during the latter part of the time she had
been on thorns lest anything should happen to prevent their getting
safely back through the city. With all her haste it was the cool of
the day when they emerged from the gate of the Mission-house, a time
at which the streets were at their fullest. She dared not order her
cavalcade to quicken their pace, for fear of attracting attention, but
her precaution was in vain, for her pupil was recognised as they
passed through a crowd collected at the street corner, and they were
soon followed by a number of ill-conditioned men and boys making
uncomplimentary remarks in Arabic. Azim Bey waxed exceedingly wroth at
this, and wanted to order Masûd and the donkey-boys to charge the
crowd, but Cecil succeeded in restraining him. She could not, however,
keep him from exchanging defiances with his ragged escort, a
proceeding which improved the temper of neither.

“I will have your heads cut off! You shall be impaled upon the walls!”
shrieked the little fellow at last, and the crowd replied by derisive
laughter and ominous threats directed against himself and the foreign
woman, heaping special abuse on Cecil.

“These people not good, mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, coming to her
mistress’s bridle-rein. “Some one from the harem gone tell them who we
are, and they kill us. We should get away from them. See, there is a
house with door open. Perhaps we find shelter there.”

Cecil repeated what Um Yusuf had said to her pupil, and Azim Bey,
somewhat frightened now, consented to adopt the plan proposed. The
donkeys’ heads were quickly turned in the direction of the house, and
before the astonished owners realised what was happening, the party
were all inside the courtyard and the door shut and fastened.




 CHAPTER XI.
 A DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT.

When the people of the house discovered the identity of their
uninvited guests, the welcome which they offered them was the reverse
of warm. All Azim Bey’s threats and promises could not induce them to
allow him and his attendants to remain in the shelter of the courtyard
until a messenger could be despatched to the Palace and return with a
military escort; indeed they could scarcely be restrained from
thrusting them out again to the mob, who were clamouring at the gate.
It was some time before largely increased offers could win them over
to consent to a compromise, namely, to let the whole party out by a
back door leading into an unfrequented street, from which, through
many twists and turnings, the Palace might be reached.

“But we cannot all go together,” said Azim Bey, “or they will
recognise us again. We must separate.”

“Never!” cried Cecil, resolutely.

“Oh, you and I will keep together, mademoiselle. What I mean is, that
we must not leave the house again as a large party. The two nurses
will mount our donkeys and go with the servants. You and I will depart
by ourselves.”

“Not unless you are disguised,” said Cecil. “For you to go in that
dress would simply be to let yourself be murdered.”

“The disguise will not be difficult,” he cried, tearing off his long
black coat and unbuckling his little sword. “Now if the good people of
this house will give us in exchange for these an old _abba_ and
_kaffiyeh_, I shall be unrecognisable. As for you, mademoiselle, no
one could know you. You look just like any Baghdadi lady in a sheet
and yellow slippers.”

The owners of the house could not resist the advantageous offer made
them, and Cecil, seeing in the bold stroke proposed their only chance,
allowed it to be accepted. A ragged old cloak, with the orthodox brown
and white stripes, and a torn head-handkerchief, fastened round the
brow by a rope of twisted wool, which kept it well down over the face,
made Azim Bey a most realistic-looking little Arab, and Cecil felt
that it was very unlikely that he would be recognised in his disguise.
The mob in front of the house had become quieter by this time, and old
Ayesha, the Bey’s nurse, proposed that she and her fellow-servants
should leave the house by the front door a few minutes after he and
Cecil had stolen out at the back, thus leading the crowd to believe
that the two most important members of the party were still within.
Cecil objected to this as sending the servants into unnecessary
danger, but Um Yusuf assured her that without herself and the Bey they
would in all probability be able to pass through the streets in
safety, and she allowed herself to be overruled.

“Go with the women, O Masûd,” said Azim Bey to the faithful negro,
who was following them to the back door.

“God forbid, O my lord!” said Masûd, stolidly. “Am I not here to
attend upon my lord and mademoiselle, and shall I leave them?”

“Go thy way, O Masûd!” cried Azim Bey, impatiently. “Thou art as well
known in Baghdad as the tower of the Lady Zubeydeh (upon whom be
peace) itself, and shall we be slain for the sake of thy black face?”

“My lord is very wise, and his servant will obey him,” returned
Masûd, and marched back to the other servants.

The door was cautiously opened, and Cecil, clasping the hand of her
little pupil, and holding her sheet in the proper way so as to hide
all but her eyes, quickly found herself in a narrow lane behind the
house. The way had been explained to them, and they started off
briskly, scarcely speaking. Azim Bey found this adventure exciting
enough to satisfy even his bold aspirations, and Cecil was afraid to
begin a conversation, lest her foreign accents should attract the
notice of any one in the houses on either side. Presently the lane led
them into a quiet street, where little knots of people were standing
talking and others were going about their business in a leisurely kind
of way, and mingling with these they passed on unnoticed. Next they
had to go through one of the bazaars, where business was pretty well
over for the day, and where groups of disappointed buyers and
unsuccessful salesmen were discussing the crops and abusing the Pasha.
Still they were unrecognised, but when they had nearly passed through
the bazaar they came upon a blind beggar, who was sitting on the
ground, with his hand held out, asking for alms. Before Cecil could
stop him, Azim Bey took a coin from his pocket and threw it to him. It
was a gold piece, and the mendicant called down blessings on his head
as he picked it up. But others had noticed it also, and a crowd of
beggars seemed to start up from the very ground as they thronged from
their various stations and niches, exhibiting their sores and
deformities, and demanding charity rather than entreating it.

“_Voici une foule de gens qui vont nous suivre de nouveau,
mademoiselle_,” said Azim Bey, as the shopkeepers and their gossips,
attracted by the hubbub, joined the crowd and tried to get a glimpse
of these generous strangers. At the sound of the unfamiliar tongue
they started and looked curiously at the pair, and a quick buzz went
round among them. Cecil grasped her pupil’s hand and dragged him on,
once more feeling ready to shake him for his foolishness, but it was
evident that the men around had understood who they were, for they
closed up as if to hustle them. Intent only on escaping, Cecil led her
charge down the first turning they reached, and they hurried on
breathlessly, through narrow echoing alleys, with houses almost
meeting overhead, while behind them came the sound of many feet. The
lanes afforded great facilities for eluding a foe, and Cecil and Azim
Bey turned and doubled until they were tired. At last they came out on
an open space with a well in it, and found their enemies awaiting
them--a motley crowd of rough-looking men, with a sprinkling of impish
boys and witch-like old women. A yell arose from the crowd as soon as
the fugitives were seen, and Cecil turned and fled once more, dragging
the boy with her. For a few moments they ran back along the way they
had come (no easy task, as any one who has tried to run in loose
slippers along a back alley of Baghdad, unpaved and uneven, will
confess), then found themselves at a place where two ways met,
hesitated, chose one at random, and came face to face with a
detachment of their pursuers. They were doubly pursued now, as they
turned back and took the other path, and stones and pieces of rubbish
began to hurtle through the air. Suddenly Cecil reeled against the
wall and loosed her hold of her pupil’s hand.

“Go on, Bey,” she gasped, “I am spent. I can’t go any farther, but you
may get away. Run on a little--creep into some house and hide. Oh, go,
go!” as the yells of the enemy approached.

“I shall not go,” returned the boy, stoutly, pulling out a jewelled
dagger about three inches long. “I am going to fight for you,
mademoiselle, and if they kill you they shall kill me too.”

“Come on again, then,” panted Cecil, spurred forward by the fear of
causing the death of her gallant little pupil, and she struggled on a
few steps farther. Then a stone struck her on the shoulder, and she
tottered and clutched at Azim Bey for support.

“I can’t go on,” she murmured, and the crowd behind, catching a
glimpse of her and guessing her exhausted condition, set up a
triumphant yell. Goaded on by the sound, she and her pupil made a last
dash round a corner into another lane, where they came face to face
with Charlie Egerton, who was walking serenely along, cigar in mouth.

“Miss Anstruther!” he gasped, and away went the cigar, and Charlie
caught Cecil as she swayed to and fro.

“They are hunting us, monsieur!” cried Azim Bey, in great excitement.
“They wish to massacre us! Take care of mademoiselle. As for me, I am
going to attack that rabble there.”

“Don’t let him go,” sobbed Cecil, feebly, as the boy unsheathed his
dagger anew and started out against the foe, and Charlie grasped the
situation.

“Nonsense, Bey; put up that penknife of yours, or keep it until we get
to close quarters. Hang on to my coat and come with me.”

To hear his highly-prized dagger called a penknife mortified Azim Bey
excessively, and his dignity was also wounded by the familiar tone;
but he pocketed his pride and obeyed, holding on to Charlie’s coat on
one side while the wearer supported Cecil along with as much
tenderness as was compatible with extreme haste. The mob had rushed
round the corner by this time, expecting to find an easy prey, but the
change in the aspect of affairs rather staggered them, and they
followed on in sullen silence for a little while, until their courage
revived on realising that Charlie was alone and apparently unarmed.
Once more the stones began to fly. One struck Charlie on the head, and
Cecil received a blow on the ankle which nearly threw her to the
ground.

“Brutes!” muttered Charlie, savagely, casting a hasty glance around in
search of some place of refuge. None was visible, and he turned to
Azim Bey, and said in his most reassuring tones, “This is warm work,
Bey; rather too much of a good thing, in fact. Now suppose you see
whether you can get Miss Anstruther on a little, while I try some
practice with my revolver?”

“Don’t keep him back with me; send him on,” said Cecil. “Do you
remember who he is?”

“Dear me! I forgot that I had Ahmed Khémi Pasha’s son to look after,”
said Charlie. “Well, Bey, run on, and make for the Residency as fast
as you can.”

“I will not!” cried Azim Bey, indignantly. “My father is Pasha, and I
am a gentleman. Shall I leave a lady to perish? No! I will rather shed
the last drop of my blood.”

“That’s a brave little chap!” said Charlie. “Now let Miss Anstruther
lean upon your shoulder for a minute;” and he drew a revolver from his
pocket, and turning, presented it at the foremost of the mob, who were
by this time unpleasantly near. The front rank recoiled precipitately,
and Charlie seized the opportunity.

“Take my arm again, Miss Anstruther. Hold on tight, Bey. We have not
much farther to go now.”

They got on a little way, Cecil stumbling along with clenched teeth
and brow drawn with pain. Then the mob began to press on them again,
and Charlie fired over their heads. This daunted them a little, but
they quickly came on anew, headed by a ferocious-looking ruffian who
got near enough to make a snatch at Azim Bey. The boy struck out
valiantly with his dagger, and Charlie turned and shot through the
wrist the man who had seized him. This excited the pursuers to fury,
and Charlie was obliged to walk backwards, threatening the crowd with
his revolver, and doing his best to support Cecil at the same time.
Happily the lane was so narrow that he was able to foil all attempts
at passing him, for if these had succeeded the mob could easily have
surrounded and annihilated the three fugitives, but they had a
wholesome fear of the revolver in a spot where only two could
comfortably walk abreast.

“Four shots more,” said Charlie, half audibly, after a short
experience of the difficulties of his present mode of progression,
“and the Residency is still---- We shall never reach it at this rate.
Here, Bey, you run on until you come to the Residency, and tell them
to have the gate open and to call out the guard. Run your hardest, and
tell them we are in for a row.”

“I will not run,” said Azim Bey. “I am not a coward. Do you run on,
monsieur, and leave me to defend mademoiselle.”

Charlie stamped with impatience, and his revolver went off without his
intending it. He turned to the Bey with a very ugly look on his face,
and uttered words which it took long for the Pasha’s son to forgive or
forget.

“Look here, small boy,” he said, “you will obey orders, if you please.
Do you think I would bother myself with you if I didn’t care more for
Miss Anstruther’s finger-tip than for the whole of your wretched
little body? I might have been able to defend her alone, but you are
endangering us both. I tell you what, if you don’t go, I’ll put a
bullet through your head, and have no more trouble with you. The only
good you can do is to run on and give my message, and fetch help. If
you don’t, mademoiselle’s death will lie at your door.”

Away went Azim Bey, in a tumult of rage, indignation, and disgust,
hard to imagine and impossible to describe. Charlie heard him running
off, and calculated mentally how long he would be in reaching the
Residency, and how long in returning with help. Almost at the same
moment he found that he was deciding, half mechanically, on which of
the leaders of the mob he should bestow his last three shots. He had
some more cartridges with him, but he could not load with one hand,
and Cecil was clinging, half-unconscious, to his left arm. Moreover,
if the crowd saw him stop to load, they would be upon him instantly.

Meanwhile Azim Bey, rushing on, had found that the lane led into the
street in which the Residency stood. Running up to the gate, he was
stopped by the Sepoy sentry, who refused absolutely to allow him to
enter. Here was a blow.

“Slave!” cried the boy, in a frenzy, “dost thou refuse me admittance?
Thou knowest not that I am Azim Bey, the Pasha-Governor’s son?”

To this the sentry, seeing only a small boy in a high state of
excitement, with worn and ragged clothes splashed and mud-bespattered,
replied merely by the Eastern equivalent of “Tell that to the
marines,” coupled with a little good advice as to civility of
language, and continued to bar the passage. Azim Bey turned pale.

“I must get in!” he cried. “The men of the city are murdering Mdlle.
Antaza. Show me the Balio Bey, your officer, the Mother of Teeth--any
one--they will know me and send help.”

But the sentry still smiled in grim incredulity, not unmixed with
anger at the boy’s disrespectful reference to Lady Haigh; and Azim Bey
threw himself on the ground and cast dust upon his head, and wept and
stormed in his despair. The more he cursed, the more the sentry
laughed, until the noise attracted the attention of Captain Rossiter,
an Engineer officer who was making the Residency his headquarters
during a series of surveys which he was carrying out for the Indian
Government within the borders of the pashalik, and who had lately been
present at a _fête_ at the Palace, where Azim Bey had seen him. He
happened to be crossing the courtyard, and hearing the din, came to
see what was the matter. To him Azim Bey rushed, and clinging to his
hand, told his tale of woe, while the tears poured down his grimy
little face. The tale was very incoherent, and, moreover, it was
related in a strange mixture of tongues; but Captain Rossiter
understood enough of it to send him flying madly out into the street
and down the lane, with as many of the Sepoys as he could collect at
his heels, Azim Bey staggering after them, almost too much exhausted
to walk.

They arrived at the scene of action in the nick of time, to find
Charlie, his last shot fired, standing at bay in an angle of the wall,
with the fainting Cecil all in a heap on the ground behind him, while
he was doing his best to defend himself with the butt-end of the
revolver. The arrival of the reinforcements turned the scale. The mob
fled before the onslaught of the hated Hindus, and Charlie and Captain
Rossiter lifted Cecil up, and half-carried her the rest of the way
between them. Azim Bey, picked up on the return journey, was hoisted
on the shoulders of one of the men, and they retraced their steps, to
find that they must force their way through a large and angry crowd
which had gathered in the street, and was hurling defiances at the
Residency. All eyes were turned on them as they emerged from the lane,
and a moment’s hesitation would have been fatal. A yell of execration
went up, a hundred hands were grasping missiles and were about to hurl
them, but Captain Rossiter said something quickly to Charlie, and gave
a sharp order. The Sepoys closed around, the two Englishmen caught up
Cecil and carried her across the street at a run, and before the mob
had guessed what was going to be done, they were parted as though by a
wedge, the gate of the Residency was gained, and their intended
victims were out of reach, the stones and potsherds which they threw
clattering on the stout doors as these were shut fast, and barred and
bolted from within.

“Sharp work!” said Captain Rossiter to Charlie, wiping his face. “I
say, I must go and report to the chief. You and Lady Haigh will look
after Miss Anstruther, I suppose? She looks pretty bad.”

He went off to Sir Dugald’s office at once, and told him what had
happened. Sir Dugald received the news with a look of weary
resignation most piteous to behold. His whole diplomatic life was a
struggle against the occurrence of what are euphemistically called
“complications,” and here was one brewing literally at his very door.
He finished the sentence he was writing, folded his papers and locked
them up in a drawer, carefully restoring the key to its place on his
watch-chain, but as he walked across the courtyard with Captain
Rossiter, his perturbation made itself audible in disjointed
mutterings.

“Why couldn’t they have taken refuge anywhere rather than here? That
fellow Egerton is bound to bring trouble wherever he goes. On my word,
it’s ‘heads you win, tails I lose,’ with a vengeance. If the mob
attack us, blood won’t wash it out, and if we fire on them we shall
have a blood-feud with all the Arabs in the country. Bringing that
child here, too, as if to proclaim that we support Ahmed Khémi in all
his wretched grinding oppression. We shall be identified with him in
the Baghdadi mind for years. Subadar, turn out the guard.”

The last sentence was addressed to the Sepoy officer, who was eagerly
awaiting the order, and the soldiers marched down to the gate, where
was gathered a crowd of clerks, servants, interpreters, cavasses, and
the other motley hangers-on of a consulate in the East, besides a
number of people from outside who considered themselves “under
protection,” and always sought the Residency in haste at the first
sign of a riot. These were all listening, pale with fear, to the
repeated crashes as the mob amused themselves by throwing stones at
the gate, but they made way with grateful confidence for Sir Dugald as
he advanced, his face absolutely impassive once more, and examined the
bars and bolts.

“So long as they are content with this,” he said to Captain Rossiter,
“we are all right. It’s an insult to the flag, of course, but an
apology will set it right. But if they get tired of throwing stones
and making no impression, we must still try and keep them off without
coming absolutely to blows. I will leave you in charge of the gate,
Rossiter, but there must be no firing with ball except in the very
last resort. Ah, listen to those mad idiots outside! They are trying
to provoke the Sepoys. Send the men back to fetch sand-bags or
anything that will strengthen the gate. Either keep them busy or keep
them out of hearing.”

Tired of throwing stones without result, the mob were now resorting to
hard words. One man after another stood up at a safe distance and
howled insults at the Sepoys, their families, and their whole
ancestry, and any particularly telling phrase was caught up and echoed
by the crowd. Sir Dugald’s brow was furrowed with anxiety as he slowly
retraced his steps from the gate, for these Sepoys were fresh from
India, full of memories of annual conflicts with Moslems at the Hûli
and the Moharram, and he could not tell how long they would stand the
provocation they were receiving. From the river-terrace he now sent
off a messenger to the Palace, informing the Pasha of the situation,
and begging him to send a sufficient force of soldiers to secure his
son’s safety and to enable him to return home, either by land or
water. And meanwhile he lamented that this “complication” should have
happened, as was only natural, at a time when the gunboat was away
down the river.




 CHAPTER XII.
 IN SEARCH OF HEALTH.

While Sir Dugald was taking his measures of precaution, Cecil had
been carried into one of the rooms on the ground-floor of the outer
court, and laid on the divan. Charlie rushed off to his surgery for
bandages, and sent a servant to fetch Lady Haigh, who came at once,
breathless and astonished, but capable and resourceful as ever. The
first step necessary was to get rid of Azim Bey, who was crouched in a
heap on the divan, looking like a little Eastern idol in very reduced
circumstances, and to turn him over to the care of Sir Dugald’s Indian
valet for some necessary personal attention. But the last rush through
the yelling mob seemed to have shaken the boy’s nerve, for he was
trembling and shivering, and his face was whitey-brown with fear. To
Lady Haigh he looked exactly like a monkey in mid-winter, but she
could not help pitying him as he shrank and cowered at every fresh
shout of the mob outside. To her greeting and advice he paid but
little heed.

“They are all saying we shall be killed, madame,” with a nod in the
direction of the knot of frightened servants near the gate, “and if we
are to be killed, why trouble about one’s appearance? It is destiny?”

“It is your destiny just now to go with Chanda Lal, and have a bath
and some clean clothes, if any one here has any small enough,” said
Charlie, returning with his bandages. “Now then, young man, off with
you,” and he evicted the boy summarily from the divan, and impelled
him in the right direction with a gentle shove. Charlie was the
surgeon now, not by any means the courtier, and he was not accustomed
to have his orders disobeyed.

The business of dressing the wounded ankle was a long and painful one,
and Cecil fainted again before it was over. Charlie fetched a
restorative and administered it, and was leaving the room quietly,
with an injunction to Lady Haigh not to allow the patient to be
disturbed, when Cecil opened her eyes and half sat up.

“Oh, Dr Egerton!” she cried, and Charlie came back at once. “You
mustn’t think me ungrateful,” she said, brokenly. “I do want to thank
you--I can never tell you how much--for coming to our rescue as you
did, and for saving us, especially the Bey. How should I ever have
faced his father if anything had happened to him?”

“Especially the Bey?” repeated Charlie, slowly. “Well, I can’t agree
with you there, Miss Anstruther; but I’m glad he’s all right, if you
are pleased. He’s not a bad little beggar, and I shouldn’t wonder if
he turns out rather well after all, now that you have got him in
hand.” This was a great concession, but Charlie was in an appreciative
and magnanimous mood.

“I don’t know what would have happened to us if you hadn’t been
there,” pursued Cecil, excitedly. “I thought it was all over, I could
not move another step, and then we came round that corner, and you
were there, and we were saved.” There was a hysterical catch in her
voice, but she hurried on. “What would they have done to us, do you
suppose? I can’t help thinking of that money-lender’s wife and
children, don’t you remember? Their house was destroyed, and they were
dragged out into the street, and trodden to death--trodden to
death--by the crowd. And that was in this very province. They might
have done the same to us--think of it!” and she broke into hard
gasping sobs.

“But you are not to think of it,” said Charlie, authoritatively, his
professional instincts aroused. “You will make yourself really ill,
perhaps bring on fever. What you are to do is to lie quietly here and
rest, and Cousin Elma will sit with you and talk to you.”

“But they are at the gate--they may break in at any moment,” and Cecil
looked round with terrified eyes.

“Oh, nonsense!” said Charlie. “Why, we have the Sepoys and Rossiter,
and any number of men, to defend the place. Look at Cousin Elma; she
isn’t a bit frightened, and I know that if she thought there was any
real danger she would be seeing what she could do to help in the
defence. Now, Miss Anstruther, lie down again and try to go to sleep,
and I promise you that if I see any signs of the mob’s being likely to
get in, I will come and carry you up to the roof. We can hold out
there for any length of time. You can trust me, you know.”

“Indeed I can,” said Cecil, putting her hand into his.

“Then that is a bargain,” said Charlie, retaining the hand; “and now I
must go and see whether I can give any help at the gate.”

“Good-bye, then,” said Cecil. “No, not good-bye, _auf wiedersehen_.”

“Yes, _au revoir_,” said Charlie, audaciously seizing the opportunity
to kiss the hand he held, regardless of the glance of burning
indignation which he received from Lady Haigh over Cecil’s head. It
was at this extremely unpropitious moment that Azim Bey elected to
return, fresh from the manipulations of Chanda Lal, and gorgeous in
the best raiment of the young son of the Armenian major-domo. He stood
transfixed for a moment at the door, astonishment making him dumb,
then withdrew behind the curtain, and pounced upon Charlie as he came
out.

“How dare you, monsieur?” he cried, flinging himself upon him like a
wild cat. “You shall not look at mademoiselle like that. She is my
mademoiselle, she is not yours. I will not have you touch her hand,
you----” And here followed a string of outrageous epithets in very
choice Arabic, a language extremely rich in such words, and lending
itself abundantly to purposes of abuse.

“Stop that,” said Charlie, giving the boy a shake which sobered him,
and putting him down on the divan with no very gentle hand. “You are
the Pasha’s son, are you? Why, you are as bad as the most foul-mouthed
little blackguard in the streets. Don’t let me hear any more of such
language, and don’t talk any nonsense to Miss Anstruther, or
I’ll--I’ll keep her here at the Residency for six months on a medical
certificate!”

And Charlie went off whistling to the gate, only to be reminded by Sir
Dugald that he was a non-combatant, and ordered to remain in the rear
unless matters came to extremities, an order which seemed to him
somewhat ludicrously unfair after the events of the day. As for Azim
Bey, he shook his small fist after Charlie’s retreating form, and
then, peeping round the curtain, glared solemnly and ferociously at
Cecil. He found her, however, quite unconscious of his gaze, for the
exhaustion had returned again after the momentary excitement, and she
was lying still with closed eyes. Obeying Lady Haigh’s warning finger,
Azim Bey tiptoed noiselessly into the room, and took up his post again
on the divan, where he seemed inclined to remain. But this did not
suit Lady Haigh, for the boy’s unchildlike ways always irritated her,
and his fixed and solemn gaze now made her feel nervous, and she
suggested that he should go up to the housetop and see what was going
on. This he was graciously pleased to do, seeing that Charlie was
safely out of the way, and for the next half hour he occupied himself
satisfactorily in keeping Lady Haigh acquainted with all the details
of the situation. The mob had temporarily turned their attention from
the Residency to the shops near, which they were pillaging in search
of arms, and Azim Bey’s shrill little voice grew excited as he
described the scene. But a more important discovery than the
damascened sword-blades and old-fashioned matchlocks, which were all
that could be obtained from the armourers’ shops, and which did not
promise to be of much use against an enemy protected by stone walls,
was a great beam of wood, which was now dragged up in triumph by the
mob with the evident intention of its being used as a battering-ram.

Things began to look serious at this point, and Sir Dugald ordered the
Sepoys to be posted at the windows commanding the space in front of
the gate, whence they might pick off the assailants if they ventured
to come to close quarters. The non-combatants now took the place of
the Sepoys in bringing bags of earth to strengthen the gate on the
inside, and the more warlike among them got out such weapons as they
happened to possess, with the intention of giving the enemy a warm
reception if they succeeded in forcing their way in. The female
portion of the establishment, with the natural instinct of seeking
companionship in times of terror, crowded into the room where Lady
Haigh was watching over Cecil, and there lamented their hard fate in
tones of abject fear. Charlie, on his way to the gate from his
surgery, looked in to reassure them, and also to entreat that they
would make less noise, but found that they rejected all his comfort.
To give them something to do, he allowed them to move Cecil into the
inner court, and establish her at the foot of the staircase which led
to the roof, so as to be ready to retreat thither in case it was
necessary. Aided by the combined exertions of all the women, and also
by the encouraging remarks of Azim Bey, the move was effected; but it
caused Cecil too much pain for her to be willing to attempt the
stairs. In vain did her pupil offer her his place, from whence she
might obtain an excellent view of all that was to be seen; the
exertion of mounting to the roof was too great, and she dropped down
on the cushions which had been placed for her in the corner, where the
staircase shielded her from the strong rays of the setting sun.

The men in charge of the battering-ram seemed to have been deterred
from using it by the sight of Sir Dugald’s preparations, and they were
now gathered together at a safe distance from the gate, squabbling
noisily over their engine of warfare, and apparently trying each to
persuade the other to lead the attack. The main body of the besiegers
kept up a desultory shower of stones at the gate, varied by a flight
directed at the roof when any one was visible there, and Sir Dugald
sent up orders that the women were to keep well below the parapet, and
not to show themselves. Azim Bey was in high glee as he dodged the
stones, and did his best to return them to the senders; but Lady Haigh
chafed under his father’s delay in sending relief.

“It’s all very well, my dear,” she said to Cecil, “but I shouldn’t
wonder if this riot came in very opportunely for the Pasha. Here he
has the chance of getting rid at once of Azim Bey, who is so
unpopular, and whose very existence drives the Arabs to quarrel, and
of the Balio Bey, who is always giving him good advice. Ah, you may
laugh, but did you ever know any one to like the person who gave him
good advice? Ahmed Khémi Pasha hates Sir Dugald because he knows that
if he had done as he advised all along this would not have happened,
and what could be a neater way of revenging himself than to let the
mob have time to break in and massacre us all? He could punish them
afterwards, and so escape all blame.”

“But what would he do if Azim Bey were killed?” asked Cecil, with a
feeble smile, caused by Lady Haigh’s ineradicable suspiciousness.

“Do? Why, make it up with Hussein Bey, and so have everything
comfortable in the Palace and the city and the whole pashalik, of
course,” replied Lady Haigh, promptly.

Cecil was about to remark that in such a case the Pasha would probably
find it hard to deal with the Hajar Arabs, who had adopted Azim Bey’s
cause so zealously; but Lady Haigh was summoned to the roof at this
point by a cry of joy from the Bey himself, who called out that there
was a squadron of cavalry advancing from each end of the street into
which the Residency gate opened. The two bodies were approaching each
other, slowly and determinedly, forcing the sullen mob before them as
they came. The men who had been squabbling over the battering-ram
seemed all at once to determine to unite against this new foe, and
turned to oppose them, whereupon a scene began which made Lady Haigh
retreat down the stairs into the court in horror, but which caused
Azim Bey to clap his hands and shout. The soldiers, with their heavy
sabres, mowed down the mob as they advanced, until the few who were
left broke their ranks and did their best to shrink close to the walls
on either side and slip past the horses. The orders of the troops were
evidently to secure the safety of the Residency and its inhabitants
first, and to leave the punishment of the insurgents until afterwards,
for when once the way was clear they allowed the survivors to escape
if they could.

Azim Bey had been cheering on the soldiers from his coign of vantage
on the house-top, but he was the first to descend, and was ready to
meet them when the gate was opened. His fear and his anger and his
excitement had now alike passed away, and he was his usual courteous,
grown-up little self, thanking Sir Dugald for his hospitality and
protection, and Captain Rossiter and the Sepoys for their timely aid.
Notwithstanding his affability, however, he displayed great anxiety to
get back to the Palace, and would not hear of allowing Cecil to remain
at the Residency even for the night, in spite of Lady Haigh’s
declaring that she would not permit her to leave it. It was obviously
impossible for her to mount a donkey, and Charlie was firm on this
point, although, remembering his encounter with Azim Bey, he kept in
the background as much as he could, for fear of getting Cecil into
trouble with her pupil and his father. Baghdad could produce a few
carriages, but the streets were far too rough and narrow to admit of
their use. At last an antiquated litter, borne by two mules, was
procured from the Palace, and Cecil was helped into it and made
comfortable with cushions. Then the gold-embroidered curtains were
drawn, and the procession started, Azim Bey riding in front of the
litter on a horse lent by Sir Dugald, while the soldiers formed an
escort on either side.

“Do you know, Cousin Elma,” said Charlie, as the party at the
Residency lingered on the verandah after dinner to discuss the
exciting events of the day, “I fancy”--he lowered his voice as he
glanced across at Sir Dugald and Captain Rossiter, who were deep in an
argument on the probable effects of the battering-ram if it had been
used--“I can’t help thinking that that small boy has taken it into his
head to be jealous.”

“It’s quite possible, Charlie. My youngest brother was frantically
jealous when I was engaged, though you mayn’t believe it.”

“But that was quite different. He had something to take hold of; but
really I can’t think what that little wretch has seen--until to-day,
at any rate.”

“Charlie, Charlie,” said Lady Haigh, in her most maternal tone, “let
me give you one piece of advice. You are perfectly at liberty to think
yourself a fool if you like, but never let yourself imagine that Azim
Bey is one. If he ever permits you to think so, that will only show
how well he is fooling you.”

Charlie had leisure to think over this unpalatable remark in the days
that followed, for he and Cecil did not meet again for some time.
Cecil’s foot was very painful, and the pain, combined with the shock
of that eventful day, brought on another attack of fever, which spread
mingled anxiety and hope among the European colony at Baghdad. The
authorities at the French Consulate rejoiced in anticipation of
Cecil’s final removal from the scene, and were prepared with a
candidate of unexceptionable qualifications to supply her place. The
Austrian representative, while preserving an appearance of decorous
sympathy, had his eye on an elderly relative of his own who had
occupied a position in a princely family, and was well suited, both by
character and training, to tread the tortuous paths of domestic
diplomacy. A casual remark dropped by the French Consul in Azim Bey’s
hearing enlightened him as to the intrigues that were maturing, and
the speculations that were abroad as to the issue of his dear
mademoiselle’s illness, and threw him into a pitiable state. He passed
his time in alternate fits of wild despair and petulant anger, which
so affected his father that he sent for his own physician, who was
attending the patient, and ordered him, on pain of death, to effect
her recovery--a command which was received by the hapless man of
medicine with an impassive “If God pleases, it shall be as my lord
wills.” Lady Haigh also was untiring in her care. She came to see
Cecil every day, and often sat with her for hours, only to meet, when
she left the Palace, the reproaches of Charlie, who invariably
accompanied her to the gate, and tried warning, entreaty, and menace
in vain to induce her to take him in with her.

“She ought to see an English doctor,” he urged. “What can this man
know about English constitutions? I have no confidence in him.”

“But I have every confidence in him,” responded Lady Haigh, severely;
“and so has Sir Dugald, and so has the Pasha. Why, you know he was
trained in Germany. Besides, Cecil herself has expressed no wish for a
change of doctors (and I really can’t wonder at it, after your
behaviour the last time you saw her); and you know it would be
absolutely unprofessional for you to intrude uninvited on one of the
_hakim bashi’s_ cases.”

“What do I care about professional etiquette in such a case?” cried
Charlie. “Besides, if we come to that, she was my patient first.
Cousin Elma, let me see her.”

“No, indeed,” said Lady Haigh, resolutely. “You let me in for one
_faux pas_, Charlie, when you frightened me into sending you to the
Palace before, and that is not a pleasant thing for a woman in my
position to have to remember. How it is that we have never had any
remonstrance about your invasion of the harem precincts on that
occasion I cannot imagine, unless you bribed Masûd heavily. Well,
there is not going to be any repetition of that sort of thing. Cecil
is getting on perfectly well, and Um Yusuf and old Ayesha and Basmeh
Kalfa all nurse her devotedly, so you must be content with that.”

And very much against his will, Charlie was obliged to be content with
that, and did not even see Cecil when she was better, for as soon as
she was convalescent she was sent with Azim Bey and their attendants
to the house of Naimeh Khanum, the Pasha’s married daughter, at
Hillah, to recruit. The journey of fifty miles was performed in great
state, under the conduct of a large escort of mounted Bashi Bazouks.
Three of the Pasha’s own horses, with splendid trappings, were led in
the forefront of the procession, and flags and kettle-drums gave it a
martial air. The way lay entirely through the desert, and the prospect
was always the same, the wide sandy plains being crossed and recrossed
by the dry channels of the ancient irrigation canals, now choked and
useless, even the drinking-water having to be carried in leathern
bottles. At night halts were made at the fortified khans on the road,
where the terror of the Pasha’s name proved sufficient to ensure the
provision of all necessaries for the travellers. The journey was taken
in easy stages, that Cecil’s strength might not be overtasked, and it
was not until four days after leaving Baghdad that the palm-groves and
the mighty rubbish-heaps of Hillah came in sight. Cecil felt her
strength and her enthusiasm revive at the prospect. Before her lay the
ruins of Babylon! She entreated that they might turn aside to visit
them at once, but Um Yusuf proved most unsympathetic, and scornfully
refused to communicate her mistress’s wish to the leader of the
caravan. Who cared about old ruins, haunted by ghouls and jinn, and
just at the fever-time too? Did Mdlle. Antaza wish to throw her life
away? Cecil yielded with a sigh, and the procession passed on through
the palm-groves, where the ripening dates hung like bunches of golden
grapes, to the house of Said Bey, Naimeh Khanum’s husband, who was the
military governor of Hillah.

Here Cecil and her pupil passed several quiet weeks. They did little
exploring, for Cecil was not strong enough for it, and Azim Bey was
deterred by fear of the jinn, but antiquities in abundance were
brought to them to purchase by the Jews of the place, who spent their
lives in searching for them. Azim Bey passed most of his time in his
brother-in-law’s company, riding out with him to hunt, and assisting
him to review his troops, to the intense amusement of Said Bey, who
was a big jolly man, the son of an Irish renegade who had entered the
Turkish service, and preserved some of the national characteristics
even among his oriental surroundings. As for Cecil, she resigned
herself to a thoroughly Eastern existence as a denizen of the harem,
and became better acquainted with the manners and customs of its
inhabitants than she had had opportunity to be during her stay in
Baghdad. Said Bey’s mother was dead, as Naimeh Khanum informed her
with evident relief and gratitude to Providence, and the household was
therefore under the rule of the young wife, who was now much occupied
with a wonderful baby son, of whom Azim Bey was intensely jealous, as
he always was of every one and everything that interfered with the
attention he conceived to be due to his imperious little self. The
proud mother, who had herself enjoyed for a short time the advantage
of the teaching of a European governess, was eager to consult Cecil as
to the best way of educating her boy when he grew older, and many were
the anxious discussions they held under the date-palms in the garden
or in the evening on the terrace. Naimeh Khanum’s lovely face appeared
on almost every page of Cecil’s sketch-book, only rivalled in
popularity by endless studies of the great mounds of Babylon, seen
under every possible variety of light and shade, and the English girl
felt herself strangely drawn to the oriental, who looked out from her
cage at the unknown world with eager inquisitive eyes. They used to
spend hours in conversation, Cecil sketching, Naimeh Khanum busy with
her baby, until the warning cry of “_Dastûr!_” announced the return
of Said Bey, and Cecil would wrap her veil round her and retire to the
temporary schoolroom, where her pupil would be waiting to tell her of
the day’s adventures.




 CHAPTER XIII.
 INSTRUCTION AND INTROSPECTION.

On the last evening of her stay at Hillah, Cecil became acquainted
with an interesting fact concerning Azim Bey which at once touched and
amused her. “A marriage had been arranged” for him long ago with
Safieh Khanum, the little daughter of the Pasha of Mosul, and the
wedding would take place when the bridegroom reached his eighteenth
year.

“My grandmother arranged it,” said Naimeh Khanum, playing with the
bits of red stuff which were sewn to her baby’s cap to keep off the
evil eye. “The Pasha is a man of the old school, and a very rigid
Mussulman, and the Um-ul-Pasha thinks that Safieh Khanum will keep my
brother back from becoming altogether a Frangi.”

“But have they never seen one another, poor little things?” asked
Cecil. “What a pity that you couldn’t have asked the little girl to
stay with you while we were here. They might have taken a fancy to
each other.”

“_Fi donc_, mademoiselle!” laughed Naimeh Khanum. “You don’t think
that Safieh Khanum’s parents would ever have allowed such a thing?
Besides, in no case would she be allowed to come near you, or under
your influence. They would be afraid of your making her a Christian.”

“But Azim Bey is always with me,” objected Cecil.

“That is different,” said Azim Bey’s sister; “he is a boy. They know
that there is no danger for him. But what has Islam for a woman?”

“Have you felt this, Khanum?” asked Cecil, in surprise.

“How can I help it? I have read your books, I have seen the difference
between your life and ours,” said Naimeh Khanum. “Our people think
justly that there is little need for fear in the case of boys like my
brother. They read of Christianity, they see your laws and their
results, they think it is all very good. They are also taught our
religion, and they say: ‘It is destiny. I was born a Mussulman. My
father and all my ancestors were good Moslems. Why should I change a
religion that was good enough for them?’ In this way they agree
together to dismiss the subject. They have many things to occupy their
thoughts, and if in their secret hearts they know that Christianity is
better, it does not trouble them themselves, and they say nothing to
any one else. They have all they want, but with us it is different.
All the long, long hours--what can we do but think and wish? They
should not have educated us, have let us read about your beautiful
life in Frangistan, if they wished us to remain contented with what
satisfied our grandmothers. We are tired of our jewels, and our
novels, and our embroidery; tired of making sweetmeats and eating
them; we are so tired--you cannot imagine how tired--of being shut up
always in the same rooms, with the same faces round us. We are not
like birds or wild animals, to be kept in cages, we have minds and
hearts, and we want to be able to go out in the world with our
husbands, and enter into all they do.”

“But couldn’t you do that now--partially at least?” suggested Cecil,
diffidently, surprised by this passionate outburst from languid-eyed,
contented Naimeh Khanum.

“How can we?” she asked. “Our husbands go out into society without us.
They meet the Frangi ladies, talk to them, dance with them, and then
come home to us, poor ignorant creatures, who cannot talk to them of
the things they care for, and don’t know how to please them when we
are most anxious to do it. Our husbands are the sun to us; we are less
than the moon to them.”

“But how can any one help you if you don’t help yourselves?” asked
Cecil.

“What are we to do?” asked Naimeh Khanum. “They say that our rights
are secured to us by law, but what we want is the sole right to our
own husbands. With that we might be able to do something, but how dare
a woman be anything but submissive when she may find herself divorced,
or set aside for another wife, on account of the slightest effort for
freedom? We need martyrs in our cause; but who will be the first? How
can a woman who loves her husband, slight as her hold is on him,
alienate herself from him deliberately?”

“But you cannot fear anything of the kind with Said Bey,” said Cecil,
losing sight of the general question in this particular case. “He
would never set you aside for another wife.”

“No, because I am the Pasha’s daughter. But he has the right. Suppose
my father fell into disgrace, or anything happened to my boy,” and she
made with a horrified look the sign for averting the evil eye, “who
would stand up for me then? Almost every one has more than one wife;
why should I expect my husband to be the exception? There is my
father, he is considered a liberal-minded man, of most advanced views,
and yet he has just married a fourth wife. It was all arranged when
you were ill, so I suppose you did not hear much about it; but she is
coming here with him to-morrow. She is Jamileh[03] Khanum, the
daughter of his old friend, Tahir Pasha. Her father is also a
reformer, and she has had an English governess, and been brought up
entirely _alla Franca_, but she can’t refuse to become the fourth wife
of a man almost old enough to be her grandfather.”

“And what can remedy this?” asked Cecil.

“Only Christianity,” said Naimeh Khanum. “They have tried culture and
civilisation, but it has done no good. Our men do not care to raise us
even to their own level.”

“Then why are you not a Christian?” asked Cecil.

“Because I have too much to leave,” said Naimeh Khanum, slowly and
deliberately. “I cannot give up my husband and child. As it says in
one of your books which I have read, I have given hostages to fortune.
Listen! there is Said Bey coming in. I must go to meet him. Adieu,
mademoiselle.”

And she was gone, leaving Cecil to meditate on the unexpected
revelation she had received. It was with deep sadness and remorse that
she took her way to the room where Azim Bey was waiting for her, for
who could say how much she might have helped this struggling soul in
all these weeks if she had only known? Poor Naimeh Khanum! she was
longing for the temporal blessings of Christianity without thought of
the spiritual. They had no further opportunity for conversation, but
Cecil did the best she could for her friend. Wrapping up carefully a
little New Testament in Arabic which she had received from Dr Yehudi,
she placed it where Naimeh Khanum would be sure to find it, with a
prayer that the seeker might be led into the light.

The next day Ahmed Khémi Pasha arrived, accompanied by his bride, and
attended by a magnificent retinue. There was only time for a formal
interchange of visits between Naimeh Khanum and her new stepmother,
for the Pasha was making a progress through his dominions, and it was
already late in the year. It would have been equally undesirable for
Azim Bey and his governess to return to Baghdad in the Pasha’s
absence, and to remain at Hillah, tasking the resources of Said Bey
for the maintenance of themselves and their attendants, and their
cavalcade was accordingly merged in the larger one, they themselves
losing their comparative importance, and becoming part of the harem
procession under the lead of Jamileh Khanum, who travelled in state at
its head in a highly ornamental _takhtrevan_, or mule-litter.

In honour of his marriage, the Pasha had remitted a large proportion
of the obnoxious taxes which had contributed so largely to swell the
distress of the province, and this had restored much of his
popularity. There was also every prospect of a good corn and fruit
harvest, the latter very important to the dwellers in the regions
around Baghdad; and as time went on, and this promise was fulfilled,
past irritation was forgotten, and the people returned to their usual
condition of sleepy contentment. Azim Bey attracted no unfriendly
attention, and Cecil went through the tour in safe and undistinguished
obscurity. Jamileh Khanum monopolised the attention of the Pasha, and
was the undisputed head of her own portion of the assemblage. She was
a young lady of some shrewdness and much ambition, and had signalised
the short period she had spent at Baghdad by such a violent quarrel
with the Um-ul-Pasha, that her husband dared not leave her behind in
the Palace. With a natural instinct to like everything that the
Um-ul-Pasha disliked, she had come prepared to patronise Azim Bey and
Mademoiselle Antaza, and she and Cecil got on very well together.
England was their great theme of conversation, for Jamileh Khanum
cherished a secret hope that she might one day prevail upon the Pasha
to take her there on a visit. With this in view, she was eager to
learn from Cecil all she could with regard to English customs and
etiquette, although she maintained throughout a lively sense of the
difference of position between the great lady and the governess. Cecil
found her very amusing, but Azim Bey, who was wont to sit by and look
on at the conversations with unwinking black eyes, mistrusted the
“little lady mother,” as he called his father’s youngest wife.

“It is all petting and sweetmeats now, mademoiselle,” he said to his
governess, “but wait until she has a son of her own.”

“But that can make no difference to you, Bey,” said Cecil. “You have
his Excellency’s promise, given to your mother.”

“On whom be peace!” said Azim Bey, quickly. “But if I were dead,
mademoiselle? You have seen already how greatly I am beloved in the
harem.”

“Don’t be so suspicious,” said Cecil. “I thought you prided yourself
on your strength of mind?”

“So be it, mademoiselle,” said the boy. “What is to happen will
happen. We shall see.”

In spite of these little rubs, however, the journeying life was very
pleasant to Cecil, and she even looked forward with a certain degree
of dread to the time when she must exchange the blue wrapper and high
boots she wore in riding for the trailing dress and white sheet of the
Palace. Everything out here was so entirely new, and she was separated
from the troublesome personal questions and problems which had worried
her lately at Baghdad. In these the chief factor was Charlie Egerton.
She had never seen him since the day of the riot, when he had so
suddenly and unwarrantably kissed her hand, but this was by her own
wish, for she felt that she did not know how to meet him again. Anger
at his presumption, and rage against herself for the display of
weakness which had emboldened him to the act, combined to embitter her
against him. And yet she could not keep him out of her thoughts. Her
mind dwelt on the scene at the Residency so constantly that she became
alarmed. What did all this mean? She must get away from Dr Egerton’s
disturbing influence, and think the matter out calmly. With this in
view, she had acquiesced in hurrying on her departure from Baghdad
without seeing him, and she had since taken full advantage of her
opportunity for thought.

She had never exactly formulated to herself her views of an ideal
lover, but she was vaguely conscious that, allowing for the difference
of standpoint, her requirements were much on a level with those of the
seventeenth-century poet who sang the praises of the “not impossible
she.” And here, as she could not help perceiving, was the real
lover--Charlie Egerton, frivolous, unstable, unsuccessful. These were
the hard epithets she applied to him, while all the while admitting to
herself that she could not help liking him, and that there was
something noble and quixotic about his unfortunate efforts to keep
other people up to their duty. But here again the softness of her own
mood alarmed her, and she proceeded to examine into her feelings with
all the systematic thoroughness of a practised student of mental
science. After long cogitation, and much analysis of complex emotions
into their elements, she came to the conclusion that she was not in
love with Charlie. She even assured herself that she despised him a
little, and this was obviously an insurmountable bar to love. But the
chief drawback to the introspective method of studying mental
phenomena is, as the text-books tell us, the danger of the mind’s
forgetting its own states, or even misinterpreting them, owing to the
distracting influence of personal fears and wishes. This Cecil forgot,
while assuring herself that her clear duty now was to show Charlie
plainly what her feelings were. It would be unkind to allow him to
labour any longer under a delusion, and she became at last almost
anxious to return to Baghdad, for the sake of undeceiving him.

By the time that this desirable conclusion was reached, the steps of
the travellers were really turned homewards. Jamileh Khanum was tired
of wandering, and if the truth must be told, was “spoiling for a
fight” with the Um-ul-Pasha. Where every one was anxious to do what
she wished, there was no excuse for bad temper, and she felt that her
choicest weapons were being wasted, while the enemy was doubtless
making the best use of her time by entrenching herself more strongly.
Accordingly, the young lady intimated to her husband that the tour had
lasted long enough, and the Pasha gave orders for the return. His
Excellency’s long absence had so far made the heart of the Baghdadis
grow fonder that they pressed to meet him and greeted him with
acclamations, which were especially pleasing to him as tending to
prove that the Balio Bey had been wrong in his dismal
prognostications. Even Azim Bey received a special ovation, and the
official who had acted as the Pasha’s deputy in his absence reported
that Sir Dugald Haigh, and the English colony generally, had quite
regained their former popularity.

As for Cecil, she felt as though she were returning home, and the
sight of the Residency almost brought tears to her eyes. She could
scarcely wait until Sunday to get news of her friends, and they on
their part gave her the warmest of welcomes when her donkey reached
the great gate. Lady Haigh exclaimed on her improved appearance, Sir
Dugald paid her a courtly compliment on her looks, and Captain
Rossiter and the other young men who were employed at the Consulate in
various capacities expressed in their faces as much pleasure and
admiration as they dared. But there was something wanting even in this
wealth of greeting. Charlie Egerton did not appear, nor add his voice
to the chorus. Although Cecil had come back resolved to snub and
repress him,--for his own good, of course,--she could not help feeling
that there was undeserved unkindness in this absolute neglect. He must
have known that she was coming home, and that he should have chosen
this special occasion on which to visit old Isaac Azevedo, or even Dr
Yehudi, showed a callousness which she had not expected in him. It was
not until she was closeted with Lady Haigh for a good talk, after
morning service, that she heard the reason of Charlie’s absence.

“My dear,” cried Lady Haigh, when Cecil had remarked casually that she
supposed Dr Egerton was visiting some of his friends, “Charlie isn’t
in Baghdad at all. Haven’t you heard? He has been sent off on an
expedition into the Bakhtiari country, and may be away for months.”

“Indeed!” said Cecil. It was all that she could say.

“Yes, indeed. And you never heard about it? Well, I will tell you. You
know that there has been a good deal of talk lately about a mysterious
epidemic which has sprung up among the Bakhtiaris, and seemed to be
spreading along the Gulf? The Indian Government were getting very
nervous about it, and Sir Dugald has had a great deal of
correspondence with them on the subject. At last it was suggested that
a medical commission should visit the district, and try to find out
the root of the disease, and see exactly what conditions caused it to
spread. The idea was taken up, and it was settled that the commission
should consist of a doctor sent by the Shah (the Bakhtiaris are under
Persia, you know), and Charlie, representing our Government. They know
his worth, you see, though they have treated him so badly. And so he
started, just a fortnight ago now.”

“And of course he was glad to go? It must have been like going back to
his old ways again,” said Cecil. Lady Haigh turned upon her a look of
scorn.

“Charlie has quite given up his old wandering ways,” she said, “and no
one ought to know that better than you, Cecil. He has settled down
into steady work, and gets on splendidly with Sir Dugald. Of course he
was glad to get the medical experience involved in this journey--I
won’t pretend he wasn’t. But he was most unwilling to go just when you
were coming home; in fact,” added Lady Haigh, forgetting her previous
laudation of Charlie’s steady work, “it was all I could do to keep him
from throwing up the whole thing, and he is determined to be back by
Christmas.”

Lady Haigh might have told much more if she had wished to do so, but
she was a discreet woman, and was rarely tempted into obscuring a
general effect by excess of detail. Charlie had not accepted the fact
of his temporary exile by any means in a spirit of resignation, and
his long-suffering cousin had had to endure a good deal before he
finally departed. His chief objection to leaving his post had been the
possibility that some epidemic might break out in his absence, and
sweep away the whole European population of Baghdad; but Lady Haigh
pooh-poohed his anxiety, and assured him that the surgeon of the
_Nausicaa_ was fully competent to fill his place.

“And you know, Charlie,” she said, “this appointment will bring you
before the public, and may do you a great deal of good. It is a thing
after your own heart, and you ought to be grateful for it.”

“What I am thinking of, Cousin Elma,” he replied, solemnly, “is that
if I am away at Christmas, I may lose everything that would make all
this any good to me.”

“My dear boy, what can you mean?” asked Lady Haigh, revolving various
possibilities in her mind. “Oh, I know!” she cried at last. “You mean
that Cecil’s first two years at Baghdad will be over a day or two
before Christmas, and that she can’t go on without signing a new
agreement?”

“And that before she signs it I am to have my chance,” added Charlie.

“Yes, of course,” said Lady Haigh, hastily. “You have been a very good
boy, Charlie, and obeyed me splendidly, but lately I have noticed a
sort of I-bide-my-time air about you, which didn’t look well. You
shall have your chance, certainly, but I wouldn’t advise you to be too
sure about it.”

“I am not,” said Charlie, “but I mean to have it.”

“Well, my dear boy,” went on his cousin, soothingly, “travelling as
lightly as you do, you will be well able to be back before Christmas,
you see. The new agreement need not be signed until Christmas Eve, and
if you are not back then it will be your own fault.”

“But something might prevent me,” he said, dolefully; “and only think
if I came back and found that she had bound herself for another three
years of slavery to that child!”

“You think that you could prevent it if you were here?” asked Lady
Haigh, in the tone that she had used once before when casting a doubt
on the likelihood of Charlie’s success.

“I don’t know,” he said, humbly enough, “but I almost think, if I had
her alone, and could make her listen to me, that I could.”

“Well, that you must settle for yourself, of course. I will do my best
for you, Charlie. Supposing (but I don’t in the least anticipate it)
that you are not back by Christmas Eve, I will tell Cecil the state of
things before she signs the agreement. It may be that she is more
homesick and tired of her work than she seems, and that she will be
willing to listen to the proposal, but I can’t promise you success. I
only say I will do what I can, for you have been very obedient, and
behaved very well. That’s all I can promise.”

“Thank you awfully, Cousin Elma. It’s very good of you. Only wouldn’t
it save you the trouble if I wrote to her now, before I went?”

“What! you haven’t had enough of Azim Bey and his suspicions yet?”
asked Lady Haigh; and as Charlie shrugged his shoulders in silence,
she went on with much animation, “Charlie, I really must have it out
with you, though I know it’s no good, but I will never refer to it
again. Has it ever struck you how very foolish you are? Either by
misfortune or by your own fault you have lost most of your chances,
and come to be regarded either as a cranky clever fellow or as a
pleasant good sort of man, but a most unlucky one. You ought to be
thankful if you could get the most commonplace, unsophisticated girl
that was ever brought up in a remote country village at home to take
you, but no--you must fly high. You fall in love with a girl who is
clever herself and can’t help knowing it, who has had unusual
advantages in the way of education, and whose talents command a fair
market value. It is to her interest not to marry you, and you will
probably get into trouble even if you are merely engaged, and she
laughs at you continually. Why don’t you give her up?”

“I don’t know,” said Charlie, meditatively. “Because I love her, I
suppose, Cousin Elma. I had rather she laughed at me than forgot me,
at any rate.”

“My dear boy!” said Lady Haigh, and kissed him, impulsively. “If only
Cecil knew you as you really are!”

But Cecil did not know, and yet she cried herself to sleep when she
went back to the Palace that night. It could not have been on account
of Charlie’s absence, for she had satisfied herself that she did not
love him, and it could scarcely have been because he had missed his
snubbing, and therefore it must have been, as she said to herself the
next morning, that she was tired and excited from seeing so many old
friends again.




 CHAPTER XIV.
 A SPOKE IN HIS WHEEL.

Neither Cecil nor Azim Bey ever referred in words to the approaching
termination of the former’s engagement. Cecil had never in the
slightest degree hesitated in her resolution to bind herself to remain
at Baghdad for the further period of three years. The letters from
Whitcliffe had of late been so uniformly cheerful in tone with respect
to Fitz and Terry, for the expenses of whose education she had now for
two years been wholly responsible, that she could not but conquer her
longing to see the dear home faces once more, and decide to remain a
member of his Excellency’s household. Then, too, her little pupil had
endeared himself to her, jealous and exacting though he often was, and
she could not bear to think of leaving him. Thus her mind was made up,
and she had no anticipation of anything that might interfere to
prevent the signing of the agreement.

As for Azim Bey, his silence did not arise from lack of interest in
the matter. He knew as well as Charlie did when the first agreement
lapsed, and throughout the tour from which they had just returned his
mind had been busy on the subject. Over and over again, when he seemed
merely to be contemplating the beauties of nature, or listening
attentively to the morals which Cecil did her best to deduce for him
from the various scenes and incidents of their daily life, he was
occupied in planning schemes by which his governess’s further stay
might be ensured. It was clear to him that the cardinal point was that
Charlie should be absent from Baghdad when the agreement was signed.
Azim Bey’s dislike for the surgeon of the Consulate was not a feeling
of gradual growth, but had sprung up, fully matured, on the occasion
of Charlie’s unauthorised intrusion into the harem. With a good deal
of natural shrewdness, and a great deal of precocity, stimulated by
the unchildlike life he had led, and the books in which he had
delighted, the boy had divined Charlie’s secret, and marked him at
once as an enemy. By catechising Cecil after all her visits to the
Residency, he arrived at the knowledge that she always saw Dr Egerton
there; and he remarked that she generally spoke of him with a sigh,
but what this sigh meant he could not decide. In any case, he was
fully persuaded that it would be far better for mademoiselle to remain
with him for the next three years than to marry Dr Egerton. She was
doing so much with her earnings for those brothers of hers (whom Azim
Bey regarded with interest not unmingled with contempt, as creatures
who existed for little else but to play pranks for his entertainment)
that she certainly ought not to leave them in the lurch. He had never
given a second thought to his loudly expressed intention of marrying
her himself--which indeed had only been uttered in the hope of
shocking his grandmother--and had resigned himself with philosophic
indifference to the prospect of the bride who had been chosen for him;
but he had some idea that when his education was finished, his father,
or rather Jamileh Khanum, might find mademoiselle a suitable husband
in some rich Armenian, so that she might continue to live in Baghdad,
and he might consult her when he needed advice. In any case, Dr
Egerton, who had unintentionally made himself peculiarly disagreeable
to the Bey, was out of the question, and must be got rid of.

It might have been supposed that the simplest plan would have been to
appeal to Cecil herself, and secure her promise to stay on in her
situation; but such a proceeding was quite contrary to Azim Bey’s
character and habits. His instinct was to work underground, and he
heartily detested anything like plain questions and straightforward
answers. “People in love always told lies,” was the impression left
upon his mind by his French novels; and even if mademoiselle should
prove an exception, what good would it do to hear her say that she
meant to leave Baghdad? A straightforward answer of that kind could
not easily be explained away, whereas if everything were left in a
misty, nebulous condition, with nothing determined, and nothing
definite said, it ought to prove easy to find opportunities for action
and loopholes for interference. That mademoiselle might, quite without
her own knowledge, be managed into staying, if only Dr Egerton did not
appear and interrupt the process, he had no doubt, and he began to
revolve schemes for delaying his return. It was evident even now that
matters must be run very close if Charlie was to be back a week before
Christmas, and it seemed to Azim Bey that it ought not to be
impossible, considering the absence of roads and the difficulties of
obtaining transport in the Bakhtiari country, to make him arrive from
ten days to a fortnight late. This was all that would be necessary.

It was easy to see what ought to be done; the difficulty now came in
of finding the person to do it. If only the Pasha had been in the
secret, private instructions from him to the khan-keepers along the
route to delay the progress of the travellers as much as possible, and
to the postmasters to show no particular zeal in providing
baggage-animals, would have settled everything; but Azim Bey did not
wish to call in his father’s help. It was doubtful even whether it
would have been given; for instructions of this kind, recommending
dilatoriness, had an unpleasant knack of becoming public at wrong
times, and the Pasha was always anxious not to give undue cause of
offence to the Balio Bey. In any case, his Excellency might think his
son’s desires inexpedient, and interfere to prevent their realisation;
and this would be much worse for Azim Bey than merely being thrown on
his own resources. Still, he found life very weary and perplexing
while he tried to think of the right person to employ as his
instrument in effecting his purpose.

Masûd and the rest of the servants he dismissed from his thoughts at
once, they were too stolid, and would not make good intriguers. But
Azim Bey had not been brought up in an atmosphere of intrigue for
nothing; he knew exactly the kind of person who was fitted to
undertake what Charlie Egerton called “dirty work,” and the consuls,
more euphemistically, “secret missions.” Not quite for the first time,
he began to regret that he had cut himself off so entirely from M.
Karalampi, and to think that he might have refused his books without
scathing him so fiercely with virtuous indignation. There were plenty
of other disreputable Greek and Levantine hangers-on at the Palace who
might have been intrusted with the business, but men of this stamp
were always ready, if anything led to the failure of their
negotiations, to save themselves by splitting upon their employers. M.
Karalampi alone, in such a case, never betrayed the interests he
represented. He bore the blame of those involved and the scorn or
execration of outsiders, he submitted to have his credentials denied
and his action disavowed, and indemnified himself for it all on the
next occasion. Such traits made him invaluable, and had probably
contributed to his unusually long and successful career.

When there is mischief to be done, it is seldom that tools are wanting
for the accomplishment of it, and when Azim Bey had been thinking of
M. Karalampi for some days as a possible helper, he suddenly found
himself face to face with him. It was in the early morning, when the
boy had gone to pay his usual visit to his father as he dressed.
Important despatches had just arrived, however, and the Pasha must not
be disturbed in the perusal of them. In a very bad temper, Azim Bey
settled himself in the anteroom, where visitors were wont to wait for
audience of his Excellency. Only one other person occupied the room at
present, and this was M. Karalampi, who saluted Azim Bey respectfully,
and then retired to the farthest corner, to intimate that he had no
desire to force himself upon him after the rebuff he had received more
than a year ago. From his distant seat, however, he watched the boy’s
face narrowly, and read the varying thoughts which passed through his
mind. Pride and eagerness were contending for the mastery, and M.
Karalampi watched for the right moment at which to intervene. He had
not heard any of the circumstances, but hastily coupling with the
deductions he drew from Azim Bey’s perturbed face, Charlie’s
often-repeated intention of returning before Christmas (for he was
well up in the gossip of the various consulates), he formed a working
hypothesis, and proceeded to put it to the test. Approaching the divan
on which Azim Bey was seated, he asked casually after the health of
Mademoiselle Antaza, “_cette dame si aimable et si savante_,” to whom
the Bey was so deeply attached.

If Azim Bey had known that to the list of his employers M. Karalampi
had lately added the name of the Um-ul-Pasha, he might have been
suspicious, but he was so much relieved to find the conversation
brought without his assistance to the very subject he wished to reach,
that he answered politely at once that mademoiselle enjoyed the best
of health.

“But the Bey Effendi will soon lose mademoiselle; is it not so?” was
M. Karalampi’s next question.

“What do you mean, monsieur?” asked the boy, startled.

M. Karalampi shrugged his shoulders. “All the world says that she will
marry at Christmas the surgeon of the English Consulate,” he said.

“But she shall not,” cried Azim Bey. “Listen, monsieur; I need your
help. He must be delayed in returning. He is not to be killed, nor
hurt, because he saved mademoiselle and me in the riot, but simply
kept back. Manage this, and I am your friend for life.”

To recover his old position in the Bey’s confidence was M. Karalampi’s
great object at this time, and he was also not averse to doing a bad
turn to Cecil, but he looked serious and reflective.

“Do I understand you, Bey Effendi?” he asked. “There are to be
difficulties among the tribes, you say, and Dr Egerton is to be
detained for the sake of his own personal safety, while he is still at
some distance from Baghdad?”

“Yes, that is it,” cried Azim Bey; “and no letters must pass.”

“That goes without saying,” said M. Karalampi, “and it will not be
difficult to find a cause of quarrel between the Hajar and their
neighbours, the Fazz. But in the Bakhtiari country there are many
robbers, and Englishmen are brave. Why should not the caravan be
attacked, and Dr Egerton and the other doctor killed in repelling the
thieves? That would get rid of him altogether, and no one could ever
know.”

Azim Bey turned a little pale. His schemes had not reached the point
of plotting murder, but the idea seemed to come so quickly and
naturally to M. Karalampi that he was afraid of appearing timid and
cowardly if he told him so. However, a happy thought occurred to him.

“It is no use trying to work through the Bakhtiaris,” he said. “They
love the English, and might even tell him what we had arranged with
them to do. And the Arabs must not kill him, for the Balio Bey would
demand blood-money, and my father would be obliged to go to war with
my own people to get it paid. No, they must only keep him back,
protesting their love to the Pasha and to the English all the time.
They will not allow him to go to his death, they must say, and no man
can cross the Fazz country safely just then.”

“The Bey Effendi is very wise,” said M. Karalampi, “and it rejoices me
to be able to serve him once more. But I must have some token from him
to show to the Hajar sheikhs, or they will laugh at my beard, and I
shall come back a fool.”

With trembling fingers Azim Bey unfastened the Hajar amulet which his
Arab mother had hung round his neck when he was a baby. “It will bring
all the tribesmen of the Hajar to thy help if thou art in danger, my
son,” she had assured him, and his kinsmen in the tribe had told him
the same thing since.

“Take it,” he said, “but give it back to me. No Hajar dare disregard
it. But take care not to leave it in the tents, lest Dr Egerton see
it, and perceive whose it is. Mademoiselle must never know of this.”

“She never shall,” said M. Karalampi, and he departed with his prize.
Fortune had favoured him beyond his hopes, and he saw himself, in
imagination, restored to his former place in Azim Bey’s esteem, and
able to manipulate his actions in the interest of his other employers.
As for Azim Bey himself, he felt quite satisfied with the arrangement
he had made, and returned to his governess with a light heart and an
unclowded brow.

Cecil’s visits to the Residency that autumn were almost confined to
the Sundays. She explained to Lady Haigh that she had arranged a
special course of study with her pupil, which must not on any account
be interrupted, after the desultory way in which the summer had been
spent, and she adhered to this plan with the utmost rigour, never
acknowledging, even to herself, that the Residency seemed in some way
empty and desolate just now. Sunday by Sunday she said to herself,
hopefully, “Perhaps he came back last night,” but the weeks passed on,
and he did not come, and Cecil cried herself to sleep at nights, and
assured herself all the time that she did not love him, and that it
was only because she was disappointed. Thus the days went by quietly
enough until Christmas week approached. Still Charlie had not
returned, although his letters to Lady Haigh announced that he had
started upon the homeward journey. They were rather despondent in
their tone, for his medical inquiries had occupied a longer time than
he had calculated, but they all breathed a spirit of unconquerable
determination to be back by the day before Christmas Eve, or die. Even
if he had to tramp from Mohammerah to Baghdad, he would do it. But he
reckoned without Azim Bey.

Cecil was to spend Christmas at the Residency. From the morning of
Christmas Eve to the evening of Christmas Day she was to have her time
absolutely to herself, and on Christmas Eve Denarien Bey and other
officials were to bring the new agreement and present it for her
signature. Azim Bey watched her depart without misgivings. His plans
were laid securely, and if they did not come to a satisfactory
conclusion, M. Karalampi would pay the penalty. Cecil nodded and
kissed her hand to him as she started on her ride to the Residency,
and he noticed that her white sheet was fastened with the elaborately
wrought and jewelled brooch he had presented to her that morning, in
pursuance of what he understood was the correct English custom. He was
pleased with the honour shown to his gift, and accepted it as a good
omen, and therefore he waved his hand gaily to Cecil, and called out
that he would not torment old Ayesha, his nurse, more than he could
possibly help while she was away.

Arrived at the Residency, Cecil found Lady Haigh in an extremely
perturbed state of mind. Charlie had not returned, and no notice of
his approach had been received; moreover, there were rumours of
troubles between the Hajar and the Fazz tribes in the very district
through which he had to pass. In the course of a few hours Denarien
Bey would bring the agreement to be signed, and if Charlie had not
returned by that time, she would be obliged to speak to Cecil on his
behalf, a prospect which filled her with nervous dread. To add to her
perplexities, she had all the Christmas decorations on her hands, as
well as the preparations for the Christmas Day festivities, in which
she was handicapped by an undying feud which existed between such of
the servants as were Hindus on one side, and Agoop Aga, the
major-domo, and the natives of the country, on the other. With a vague
idea of putting off the evil day, she accepted Cecil’s offer to see to
the decorations and the arrangement of the _menu_ for the morrow’s
dinner-party, and departed to look to the ways of her household. But
this delay was of no avail, for lunch-time arrived, and no Charlie.
Denarien Bey was coming at three o’clock, and with beating heart poor
Lady Haigh perceived that she must speak to Cecil. There was no time
to lose, and after lunch she called the girl into her boudoir and
prepared to make the attempt. She knew that she could not plead
Charlie’s cause with anything approaching the fervour he himself would
have used; nay, she had an uneasy consciousness that if Cecil accepted
him she would consider her an arrant fool for giving up her present
position for his sake. But she was fond of Charlie, and sympathised
with him on account of his patient waiting, and she felt herself bound
by her promise to do the best she could for him.

“Cecil, my dear,” she said, when she had got Cecil settled at last,
after several vain attempts to reason her into a properly serious
state of mind, “Denarien Bey will come with the agreement very soon.”

“Yes?” said Cecil, springing up from her chair and adjusting the
striped scarf which draped a portrait on the wall. “But don’t let us
talk of business now, Lady Haigh. These two days are my holidays, you
know, and I want to enjoy them. This is a new photograph of Sir
Dugald, isn’t it?”

“Oh, my dear child,” entreated Lady Haigh, “do be serious. I have
something so very important to say to you. I don’t know how to say it,
but I promised Charlie, and I wish I hadn’t. Do listen to me quietly.”

Cecil dropped into a chair, not that in which she had been sitting
before, but a low one in the shade of the curtain, and composed
herself to listen, for Lady Haigh’s voice sounded as though tears were
not far off.

“Poor Charlie has not come back in time,” went on the elder lady,
sadly, “and he was so very anxious to speak to you himself. But I must
do it, or you will sign the agreement without knowing. He has been in
love with you a long time, Cecil, ever since he has known you, in
fact, and he wanted to ask you to marry him on the way up the river,
but I wouldn’t let him. I promised him that if he would let you alone
for the first two years, to give you a fair chance of seeing how you
could get on, he should speak to you before you signed the new
agreement. Well, he isn’t here, so I must speak instead. He is very
much in love with you, my dear, though I should think you know that as
well as I do, and if you don’t, Azim Bey does. He has some money of
his own, and Sir Dugald feels now that he can conscientiously put in a
good word for him with the Indian Government if there is any question
of another appointment, and he is a dear fellow. There! I know I am
not putting things properly, but I don’t know how to manage it. He
can’t bear to think of your slaving, as he calls it, with Azim Bey all
day; he wants you to be raised above the necessity of working for your
family. He need not stay out here, you know, if it were not that he
loves the East so much, he has a good property at home,--and he is a
generous fellow. I am sure I may say that your little brothers would
not suffer from the change. I might talk to you about a good position,
and all that sort of thing, but I don’t believe it would affect you.
All I can say is, Cecil, don’t let my blundering way of speaking for
him prejudice you against the poor fellow, for he really is head over
ears in love with you. Sometimes I think you don’t appreciate him
properly, but remember, he has waited patiently for two whole years,
and only refrained from speaking out of pure consideration for you,
lest you should be compromised in your new position. You have never
shown him any special encouragement, always laughing at him and
teasing him as you do, but he has never wavered, so if you can find it
in your heart to say yes, do be kind to the poor boy.”

There was a few minutes’ silence, while the clock ticked heavily. Lady
Haigh glanced nervously at Cecil, sitting in the deep orange shade of
the curtain, but could read nothing from her face. At last the girl
spoke, slowly and with some hesitation.

“I am glad you have spoken to me, Lady Haigh, for it seems to make it
easier--I mean--yes, it is easier--to see the right course than if Dr
Egerton had asked me himself. I think I am bound in honour to consider
my duty to my employer, and to go on with my work. The Pasha has acted
most kindly and honourably by me, and he wishes me to carry on Azim
Bey’s education. I can’t feel that it would be right, after all the
trouble and expense he has had, to throw up my situation for the sake
of a--well, of personal feelings. I think the Pasha would have a right
to say he didn’t think much of Christianity if I treated him in that
way, and I have tried not to hide my colours in the Palace. I think it
is only right for me to go on as I am.”

“But you don’t mind my having told you, dear? You are not angry with
Charlie? What will you say to him?”

“That is scarcely a fair question, Lady Haigh,” said Cecil, pausing
with her hand upon the door, but keeping very much in the shade of the
curtain; “or did Dr Egerton depute you to receive his answer as well
as to plead his cause?”

“Ah, she shan’t get off like that,” said Lady Haigh to herself, as the
door closed behind her young friend. “Charlie shall have his chance
when he comes back and speak for himself, and I am very much mistaken
if he doesn’t get a little hope to help him through the next three
years.”




 CHAPTER XV.
 AFTER ALL----

But Christmas Eve passed on, the new agreement was brought and
signed, and still Charlie did not come. The other young men looked at
one another and laughed when they found that he had not appeared, and
one or two betrayed symptoms of an inclination to take his place and
monopolise Cecil. But they had no chance, as they were ready to
acknowledge ruefully at night; for even if Miss Anstruther had been
willing to let herself be monopolised, Lady Haigh would not have
allowed it. She was very particular in keeping the conversation
general in the drawing-room that evening, and in checking any tendency
towards confidential talks. Captain Rossiter did once by a bold stroke
succeed in getting Cecil to linger at the piano, trying over the
accompaniment of a new song which had just reached him from England;
but before he could guide the conversation round to anything more
interesting than key-notes and sharps, Lady Haigh moved over to a
chair close to the instrument, and the rest of the company followed.

Cecil did not sleep much that night. She had made definitely the
momentous decision which had been confronting her for so long, and had
signed away her liberty for three years more, but it was not the
thought of this that kept her awake. She had heard Charlie Egerton’s
love declared, though not by himself, and the recollection made her
heart beat fast. Even if (and she was not quite so sure about this as
she had been a little while ago)--even if she did not love him, she
could not but feel touched both by his affection and his constancy.
But why had he not come back? Why, after declaring so openly his
intention of returning, had he lingered until after she had bound
herself to remain in Baghdad? What had detained him? Had anything
happened to involve him in one of the border disputes which were
continually occurring between the Arab tribes, or had the spell of the
old wandering life regained its power over him? If it were really the
latter, Cecil felt that he might as well spare himself the trouble of
coming back at all, so far as she was concerned. Ever since she had
first met him she had deliberately thrown her influence into the scale
against his nomadic tastes, trying to induce him to settle down
steadily, and do his best, by persistent attention to duty, to
counteract the effects of his earlier erratic proceedings. It was a
pity, she had felt sometimes, that a man whose nature revelled in the
unusual and the unconventional should be guided so strenuously into
the beaten track, where another, with natural gifts of a far less
remarkable order, would have filled his place with much more
satisfaction to himself and to his superiors.

But it was all for Charlie’s own good. It must be to his advantage to
be held back from sacrificing all his prospects to the impulse of a
moment, and Lady Haigh had been unremitting in impressing upon Cecil
that whereas an eccentric, harum-scarum genius might do a great deal
in the way of contributions to inexact science, the Indian Government,
and indeed all governments, preferred the steady man who could be
trusted to keep in the line marked out for him. Almost unconsciously
Cecil had been setting this as a kind of test for Charlie in her own
mind, watching, with an interest which she believed was wholly ethical
and impersonal, his two years’ struggle to stick to his work and avoid
quarrelling with Sir Dugald. Hence she had come to the rather
one-sided conclusion that she would certainly have no more to do with
him if his efforts failed, while discreetly leaving a blank as to what
was to happen if they were crowned with success. But in any case, if
he could forget all that he had said, and the importance of haste, at
such a time as this, and linger among the Bakhtiaris or the Hajar, it
would be evident that his love was as little to be depended upon as
his persistence in any walk of life had formerly been.

It was not wounded pride which actuated Cecil as she reasoned out this
conclusion with herself, nor was it lack of sympathy with Charlie in
the trials and worries of his uninteresting post at Baghdad. It was
simply that she felt the lack of stability in his character, and the
need there was for correcting it, and that she had a traitor on her
own side to crush, in the shape of the unreasoning attraction towards
Eastern and simpler modes of life which sometimes possessed herself.
With Charlie this feeling was a passion, but in her it came only very
occasionally into collision with her habitual fixedness of purpose and
invariable caution. Still, the very knowledge of the existence of this
tendency in herself made her harder upon Charlie, and more determined
to guide him in the safe middle path of daily duty steadily
performed,--just as we are all prone to correct with greater
willingness the faults we perceive in ourselves which are at variance
with our general character,--and she felt, as she reviewed her conduct
and advice mentally that night, that she could not reproach herself
with what she had done. But she had now something else to
consider--namely, what she was going to do--although the circumstances
seemed so uncertain that she felt herself justified in leaving the
matter open. Suppose Charlie had been unavoidably detained after all,
and that he returned within the next few days, would he speak to her
still, now that his speaking would come too late? She could not doubt
for a moment that he would, but when he did, what would he say? Yes,
and what would she say? These questions ran in her mind all night, in
spite of the wise procrastination she had exercised in determining to
leave the matter undecided.

“I really wish,” she said pettishly to herself, when she saw in the
morning her pale face and tired eyes reflected in the glass--“I really
wish now that he would stay away until to-morrow, so that I could get
back to the Palace and be safe with Azim Bey without having to go
through all this.” And so much worried and perturbed did she feel at
the moment that she believed she meant what she said.

The morning passed quietly. The party from the Residency rode over to
the Mission-house to join in the English service in the room which
served Dr Yehudi as a church, and which was decorated with
palm-branches and quaint devices arranged by the school-children, who
mustered afterwards to receive good advice and sweetmeats from Sir
Dugald, and presents from Lady Haigh and Cecil. Then the horses were
brought up again, and the visitors rode home, refusing to tax the
scanty resources of the Mission party by staying to lunch. At the
Residency the meal was despatched in haste, for all the members of the
British colony in Baghdad were expected to join in the Christmas
dinner that evening, and such a prospect necessitated a good deal of
preparation. Sir Dugald retired to his office to escape from the
bustle, and such of his subordinates as did not follow his example
found themselves impressed into Lady Haigh’s service for the purpose
of moving furniture, hanging up draperies, and otherwise altering the
appearance of the principal rooms. Cecil undertook the decoration of
the dinner-table, much to the indignation of the Indian butler, who
considered that he knew far more about dinner-parties than the Miss
Sahiba, and Lady Haigh superintended everything, driving white-clothed
servants before her in agitated troops.

It was in the midst of all this turmoil that Charlie came home. Lady
Haigh heard him ride into the courtyard, and flew to greet him.

“O, my dear boy!” she cried, as he dismounted and came to meet her,
“why didn’t you come before? You are too late.”

“She has signed the agreement, then?” he asked, quickly. Lady Haigh
nodded, and he went on. “I thought as much. Thanks to that abominable
child, I believe (for you know his mother was one of the Hajar), I
have been detained in their tents for a week. They persisted that they
were at war with the Fazz, and that I could not go on except at the
risk of my life, and they kept me a regular prisoner. Twice I tried to
get away, and each time they brought me back. Yesterday I managed to
get hold of my revolvers, which they had hidden away, and we very
nearly had a big fight. I threatened to shoot them all if they would
not let me go, and at last they consented to disgorge the horses and
my things, and my boy Hanna and I came on at once. We parted company
this morning. He was to come on gently with the luggage, while I rode
hard, and now it is too late after all.”

“My poor dear boy!” cried Lady Haigh, the tears rising in her
sympathetic eyes. “I did my best for you, really, but you see I could
not plead as you would have done, could I? But you shall speak to her
yourself. Leave it to me, and I will make an opportunity for you, only
it must be when there is no one about, that people may not begin to
talk.”

“Thank you, Cousin Elma. It’s something like a condemned criminal’s
last interview with his friends, to give me one talk with her before
three years’ separation.”

“You were always inclined to be discontented, Charlie,” said Lady
Haigh, reprovingly. “Be thankful for what you can get, and now go and
make yourself respectable.”

He laughed, and betook himself in the direction of his own quarters.
Cecil, at work in the dining-room, heard his steps on the floor of the
verandah, and went on with her task of piling up crystallised fruits
on the dessert-dishes with trembling fingers. Perhaps he would not see
her as he passed. But he did. A casual glance into the room showed him
that she was standing there, and he went no farther. An insane impulse
seized her to run away when he came in, but she stood her ground,
though looking and feeling miserably guilty. Charlie caught both her
hands in his, and stood gazing into her flushed face with a look
before which her eyes fell. Then, almost before Farideh, the slipshod
handmaiden who was supposed to be assisting in the festive
preparations, had time to profit by the little distraction to the
extent of surreptitiously conveying an apricot to her mouth, he
recollected himself, and loosing his hold of Cecil’s hands, asked
eagerly--

“You will let me speak to you in private some time or other?”

“Yes,” faltered Cecil, and he went out, while she, suddenly
discovering Farideh’s part in the little scene which had just been
enacted, taxed her with her guilt, and proceeded to give her a severe
scolding in somewhat imperfect Arabic, though her lips would quiver
sometimes with a smile in the sternest passages.

Lady Haigh was very mysterious that evening. She would not let Cecil
go to dress for dinner until she herself could come too, and then she
accompanied her to her room, where they found the two maids, Um Yusuf
and Marta, gazing in speechless admiration at the contents of a great
box they had just unpacked. With tender care they had laid on the bed
a beautiful evening dress of soft, clinging white stuff, with borders
of golden embroidery in a classic pattern, and now they were gently
handling a white and gold cloak to match, and a fan of white feathers
with a golden mount.

“My Christmas present to you, dear,” said Lady Haigh, kissing Cecil.
“I flatter myself I know what suits you, and I see my London
dressmaker has carried out my directions exactly. Let me see how you
look in it.”

“O, Lady Haigh, you are too good!” gasped Cecil, fingering the
delicate fabric with intense delight.

“Nonsense, Cecil! Do you think I didn’t know that you decided not to
order out a new evening dress from home, because you wanted to send
Fitz the money to get a camera with? I’m glad you like it, dear. If
you are so very pleased, show it by looking nice in the dress, and by
being kind to poor Charlie.”

The last sentence was in a lower tone, but Cecil shook with mirth; the
idea of being bribed with a new dress to be kind to Charlie seemed so
ridiculous. The thought suddenly came to her of the uncontrollable
delight with which her little Irish stepmother would have viewed the
whole scene, more especially the part which concerned the unexpected
rewarding of her kindness to Fitz, and it was with difficulty that she
restrained herself from bursting into a peal of laughter. It did not
take long to array her in the wonderful white-and-gold dress, and even
the sedate Um Yusuf, as she clasped the folds upon the shoulder with
Azim Bey’s brooch as a finish, was moved into uttering words of
admiration. Lady Haigh and Marta were no whit behind in their praise,
and Cecil herself, on looking into the glass, felt that she could
scarcely recognise the gorgeous vision there reflected.

Lady Haigh was also arrayed suitably to the greatness of the occasion,
and she and Cecil now donned their cloaks in preparation for crossing
the court, and rustled down to the great drawing-room, where Sir
Dugald was waiting with a long-suffering expression, his subordinates
hovering in the background and looking depressed. Lady Haigh cast a
last glance around to see that all was right, and then, satisfied that
the great room, with its fretted ceiling and walls inlaid with mirrors
set in beautiful mosaic of many-coloured marbles and gilded arabesque
work, was looking its best, took her place beside Sir Dugald with a
sigh of complacency. The guests soon began to arrive in their most
imposing attire, and the assembly became a miniature court. It was not
so difficult as usual, Cecil thought, to realise that one was in the
city of the Khalifs, now that the splendours of the place were
properly revealed by the aid of many wax-lights, and the rooms, at
other times empty and silent, were gay with bright costumes and
gorgeous Eastern draperies. But when the move into the dining-room was
made, the illusion was spoilt, for all was Anglo-Indian, and the
punkah, useless to-night, and the silent Hindu servants, though they
might at first seem to give an air of oriental stateliness to the
proceedings, were after all as alien to the old Baghdad as to older
Babylon. Cecil felt honestly grieved by the innovations years had
brought, and she had ample time to lament over them, for her neighbour
at the table was a stout and bald-headed elderly merchant, who devoted
himself to curry and other red-hot compounds with a singleness of
purpose which left him no opportunity for conversation. Opposite to
her Charlie was doing the agreeable to the wife of the American
Consul, a faded but still vivacious lady, who was talking shrilly of
Boston. The few Americans in Baghdad had united with their English
kinsfolk to-night in celebrating the old home festival, and the
English would fraternise with them in like manner when Thanksgiving
Day came round.

The meal was a long one, for all the usual Christmas fare was _de
rigueur_, as were the orthodox Christmas customs, while there were a
number of toasts to be drunk at the close; but it was over at last,
and the gentlemen were not long in following the ladies into the
drawing-room. A number of other people who had only been invited to
the reception after the dinner-party now came dropping in, and Cecil
found herself seized upon by her friend Mrs Hagopidan, the lady in
whose defence she had broken a lance with Charlie not long after her
arrival in Baghdad. Myrta Hagopidan was a lively little person, an
Armenian by race, a native of British India by birth, and an
Englishwoman by aspiration. As schoolgirls she and Cecil had adored
the same governess, the lady who had been Cecil’s form-mistress at the
South Central having gone to India to take charge of the Poonah High
School, as has been already mentioned, and this bond of union drew
them very close together, although Mrs Hagopidan was pleased to affect
the ultra-smart in dress and conversation, and had a weakness for
talking about her “frocks,” for which, by the way, Worth was sometimes
responsible. She came rustling up now in a magnificent and utterly
indescribable costume of various shimmering hues, and demanded that
Cecil should take her up to the roof to see the view.

“I’ve never seen the city by moonlight from here,” she said, “and
Captain Rossiter has been telling me that it’s quite too awfully
sweet. Take me up to the best place, for I daren’t go roaming about
Sir Dugald’s house alone without his leave, and I’m much too
frightened to ask for it. Put on a shawl or coat or something, for
it’s quite chilly.”

And linking her arm in Cecil’s, Mrs Hagopidan drew her into the
cloakroom, whence she extracted a wonderful little wrap of her own,
all iridescent brocade and ostrich feathers, and then waited while
Cecil hunted for her white-and-gold cloak. Her little dark face looked
so mischievous and arch and winning, framed in the folds of her hood,
that Cecil kissed her there and then, at which Mrs Hagopidan laughed
until all her ostrich-feathers nodded wildly.

“Don’t!” she cried, pushing Cecil away. “I don’t want to make any one
jealous; I’m simply an amiable and kind-hearted friend. There! that’s
your cloak, isn’t it? Put it on and come along.”

They hurried up the steps together, Mrs Hagopidan continuing to talk
incessantly, so that Cecil was nearly exhausted before they had
reached the top, and was obliged to stop to laugh.

“Lazy thing!” cried her companion. “You are stopping too soon. Only
two or three steps more, and I’m dying to see what is to be seen. Come
on. Why, there’s some one here!”

A dark figure confronted them as they reached the top of the stairs,
and Cecil almost screamed, but she saw immediately who it was.

“Myrta, you wretch!” she cried, “you have brought me here on false
pretences.”

“Don’t excite yourself, my dear,” said Mrs Hagopidan, swiftly
descending the stairs to the landing, and sitting down on the lowest
step. “I said I was a kind and amiable friend, and I’m going to be. No
one shall interrupt you, I promise, and if any one tries to pass, it
will be over my body. Now, Dr Egerton, use your opportunity. Go over
to the other side of the roof, and I shan’t hear. You may count on me
to keep a good look-out.”

“I don’t like being entrapped, Dr Egerton,” said Cecil. “I think I
will ask you to take me back to Lady Haigh.”

“I don’t think you will,” said Charlie, quickly, “when you remember
how long I have been waiting for this talk with you, and how hard it
has been for me to get back here even now. I can trust you not to keep
me longer in suspense. Whatever my fate is, at least you will let me
know it at once.”

This was reasonable enough, and Cecil could not withstand the appeal
to her sense of fairness. She walked across to the other side of the
roof, and sat down upon the wide parapet, looking at the shadowy
garden beneath, and at the river beyond, its broad surface flecked
with many wavering lights. Behind was the courtyard, partially
illuminated by the beams from the lighted windows of the drawing-room,
and farther still the town, with its winding, badly-lighted streets,
and its ghostly minarets and palm-trees. The strains of music floated
up to her, mingled with the more distant sounds of the city, but no
human being was visible anywhere, and it seemed as if the world held
only herself and Charlie. He was standing beside her, apparently
finding some difficulty in framing what he wanted to say.

“I’ve longed to speak to you for years,” he burst out at last, “and
now that I have the opportunity I feel ashamed to use it, because I
know my speaking to you at all must seem to you such arrant cheek. I
have thought about it pretty often in the last week, and upon my word!
I can’t think of any conceivable earthly reason why you should marry
me, except that I love you.”

He stopped, and then went on somewhat more freely.

“Cousin Elma has told you how I wanted to speak to you two years ago,
and why I didn’t. That’s the reason, Cecil. It was because I loved
you, and I didn’t want to get you into trouble, and I have learned to
love you more and more since. I do love you, dear, and I have tried to
be a better man for your sake. I can’t talk much about that sort of
thing, you know, but I do see things more in the way you do than when
we first met. But I can’t say it as I should like,” he broke off
despairingly. “Whatever I say seems only to show me more and more how
utterly presumptuous I am. I know I could never hope that you could
care for me as I care for you, because I am such a wretched failure of
a fellow, but if you could love me just a little--if you could take me
on--well, just as a sort of pupil, you know--but I don’t mean that at
all. Will you marry me, Cecil?”

“And if I say no?” asked Cecil, looking away over the river.

“Now you are trying me, to see what I shall say,” he said. “You know,
if I said what I feel, it would be that I should throw up this place
at once and go off into the desert with the Arabs; and I know that
what you would like me to say would be that I should go on here
working steadily, as if nothing had happened. Well, dear, I will try,
but it will be awfully hard.”

Cecil was touched to the heart. “Oh, Charlie, my poor boy!” she cried,
impulsively, and put her hands into his. He took them doubtfully, not
daring to accept the happy omen the action suggested.

“Cecil, is it really--do you mean yes?” he asked, with bated breath.

“Yes, I do,” said Cecil, hurriedly. “I have been a horrid,
calculating, conceited wretch. I’ve looked down on you, and laughed at
you, and never thought how much better you were than I was all the
time. I wish I was more worthy of you, Charlie.”

“You? of me?” he asked. “Cecil, dear, don’t laugh at me now. You
really mean that you can love me? I don’t want you to marry me out of
pity, or anything that would make you unhappy. I can stand anything
rather than that.”

“But I do mean yes,” murmured Cecil, brokenly.

“But you are crying,” he said, with a man’s usual tact in such
matters.

“I’m not,” said Cecil, indignantly. “Well, I suppose I’m homesick. No,
it’s not that. It’s because I have been wanting you so much all this
time, and you have come back at last.”

“Please God, you shall never regret my coming back, dear,” he said,
gently, and drew her head down on his shoulder, where she cried
bitterly, to her own great astonishment and his alarm. It was not at
first that she could explain to him the mental conflict and strain of
the past few months, but she was able to assure him that her tears did
not spring from regret for the promise she had just given, and they
sat there on the parapet talking for a long time. Engrossed in each
other, they did not notice a long line of torch-bearers and horsemen
approaching the Residency from the direction of the Palace, and they
were struck with surprise when Mrs Hagopidan appeared suddenly at the
top of the steps, and looking studiously the wrong way, cried in a
thrilling whisper--

“Dr Egerton, you must go down at once. Azim Bey is at the door, and
Sir Dugald was asking for you. If you don’t put in an appearance,
there’ll be trouble. Do go at once.”

“That abominable child!” cried Charlie, and obeyed.




 CHAPTER XVI.
 A MURDEROUS INTENT.

“Well, dear?” cried Mrs Hagopidan, rushing to Cecil’s side, as
Charlie precipitated himself down the stairs, hurried across the
courtyard, and arrived at the gate just in time to take his place
behind Sir Dugald as the great doors were thrown open for Azim Bey’s
entrance, “is it all settled? You are glad now that I brought you here
on false pretences? Do tell me, have you enjoyed the hour or so which
you have spent in admiring the view?”

“Nonsense, Myrta; we haven’t been there so long as that,” said Cecil,
half-vexed, but for all answer Mrs Hagopidan drew out a tiny gold
watch and exhibited its face.

“It is undeniably an hour and a quarter since we left the
drawing-room,” she said, when Cecil, with an embarrassed laugh, had
recognised the truth of her statement. “Now do tell me, dear, have you
been finding out your fortune from the stars? I can tell you
something. Your fate is connected with that of a dark man, and your
happiness is threatened by a dark child, do you see? There’s a
separation somewhere, I am convinced, but of course a happy ending.
Don’t you think I tell fortunes beautifully?”

“Myrta,” said Cecil, solemnly, “don’t be silly. You know you can’t
find out things from the stars.”

“How do you know? At least you will allow that I have had plenty of
time this evening for studying them, haven’t I?”

In the meantime Azim Bey had been received at the great gate of the
Residency, and conducted with all due solemnity to a chair placed for
him in the large drawing-room. When this had been accomplished, a
sense of constraint seemed to fall upon the party assembled, together
with a feeling of doubt as to what was to be done next. Music and
conversation had both been interrupted by the unexpected arrival, and
the intruder himself seemed as much at a loss as any one. He
scrutinised attentively the faces of those present, bestowed a
searching gaze on Charlie, and finally looked disappointed and a
little inclined to yawn. It was not until Lady Haigh ventured on a
civil inquiry as to the reason of this flattering and unlooked-for
visit that he brightened up.

“I want mademoiselle,” he answered, becoming animated at once. “Where
is she? I came to fetch her. What have you done with her?” and he
looked at Charlie again, in a puzzled and suspicious way.

Happily it was just at this moment that Cecil and Mrs Hagopidan
returned to the room, the latter with her arm linked in Cecil’s, and
at the sight, Azim Bey’s face beamed. He rose from his seat and
walked, for his innate dignity forbade his running, to meet them.

“Oh, mademoiselle,” he cried, “I am so lonely! There have never been
two such long days since Baghdad was built. I am desolate without you.
I have teased Ayesha, I have had two of the servants beaten, I have
been very bad. Now come back.”

“Not yet, Bey,” said Cecil, somewhat vexed, and yet touched by the
eagerness of the little fellow’s tone; “I can’t break up Lady Haigh’s
party in the middle of the evening. But you would like to stay,
wouldn’t you, and see how we keep Christmas in England? You have often
asked me about it, you know.”

“And if Lady Haigh doesn’t mind, we will play some of the old
Christmas games,” put in Charlie, who was very much vexed, and not at
all touched, but wanted to make the best of the matter.

“_You_ may play at Christmas games, M. le docteur, if you like,”
responded Azim Bey, fixing a stony gaze on Charlie, “but mademoiselle
shall sit by me and explain them all. She shall not play your
forfeits, your kissing under the mistletoe, with you.”

“I never suggested that she should--in public, at any rate,” returned
Charlie, almost overcome by the idea of his kissing Cecil under the
mistletoe for Azim Bey’s edification. “I suppose you think that such a
proceeding would need a good deal of explanation, Bey?”

“Madame,” said Azim Bey to Lady Haigh, turning in disgust from
Charlie’s flippancy, “may I ask that you will have the kindness to let
a chair be brought for mademoiselle, that she may sit beside me?”

“Bey! Lady Haigh is standing. I cannot sit down until she does,” said
Cecil, and her pupil groaned, and requested that a chair might be
placed for Lady Haigh on the other side of him. Then, with Charlie as
master of the revels, the games began. Urged by an agonised whisper
from their leader, “For goodness’ sake, you fellows, let us send this
child home in a good temper,” the other young men threw themselves
nobly into the fray, and did their best to induct the bewildered Greek
and Armenian guests into the mysteries of blindman’s-buff and general
post. Meanwhile, Azim Bey sat very upright on his chair, demanding
from Cecil copious explanations of all that he witnessed, and
criticising the players liberally. Mrs Hagopidan he was at first
inclined to admire, but when he found that she was Cecil’s friend he
became jealous, and refused to have anything to say to her, at which
the lively little lady laughed as an excellent joke. Except for this,
however, Azim Bey seemed to enjoy the evening, if no one else did, for
it accorded exactly with his tastes and his ideas of pleasure to sit
still and look on while others supplied amusement for him. At length
the games came to a close, and Lady Haigh carried off Cecil to don her
Palace dress once more. When she came out of her room, with the great
white sheet over her arm, ready to put on, Charlie was on the verandah
waiting for her, and Lady Haigh discreetly returned into the room for
something she had forgotten.

“I couldn’t let you go without one more word,” he said. “You must let
me give you this, dear.”

It was a curiously wrought ring, set with pearls and rubies in a
quaint design, which produced the effect of two serpents twining round
one another, and Charlie explained that he had bought it in Basra two
years before. He did not mention that he had intended to offer it to
her then, had not Lady Haigh’s cruel fiat intervened, but Cecil
understood what he did not say, and let him put it on her finger. But
after a moment she started and took it off.

“I mustn’t wear it yet, Charlie. You know that Azim Bey hasn’t heard
anything about our engagement, and I shall have to break it to him
carefully. I shouldn’t like him to find it out for himself, for it
would hurt his feelings so dreadfully to think I hadn’t told him, and
he would notice the ring at once and guess what it meant. I must
choose a favourable time for telling him, and try to bring him round
to take it pleasantly. I should be afraid he will be rather hard to
persuade; he is so fond of me, you know.”

“So am I,” said Charlie, “and I don’t see what that wretched child has
to do with it. If only I could have got back yesterday, and saved you
from three more years of slavery!”

“Don’t be too sure you could have done it,” said Cecil. “A duty is a
duty, you know, and I have a duty to Azim Bey.”

“And so you have to me. But I’m not going to be selfish, Cecil. You
have made me happier to-night than I could ever have hoped or deserved
to be, and if I couldn’t wait ten years for you, if it was necessary,
I should be a fool and a brute. Besides, after going through the last
two years I know how to be thankful for what I have got. You don’t
know how bad I felt when any of the other fellows spoke to you.”

“Did you?” said Cecil. “Do you know, I should have thought you had
taken good care that they shouldn’t have the chance.”

“What! have I been such a dog in the manger as all that?” cried
Charlie, aghast. “Did I worry you, Cecil? But still you let me do it.”

“You see, I took an interest in you,” said Cecil, calmly. “Lady Haigh
commended you to my care in a sort of way.”

“Lady Haigh is reluctantly compelled to ask you what time of night you
imagine it to be, good people,” said a voice from within the room, and
the two on the verandah started guiltily.

“She’s just ready, Cousin Elma,” said Charlie, taking the sheet from
Cecil’s arm, and offering to help her put it on. But he was not an
expert lady’s-maid, and the process took a considerable time--still,
even if his face did approach hers more nearly than was absolutely
necessary, they were standing in deep shadow, and there was nobody to
see.

And Cecil was duly mounted on her donkey, and escorted to the gate by
Sir Dugald, and rode back to the Palace with Azim Bey at her side,
feeling that she did not dare to look at him lest her eyes should tell
their own happy story. For once she felt thankful for the protection
of the veil, and drew it closely over her flushed face, wondering that
the boy’s glances did not penetrate even this defence.

At the Residency, meanwhile, Charlie was pouring out his tale to Lady
Haigh, assuring her incoherently that he was at once the happiest and
the least deserving man in the whole world, his cousin alternately
corroborating and contradicting him. When she had heard all he had to
tell, Lady Haigh went away to the office where Sir Dugald was sitting
alone, immersed once more in his daily work after the frivolity of the
evening, and reading a despatch which had just arrived by special
courier. He looked up with puckered brow as his wife came softly in.

“I am overwhelmed with business, Elma,” he said, as a gentle hint to
her to be brief.

“I know, dear; I won’t keep you,” she replied, ruthlessly demolishing
the barricade of reports and despatch-boxes with which he had
fortified himself, and settling herself where she could see his face,
“though I’m sure you had better leave it now and get a good night’s
rest. You would be much fresher in the morning. But that wasn’t what I
came to tell you. Cecil and Charlie are engaged.”

“Pair of fools!” said Sir Dugald, with his eyes on the despatch.

“Dugald!” cried Lady Haigh, with deep reproach in her tones. “I think
they are made for one another.”

“I think they are made to create trouble for other people,” said Sir
Dugald. “Now, Elma, I have always regarded you as the most sensible
woman of my acquaintance. Look at the matter in a sensible light, and
don’t talk cant. Can you honestly tell me that you don’t think Miss
Anstruther, with her position and capabilities, a fool for throwing
herself away on a man like the doctor?”

“He is a dear good fellow,” said Lady Haigh, warmly.

“No doubt, but that’s all you can say for him. And look at him. He has
just settled down well here, and then he goes and unsettles himself by
this engagement, which is pretty sure to get him into trouble at the
Palace. Of course it need not, but with his genius for getting into
hot water you may be sure it will.”

“But would you have had them wait three years more?” asked Lady Haigh.

“Certainly not. It is preposterous that he should think of her at all.
I should have some respect for Miss Anstruther’s judgment if she had
chosen Rossiter. He is a fine fellow, if you like, with some chances
of success, and she could have had him for the trouble of holding up a
finger.”

“But would you have had her hold up a finger to Captain Rossiter when
she was in love with Charlie?” inquired Lady Haigh.

“My dear Elma, I don’t think you quite see my point,” said Sir Dugald,
with exceeding mildness. “I consider that it shows a lack of good
sense in Miss Anstruther to have fallen in love, as you phrase it,
with your cousin at all. To see a girl throwing away her chances is a
thing I detest. And now I really must prepare the draft of the answer
to this despatch.” This time Lady Haigh accepted her dismissal, and
retired, a little saddened, but by no means convinced.

All unconscious of the unpalatable criticism her engagement had
excited, Cecil rose the next morning prepared to take the first
favourable opportunity of breaking the news to her pupil; but she was
somewhat startled when he himself, in the midst of his lessons, paved
the way for the disclosure.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, suddenly, looking up from the essay he was
writing on the character of Peter the Great, “what makes you so
happy?”

“Am I any happier than usual, Bey?” asked Cecil, with a start and a
blush. Her pupil studied her face curiously and deliberately.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I am sure of it. When we were out in the garden an
hour ago, you walked as though you wished to dance, and you were all
the time singing tunes in a whisper, and just now you sat like this,
and looked at the wall and smiled,” and Azim Bey supported his chin
upon one hand, and pursed up his solemn little face into a ludicrous
imitation of Cecil’s far-away gaze and the smile that had accompanied
it.

“Dear me, Bey, how closely you watch me!” said Cecil, uncomfortably,
feeling that she was not carrying out her determination of the night
before at all in the proper way. “I am afraid you have not been
working very hard. How far have you got with Peter?”

“I have finished all but his influence upon the Greek Church,
mademoiselle. You looked so happy that I felt I must stop to ask you
about it. But I will finish Peter, and then we can have some more
talk.”

“Don’t you think I ought to be happy to be back here after being away
for two whole days?” asked Cecil, lightly, trying to turn aside the
subject with a laugh; but Azim Bey bent upon her a severe gaze from
under his black brows, and answered solemnly--

“No, mademoiselle; for I watched your face when you went away, and it
was not sad. I am convinced that your happiness has nothing to do with
me. Now I will finish my essay.”

And having succeeded in making his governess uncomfortable, he applied
himself once more to his writing, feeling, no doubt, a certain
satisfaction in seeing that she was beginning to look worried and
anxious instead of happy. She knew him well in these impracticable
moods, when he would exhibit an impish power of detecting the things
which he was not meant to see, and delighted in sweeping away
conventional disguises, and she feared that he suspected what had
taken place, and meant to make her task of telling him about it as
difficult as he could. He finished his essay in due time, fastened the
pages neatly together, and presented the roll to her with a polite
bow, then tidied and closed his desk, all in grim silence, while Cecil
waited expectantly for what he would say next. For the moment he
seemed to have forgotten the matter, however, for he called to the
servants to spread a carpet for him beside the brazier, and to bring
some cushions for mademoiselle, and also to replenish the glowing
charcoal, for it was a cold day for Baghdad. When his orders had been
carried out, he turned to Cecil, and invited her to come down from her
desk, and to sit by the brazier a little and warm herself. Pupil and
governess generally took a short rest of this kind in the middle of
the morning, and Cecil was wont to regard it as a very pleasant time,
when bits from the latest magazines and papers which had reached her
might be read and discussed, and Azim Bey’s critical faculty guided in
the right direction.

“Captain Rossiter lent me a new magazine yesterday, which had just
been sent him from home,” she said, willing to delay her important
communication until her pupil was in a more accommodating mood, “and
I think you would like to see it, Bey. I will send Um Yusuf for it, if
you like.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle, but I think I had rather talk to-day instead
of reading,” replied Azim Bey; and as Cecil took her seat upon the
cushions, he sat down upon his carpet on the other side of the brazier
and looked at her. He had proposed to talk, but the conversation did
not seem to be forthcoming; he only sat still, with his great black
eyes fixed upon his governess. Cecil grew nervous, and perceived that
she had not succeeded in diverting his mind from the former subject
after all. It was foolish to feel perturbed merely on account of this,
however, and she resolved to seize the opportunity and say what she
had intended.

“You asked me just now why I seemed so happy, Bey, and I will tell
you. I am very happy, though I did not know I was showing it so
plainly. You have read in books about people’s being engaged?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” responded her pupil.

“Well, how would you like it if I told you that I was engaged?”

“I should be deeply interested, mademoiselle,” he replied, with cold
politeness. Cecil sighed. He was evidently determined not to be
sympathetic. She must try and begin on another tack.

“You like me to be happy, don’t you, Bey? Supposing that there was a
very good, nice man whom I liked very much, and who--well, who thought
he liked me very much, and that he wanted me to be engaged to him, and
there was no reason why we should not be engaged, what then?”

“And as to yourself, mademoiselle?”

“Oh, supposing of course that I was willing,” said Cecil, hastily; “I
said that. It wouldn’t make any difference to you, you know. I should
stay with you for the three years more, exactly as I promised, and
only go when you didn’t want me any longer. Well, Bey, supposing that
all this were to happen, there would be no reason why you should mind,
would there? I don’t see how it would affect you at all.”

“I should have him killed,” observed Azim Bey, calmly.

“Have whom killed?” demanded Cecil, somewhat startled.

“That man, mademoiselle,--that wicked, wretched man! I would give all
I had to get him killed.”

“Nonsense, Bey! We are not in the ‘Arabian Nights’ now.”

“No, mademoiselle, but we are in Baghdad.”

“I shouldn’t have thought you were so silly, Bey. Why should he be
killed? He would have done you no harm.”

“He would, indeed, mademoiselle. You are my own mademoiselle, and you
shall not be thinking of this--this _imaginary_ person. If he comes, I
will have him killed.”

“I thought you cared a little for me, Bey, now that we have been two
years together,” said Cecil, with deep reproach. “And yet you talk
like this of having an innocent person whom I loved killed, just
because I loved him and he loved me.”

“But that is the very reason, mademoiselle. You would marry him and go
away to your England again, and I want you to stay here in Baghdad,
and be always ready when I want to ask you things. When I am married,
I shall say to Safieh Khanum, ‘If you wish to please me, ask Mdlle.
Antaza’s advice about everything, and you are sure to be right.’ So
you see, mademoiselle, I shall always want you, and you must not go
away. Why, I heard Masûd telling you how rude I was to him yesterday,
and how I teased Ayesha and Basmeh Kalfa just because you were away.”

“But I can’t stay with you always,” said Cecil, vexed, and yet
half-laughing at the tone of pride in which he spoke, “so we must hope
you will improve before I leave you. If I never married at all, I
should go home when my five years here were over. When you are
married, Safieh Khanum will know very well how to manage things
without my advice. Don’t you see that it wouldn’t do at all for me to
be interfering in her household affairs? Besides, Bey, think how
selfish you are. You would like me to lose the very thing that is
making me so happy just now, because you would have to do without me.”

“If any one comes, and wishes to be engaged to you, mademoiselle, I
shall have him killed,” repeated Azim Bey, doggedly. Cecil lost her
temper.

“Very well, Bey; if you are going to behave so foolishly, and talk so
childishly of what you know nothing about, I am not going to tell you
anything more. You may find things out for yourself, if you like.”

And Cecil walked away to her own room, and returned with Charlie’s
ring shining on her finger, a perpetual defiance and reminder to Azim
Bey.




 CHAPTER XVII.
 AN IDYLL, AND ITS ENDING.

After all, the tender care Cecil had shown for her pupil’s feelings,
almost disregarding Charlie’s in comparison with them, was not only
without result, but quite unnecessary. Azim Bey had read in her face
as she said good-night what had happened, and neither silence nor
denials on her part would have had the slightest effect in shaking his
belief in his discovery. Consequently her vain attempts to mollify him
were regarded with contempt as signs of conscious guilt, and the
rupture which concluded them only increased his wrath against Charlie,
over whom he had now been forced to quarrel with mademoiselle. He was
obliged to do his lessons as usual, but at other times he sat apart
and meditated vengeance.

His mind was full of schemes--indeed the only drawback was their
number and variety. He intended fully to get rid of Charlie, and to
punish Cecil for engaging herself to him; but as soon as he had
settled upon a means of doing this, a new and splendid idea was sure
to come into his head, and he would devote himself to working it out
until it in its turn was supplanted by a better. There was another
difficulty common to all these plans. It seemed absolutely impossible
to carry them out, situated as he was, under Cecil’s charge and
Masûd’s guardianship. Even when he had patched up a hollow peace with
Cecil, cemented by a mutual understanding that the subject of her
engagement was not to be mentioned between them, this difficulty
confronted him still, and it was therefore with a joy born of hope and
confidence that he found M. Karalampi one day in the Pasha’s anteroom.
Here was the man who could do what he wanted, and M. Karalampi was
astonished to find himself seized upon and dragged into a corner, and
adjured in excited whispers to get rid of that wretch, that criminal
of an English doctor who had dared to engage himself to Mdlle. Antaza.

M. Karalampi’s first feeling, which he was careful to conceal, was one
of helpless bewilderment, but of this Azim Bey had no idea. To him,
the Greek, backed up by all the help he could easily command, was a
_deus ex machinâ_ who could accomplish his purpose in the twinkling
of an eye. M. Karalampi knew better the difficulties of the situation.
Murder was out of the question, and so was kidnapping. Either, or an
attempt at either, would set the Balio Bey and all the English on the
alert, and lead to the discovery of the instigator of the deed, and M.
Karalampi was not at all inclined to compromise his position, either
with the Pasha or with the foreign consuls, for the sake of Azim Bey.
No; whatever was to be done must be done by careful diplomacy and
working underground, and for this time would be necessary. But to say
so to Azim Bey would mean that the boy would fly off at a tangent to
some other person who might be inclined to help him, and this M.
Karalampi could not allow. Almost simultaneously two plans formed
themselves in his brain, one for getting rid of Charlie, the other for
gaining time from Azim Bey, and he put the second into execution at
once. Lowering his voice mysteriously, and entreating pardon for
casting a doubt on the correctness of the Bey Effendi’s information,
he ventured to inquire whether he were absolutely certain that it was
Dr Egerton to whom mademoiselle was engaged? The doctor and she had
not seen one another for a long time before Christmas, whereas Captain
Rossiter was at the Residency all the time. It was known that the
Balio Bey thought very highly of him, and it was whispered that he
himself thought very highly of mademoiselle: indeed M. Karalampi had
heard it said that he was going to marry her. Was Azim Bey sure that
it was not Captain Rossiter to whom she was engaged? Of course M.
Karalampi could not guarantee the authenticity of his own information,
but it would certainly be very annoying to get rid of the wrong man
and find the evil untouched.

M. Karalampi knew very well the falsity of the suggestion he offered,
but it served his present purpose admirably. Azim Bey was struck dumb.
He beat his brains to try and find out why he had fixed upon Charlie
as the happy man, for he had certainly never been told that he was;
but he could find nothing but that early incursion into the harem, and
the little scene he had witnessed at the Residency on the day of the
riot, to justify his suspicions. Meanwhile, as M. Karalampi pointed
out respectfully, these were only proofs that Dr Egerton was in love
with mademoiselle, which no one had ever doubted, while it was
undeniable that Captain Rossiter had rushed to her rescue with the
utmost eagerness when he heard she was in danger. Azim Bey felt
nonplussed. He could only promise that he would do his best to
discover the truth--he must be able to do so without much
difficulty--and adjure his fellow-conspirator to be in readiness to
act the moment he let him know who was to be assailed.

They parted, and Azim Bey set himself to his task; but it was more
difficult than he had imagined it would be. Cecil’s lips were sealed,
at any rate to him, on the subject of her engagement. If he attempted
to approach it, she froze instantly, and he could not obtain from her
the slightest clue to the mystery, while all his efforts to pump Um
Yusuf found her as impenetrable as the grave. It so happened that for
a considerable time he met no one who had sufficient interest in or
knowledge of the matter to enlighten him. He felt convinced that he
could have got the truth out of either Charlie or Captain Rossiter by
means of a few questions, but neither of them came in his way, and
though he saw Sir Dugald once or twice, the Balio Bey was not the kind
of person to approach on such a quest. Much time was consumed in these
delays, and winter had passed, and spring was over all the plains,
before the boy’s curiosity could be gratified.

It was just at the time when the fruit-trees were in bloom, and the
watered gardens around Baghdad miracles of loveliness, that it entered
Lady Haigh’s head to give a picnic. Some miles down the Tigris were
the ruins of an ancient fort, situated on a bold bluff overhanging the
stream, and surrounded by fruit-gardens, in one of which was a flimsy
summer-palace, built of wood, and almost in decay. The spot was noted
for its fruit-trees, which were supposed to flourish on the site of an
ancient battle-field, and Sir Dugald was accustomed to rent the place
every spring and summer as a refuge from the heat and miasma of
Baghdad. There was plenty of shooting to be had on the neighbouring
plains, and good fishing for any one that cared for it, so that a week
or two at the summer-villa was a coveted treat to the staff at the
Consulate. It was not yet time for the great heat which makes the city
almost unbearable, but the fruit-blossom was particularly lovely this
year, and Lady Haigh was fired with the desire to display
Takht-Iskandar in all its beauty. She could not have all her friends
out to stay with her, especially since the habitable part of the house
was now exceedingly limited in extent, but she could at any rate give
them a sight of the place, and therefore she sent out invitations for
a picnic.

Of course Cecil and Azim Bey were invited. The latter, who was deputed
by his father to represent him on the occasion, accepted the charge
with huge delight, and kept his attendants hard at work for days
beforehand in bringing all his equipments to the highest pitch of
perfection. He felt that he was about to perform a public function,
and his youthful heart beat high with pride. Cecil’s heart beat high
also, but not with pride. She would see Charlie--nay, she would
certainly, if Lady Haigh could compass it, get one of those long talks
with him which were now a distinguishing delight of Sunday evenings at
the Residency. In this hope she put on, under her great white sheet,
the newest and prettiest dress she had, one which had just been sent
out to her from England, and succeeded in mounting her donkey safely
in the unwonted garb. The party from the Residency and most of their
guests went down the river to Takht-Iskandar in a steam-launch, but
the Pasha preferred the land journey for his son, and thus Cecil and
Azim Bey jogged along soberly on donkey-back, followed by a motley
group of servants, and preceded by a running groom.

The way was very pleasant, lying as it did across the wide plains of
Mesopotamia, now gay with their brief verdure and studded with flowers
of every hue. The start was made as soon as it was light, so that it
was still quite early in the day when the frowning ruins which the
Arabs called Alexander’s Throne came into view. Sir Dugald advanced to
the gate of the garden to welcome his guests, and Lady Haigh met them
at the edge of the great terrace of masonry, with its tanks and
fountains, which supplied a site for the picnic in place of the
non-existent grass-plot. Here tents had been pitched and carpets
spread in the shade of the trees, and everything seemed to promise
ease and rest. Azim Bey gave his arm to his hostess to conduct her to
her seat, an honour which reflected much glory, but some
inconvenience, on Lady Haigh, who was much taller than her youthful
cavalier. Sir Dugald followed with Cecil, her pupil looking round
sharply to make sure that she had not wandered away in more congenial
society. Arrived at the encampment under the trees, the party reclined
on gorgeous rugs and listened to the voices and instruments of a band
of native musicians, refreshing themselves with sherbet the while.
This style of entertainment was quite to the taste of the orientals
among the guests, and the Europeans had learnt by long experience to
tolerate it with apparent resignation, so that the time passed in
great contentment. As for Cecil, she leaned back on her cushions and
enjoyed the colour contrasts afforded by the gay hues of the carpets
relieved against the yellow of the stonework and the dark shade of the
trees, and by the twisting and crossing of the blossomy boughs against
the blue of the sky, and wondered where Charlie could be.

After some time the calm of the party was broken by the arrival of a
juggler, a most marvellous Hindoo, such a one as Azim Bey had often
read of but had never seen, and the luxurious guests raised themselves
and moved a little closer, so as to be able to see his tricks more
easily. This left Cecil rather on the outskirts of the group, and
before she could rise to go nearer a voice said in her ear--

“Come and see the ruins.”

With one glance at Azim Bey, deeply absorbed in the juggler’s tricks,
under Lady Haigh’s guardianship, Cecil was up in a moment, scarcely
needing the help of Charlie’s hand, and he hurried her round the
nearest tent and into the wood. There were no footpaths, but they
hastened, laughing guiltily, like two children playing truant, along
the banks of earth left between the innumerable little canals by which
each row of trees was irrigated, and finally came out on a grassy
knoll set with pomegranate-trees, which were now gay with scarlet
blossoms.

“Now we’re safe,” said Charlie. “We can take it easy. Do you see where
you are? There are the ruins just in front.”

No one, as it happened, had observed Charlie’s sudden appearance and
their flight. Even Lady Haigh, with heroic self-restraint, kept her
eyes fixed on the juggler, lest she should by looking round attract
attention to the pair, and the performance went on. When it was over,
Lady Haigh invited Azim Bey to come and see a small plantation of
English fruit-trees, belonging to several choice varieties, which Sir
Dugald had lately imported. He complied with her request, but in the
one glance around which he took before accompanying her, he had
perceived and realised the fact that his governess had disappeared.
His face showed, however, no trace of his having made this discovery.
He escorted Lady Haigh from place to place, asked intelligent
questions about the foreign trees, promised to recommend his father to
try planting some, and kept his eyes open all the time for some trace
of the truant. His manner was so natural, he seemed so deeply
interested, that Lady Haigh was completely deceived; nay, more, the
very thought of the need there was for watchfulness slipped from her
mind, and when they returned to the rest of the guests, she entered
into conversation with Denarien Bey, who was among them. Azim Bey saw
and seized his opportunity. He removed his hand softly from Lady
Haigh’s arm, and sheltered by her capacious person from the
observation of Sir Dugald and Captain Rossiter, edged his way out just
as Cecil and Charlie had done, until, when fairly hidden by the tent,
he ran off at full speed in the direction of the clue he had
discovered as he returned with his hostess from the plantation. It was
a little strip of flimsy white stuff, which he had noticed clinging to
the rough bark of a gnarled old apple-tree--only that, but he knew it
to be a piece of the muslin veil Cecil was wearing, and it showed that
she must have passed that way. Azim Bey followed the path she and
Charlie had taken through the wood, and came out as they had done on
the knoll where the pomegranate-trees grew; but here he was at a loss,
for those whom he sought were not visible, and Cecil had not been so
considerate as to leave another clue for his guidance. He spent some
time fruitlessly in following paths that led nowhere, and in losing
himself among the trees and the little canals, but at last he came
upon an ascending track leading through a dense thicket of fruit-trees
and shrubs. As he went on he heard the sound of voices, and he crept
cautiously nearer, keeping in the shadow of the bushes, until he was
able to see what filled him with rage and longings for vengeance, and
made him swear the blackest oaths he could think of in any language.

And yet the picture before him was not an unpleasing one. In the heart
of the thicket was a space clear of bushes, but occupied by the ruins
of one of the ancient towers of the fortress, partly overgrown with
grass. On a mass of fallen masonry sat Cecil in her blue dress, her
veil thrown back. Above her were twisted boughs of apple and apricot,
covered with bloom, and the thin smooth rods of the almond-tree, with
pink and blush-coloured blossoms interspersed with tiny fresh green
leaves. The branches bent and swayed in the light breeze, and swept
her hair softly, and every wind scattered over her a shower of pink
and white petals. But she was not studying the beauties of nature now.
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her eyelids drooping, and
beside her was Charlie Egerton, holding both her hands in his, his
eyes passionately devouring her face. They were not talking. It was a
moment of supreme content, such as they had not enjoyed for months,
and they were too happy to speak. The unseen spectator perceived it
all, and gnashed his teeth with rage.

Poor little Azim Bey! He knelt there, taking in every detail of the
scene before him, and cursing one, at least, of the actors in it very
heartily. If a loaded pistol had been put into his hand Charlie might
have fared ill, but even Azim Bey did not feel impelled to test his
dagger upon him before Cecil’s eyes. Therefore he only remained where
he was, peering through the bushes, and listening eagerly when some
chance sound disturbed the pair and they began to talk. Their talk
filled him with amazement. It was by no means particularly deep, and
it was undeniably disjointed; but the listener carried away with him
ideas of love which differed widely both from those inculcated in his
French novels and those engendered in his precocious little mind by
the sensuous atmosphere of the harem in which he had been brought up.
It gave him his first glimpse of the gulf which remained fixed between
the most thoroughly Europeanised Turk and even an orientalised
Englishman, who, with all his faults and follies, was still the heir
of centuries of knightly training and Christian influence. Naimeh
Khanum would have rejoiced if she could have known the thoughts which
passed through her young brother’s mind in that half hour, for she
would have hoped that the realisation of the underlying difference
would lead him to make efforts to eradicate it altogether. But Azim
Bey differed in many respects from his sister. His nature, like those
of the men of his nation of whom she had spoken, was inclined to be
satisfied with external resemblance to Europeans, and the discovery of
the real unlikeness only made him hate all the more the individual
through whom it was brought home to him.

“I really must go back to Lady Haigh now,” said Cecil, at last. “Azim
Bey will begin to suspect something.”

Charlie’s reply was a remark not complimentary to Azim Bey.

“And I haven’t seen you really since Christmas,” he went on--“not
properly, I mean. You keep me alive on very little crumbs of hope,
Cecil, and when the time comes for fulfilment you just give me some
more crumbs. I did think I should get a good talk with you to-day, but
I haven’t told you anything of all that I wanted to say. Now don’t
tell me I can say it next Sunday, for you know we get scarcely any
time together then.”

“Poor boy! why don’t you talk faster, and get more into the time?”
laughed Cecil, rising from her seat, and sending a little shower of
petals falling as the flower-laden boughs brushed her head. “I am sure
you have wasted a good deal of time to-day.”

“Because I wanted to look at you, and not to talk,” said Charlie, and
they both laughed, much to Azim Bey’s disgust. Then Cecil’s veil
caught in something as she rearranged it (it was a most inconvenient
garment that veil, continually catching in things), and Charlie had to
disentangle it--a lengthy process, which made the onlooker more angry
still. Charlie caught Cecil’s hand in his once and kissed it, and Azim
Bey made bitter remarks in his own mind on the foolishness of lovers.

“We must come,” said Cecil again. “Just think how very embarrassing it
would be if Azim Bey took it into his head to come and look for me.”

“I don’t care,” said Charlie. “What does he signify?”

“I don’t think you would be able to get much talk if he was here
listening to every word,” said Cecil. “Now, Charlie, please don’t,
_please_! I have just made myself tidy, and I must get my gloves on.”

“I’ll put them on for you,” said Charlie, kindly, but the offer was
declined with thanks. The pair passed out of the little cleared spot
in the woods, so close to Azim Bey that Cecil’s dress almost brushed
him as she went by, and when they were out of sight he rose and made a
circuit through the grounds, so as to come upon the picnic-party from
an opposite direction. Lady Haigh had discovered her charge’s absence
by this time, and was in dire dismay about him; but his appearance and
his unruffled demeanour reassured her, for she could not guess that
his heart was so full of rage and fury that he could scarcely bring
himself to speak civilly to any one. It was a triumph of oriental
dissimulation which enabled him to keep cool, and no one ever
suspected that he had done more than search the grounds for Cecil and
had not found her. The rest of the day passed calmly enough, and Azim
Bey kept close to Cecil’s side, and conversed graciously, and behaved
like a civilised and well-brought-up young gentleman, while all the
time he was planning vengeance in his mind.

The sun began to approach the horizon at last, and the party, hosts
and guests alike, prepared to return to the city. Torches were
lighted, the tents hastily taken down and rolled up with the carpets,
and while these were being taken on board the steam-launch the donkeys
belonging to the Palace party were brought round. Azim Bey was in a
great hurry to start, being anxious to prevent long leave-takings. He
mounted quickly, although this process was usually a lengthy and
dignified one, and waited impatiently for Cecil. So impatient was he
that he started before she was properly mounted, and she would have
fallen had not Charlie caught her in his arms. Boiling over with rage,
Charlie gave her into Lady Haigh’s care, and confronted Azim Bey, who
had returned in some alarm.

“You did that on purpose, you little rascal!” cried Charlie, seizing
the boy’s rein. Azim Bey’s face became pale with rage.

“You dare, monsieur? You venture to say that I desired to hurt
mademoiselle? Go, you are a pig, a serpent--I despise you! Go, I say!”
and he lifted his riding-whip, which Charlie immediately grasped.

“Don’t try that sort of thing on with me, young one,” he cried. “You’d
better not, or I may be tempted to give you a thrashing, which would
do you a lot of good.”

“How, monsieur, you threaten me?” screamed Azim Bey. “I will remember
it, I will remember it well! You and I will meet, and you also shall
remember this. Go, dog of an Englishman!” with a vigorous tug at the
whip, to which Charlie gave a wrench that broke it between them. Azim
Bey flung the fragments in his face, with a torrent of curses.

“Egerton!” said Sir Dugald, stepping between them, “what is the
meaning of this?”

“He has insulted me, monsieur,” cried Azim Bey, trembling with
passion. Sir Dugald cast a scathing glance at Charlie.

“I am sure Dr Egerton is willing to apologise if he has inadvertently
said anything to offend you, Bey,” he said. “Egerton, you must
certainly see that there is no other course open to you. It is
impossible that you could have intended to insult the Bey.”

“He shall apologise for it--in blood,” growled Azim Bey, ferociously,
while Charlie stood silent, nettled by Sir Dugald’s authoritative
tone. “He said I meant to hurt mademoiselle. The rest is for him and
me to settle alone.”

“Oh, Charlie,” said Cecil, coming up with anxious eyes, “you did not
mean that, I’m sure. You must have known that the Bey would never
think of such a thing. You will apologise, won’t you? You really
ought.”

“As you say I ought, I will,” said Charlie, turning from the whispered
colloquy with a defiant glance at Azim Bey and Sir Dugald. “I regret,
Bey, to have wounded your feelings by a hasty accusation which was not
justified by facts. I can’t say more than that.”

“If you have done enough mischief, Egerton, perhaps you will rejoin
the rest of the party,” said Sir Dugald, in a low voice. “Allow me to
assist you to mount, Miss Anstruther.”

Cecil complied in silence, feeling ready to hate Sir Dugald for his
treatment of Charlie, and yet conscious that he had much to try him.
Diplomatic complications had arisen out of incidents no more important
than this one, and it was hard for her Majesty’s Consul-General to
find his best-laid plans endangered by the imprudence of a hot-headed
fool in love. And therefore he did his best to pacify Azim Bey, and
succeeded so well that the boy talked quite graciously to Cecil as
they rode back to the city over the short grass, lighted by the
flaring torches of their escort.




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 GATHERING CLOUDS.

Azim Bey was now all eagerness to communicate to his trusted ally M.
Karalampi the discovery he had made, which proved that he had been
right all along in fixing upon Charlie as the person whose removal was
necessary. But, as it happened, he did not succeed in meeting him
until some days after the picnic, and by this time the boy’s anxiety
to get rid of Dr Egerton had risen almost to fever-heat. M. Karalampi
was able to pacify him by assuring him that now that the most
important point was settled, Charlie should quit Baghdad within a
month--a promise which seemed impossible of fulfilment to Azim Bey,
who did not know that his agent had been secretly at work ever since
his services had been first engaged. He worked with extreme art and
delicacy, conveying to those he wished to influence slight intimations
which seemed nothing when taken alone, but which became dangerous
indeed when looked at in unison. At first he laboured chiefly to
influence the Pasha. Ahmed Khémi had hitherto known very little
respecting the doctor of the British Consulate, but for the space of
about a month M. Karalampi dinned his name into his patron’s ears in
season and out of season. Dr Egerton was a most dangerous man. He was
accustomed to disguise himself and go among the people, deceiving even
true believers. He was a spy, it was difficult to determine in whose
pay, but indubitably a spy. He intrigued with the Armenians, the Jews,
the Persians, the missionaries, the Russians, the Greeks. The Balio
Bey did not like him, but was forced to tolerate him, knowing, no
doubt, that he was employed by persons very high in authority. And so
on, and so on, until the harassed Pasha, bewildered by the number and
inconsistency of the charges, peremptorily ordered his too zealous
agent never to mention the name of that English doctor to him again,
on pain of his serious displeasure.

This was just what M. Karalampi had intended, and it closed the first
act of the drama. He had gone upon the principle of throwing plenty of
mud, and he was quite satisfied as to its powers of sticking, even
though he himself had bowed respectfully and promised to obey his
Excellency, averring that it was only zeal for the good of the
Government that had made him so troublesome. His own work was over for
the present, and it was the turn of his confederates. Each of them had
only one thing to do, but they were all to be counted upon to do it.
At some time or other, in the Pasha’s hearing, they were to throw a
doubt on Dr Egerton’s honesty, hint at double-dealing on his part, or
remark that he had been seen in company with suspected persons. To the
last accusation Charlie’s inveterate habit of picking up disreputable
acquaintances lent a good deal of colour, and this helped to establish
the rest. The Pasha was staggered at last. He had silenced Karalampi,
but here were all these independent witnesses giving him the very same
warning. There must be something in it, and it would be foolish to
disregard the testimony of so many unbiassed persons. It might be that
Providence was giving him notice of some plot laid against him, while
he had been obstinately rejecting the warning. He made up his mind to
look into things very carefully in future.

M. Karalampi perceived this, and chuckled as he made ready for the
third act of the play. Although his lips were sealed at the Palace, he
had not been silent in the city. Not that he ever spoke against the
English doctor, nor could any rumours be traced to him,--the only
thing certain was that Charlie Egerton had become desperately
unpopular. The shopkeepers with whom he had been wont to exchange a
passing word withdrew into the inmost recesses of their dwellings so
as not to be obliged to speak to him; children fled from before him,
or were snatched up by their mothers, in dreadful fear of the
evil-eye. There was one small boy who had once been brought by a still
smaller Armenian friend to the Residency, to be treated for a cut
finger or some other childish trouble, and who had been much impressed
by the well-filled shelves in the surgery. Hitherto it had always been
his delight to meet his doctor in the street and salute him with the
cry of “O father of bottles, peace be upon thee!” but now he crept
guiltily into a corner and hid himself if he saw him coming. This was
the hardest thing of all for Charlie to bear, even though the loungers
at the coffee-houses, with whom he had been something of a favourite,
crowded together and looked at him distrustfully as he passed,
muttering “Spy!” in ominous voices. The old women in the bazaars,
privileged by age and ugliness to have a voice in public, reviled him
roundly when they saw him, and then told each other in whispers that
he was paid by foreign enemies to bring in new diseases and spread
them in the city.

This change in public opinion perplexed Charlie extremely. At first he
attributed it to another outburst of anti-English feeling, but this
theory was dispelled on his learning from Captain Rossiter that no
unpleasantness was displayed towards him. Then he set it down to some
temporary crank or fancy of the people’s, and thought little more
about it until, when he went one evening to call on Isaac Azevedo, the
old man told him plainly, though with many apologies, that his visits
were a source of danger to the whole Jewish quarter, and asked him not
to come again for the present. It was this which first opened his eyes
to the possibility of the approach of something more than mere
unpleasantness, but it was not really brought home to him until one
day when he had been to tea at the Mission-house, and Dr Yehudi took
him aside at parting, and asked him earnestly whether he still carried
a revolver, and whether it was ready for use. The danger of the
situation became clear to him then, and it was just about the same
time that M. Karalampi decided that matters were ripe for the
completion of his plan.

Of the steps which led to this end Cecil saw only the last, and she
was made aware of it one Sunday, when she arrived at the Residency to
find Charlie looking out for her, with a doleful and even
shame-stricken visage. She cast uneasy glances at him every now and
then during the morning, but the gloom did not lift, and she waited
anxiously for the quiet afternoon-time when they were wont to exchange
their confidences. As soon as they were together in a shady corner of
the deserted drawing-room Charlie told his story.

“I’ve been an awful fool, Cecil, and got myself into a nice mess.”

“Charlie! What do you mean?”

“It’s perfectly true. You know that I was to dine at the Farajians’ on
Friday night? They are awfully nice people, and Farajian’s brother
Ephrem was to be there,--the man who has been travelling in the
mountains and looking for ruined cities. He was educated by some
American missionaries somewhere, and he has picked up an amazing
knowledge of antiquities. Well, I went, and found that all the guests
were Armenians except myself and Stavro Vogorides, that Greek fellow
who hangs about at the Russian Consulate.”

“I know. I have seen him with M. Karalampi,” said Cecil.

“We talked very pleasantly all dinner-time,” Charlie went on, “but at
the end some one--I think it was Vogorides, but I can’t be
sure--started the subject of Armenia. We were all friends, of course,
but it struck me even then as rather a risky thing to do among such
excitable people. You know that there’s no holding Armenians if you
once get them on that subject, and one after another told stories of
the most awful atrocities I ever heard. They made my blood run cold. I
can’t conceive how people who believe that such things have happened,
and many of them to relations of their own, can ever speak civilly to
a Turk again, or bear to be anywhere near him, except rifle in hand,
and I said something of the kind. It seemed to set them off, for they
all stood up and drank the toast of ‘Free Armenia!’ solemnly.”

“And you drank it too? Oh, Charlie!” said Cecil, anxiously.

“That wasn’t all,” said Charlie, determined to free his conscience
completely, “for I said afterwards that I was sure if they ever did
rise, English people would help them with arms and men and money, just
as we did the Greeks in the War of Independence.”

“Oh, Charlie!” groaned Cecil again, “how could you?”

“I don’t know. I was carried out of myself, I suppose. Well, in some
way or other, I can’t imagine how, the thing has got to Sir Dugald’s
ears. He sent for me last night, and gave me such a wigging! Of course
I was a fool to say what I did, but he makes out that if the thing got
known I should have to leave Baghdad at once. He said it was an
unpardonable breach of diplomatic etiquette, an indiscretion he should
have considered impossible. He said I ought to consider you, too, and
not go imperilling my life and my prospects in the way I did. He also
said a good deal more--in fact, I got it pretty hot.”

“But what did he mean about imperilling your life?” asked Cecil,
quickly.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to say that, but perhaps after all you had better
hear it from me; you won’t be so much frightened. It may not have
anything to do with it at all, but yesterday, when I was out riding
with Rossiter on the other side of the river, a fellow potted at me
with a long gun. It may have been only that he wanted something to
shoot at, but the people round here do seem to have rather a prejudice
against me just now. Anyhow, he missed, and we gave chase, but he got
away.”

“But who can have told Sir Dugald about the Farajians’ dinner-party?”
asked Cecil. “The servants?”

“There were none in the room at the time. No, he absolutely declined
to tell me--said it was enough for me that he knew. I don’t know who
it could be.”

“It may have been M. Vogorides,” mused Cecil. “Charlie, have you ever
made an enemy of him or of M. Karalampi?”

“Would you have me make a friend of either of them?” he inquired.

“Well, there is a kind of distant civility you might employ towards
them.”

“Not towards them, that is just it, any more than towards a snake,
except with something between--bars or glass or something of that
sort. I cannot stand these Levantines. There is something picturesque
and romantic about a Jew, even if he does try to cheat you; and as for
the Arabs and Turks, it makes you quite sorry to know the trouble they
take to get the better of you, when you see through them all the time.
But those Greeks, ugh!”

“That sounds as though you objected to them because they were clever
enough to be able to cheat you,” said Cecil. “But if this is the way
you regard them, no doubt you have hurt M. Vogorides’ feelings at some
time or other, and he has tried to revenge himself on you by telling
Sir Dugald. But do take care of yourself, Charlie. What should I do if
anything happened to you?”

“I think you would do much better without me,” broke out Charlie. “I
see that I ought never to have asked you to marry me, Cecil, such a
heedless fool as I am, and I also see that I ought to give you up now,
instead of worrying you with my misfortunes. I really mean it.”

“Happily, the decision doesn’t lie with you,” said Cecil. “Why, what a
fair-weather friend you must think me, Charlie! Have I deserved it?
Have I ever seemed worried by your misfortunes? I should have thought
I had felt them too much for such a word to be applicable.”

“You are an angel,” said Charlie, and kissed her.

“I have only this to say,” went on Cecil, freeing herself. “You may
give me up if you like, but I decline entirely to give you up. If you
wish me to go through life in the ridiculous position of a girl
engaged to a man who doesn’t consider himself engaged to her, I must
bear it, I suppose.”

“You know I don’t,” said Charlie, and the conversation after this
point became somewhat personal and lacking in coherence, until Charlie
tore himself away to go and visit his patients. But Cecil was still
anxious and uneasy, and at afternoon tea, finding that Charlie was
still absent, she moved boldly across to Sir Dugald, determined to
learn the worst.

“To what am I indebted for this unwonted honour?” was the question
asked by Sir Dugald’s eyebrows as he rose and gave her his chair, but
in words he only inquired whether she found the spot shady enough.

“I wanted to speak to you about Dr Egerton,” she said, breathlessly,
too anxious about Charlie to answer his question politely. Sir
Dugald’s eyebrows went up.

“Would it be rude to say that I have already heard rather too much
about Dr Egerton lately?” he asked.

“That was just the reason why I wanted to talk to you about him,” said
Cecil. “Were you in earnest in what you said to him last night?”

“I am not in the habit of playing practical jokes on the officials of
this Consulate,” said Sir Dugald, rather stiffly. “If you mean to
inquire whether Egerton has really endangered his prospects, I can
only say that I fully believe he has.”

“But it seems such a little thing,” urged Cecil, “merely akin to
talking politics in society at home.”

“Certainly,” said Sir Dugald, “in one way. It is as if a member of the
Government, at some very important crisis, should take the opportunity
of declaring, at a dinner-party of opponents, that he differed from
his party as to the policy to be pursued, and meant to thwart it in
every way he could.”

“But Charlie never meant that,” said Cecil, aghast.

“Probably not,” said Sir Dugald, grimly. “It was a momentary
indiscretion, but such indiscretions are unpardonable. Support your
agents through thick and thin, to the brink of war if necessary, so
long as they obey orders and act with common-sense; but you must get
rid of them and disavow their actions the moment you find they are
swayed by enthusiasm, or fanaticism, or too much zeal, or anything of
the kind.”

“But surely you must expect them to be either angels or machines,”
said Cecil. “Have you no enthusiasms, Sir Dugald?”

“I have preferences, unfortunately, but I do my best to nullify them.
When I find myself sympathising with one party, I make it a point to
do the other rather more than justice.”

“But that is unfair to the first party,” objected Cecil. “Why should
they suffer because they have your sympathy?”

“I don’t know--to show them I am not an angel, I suppose,” said Sir
Dugald.

“But still,” said Cecil, returning to the charge, “I can’t quite see
why it should be so very wrong and dangerous for Dr Egerton to have
said what he did.”

“Simply for this reason, that what he said was calculated to foster in
the minds of the Armenians the mischievous delusion that they will be
supported, unofficially at any rate, by England if they rebel. News of
such a kind spreads like wildfire, and is likely to make the task of
Turkish government more difficult. Now we are here to bolster up
Turkey, as these people put ropes round an old house to keep it
together in a storm, and Egerton tries to spoil our work.”

“But is it right to bolster up Turkey?” asked Cecil, doubtfully.

“Oh, if we are coming to questions of morals, I shall have to take a
back seat,” said Sir Dugald. “I will only say this, I conscientiously
believe that if Turkey fell to-morrow, a far worse tyranny would
ensue. You would not remember the Polish horrors, but we heard plenty
about them when I was young.”

“And Dr Yehudi has told me of the persecutions of the Jews,” murmured
Cecil.

“Exactly. So you see what we are doing. We are keeping up a bad state
of things for fear of a worse. The Turks are sensible enough not to
kick, but we can’t expect them to like our helping them, and they
don’t feel inclined to give us any assistance. They won’t make the
slightest attempt to whitewash themselves in order to spare our
feelings, or make our proceedings look better to the world. We do what
we can to put down atrocities, but changes of policy at home and
changes of ambassador at Constantinople have succeeded in frittering
away most of our moral influence, and we can’t descend to brute force.
It’s inexpedient, and it’s ungentlemanly. We are the stronger party,
and we can’t hit a State weaker than ourselves. Now do you see where
the doctor went wrong? He let his feelings carry him away, and said
just what came into his head, regardless of all this. His tongue has
got him into trouble before, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Cecil, with a sigh. “Isn’t it wonderful that he
can manage to keep safe when he disguises himself as a native?”

“I am afraid that it shows he has the power of silence, but does not
care to exercise it except on great occasions,” said Sir Dugald, with
a peculiar smile.

“But what do you think he had better do now?” asked Cecil.

“Lie low for a little, I should say. I am thinking of sending him and
D’Silva out to Takht-Iskandar for a week or two’s shooting. Now that
the _Nausicaa_ is here, her surgeon can look after the hospital. But
I give you fair warning, Miss Anstruther, that if there is any more
foolishness on the doctor’s part he will have to pack. If you can
impress that on him I shall be thankful.”

And Sir Dugald gave up his place to Charlie, who was approaching, and
went away muttering, “She thinks he can keep quiet when he is
disguised, so that the natives don’t find him out, does she? I believe
they take him for a madman, and so let him go unmolested.” But in this
he was unjust to Charlie, who, as he himself had once said, seemed to
put on a different nature with his oriental garb.

Cecil returned to the Palace that night feeling nervous and depressed.
It was as though a foreboding of coming trouble was hanging over her,
and she tried in vain to reason herself into the belief that the
depression was purely physical, and due to the fact that the weather
was hot and thundery. The next day the storm came. It was unusually
early in the season for thunder, but the Baghdadis said they had
seldom known a more tremendous storm. It began about mid-day, when
Cecil and her pupil were taking their usual rest, and Azim Bey was
declaring his views on the subject of a book he had been reading. It
was nearly time for dinner, but the sky became suddenly dark, and the
trembling servants, leaving their work, crept into the lower part of
the schoolroom and sat huddled together. Azim Bey was constitutionally
timid on some occasions, and he exhibited now such fear as almost
paralysed him. He crouched in a corner, shuddering at every fresh
flash of lightning, and trembling violently when the thunder crashed,
his face ashy white with terror. The wind howled and shrieked around
the house, tearing off projecting portions of the ornamentation, and
making such a noise that no one could be heard speaking. Cecil caught
a glimpse once, by the glare of the lightning, of her pupil’s face,
and its expression surprised her. Fear was portrayed there, as she
expected, but also a tremendous determination. Azim Bey’s lips were
locked together as though he were defying all the powers of the storm
to force him to disclose something he was resolved to keep secret.

The thunder and lightning diminished in intensity at last, the wind
ceased to howl, and daylight returned in some measure, but the rain
continued to pour down, and the roof was discovered to be letting in
water in streams. Azim Bey, whose courage had now returned, roused the
servants from their lethargy of terror and set them to work to repair
the leaks, finding himself in his element as he sat upon the divan and
directed operations. When the roof was made fairly water-tight again,
he despatched the women to bring in the long-delayed dinner, and when
the meal was over, requested Cecil politely to bring her
photograph-album and tell him about her brothers. Cecil complied,
wondering to find him so agreeably disposed. Ordinarily, after such a
display of timidity as that of the morning, he was wont to swagger and
bluster a good deal in order to remove the impression. But this
evening his behaviour was perfect. He was deeply interested, as usual,
in the young Anstruthers, and particularly in Fitz’s adventures with
his latest possession, the camera Cecil had given him, by means of
which he had succeeded in sending out to his sister painful and most
unflattering portraits of the rest of the family. In after-days Cecil
looked back to this evening to try whether she could discover in her
pupil’s manner any signs of compunction for the work he had in hand,
but she could remember none. He was cheerfully polite, with the kind
of politeness a magnanimous conqueror might show to a prisoner in his
power. No youthful Black Prince could have been more courteous than he
was.

The next morning, however, things were changed. Azim Bey was summoned
by a message from his father to attend a grand State ceremony, the
investment of Ahmed Khémi Pasha with the insignia of a very exalted
order sent direct from Constantinople by the hands of a special
functionary. The welcome to be accorded to the envoy of the Padishah,
and the formalities of the investiture, would occupy the whole day,
and Azim Bey resented strongly the command he received to be present.
He grumbled for some time because Cecil could not come with him, and
went off at last in a very bad temper, leaving her pleasantly occupied
in writing her letters home.

It was Um Yusuf who first scented something wrong. Cecil could never
discover whether her silent attendant had suspected that mischief was
brewing, and had laid her plans accordingly, or not; but it is certain
that she could not be found when Azim Bey desired to speak to her, and
give her a few directions for her mistress’s comfort before he went
out, and that she reappeared some time after his departure, with the
excuse that she had met her cousin in the bazaar and had been having
a talk with her. This she explained volubly in the presence of Basmeh
Kalfa and old Ayesha, and then curled herself up on the carpet for her
mid-day nap; but as soon as the other two had dropped off to sleep,
she rose, and approaching Cecil with her finger on her lips, laid a
note on the table before her. The handwriting was Lady Haigh’s, and
Cecil tore the envelope open in alarm. The letter was short:--


  “My dearest Cecil,--Come to me _immediately_. Let _nothing_ prevent
  you, if you wish to escape _eternal regret_. Put on your riding-habit
  under your sheet, and bring _no one_ but Um Yusuf.”


“You go, mademoiselle?” asked Um Yusuf in a whisper, as she met
Cecil’s terrified eyes. Cecil nodded, and rose from her table. They
passed on tiptoe between the sleeping women (Um Yusuf had adroitly
placed herself in such a position that they could not block the door)
and gained their own rooms. Um Yusuf knew only that the note had been
placed in her hand by a cavass from the Consulate, with a warning to
deliver it secretly and at once, together with an intimation that the
man would wait at a certain spot outside the Palace to escort Mdlle.
Antaza to the Residency, if she decided to come. More she could not
tell, and Cecil hurried into her riding-habit and arranged the sheet
over it. They left the courtyard without remark, for Masûd was in
attendance on Azim Bey, and at the great gate the guards knew them and
let them pass. They met the cavass at the appointed place, and
hastened through the streets to the Residency under his guardianship.
At the gate they were met by Mr D’Silva, one of the clerks, who took
them to Lady Haigh at once.

“O, Lady Haigh, what is it?” gasped Cecil.

“It is a great trouble, dear,” said Lady Haigh, taking her in her
arms.

“Is it Charlie?”

“Yes, dear; it is Charlie.”




 CHAPTER XIX.
 “BETWIXT MY LOVE AND ME.”

“Is he--is he----” faltered Cecil.

“Not _dead_, my dear? oh no! how could you imagine that?” cried Lady
Haigh, in great excitement; “nor hurt, nor even in danger, I hope, at
present. But the horses are ready. Let us start at once, and I will
tell you about it as we go along. Mr D’Silva is coming with us.”

They left the Residency and rode in single file through the narrow
streets of the city; but once outside the gate, Mr D’Silva withdrew to
a respectful distance with the cavasses, and Lady Haigh and Cecil were
left side by side.

“Now, Lady Haigh, please tell me,” cried Cecil, whose brain had been
busy conjuring up horrors the whole time.

“You must be brave, my dear child, and thankful--thankful that you are
able to see Charlie once more, when it was just a chance that they
didn’t succeed in keeping you from him.”

“Lady Haigh!” Cecil almost screamed, “they haven’t put him in prison?”

“No, my dear, no. Your imagination certainly dwells on horrors. Wait a
little, and I will tell you it all. You know that for some time
Charlie has been very unpopular in the city, and that the _budmashes_,
as we should call them in India, have been shouting bad names after
him in the streets? Well, it has been a great mystery why this should
be, for he got on so very well with the Baghdadis in his first two
years here, but now it seems that they have come to regard him in some
way as a spy. Of course there has been mischief at work, somebody has
been slandering him, but that doesn’t make it any better. Naturally I
knew all this, but nothing more, and what has happened to-day has been
a tremendous shock. Very early this morning Sir Dugald received a
letter from the Pasha, brought by Ovannes Effendi. I don’t know what
was in it, but Denarien Bey called just about the same time, and they
were all three closeted together. Then Denarien Bey and the other man
went away, and Sir Dugald sent for Charlie. I had no idea that there
was anything wrong, or even out of the common, and you may conceive my
astonishment when Charlie came rushing to me in a fearful state and
told me that Sir Dugald had ordered him to proceed at once to Bandr
Abbas, right away down the Gulf, and remain there until further
orders. They have an outbreak of cholera there, and their doctor is
overworked and has telegraphed for help. Of course Charlie didn’t mind
the cholera, but he was to start to-day, by the steamer leaving this
very morning.”

“Oh, Lady Haigh, he isn’t _gone_?” cried Cecil.

“You may well be astonished, dear. I assure you I laughed at the
notion of such a thing. ‘My dear boy,’ I said to Charlie, ‘you have
made some mistake. Wait here, and I will go and speak to Sir Dugald.’
And I went, Cecil, and it was true. Sir Dugald was very busy, getting
ready to go to this wretched investiture, and I couldn’t make him tell
me all I wanted to know, or else my brain was in such a whirl that it
didn’t penetrate properly. All that I could make out was that the
Pasha had sent to say that Charlie was a spy, and that he couldn’t
have him in the city any longer--which, of course, is utter
nonsense--and that he had better leave as soon as possible, for that
the _budmashes_ were crying out for his blood. That was true enough,
my dear; there was a mob of them in front of the gate howling out the
most dreadful things. I never felt so thunderstruck and so much at a
loss in my life. It was as if the world’s foundations were shaking, or
we were in a transformation scene at a pantomime. There has been
absolutely nothing to account for all these extraordinary events, but
yet they have happened, and Charlie must go. I begged and entreated
Sir Dugald to let him wait for the next steamer, but he asked me
whether I wanted to have his blood upon my head, and said he should
see him safely on board before he started for this thing. Well, my
dear, I saw that there was no doing anything with Sir Dugald, so I
went back to poor Charlie. He was nearly wild, and I can tell you I
was not much better, what with getting all his things packed in such
a hurry, and everything. He wanted to force his way into the Palace
and insist on seeing you, but it would have been throwing his life
away to venture into the town, and Sir Dugald absolutely forbade it,
and told him he would have him put under arrest if he tried it. Then
the poor fellow and I managed to devise a plan. I wasn’t going to let
him be driven away without saying good-bye to you.”

“Oh, thank you, Lady Haigh,” murmured Cecil, her eyes wet.

“So I made up my mind what to do,” continued Lady Haigh; “I just took
the law into my hands, for I knew it was no use speaking to Sir
Dugald, and if he is angry I don’t mind.”

“But he couldn’t help all this,” Cecil’s sense of justice impelled her
to say. “What could he have done?”

“My dear,” responded Lady Haigh, in the true Jingo spirit, “he could
have torn up the Pasha’s letter and sent him back the pieces. He could
have said to those two poor wretched Armenians, ‘Go and tell your
master, if he wants to get rid of Dr Egerton, to come and turn him
out.’ And he could have called out the guard and armed the servants,
and defended the Residency as long as there were two stones left on
one another, and he ought to have done it, rather than get rid of
Charlie at the beck of an upstart like Ahmed Khémi.”

And Lady Haigh paused for breath after this tremendous burst of
eloquence.

“But the plan?” asked Cecil. “Where are we going now?”

“I was just telling you, dear. As I said, I took the law into my own
hands. I saw the captain of the steamer, and I put the whole affair
before him. Sometimes, you know, honesty is really the best policy. I
said to him, ‘Captain Wheen, you are a sailor’--that flattered him,
because of course his voyages are all confined to the river--‘and I
want your help in a very delicate matter. You may have heard that my
cousin, Dr Egerton, is ordered down to Bandr Abbas to help with the
cholera there. Now he is engaged to the young lady they call Mdlle.
Antaza, at the Palace, the Pasha’s English governess, and it will
break her heart if he goes without saying good-bye to her.’ I could
see that Captain Wheen was very much touched; but he pretended he
wasn’t, and said very gruffly, ‘I can’t delay the sailing of the
_Seleucia_ for any Pasha or Resident’s lady on earth.’ I said,
‘Captain Wheen, I am sure you know that I would not on any account
have you break your rules, or get into trouble with your owners. What
I want to say is this. Dr Egerton was to start to-morrow for a little
shooting at Takht-Iskandar, and his things were all sent there early
to-day before we heard of this. Now I ask you, would it be possible
for you to stop off Takht-Iskandar and allow him and his servant to go
on shore for an hour or two, to pack up the things and bring them on
board? That would give me time to send a note to the Palace, and come
out to Takht-Iskandar.’ ‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘You see, if we
took to letting passengers go on shore where they liked to fetch more
luggage, it would sink the ship at last, besides doubling the length
of the voyage; but I can tell you this, ma’am, in confidence--the
engines of the _Seleucia_ are wonderfully cranky. Now if anything was
to go wrong with those engines, and we had to lie-to for an hour or so
to set it right, I shouldn’t wonder if it was to happen just off
Takht-Iskandar, and then of course the doctor might go on shore and
fetch his togs. Now there’s just that chance, ma’am, and it would
never surprise me if it was to happen. Engines are queer things,’ and
I believe he winked at me. That was all that I could get out of him;
but it did what I wanted, so I settled matters with Charlie. He was to
make as long a business of his packing as he possibly could, and I was
to bring you out to say good-bye to him. I didn’t know how to reach
you, for I was afraid they wouldn’t admit me at the Palace; but I
thought a note might get in. So I sent it off; but I don’t think it
would ever have got to you if Um Yusuf hadn’t met her cousin in the
bazaar and loitered talking to her.”

“But why do you think there would have been any difficulty?” asked
Cecil.

“My dear, is it possible you don’t see that this is all a plot? There
is some deep purpose behind these extraordinary events, and the only
purpose I can conceive is that of separating you and Charlie. You tell
me that Azim Bey dislikes him, and I can quite believe that he is
capable of very strong childish jealousy. Mind, I don’t think he
managed all the details. There is some older and wilier person
behind--possibly the Um-ul-Pasha or Jamileh Khanum. At any rate, Azim
Bey had taken his precautions very carefully, and if he had not been
summoned away the note would never have got to you, and Charlie would
have gone without your even saying good-bye to him. So, my dear, be
thankful.”

“Oh, Lady Haigh!” remonstrated Cecil. She could say no more: the blow
was too sudden, too dreadful. She rode along in silence, while Lady
Haigh poured forth stores of comfortless comfort, and adjured her to
be cheerful when she met Charlie. Cheerful! the very word was a
mockery. The gloomy unsettled skies and muddy plain seemed to accord
better with her mood than did Lady Haigh’s philosophy. They were
approaching Takht-Iskandar now, and everything looked sad and sodden.
All the glory of the white and pink and purple fruit-blossom was gone,
and little green fruits alone represented the promise of a month ago.
The palace, always flimsy and dilapidated-looking, was sorely battered
and damaged by the storm of yesterday, and the trees were beaten down
and in many cases stripped of their leaves. The riders approached
softly along the sandy road, and paused at the corner of the house,
where Mr D’Silva left his horse and went on to reconnoitre. Presently
he came back, and, helping the two ladies to dismount, led them in at
a side-door which was unfastened, and on through various passages and
unfurnished rooms until they reached the dining-room, where Charlie,
with his Armenian boy Hanna, was engaged in separating his shooting
requisites from those of Mr D’Silva--their possessions having been
sent on together.

“Well, Charlie,” said Lady Haigh, marching into the room, “doing your
guns on this table, are you? Take them away into the smoking-room this
instant, Hanna, and finish them there. How long have you been here,
Charlie?”

“Hours, Cousin Elma,” groaned Charlie, with Cecil’s hands locked in
his.

“Then you had better go back to the _Seleucia_ at once,” said Lady
Haigh, promptly.

“One hour, ten minutes, milady,” put in Hanna, as he carried off the
guns.

“Then you can have half an hour, Charlie--not a moment more, and even
that is trading on Captain Wheen’s kindness in a most shameful way. Mr
D’Silva, if you will be so kind as to see that no one interrupts us
for half an hour, we shall be eternally grateful to you. We can trust
you for that, I think?”

“I am an Englishman, Lady Haigh,” replied Mr D’Silva, more in sorrow
than in anger, as he withdrew, quite unconscious that he was saying
the very thing which, as Lady Haigh remarked afterwards, when she
remembered to be cynical, an Englishman would not have said.

“Now, Charlie,” said Lady Haigh, when he was gone, “make the most of
your time. Never mind me,” and she sat down on the divan and composed
herself as if for a nap, while Charlie and Cecil wandered to the other
end of the room and enjoyed the luxury of being thoroughly miserable.
For some time Cecil could do nothing but cry, with her head on
Charlie’s shoulder, while he tried to comfort her, but found the
situation so devoid of comfort that he failed miserably.

“Ten minutes more,” came in a sepulchral voice from the corner where
Lady Haigh sat, engrossed now with a tattered copy of the Army and
Navy Stores list. Cecil roused herself with a sob.

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, “what shall I do without you?”

“Look here, my darling,” said Charlie, energetically, struck with a
sudden idea; “just listen to me one moment. I can’t bear to leave you
here among all these wretches. Will you--could you--marry me at once?
If you would, I----”

“Charlie!” was interjected sharply by Lady Haigh.

“I would come back to the Residency, and we could get Dr Yehudi to
marry us. Then you would come with me, and we should not be parted
after all.”

“I think, young man, you are forgetting that you would have to reckon
with Sir Dugald,” said Lady Haigh, grimly. “I am astonished at your
innocence. After knocking about the world for so long, can you really
imagine that it is as easy to get married as to order your breakfast
at a hotel?”

“Besides, I wouldn’t have you venture back into Baghdad for anything,”
said Cecil.

“Then I will wait at Basra for three weeks, or as long as the
regulations require,” said Charlie, eagerly, “and Cousin Elma will
bring you down there. O, Cecil, my darling, do say yes.”

“Oh, Charlie!” sighed Cecil, but in a moment her face changed and grew
firm; “I can’t do it--it would be wrong. Why, Charlie, you forget that
I am pledged to stay here for more than two years and a half still. I
can’t leave my post. My duty is here, and yours, I suppose, is at
Bandr Abbas. When Azim Bey’s education is finished, then I shall be at
liberty to leave Baghdad, and then----”

“Can’t you come now, dear?” he pleaded. “I don’t want to persuade you
if it is really your duty to stay, but I think that Azim Bey’s conduct
has not been so considerate that you need strain matters on his
account. Think of our going home together, Cecil, and seeing all your
people again.”

“Don’t,” murmured Cecil, brokenly; “you make me so miserable, Charlie.
You can’t think how I want to see Whitcliffe again, and all of them.
But I mustn’t go. It isn’t right. I can’t break my promise. You know
you wouldn’t respect me yourself if I did such a thing. So I must
stay, and you must go. Besides, there is another reason. If you
resigned now, and stayed at Basra, and went home afterwards, instead
of going to Bandr Abbas, they would say you were afraid of the
cholera, and I couldn’t bear that any one should think that of you.
No, I have some consideration for you, Charlie dear, though I have got
you into such trouble. I was thinking as we came along that it might
have been better for you if you had never met me at all.”

“Not a bit of it!” cried Charlie. “Never think that again, Cecil. Why,
before I met you I was a regular loafer, just doing a spell of work in
one place and then getting myself sent on somewhere else, and never
settling down. But now I have something to work for, something to look
forward to. I should have missed the chief good of my life if I had
never met you. No, dear, knowing you has done everything for me, and I
am as thankful as I can be for it now, and I always shall be. As for
this trouble, no doubt it comes because otherwise I should be too
happy.”

“Your time is nearly up, Cecil,” said Lady Haigh. “Don’t you want to
give Charlie any cautions about taking care of himself at Bandr
Abbas?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Cecil. “I know he will do his duty
wherever he is, and I also know that he will remember me and not let
himself be careless about taking proper precautions, and that sort of
thing.”

“And every evening,” said Charlie, “I shall go up to the wind-tower
and look in the direction of Baghdad, and imagine that you are
standing on the roof of the Palace and looking towards Bandr Abbas.”

“When she will probably be having her tea with Azim Bey quietly in the
cellar,” said Lady Haigh. “Don’t be sentimental, Charlie. I detest
sentiment.”

“When you leave Bandr Abbas, do you think it possible that you will be
allowed to come back here?” asked Cecil.

“I’m afraid not,” said Charlie. “It’s not likely, is it, Cousin Elma?
No; I may be sent somewhere else in the Gulf, or to Aden, if Sir
Dugald is kind enough to give me a good character, but this business
with the Pasha will probably prevent my ever coming back to Baghdad.”

“But the mystery may be cleared up, and everything put right,”
suggested Cecil, hopefully. “You would come back if you were asked,
Charlie?”

“Rather! I would come back as bottle-washer to a Bengali _babu_, like
the doctor they have at Muscat,” said Charlie, “but I’m afraid the
Persian shore of the Gulf will be my nearest point.”

“But, Charlie,” said Lady Haigh, “do you really think of taking
another post? You have not been home for a long time, and your
property must be all going to rack and ruin. Why not resign when you
have seen them through at Bandr Abbas, and go home to look after
things a little?”

“I don’t want to go home until I can take Cecil,” said Charlie.
“Besides, she prefers me to have something to do instead of loafing.”

“But if you have land and tenants at home, they ought to be looked
after,” said Cecil. “I never realised it before.”

“What an unworldly young person you are!” said Charlie. “Yes, there’s
all that, but Aunt Frederica looks after it for me.”

“By all means, my dear boy, go home and get the place ready for Cecil,
and make acquaintance with her people,” said Lady Haigh. “But don’t
let Frederica choose your carpets and curtains for you. Her taste is
atrocious. And now, Cecil, you have had thirty-five minutes, so say
good-bye and come.”

“Just one minute more, Cousin Elma,” pleaded Charlie.

“Not a second,” said Lady Haigh. “Now, Charlie, not another scene of
misery,--I can’t stand it. Say good-bye quickly, my dear boy. If you
harrow up Cecil’s feelings again, it will be too much for her.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr D’Silva’s voice at the door, “but the
boat is waiting for Dr Egerton.”

“Now, Charlie, my dear boy,” said poor Lady Haigh, entreatingly, as
Charlie still stood with his arms round Cecil. “You will get us all
into trouble, you know, and we have really done all we could for you,
and Sir Dugald will be so much vexed. Good-bye, my dear boy. Now let
her go. Take care of yourself, and don’t be rash. No, you are not to
come farther than this. I will look after Cecil. My dear child, don’t
faint. I don’t know what will happen to us if you do. Charlie, I will
_not_ have you come any farther. Go back, and get on board. Mr
D’Silva, please give Miss Anstruther your arm to the door. Charlie, go
back. My dear boy, good-bye. Give Cecil’s love to her people.”

And Lady Haigh, reiterating her instructions and prohibitions in a
voice choked with tears, followed Cecil and Mr D’Silva along the
passage, turning suddenly to find that Charlie was following her
stealthily, bent on getting another sight of Cecil. She drove him back
again with one of her quick bursts of passion, and hurried to the spot
where the horses were waiting. She and Mr D’Silva helped Cecil into
the saddle, for she was in a numb, dazed condition, and he led her
horse through the wood and into the road. Pausing only once, to see
the _Seleucia_ passing out of sight round a bend in the stream, they
rode swiftly back to Baghdad, which looked dull and miserable under
the clouded sky, with mud under foot and sodden palm-trees overhead,
and a turbid, rapidly flowing river that could not reflect the mean
houses on either side.

When Azim Bey returned that night from the ceremony of the
investiture, he was surprised to find his courtyard almost in
darkness. Going into the schoolroom, he found that the only light came
from the glowing charcoal in the brazier, beside which Cecil was
crouching, still in her riding-habit. The wind had risen again, and
was howling round the house and in the beams of the roof, and the
whole scene was one of desolation.

“Are you ill, mademoiselle?” asked Azim Bey, in the most natural tone
he could devise, while one of the negresses followed him in, carrying
a torch, which shed a flickering light on the darkness. Cecil said
nothing, but looked up at him with eyes of such sadness that they
haunted him in spite of his efforts to banish the impression.

“I do not understand you, mademoiselle,” he said, unblushingly, in
reply to her unspoken reproof.

“You have driven Dr Egerton away,” she said.

“I ask your pardon, mademoiselle. How was I to know that you had any
special interest in the English doctor?”

“But you did know,” said Cecil, wearily. She had not spirit to contend
with her pupil that night.

“But, mademoiselle, that is impossible. You have never told me; you
would not even let me approach the subject. How was I to know?”

“How can I tell?” asked Cecil. “I feel sure that you did know, and
that all this is your doing. Well, Bey, you have won the victory; I
hope you enjoy it. Good-night.” And he saw her no more that evening.




 CHAPTER XX.
 INTERCEPTED LETTERS.

In her own room that night, Cecil, in the first strength of her
grief and desolation, took a solemn resolution never on any account to
mention Charlie to Azim Bey again. He was jealous of him--well, he
should have no more cause to be so. So far as her intercourse with her
pupil went, all should be as though Charlie had never existed. In view
of the armed neutrality which had hitherto subsisted between them on
this subject, it was not, perhaps, quite clear in what way she could
do more than she had already done, but it soothed her feelings to make
these resolutions. She would never allude to her engagement in
conversation with Azim Bey again, no, not if she were dying for a
sight of Charlie. Even though all that had happened was to be ascribed
to his malevolent interposition, she would never degrade herself and
Charlie so far as to seek his help in setting things right, nor yet to
recur to the part he had played in the events which had just occurred.
After all, she had come to Baghdad to teach Azim Bey, and not to find
a husband for herself, and it might be that her pupil considered
himself justified in objecting to her interesting herself in such
extraneous matters. At any rate, he should not have to complain of
this again. She would devote herself more earnestly than ever to his
education, but he should never be so far honoured as to have Charlie’s
name mentioned in his hearing.

The plan seemed to work beautifully. Cecil laboured long the next
morning in removing from her face the traces left by her tears and by
an almost sleepless night, and appeared in the schoolroom as if the
events of the day before had never occurred. Azim Bey understood the
situation perfectly, and accepted it. He was very gracious, and he
could afford to be so, for he had gained all he wanted. Nothing could
well have been more delightful than his behaviour--it might almost be
called chivalrous. If Cecil had not had the memory of yesterday to
warn her, she might have been tempted to imagine that her young
barbarian was becoming a gentleman; but her eyes were opened now, and
she could only wonder and admire, without being convinced.

The days passed on. Sir Dugald received a telegram from Bandr Abbas to
say that Charlie had reached that place safely, and found an
extraordinary amount of work awaiting him. After that there came a
long unbroken silence. From the Indian newspapers, and through
official channels, they heard occasionally that the epidemic was
running its course, and that the two surgeons were working heroically
among the sick and dying, but there did not come one single message
from Charlie himself. Cecil was astonished, but she never thought of
blaming him. Possibly he would not write to her lest the letter should
convey infection, and he was certainly overwhelmed with work, very
likely with insufficient leisure even for needed rest. In this belief
she bestowed all the more pains on her own letters, doing her best, by
means of their fulness and tenderness, to bridge over the distance
which separated her from her lover, so far as this could be done from
one side only.

At last Sir Dugald received another telegram, which said that before
resigning his position under Government, Charlie was making a tour of
inspection, in company with a high medical official, of the British
settlements in the Gulf. The cholera had been stamped out at Bandr
Abbas, and when this tour was over, Charlie was going home. The
telegram concluded with the words, “Letters all missed,” which seemed
to shed a little light on the mystery of the sender’s long silence. No
doubt he had written, but in some way or other all his letters had
gone astray. It was strange, however, that even after this none
arrived. Sir Dugald expressed it as his opinion that Charlie must go
about looking for pumps in which to post his letters, under the
impression that they were pillar-boxes; but Lady Haigh and Cecil held
firmly to the belief that, moving about as he was from place to place,
he was too busy to write. In vain did Sir Dugald, who had assumed
quite a paternal authority over Cecil since their confidential talk on
the Sunday preceding Charlie’s departure, urge her to bring her lover
to a sense of his undeserved blessings by suspending her own letters
for a time--she felt that this was impossible. The long
journal-letters supplied the place to her of the Sunday afternoon
talks which she had been accustomed to enjoy. A third telegram
informed them that Charlie was going home, and gave his English
address very clearly. “Letters still gone wrong,” it said again, and
Cecil triumphed over Sir Dugald, although he told her that she was
only saving Charlie’s character as a lover at the expense of his
common-sense.

The news of Dr Egerton’s resignation of his post was now public
property, and people began to perceive merits which they had hitherto
ignored in the way he had performed his duties. His colleague at Bandr
Abbas and the rest of the English community there were loud in their
praises of his behaviour during the epidemic, and this caused his
former adventurous journeys, undertaken for the purpose of
investigating the diffusion of the disease, to be brought to mind.
Even the fact of his having been instrumental in checking the spread
of a cholera epidemic in his former post,--a success which had been
followed, as he had told Cecil bitterly long before, by his enforced
resignation,--was recalled, and one or two very hard things were said
of the superior who had insisted on his removal. In fact, he was the
hero of the hour among a certain set in India, chiefly consisting, it
is to be feared, of those who had been disappointed and passed over,
like himself, but numbering in their ranks some few who could command
a hearing in the Press. The remarks of the Indian papers were balm to
the souls of Cecil and Lady Haigh, and they read with avidity all that
was said in Charlie’s praise, although Lady Haigh once remarked
sadly--

“It all comes too late, Cecil. A little of this encouragement and
appreciation, bestowed three years ago, would have saved this
‘valuable public servant,’ whose loss they deplore so feelingly, to
the public service, for he would have stayed in India, and persevered
in trying for a better post, instead of taking this as a
forlorn-hope.”

“And then we should never have met!” said Cecil. “Well, Lady Haigh, I
am sorry if you are.”

To which no answer could be made, and Lady Haigh ceased her
lamentations. But time was passing on, and still there came no news
from Charlie, with the exception of one telegram announcing his safe
arrival in England. Things were becoming more and more mysterious. Why
should four telegrams alone, all addressed to Sir Dugald, arrive out
of all the missives which it was tolerably certain Charlie had sent
off? Cecil felt sure that he could never have received her letters
without answering them; what, then, had become of the answers? It was
not until Christmas-time that the mystery was solved. Cecil was at the
Residency as usual, and when the mail came in she looked eagerly to
see whether there were any letters for her. Again she was
disappointed; there was only one, and this was a bulky epistle from
her stepmother. The appearance of the letter was characteristic of the
writer. The many closely-written sheets were stuffed into a thin
envelope much too small for them, and this had naturally resented such
treatment by giving way, in consequence of which it had been “found
open, and officially sealed.” The direction was blotted and irregular,
and had evidently been written in a violent hurry; and the stamp,
which was upside down, was of double the proper value. Cecil laughed
at the appearance of the envelope, and mentally pictured little Mrs
Anstruther writing in feverish haste to catch the mail, and scrambling
the letter into the post just in time. As usual, the first page was
dated about a fortnight earlier than the last, and Cecil hurried on to
the end. Here at last was the news for which she had been longing.

“Oh, my dear Cecil,” wrote Mrs Anstruther, “we have had such a
delightful surprise. Your friend Dr Egerton came to see us yesterday,
and we talked about you for hours and hours. Your father and I are
greatly pleased with him, and the little children love him already. He
is staying at the Imperial Hotel, and his aunt is there too, but she
has not her health here, and I don’t think this place suits her. They
seem very well off, and Fitz says that one of the boys at the school
told him that Dr Egerton has really an immensity of money, for it has
been accumulating for him ever since he has been in the East. But,
dear childie, why don’t you write to him? Indeed, indeed, I think you
are not treating him well. He says he has never had one single line
from you, though he has written to you every week. It is not kind of
you, and we were so greatly astonished to hear it that we couldn’t
think of any excuses for you. Sure the poor boy”--these four words
were scratched out, for Mrs Anstruther flattered herself that both her
literary style and her accent were extremely English--“Poor Dr Egerton
is deeply in love with you, but he said himself he could not
understand it. Indeed he was in a great state lest something had
happened to you, but we were able to reassure him about that----”

Cecil read thus far, and then looked up with a horrified face.

“Lady Haigh!” she gasped, “every one of my letters has missed, as well
as Charlie’s. What can it be?”

“Impossible, my dear!” cried Lady Haigh, briskly. “You must have
mistaken what he says. Is his letter from home?”

“It isn’t from him even now,” said Cecil. “It’s from Mrs Anstruther.
There must have been some dreadful mistake, and what can we do?”

“I think this concerns you rather than myself, Miss Anstruther,” said
Sir Dugald, coming into the room. “I hope I haven’t read much of it,
but I really did not see at first that the letter which I was desired
under such fearful penalties to deliver to you was on the same sheet
as my own.”

He held out a letter in Charlie’s writing, which Cecil almost snatched
from his hand. As he said, the first page was occupied by an earnest
request to him to give the letter into Miss Anstruther’s own hands, as
the writer could not help thinking that there had been foul play
hitherto with regard to their correspondence. The other three pages
contained the letter proper, closely written, and overflowing with
passionate anxiety.

“My darling,” Charlie concluded, “I am certain there must be something
wrong, or you would never have left me without a line all these
months. I heard from D’Silva the other day that that fellow Karalampi
had been at the Residency a good deal lately, and I should not wonder
if he had something to do with it. I do entreat you not on any account
to trust him in the very smallest matter. The man is capable of
anything. I am consumed with anxiety about you. I was talking
yesterday about going out at once to see you and find out what was the
matter, but your father said I should only bring you into trouble, and
entreated me not to think of such a thing. Dearest, you know I would
do anything rather than get you into trouble; but if I can be of the
very smallest help or use to you, let me have a wire, and I will start
at an hour’s notice. Only write, my darling, or I shall go mad.”

Cecil dropped the letter with a groan, which attracted the attention
of Sir Dugald, who had considerately been discussing his own letters
with Lady Haigh while she read it.

“Anything wrong, Miss Anstruther?” he asked, kindly.

“Our letters!” groaned Cecil, “his and mine. Neither of us has ever
received one of them, and we have both written once a-week.”

“This is serious indeed,” said Sir Dugald. “About sixty letters
altogether, and spread over more than six months! Well, it is quite
evident what has happened, though I confess I should scarcely have
thought the game worth the candle in this case. They have been
tampering with the mail-bags again.”

“Tampering--who?” cried Cecil.

“Interested parties, I presume,” said Sir Dugald, drily. “Some
post-office clerk who is learning English and likes to study it by
means of other people’s letters, possibly, but I should scarcely think
so. It’s an old trick, and they have tried it several times here, but
not just lately.”

“But can you get the letters back?” asked Cecil.

“Scarcely, I’m afraid. They would be much too compromising to be
allowed to remain in the thief’s possession. No; but we may be able to
stop the robberies in future. I will communicate with Constantinople
at once, and set the Embassy to work. Shall we make the abstraction of
your love-letters a _casus belli_, Miss Anstruther?”

“It isn’t a laughing matter to me,” said Cecil, dolefully.

“No, nor to poor Egerton either,” said Sir Dugald. “It was a most
happy thing that he thought of writing to you under cover to me, or we
might never have found out how the trick was worked. You see they have
simply suppressed all Egerton’s letters to you, and all yours directed
to him. Your home letters have arrived as usual, have they not? I
thought so. Well, suppose you set Egerton’s mind at rest by
telegraphing him a Christmas message at once. I think I can guarantee
that it won’t go astray from here.”

Cecil accepted gratefully Sir Dugald’s suggestion, and despatched a
sufficiently lengthy message. This done, she had leisure to think over
the strange fate of her letters. She could not doubt that their
disappearance had been arranged by the same hand that had contrived
Charlie’s removal from Baghdad, and yet it seemed scarcely likely that
Azim Bey would have thought of such a thing. Charlie’s suggestion as
to M. Karalampi she scouted at once, for what motive could he have for
abstracting her letters, even though he had an old grudge against her,
and no liking for Charlie? But M. Karalampi was destined to be brought
to her mind once again that evening, when she went to have tea with
Mrs Hagopidan, of whom she had seen but little of late.

“So I hear you have set up another admirer, Cecil?” said the hostess,
when she had inquired and heard the latest news from Whitcliffe.

“I don’t know what you mean, Myrta,” said Cecil, laughing.

“My dear girl, you must have noticed that M. Karalampi does you the
honour to admire you. Of course it’s impossible that you could have
the bad taste not to admire him.”

“I think you forget that I am engaged,” said Cecil, in her stateliest
manner.

“Not at all, dear, nor does he. He only thinks that it is a merciful
dispensation of Providence which has removed Dr Egerton from Baghdad
and left the way clear for him. They didn’t love each other, those
two. Really, Cecil, I could have danced at times to see Dr Egerton
freeze him with a look, and to behold the murderous glances M.
Karalampi bestowed upon him behind his back. He daren’t have looked at
you then,--it would have been as much as his life was worth,--but now
he has a fair field. How do you like him, dear?”

“Myrta, you know that if there is a person I detest, it’s that man. I
wish you would not make up these things about him. I don’t like it.”

“But I am perfectly in earnest, I assure you--much more so than he is.
Of course he only intends a flirtation, just to pass the time, for he
has a wife somewhere. Some people say he has a wife in a good many
places, but no doubt that is merely scandal. But seriously, Cecil, the
creature has the conceit to believe that now that Dr Egerton is safely
out of the way, his own charms will prove irresistible. I believe he
has a bet with young Vogorides on the subject. His sister, Arghiro,
let something drop about it when she was here yesterday, and I thought
I would give you warning.”

“Thank you, Myrta. I don’t think M. Karalampi will make any more bets
about me.”

“But you won’t make a scene, Cecil?”

“I don’t think I am likely to want the world to know how M. Karalampi
thinks of me,” said Cecil, as she rose to go, and her hostess could
learn no more from her. Nor, to her great disappointment, did she ever
succeed in finding out the exact results of her warning. Whether Cecil
snubbed M. Karalampi in public, or administered a few home-truths to
him in private, Mrs Hagopidan never knew, but M. Karalampi’s visits to
the Residency became once more few and far between, and Arghiro
Vogorides let slip that her brother had won his bet, but could not get
the money paid. That was all, and Cecil went on her way satisfied, and
unconscious that her own name was added, deeply underlined, to the
long list in M. Karalampi’s black-books. In this list there were to be
found already all the names of those from whom he had received
slights, or against whom he had conceived a grudge, and also of some
of those whom he had injured, and therefore found it impossible to
forgive. In which category the Pasha’s name appeared it would be
difficult to say,--possibly in all three,--but both that of the
Um-ul-Pasha and that of Azim Bey might have been found in the first.
Most of M. Karalampi’s employers were in his black-books, and it was
one of the chief beauties of his peculiar method of working that he
was able to play them off one against another, and to punish them all
in the course of business.

The account against Azim Bey was allowed to stand over for a while
just now. By way of making himself agreeable to all parties, M.
Karalampi had done what the Bey wanted, and succeeded in banishing
Charlie from Baghdad. He had even improved upon his instructions by
arranging for the abstraction of the letters, a master-stroke which
delighted Azim Bey when it was communicated to him; but now he
returned to his former employers, whose interests were by no means
identical with those of Cecil’s pupil. The Um-ul-Pasha was once more
embarked on a plot in favour of her eldest grandson, but this time M.
Karalampi held the threads in his own hands, and the result bade fair
to be a work of art. The old vulgar methods of secret assassination,
which had been attempted in vain two years before, were decisively
dropped, and M. Karalampi luxuriated in the employment of moral
suasion alone. He could set strings in motion at Constantinople which
would ensure the Pasha’s ruin if needful, and it was on this fact that
he relied. At the proper moment the question would be put before him,
and he must choose between disgrace and dishonour. Unless he broke his
promise to Azim Bey’s dead mother, and made the outlawed Hussein Bey
his heir, the intriguers who surrounded the Padishah would bring about
his downfall. In either case M. Karalampi would be happy and
victorious. Already he was gloating in anticipation over the thought
of his triumph, already he imagined himself fingering the reward of
his unrighteousness, when a single unlooked-for event dashed all his
plans to the ground.

After spending some time comparatively quietly in the hills, Hussein
Bey had recommenced his raids into the low country, and his practice
of exacting blackmail from travellers. Attacking one day a rich
caravan which had crossed the mountains in safety from Persia, he met
with an unexpected resistance, which was speedily accounted for by the
arrival of a body of the Pasha’s troops, who had been on the march
from one town to another, and to whom the merchants had sent a swift
messenger imploring help. The robber band was hopelessly outnumbered
by the combined forces of the troops and the armed servants of the
travellers, and a short conflict ended in the death of Hussein Bey and
the utter defeat of his followers. In this way Ahmed Khémi Pasha was
freed from the son who had for so long been a thorn in his side, and
the Bey’s mother and grandmother and their fellow-plotters were left
without an object for their schemes. All their arrangements were
useless, and they recognised this fact after a good deal of mutual
recrimination on the subject of the delay which had occurred. It was
undeniable that Hussein Bey’s death had been so utterly unexpected
that the wisest head could not have arranged the _dénoûment_ of the
plot in time, and nothing more could be done.




 CHAPTER XXI.
 CONFEDERATES.

After this, things went on quietly enough until it was a year and a
half since Charlie had left Baghdad. Only a year now remained of
Cecil’s stay at the Palace, and Azim Bey was growing so tall and manly
that she felt it was quite time he should soon leave her care. He was
just fourteen and a half, but looked much older than his age, and he
had made wonderful progress in his studies. He was an excellent talker
and a most agreeable companion, with a wide theoretical acquaintance
with modern political and social problems, and a deep practical
knowledge of Eastern ways of settling them. There was something
uncanny in such shrewdness in a boy of his age, and fond though Cecil
was of him, she could now never quite trust him. The subject of
Charlie had not again been mentioned between them, although Cecil
sometimes felt curious to know whether her pupil had got over his
childish dislike. Since the discovery of the fate of their first six
months’ letters, she and Charlie had corresponded with more success,
owing to the precautions they had adopted. Charlie’s letters were
addressed to Sir Dugald at the Residency, and Cecil posted hers there
after Sir Dugald had written the address. The abstraction of the
earlier epistles had been traced to an Armenian post-office clerk who
had died in the interval between the discovery of the theft and the
investigation subsequently made into it, and although for this reason
no punishment could be inflicted, the desires of any who might be
anxious to tread in the offender’s footsteps were frustrated. Whatever
the suspicions of the would-be thieves might be, they dared not stop a
letter addressed by or to the Balio Bey himself.

There were other ways of getting news, notably by means of letters
concealed in parcels, or brought by friends from England, and it was
by the former means that Cecil received the season’s greetings on the
occasion of her fourth Christmas in Baghdad. A great box was sent out
from Whitcliffe to Mrs Yehudi, containing presents for the
school-children’s Christmas-tree, and among the presents was a letter
for Cecil, very carefully and cunningly hidden. She tore it open
eagerly, wondering why it should be sent with such special care, but
found nothing of any unusual importance until she came to the last
paragraph, which filled her with a vague dread.

“I don’t feel as though I should be able to stay quiet in England all
next year. The travel-spirit is coming upon me again, and drawing me
Eastward ho! Perhaps it is not only that, but the longing to see some
one in Baghdad, which is drawing me--at any rate, if you don’t hear
from me for a time, you can imagine me anywhere between Beyrout and
Karachi, or between Resht and Aden. But perhaps I shall see you, my
dearest girl, without your knowing it. I wouldn’t get you into trouble
for the world, but I would do anything short of that just to see you
for a moment. I should feel happier about you, and know that that
abominable child had not quite worn you out. Don’t look out for me,
for it’s no good. If I come, you won’t know it, but I will tell you
about it afterwards, and we will laugh over it together.”

What could Charlie be intending to do? Surely he could not mean to try
and enter Baghdad again, in the face of the danger he had scarcely
escaped, but what else did his words signify? He must be only joking,
trying to make her look out for him, for the foolishness of an attempt
to return to the city must be patent even to his mind. There was no
need to be alarmed, nor to frighten Lady Haigh; but Cecil did not feel
happy until she had written a long letter scolding Charlie for his mad
project, and forbidding him to undertake it. Unhappily, before the
letter reached England, Charlie had started for the East, but Cecil
was not in a position to know this, as will presently appear.

When Hussein Bey died, it seemed as though the Pasha’s family troubles
were over, for a time at least, and he looked forward hopefully to a
year of domestic peace. Now that she had no one for whom to plot, it
was probable that his mother would soon tire of maintaining an
irreconcilable attitude, and consent to offer terms of accommodation.
The only cloud on the horizon was caused by the behaviour of Jamileh
Khanum, who had now a little son of her own, a fact which produced
exactly the result which Azim Bey had foreseen long ago. For her boy’s
sake, Jamileh Khanum was frantically jealous of his elder brother, and
every sign of favour bestowed by the Pasha on Azim Bey, every expense
incurred on his account, furnished her with a text for a passionate
attack on her husband. For months she teased him at every available
opportunity to procure a French governess for little Najib Bey, but in
vain. The Pasha had had some experience of the difficulty of keeping
the peace between dependents of different European nationalities, and
he had no desire that the tranquillity of the Palace should be
disturbed by the mutual jealousies and patriotic squabbles of Mdlle.
Antaza and any French lady. Jamileh Khanum might have an English nurse
for the baby if she liked, and as soon as he was old enough he might
share Azim Bey’s lessons with Mdlle. Antaza. But both these offers
were scouted by the indignant mother. Her boy to share the
instructions of that insolent Englishwoman, in company with the son of
that wild Arab creature (might her bones not rest in peace!)--never!
Rather should he grow up ignorant, a living monument of his father’s
parsimony and injustice. She had a good deal more to say on the
subject, and was proceeding to say it, when her husband, fortunately
for himself, was called away.

Much worried by this fresh piece of trouble, Ahmed Khémi Pasha lent a
ready ear to a message which reached him shortly before the great
Turkish festival of Moharram Ghün. His mother sent to say that she
was now advanced in years, a poor widow bereft of her best-beloved
grandson, and she wished to be reconciled at the festival to the
surviving members of her family. The Um-ul-Pasha was given to these
reconciliations, which were generally as shortlived as they were
sudden, but her son was touched by the terms of her message, and
prepared to meet her half-way. Accordingly he went to see her in the
most filial manner possible, was received with all due honour and
affection, and invited to partake of coffee and sweetmeats. During
this repast his mother electrified him still further by expressing a
desire for reconciliation also with Azim Bey. The Pasha caught eagerly
at the idea, for he was well aware of the scandal caused in the city
by his divided house, and he proposed to fetch his son at once to pay
his respects to his grandmother. But the Um-ul-Pasha was not inclined
to be in such a hurry. She had a condition to make before she would
consent to a reconciliation, and she brought it forward at once. It
was nothing less than a plain demand for Mdlle. Antaza’s dismissal.

Without giving her son time to express his astonishment or his dismay,
the old lady hurried on to give the reasons for her request. The
presence of the Frangi woman in the Palace was a direct insult to
herself, since she had always opposed her coming; her very position in
the household was a scandal, for she was technically in the harem, and
yet could visit her European friends when she liked. Moreover, Mdlle.
Antaza had conducted herself most insolently towards the Um-ul-Pasha
during the whole of her stay in Baghdad, had refused the husband
graciously recommended to her, and had calmly ignored the great lady’s
existence ever since. This sounded so very plausible when the little
episode of the attempted poisoning was forgotten, that the Um-ul-Pasha
paused to admire her own eloquence, but hurried on again when she
perceived that her son was about to speak. She had kept her chief
argument until last, and now produced it with obvious pride. To
dismiss mademoiselle at once would be a great saving of expense. If
she remained a year longer, her five years’ engagement would have been
fulfilled, and she would become entitled to the bonus promised on its
termination, while if she were sent away now for misconduct, this
extra sum would be saved.

“But there is no misconduct. What charge have you against her?” asked
the Pasha, blankly.

“Invent one. There’s nothing so easy,” replied his mother, instantly.
“Karalampi----” she perceived her mistake, and hastily altered the
form of the sentence. “I know of a person who will arrange everything,
and support it by unimpeachable evidence.”

The Pasha sat and pondered the matter deeply, while his mother went on
to declare that the Frangi woman had ruined Azim Bey. She had made him
into an Englishman, and there was nothing of a Turk left about him.
Thus she ran on, with great richness of language and illustration,
while the Pasha slowly made up his mind. It was no sentiment of
chivalry for a woman fighting the battle of life alone in a foreign
country that influenced him finally, but rather a prudent feeling of
reluctance to part with a valuable dependent as the price of a
reconciliation which could not, in all probability, last more than a
month. Then there was the matter of economy. To escape the necessity
of paying the bonus would certainly be a saving, but would it be
possible to get up an accusation of misconduct which could really be
sustained? He had a very clear impression, springing from what he knew
of the absolute blamelessness of Cecil’s behaviour during her life in
the harem, that it would not. To bring such an accusation, and then to
fail to substantiate it, would be nothing short of ruinous. He thought
apprehensively of the Courts, of the impression in England, where he
desired to stand well in public opinion, and he thought above all
things of the Balio Bey. Sir Dugald was certainly given to counselling
economy, but it was scarcely to be expected that he would approve this
particular way of exercising it, while he would be certain to resent
fiercely any charge made against Mdlle. Antaza, an Englishwoman and
his wife’s friend, and when he was officially angry he could be very
terrible indeed. It was this thought which decided the Pasha at last.
He could not face the Balio Bey in such a case, with the knowledge of
a trumped-up slander on his conscience, and he felt shrewdly that in
maintaining his position and carrying on his Government Sir Dugald’s
countenance and approval was of more vital consequence than his
mother’s. This he told her, as delicately as he could, and then
quitted her presence, after a few vain attempts to soften her
resentment, which was loud and voluble. Had he guessed what her next
step would be, it is possible that he might have yielded abjectly even
then, but he departed unconscious of what was in store for him in the
immediate future.

It would, indeed, have taken a shrewd observer of human nature to
forecast the Um-ul-Pasha’s next move. Having failed to secure her end,
she wasted no time in negotiations, but threw herself into the arms,
figuratively speaking, of Jamileh Khanum, with whom she had been at
daggers drawn ever since the young wife had entered the harem. Angry
with her husband and jealous for her boy, Jamileh Khanum displayed no
inclination to stand upon ceremony when she saw the prospect of
gaining such a powerful ally, and the reconciliation was sealed over
the sleeping form of little Najib Bey, upon whom his grandmother
lavished all the vituperative epithets that occurred to her, for the
purpose of averting the evil-eye. Before the evening of that day
mother and grandmother had united in a league against Azim Bey. The
son of the Hajar woman was to be displaced at any cost, and before
another day was over, M. Karalampi had been informed that his services
were retained on behalf of this new claimant to the rights of Hussein
Bey.

Unfortunately, from the ladies’ point of view, the negotiations which
had so nearly been crowned with success in the former case had been
allowed entirely to fall through, and a change in the Padishah’s
_entourage_ had removed the persons on whose help M. Karalampi had
relied. It was necessary to begin the work all over again, and to set
about it in a different way, but M. Karalampi still contrived to keep
himself in the background, while all that the distracted Pasha knew
was that his mother and his favourite wife were now bosom friends, and
that this boded mischief to his elder son. He could act decisively
enough, however, when the issue was a clear one, and he took his
measures at once. Azim Bey should accompany him on the progress he was
about to make through the country inhabited by the Kurdish tribes, in
order to keep him out of harm’s way, and Jamileh Khanum should come
also, that she and the Um-ul-Pasha might not have the opportunity of
weaving their plots together in his absence. The plan was no sooner
decided upon than it was put into execution. As before, Cecil and Azim
Bey, with their attendants, received orders to start first, spending a
few days at Said Bey’s house at Hillah, where the Pasha’s great
cavalcade would pick them up.

Cecil heard this news with dismay. It seemed to her that everything
depended upon her being at Baghdad, in case Charlie really carried out
his foolhardy plan, for if she saw him she might succeed in turning
him back at the threshold of his adventure. But Lady Haigh, who knew
that the last two summers in Baghdad had tried her very much, was
delighted that this one should be passed in the cooler atmosphere of
the Kurdish uplands, and commended the Pasha’s wisdom. Cecil said
nothing to her of the reason she had for wishing to remain in the
city. On the one side was the possibility of endangering Charlie by
attracting attention to him should he really enter the country; on the
other, the fear of lowering him in Sir Dugald’s eyes by revealing the
foolishness to which the Balio Bey would grant no quarter. In spite of
his kindness, Cecil resented extremely the contemptuous light in which
Sir Dugald continued to regard Charlie, and she was resolved not to
give him the chance of thinking him more reckless than he was, in case
he decided to forego his scheme.

“I suppose it isn’t possible for a European traveller to come into the
pashalik without your knowing it?” she said to Sir Dugald the evening
before her departure, with a desire to make everything sure.

“Scarcely,” said Sir Dugald. “They seem invariably to begin their
wanderings by getting into trouble with the Turks, and then they write
to me to help them out. No vice-consul will do for them, however near
at hand--it must be the Consul-General or no one.”

“But suppose they didn’t wish to make themselves prominent, and
managed not to get into trouble--in fact, came into the country quite
quietly, and did their best to remain unnoticed?”

“Then I should hear of them rather sooner than in the other case,”
said Sir Dugald. “English travellers who didn’t bluster or bully the
natives would be such a phenomenon that both the Pasha and I should be
simply inundated with full, true, and particular accounts of them. It
would be evident to the Turkish mind that they were come for no good,
and were probably either spies or on the look-out for hidden
treasures.”

“But if they were in disguise?” suggested Cecil, bringing forward
reluctantly her true fear. Sir Dugald laughed heartily.

“That would be the quickest thing of all,” he said. “An Englishman
trying to pass for a native would be spotted immediately. I have known
of several cases, and the people take a perverse delight in finding
them out. In fact, it’s an infallible means of proclaiming your
nationality and attracting attention to pretend to be an oriental. If
a man is such a fool as to try it, every person he meets becomes a spy
on him at once. It’s natural, of course, for they are afraid he might
try to profane their holy places.”

“And if you heard of any one who was trying to pass as a native, what
would you do?” asked Cecil.

“Frighten him out of the country if possible, and if not have him here
and reason him out,” said Sir Dugald. “In his character as a native he
couldn’t venture to resist me, and if he dropped it he would be afraid
of his life. I can’t have irresponsible fools coming here and stirring
up the fanatics to attempt outrages.”

Cecil was a little comforted by the sense of Sir Dugald’s power which
this conversation gave her, and she left Baghdad cheered by the
conviction that if Charlie did venture into Turkish Arabia, he would
be obliged to quit it very quickly, and with no undue courtesy
lavished upon him. In the absence of her own persuasive reasoning, she
had considerable faith in Sir Dugald’s certain use of _force majeure_,
and he guessed the real source of her anxiety, and smiled grimly as he
promised himself that her confidence in him should be fully justified
if it was necessary.

At Hillah Naimeh Khanum received Cecil with open arms. They had not
met since Cecil’s visit to the place in the summer of the riot,
although Azim Bey had ridden over several times with his father for a
short stay. In some way or other Naimeh Khanum had obtained an inkling
of her brother’s hatred for Charlie Egerton and its cause, and in the
only long conversation she held with Cecil they talked the matter
over. Naimeh Khanum had been speaking of Azim Bey’s improvement in
appearance and in health, and of the pleasure his progress in his
studies gave to the Pasha, and Cecil in return confessed her
disappointment with respect to the moral side of his nature.

“But what do you expect?” asked Naimeh Khanum. “Why should he
sacrifice his own wishes for your pleasure? What is there in our
religion to teach him to deny himself? He is a man, a true
believer--what can the happiness of a woman, a Giaour, signify to
him?”

“But one might hope,” said Cecil, rather hesitatingly, “that some
measure of Christian influence might reach him from all he has read,
even without direct teaching.”

Naimeh Khanum shook her head. “You forget the strength of the
influences at work in the opposite direction,” she said. “As it is,
you have made my brother wiser, more polished, more European, but his
character is unchanged. He will take all you can give him, and wear it
like a cloak, covering his Eastern nature with it, but he will remain
a Turk underneath all the same. His ideals, his views of women, are
the same as my father’s--they are not yours. You cannot Europeanise
Turkey from the outside.”

“And you, Khanum?” asked Cecil, “do you still feel as you did?”

“The same. I have read your book, and its words are good words, but I
have too much to give up. But I must not talk to you about this,
mademoiselle. My husband found me reading the book, and he would have
taken it away if I had not promised him never to speak about it to any
one, especially to you. Ah, mademoiselle, if your people want to make
us good and happy, they must teach the women as well as the men, and
begin at the heart with both.”

And Cecil could gain no more from her, the rather as they had very
little time for private conversation. Azim Bey’s lessons were going on
just as if they were still at Baghdad, and Said Bey displayed a
disposition to keep his wife from having much to say to the Frangi
woman. Moreover, there were some English people at Hillah just now who
had come out for the purpose of making excavations among the ruins of
Babylon, and had spent much time in measuring and surveying once again
the mighty mounds. The work of exploration, carried on throughout the
pleasant spring days, was now over for the season, and Professor
Howard White and his wife were about to leave Hillah before the summer
heat came on, and to return to Baghdad preparatory to sailing for
home, but for the moment their path crossed Cecil’s on her way to the
Kurdish hills.

Mrs Howard White had lived at Whitcliffe before her marriage, and had
been a member of Mr Anstruther’s congregation, and when on a visit to
her family, just before starting for Babylonia, she had met Charlie at
St Barnabas’ Vicarage, and all these were reasons which made Cecil
very desirous of seeing her. It seemed as though Azim Bey guessed
this, for he hung about his governess persistently when Mrs Howard
White came to call, and anything approaching confidential talk was out
of the question. But the professor’s wife read rightly the entreaty in
Cecil’s eyes, and an invitation to tea on the last evening of their
stay at Hillah gladdened the hearts of both pupil and governess. Azim
Bey was eager to inspect Professor Howard White’s instruments, of
which he had heard wonderful tales from his brother-in-law, and Cecil,
counting upon his insatiable curiosity to keep him safely in the study
for a time, away from her, was tremblingly anxious for a little
private conversation with her hostess. It was just possible that she
might be able to set her heart at rest by assuring her that Charlie
had given up his foolhardy plan. To know for certain that he was
safely at home in England, absorbed in the repairs of his house and
the business of his estate, Cecil felt that she would go through fire
and water.




 CHAPTER XXII.
 A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION.

Much as Cecil was troubled on Charlie’s account, her worries were
not all to be laid to his charge, for the near approach of the journey
seemed to have unsettled Azim Bey, and during his last day of lessons
he contrived to test his governess’s patience sorely.

“I don’t think we need do lessons to-day, mademoiselle,” he said that
morning.

“Why not?” said Cecil. “Come, Bey, here is this new book on Ethics. We
will read it together, and I will set you questions on each chapter.”

“I am lazy this morning, mademoiselle, I do not want to work. That
_fête_ yesterday was so unutterably tiresome that I went to sleep. I
know I did, because the gold-lace on the sleeve of Said Bey’s uniform
left a mark upon my face. When I was there, I longed to be in this
room reading, yet now that my desire is granted, I don’t wish to
read.”

“There is not much use in reading only when you care to do it,” said
Cecil, severely. “It will be a useful mental discipline for you to do
a good morning’s work.”

“Do you think that kind of discipline is good, mademoiselle?--doing
things one does not like, I mean. Because, if it is, one ought to see
that other people have plenty of it.”

“They will generally have plenty of it without your providing it for
them,” said Cecil, sighing to think how much discipline of the kind
her pupil had provided for her already. “You had much better try to
make people happier, and leave such discipline alone, except in your
own case.”

Azim Bey shook his head. “That would not suit me, mademoiselle. For
me, I wish to make people better, and I consider myself peculiarly
fitted to see that they undergo the necessary discipline.”

“I consider you peculiarly conceited,” said Cecil, “and I am afraid a
great deal of mental discipline will be needed in your case, Bey. But
we are wasting time in this discussion. Let us begin.”

Azim Bey took the book and settled down to a quarter of an hour’s
steady reading, then looked up, yawned, and showed a disposition to
enter on an argument with regard to a point which he and Cecil had
often discussed before. Cecil declined rather sharply to begin a fresh
controversy, and her pupil returned to his book, only to leave it
again in a minute or two. Thus things went on all the morning,
affording practical proof that yesterday’s dissipation had not agreed
with Azim Bey; and it was the same in the afternoon, when it was time
to go to the Howard Whites’. The house they had occupied was already
beginning to look dismantled, but the little drawing-room in which the
hostess received her guests was still gay with native embroideries and
decorated with quaint pieces of pottery and odds and ends of Assyrian
sculpture. The usual sitting-room, however, was the vine-shaded
terrace, and here Mrs Howard White retired with Cecil, despatching
Azim Bey to the study to enjoy himself.

But, unfortunately, Professor Howard White had been obliged to ride
out to the mounds with Said Bey, on account of an accusation which had
been brought against him of desecrating a native cemetery in their
vicinity in the course of his observations, and Azim Bey, disdaining
the services of the meek Syrian assistant who offered to show him the
instruments, came and sat down on the terrace with Cecil and her
hostess and interrupted their talk. It was impossible to speak of
Charlie and of Whitcliffe in his presence, and an awkward silence,
broken by spasmodic attempts at conversation, fell on the three. It
was a relief when one of the servants appeared and told Mrs Howard
White that there was a man selling European cutlery and needles in the
courtyard, asking whether she would like to have him brought in.

“Oh, if you please, madame, let him come in,” entreated Azim Bey, his
usual vivacity returning. “Mademoiselle lost her scissors yesterday,
and I have broken my knife, and I want a new one. May the pedlar come
in?”

“Oh, certainly. Bring the man in, Habib,” said Mrs Howard White to the
servant, and she moved towards the verandah, where there was a table.
Presently the pedlar entered, escorted in by two or three of the
servants, and by an assistant of his own, who helped to carry his
boxes. The two men were in Armenian costume, with high black caps,
which marked them as coming from Persia, and they spoke Arabic with
the peculiar Persian intonation. When their boxes were opened, the
stock-in-trade displayed was so extensive that Azim Bey went into
raptures, and his delight even blinded him to the combination of the
two obnoxious nationalities, the hated Persian and the despised
Armenian, in the persons of the traders. Not less attracted were Um
Yusuf and the rest of the women, and while Azim Bey chatted eagerly to
the pedlar’s servant over the array of pocket-knives, they gathered
round the other box and coveted endless pairs of scissors.

“See, mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, taking up a fanciful little
needlecase in the shape of a butterfly, “this is a pretty thing. Why
not Azim Bey buy it for Basmeh Kalfa? Look, it open, like this.”

“Stay, O my mistress,” interrupted the pedlar; “why shouldest thou
spoil my wares? Let thy lady hold it, and I will show her how to open
it.”

Um Yusuf put the case into Cecil’s hands, and the vendor raised the
flap to show the needles inside. As he did so, his hands met Cecil’s
with a peculiar pressure. Startled, she looked into his eyes, and in
spite of dyed skin, shaven hair and moustache, recognised Charlie in
the Armenian pedlar. The shock was overpowering, and she dropped
helplessly on the divan, too much astonished even to cry out. A deadly
faintness was stealing over her, the figures around seemed to be
whirling in a rainbow-coloured mist, but two words from Charlie
brought her back to her senses.

“Don’t faint,” he said, sternly, yet in such a low voice that she
alone heard it, and she recalled her wandering wits and rose slowly
from the seat where she had sunk down. With trembling hands she turned
over the pedlar’s stock, and commented on it with lips quivering with
agitation. It was a tremendous effort, but she was nerved to it by the
sound of Azim Bey’s voice at the other end of the verandah.

“You see I remembered what you said, and came as a Christian this
time,” said Charlie, in a hurried whisper, while he held up a pair of
scissors for her inspection. Cecil gave him a look of agony. She dared
not speak to him, dared not even let him touch her hand again, and it
was misery that they should be so close and yet so widely separated.
It was almost a relief when Azim Bey came to complete his purchases by
buying a pair of scissors for old Ayesha, for even Charlie would not
venture to address her when her pupil was so near. Again the thought
of his danger made her turn sick and faint, and she sat down on the
divan and listened to the details of the bargaining as though in a
dream. At last Azim Bey had chosen all he wanted, the money was paid
down, and Mrs Howard White told the servant to show the pedlar out.
Cecil breathed freely once more. She had not heard the words which
Azim Bey whispered to the negro lad who was officially known as his
slipper-bearer.

“Keep those men in sight, and bring me word of whatever they do. If
they leave the town without my hearing of it, it shall be upon thy
head.”

“Upon my head be it, O my lord,” said the boy, and departed; while
Cecil, unsuspecting, though sick at heart and racked with anxiety,
accompanied her pupil back to the house of Said Bey.

  * * * * * * *

“O, my mistress, here is the Christian pedlar again,” said Habib to
Mrs Howard White early the next morning.

“Bring him in,” said the lady, with evident displeasure; and as soon
as the order had been obeyed, and Habib was gone, she turned on
Charlie.

“Well, Dr Egerton, I hope you are satisfied. You have given poor Miss
Anstruther a terrible fright, and probably made her miserable for
weeks; and you ought to be now on your way to Baghdad, where, you
assured me, you would go as soon as you had caught a glimpse of her.”

“But I am not going to Baghdad,” said Charlie.

“Then I shall simply write to Sir Dugald Haigh and tell him
everything,” said Mrs Howard White, angrily.

“Listen to me a moment,” said Charlie. “I was fully intending to start
at sunrise this very morning; but last night I was talking to some of
Said Bey’s servants, and I hear that the Pasha is to be accompanied on
this journey by Karalampi, the Greek of whom I have told you. I
cannot, and will not, leave Miss Anstruther exposed to his
machinations.”

“This is absurd,” said Mrs Howard White. “Miss Anstruther has
succeeded in taking very good care of herself since you left Baghdad,
and I should say that she was quite able to do so still. I call it
arrant selfishness to keep her tormented with anxiety about you by
following the Pasha’s camp, where you can do no good, and may get
yourself and her into great trouble. As for saying that it is done on
her account, you know that it is simply for an adventure--a lark.”

“It isn’t really, on my word of honour,” said Charlie, quickly. “I
promise you, Mrs Howard White, Cecil shan’t see anything of me, and,
unless she is in danger, shall never even know that I am near her. I
have got permission to follow the Pasha’s caravan--it is quite
natural; lots of traders and people are going to do it--for the sake
of protection through the mountains, and I shall be among the riffraff
at the very end of the procession, while she is among the grandees in
front. She will never even hear of me.”

“Then what good can you do?” asked Mrs Howard White.

“I don’t know--just be near in case she needs help, I suppose.”

“You are a very foolish young man,” said the lady, with severity; “and
why you should want to help her when she doesn’t need any help, I
don’t know. I suppose you will go, since you are set upon it; but
remember that I disapprove entirely of the whole thing, and that I
would never have helped you to meet her here if I had guessed what you
would do.”

Charlie laughed, and took leave of his hostess to prepare his mules
for the journey, all unconscious of the fact that at that moment he
was the subject of a conversation between Azim Bey and M.
Karalampi--the latter having just arrived in the train of the Pasha.

“I tell you, monsieur, he is here!” cried the boy in a frenzy. “I saw
him myself, and mademoiselle recognised him. He and his servant are
disguised as Armenians from Julfa, and they are selling knives and
scissors. I have set the boy Ishak to watch them, and he tells me that
they have gained permission to attach themselves to our caravan in
traversing the mountains.”

“Ah! With the knowledge of mademoiselle?” asked M. Karalampi.

“No; I am convinced she knows nothing of this. I believe she imagines
that he is returning at once to Baghdad.”

“So much the better. And what are your wishes, Bey Effendi?”

“I should like,” said Azim Bey, slowly, as though gloating over each
word--“I should like him to be carried off secretly and kept a
prisoner until after mademoiselle’s five years here are over, and she
has entered into a new agreement to remain. If she heard nothing of
him, she might forget him and be willing to stay with us.”

“Excellent, Bey Effendi! May I suggest that this time Dr Egerton
should not be intrusted to your friends the Hajar, with whose language
and customs he is well acquainted? If I am right, you do not wish that
this imprisonment should be made too pleasant for him. You desire
something more than mere safekeeping?”

Azim Bey nodded. M. Karalampi went on, watching his face keenly.

“The Kurds would suit your purpose much better, Bey Effendi. They have
hiding-places and strongholds in the hills which the Padishah’s whole
army could not discover, and they do not love Christians. They might
be relied upon to keep Dr Egerton so safely that even the Balio Bey
should never hear of him.”

“That is what I want,” cried Azim Bey, eagerly. “Let him disappear,
and not be heard of until he is wanted, which will not be for a very
long time.”

“And you do not wish to make any stipulation as to the treatment he is
to receive, Bey Effendi? The Kurds may make a slave of him if they
like?”

“Anything, so long as they keep him safely,” said Azim Bey.

M. Karalampi went away well pleased. The news he had just heard, and
his conversation with Azim Bey, had opened up vistas of endless
possibilities of revenge on several of the people against whom he
cherished grudges, besides affording a prospect of gratifying the
wishes of the Um-ul-Pasha and Jamileh Khanum. As for Azim Bey, he
returned to his governess with a quiet mind. He had put matters in
train, and left them in the charge of a safe person, and was able to
enjoy the spectacle of Cecil’s anxiety. In all the bustle of starting
on their further journey, her mind was occupied with other matters
than boxes and bundles. She could not rid herself of the haunting
impression of Charlie’s fatal imprudence. How could he risk death in
this way just for the sake of seeing her? It was foolish, it was
criminal. If only she could have some assurance that he was safely on
his way to Baghdad before Azim Bey’s suspicions were roused! What was
to be done? Could she send Um Yusuf out to make inquiries about him,
and to warn him, if he were still in Hillah, to leave at once? No;
such a step could only serve to awaken suspicion. There was nothing to
be done but to try and let everything take its usual course. In this
belief, she nerved herself to give due attention to her packing, and
at last to don her blue wrapper and mount her mule, although she felt
as though she could not leave the place while Charlie might still be
in it. The appearance of an Armenian, as they passed through the town,
made her start and tremble, but nowhere did her eyes light upon the
face which was now so strange and yet so familiar. She did her best to
assure herself that this showed that Charlie had safely departed,
never guessing that among the miscellaneous throng that closed the
Pasha’s long procession were the two Armenians from Julfa with their
mules and their packs, watched closely by little Ishak.

The march went on, and still Cecil heard and saw nothing. Across the
desert, up the lower hills, over the sandy tablelands, wound the long
cavalcade, headed by banners and guards, kettledrums and led horses,
and escorted by bands of irregular horsemen belonging to the tribes
whose country was traversed. From pleasant villages in fertile valleys
the people came forth with professions of obedience to the Pasha, and
gifts of provisions for his followers. They were a much finer set of
men than the inhabitants of the plains, strapping Kurds in pink and
black striped garments and preposterous turbans, and sturdy Nestorian
Christians in pointed felt caps, the women nearly all well-dressed,
and often very beautiful. At night a site for the camp was chosen
close to some village, and the richer inhabitants gave up their houses
to the Pasha and his immediate following, while the motley crowd of
hangers-on bivouacked outside. The journey through these districts was
very pleasant, but it did not last long. The lower hills, with their
orchards and vineyards, their rose-thickets and fruit-gardens, were
soon left behind, and the way now lay through the mountains, dark and
steep and rugged, which form the outermost of the natural
fortifications of Kurdistan.

The Pasha’s tour was not intended solely as a pleasure-trip. It was
meant to combine with this the functions of a triumphal march, for in
the district which was now to be traversed there had lately been
“troubles,” both with the Kurds and the Yezidis, and the Pasha was
making this progress as a kind of outward sign of the restoration of
order, now that the Mutesalim or lieutenant-governor had put down the
disturbances by force. The Mutesalim came to meet his overlord on the
borders of his district, bringing with him a large body of troops, and
the march through the newly pacified regions began. The Mutesalim was
not altogether happy in his mind, for he was conscious that his own
exactions and bad treatment of the people, Moslems and Christians
alike (to ill-treat the heathen, as the Yezidis were called, was a
matter of course), had caused the disturbances. He was further afraid
that they might prove not to have entirely ceased even now, when, by
his glowing reports of the successes he had won, and the peaceful and
prosperous state of the country, he had, quite unintentionally,
tempted the Pasha into paying it a visit. His uneasiness was only too
well grounded. As soon as the caravan was once embarked on the
difficult mountain-paths, it began to be beset by bands of Yezidis,
the survivors of the communities which the Mutesalim had broken up. He
had carried off the children as slaves and murdered all the adults he
could find, but the young and active men had escaped into the
fastnesses of the hills, and were preparing a welcome for their
oppressor. With them were a few Kurds, whose wrath against the
Mutesalim had been sufficiently strong to join them with the
devil-worshippers in opposing him, and they followed out a policy of
harassing the caravan constantly at inconvenient times. They beset it
in difficult places, and were gone before the troops could be brought
up, and they kept up continual alarms in the night, organising a
series of small surprises on the outskirts of the camp. It was very
evident that the disturbances had not been put down, and the Pasha
represented this to the Mutesalim in forcible language. It was plain
that he was absolutely incapable, and insolent as well, since he had
brought his Excellency out from Baghdad to see a conquered country
which was not conquered at all, and the only thing to be done was for
the Pasha himself to take the business seriously in hand.

When this decision became known, there was loud lamentation and great
dismay in the harem. It was one thing to come on a pleasure-trip, and
quite another to find it turned into a military promenade through a
country swarming with enemies. It was not reassuring to hear, on
camping for the night, that the mountaineers had swept off into
slavery during the march some twenty of the non-combatants in the
rear, nor to find in the morning that two or three guards had been
murdered in the darkness close to one’s tent. Nor was it pleasant, in
the course of the day, just when a particularly nasty place in a steep
descending path had been reached, with a precipice on one side and a
perpendicular wall of rock on the other, to be assailed suddenly by
tremendous stones, which came crashing down across the path,
frightening the mules and almost unseating their riders, while a brisk
fusillade from the summit of the cliffs showed that it was no
avalanche which thus interrupted the march, and caused the ladies to
scream frantically to the guards and soldiers to save them and take
them out of this horrible place. To do the soldiers justice, they were
no more anxious for the ladies’ presence at such a juncture than they
were themselves, declaring that what with the rocks crashing down, the
mules capering, and the women screaming, it was impossible to take aim
or to do anything quietly. Under these circumstances the Pasha thought
it advisable to bestow his household in some safe place before
beginning military operations in earnest, and the caravan moved on as
fast as possible towards the fort and town of Sardiyeh, the seat of
the Mutesalim’s government, where Jamileh Khanum, with her attendants,
was to be left under a strong guard.

The Mutesalim was to accompany his Excellency into the field, to see
how a little war of this kind ought to be conducted, with the prospect
of almost certain disgrace and probable death if any disaster occurred
to the Pasha’s arms, or any mishap ruffled the Pasha’s temper.
Although in the course of his eventful life Ahmed Khémi had been
under fire more than once, he was not a soldier, and the Mutesalim
thought the outlook sufficiently dreary to send on a message to his
household telling them to leave Sardiyeh and go into hiding before the
Pasha’s arrival, that they might not be exposed to his vengeance. When
the arrival of the caravan at the fort disclosed the fact that the
ladies’ apartments were untenanted, the Mutesalim explained that he
had sent away his family in order that there might be more room for
his Excellency’s household, and the Pasha was graciously pleased to
accept the excuse. The rooms vacated proved, however, insufficient to
meet the needs of the party, and for Cecil and her pupil, with their
attendants, accommodation was found in the best house in the little
town by the simple process of turning the inhabitants out to make room
for them. Whether the rightful owners quartered themselves in turn
upon their neighbours, or whether they retired to the stables or the
kitchen, Cecil could not discover, but she was inexpressibly thankful
to have once more a little domain which she could call her own.




 CHAPTER XXIII.
 THE END OF EVERYTHING.

The journey through the upland country had not been at all a
pleasant one to Cecil, quite irrespective of the continual alarms due
to the attacks of the insurgents. From the very day on which they left
Hillah, Jamileh Khanum’s behaviour had become markedly and
inexplicably disagreeable. She seized every opportunity of heaping
slights on Azim Bey and his governess, and her servants followed her
example. Travelling, as they did, humbly in the rear of the harem
procession, which was headed by the gorgeous _takhtrevan_, with its
velvet cushions and curtains of cloth-of-gold, in which reposed the
Khanum Effendi and her boy, the little band who formed the household
of Azim Bey were exposed to many unpleasantnesses. It became almost a
matter of course that Cecil should find, on reaching the village where
the night was to be spent, that the Khanum Effendi and her household
had appropriated all the accommodation, leaving her and her party no
choice but to camp in the courtyard. She herself would have been
willing to sacrifice much for the sake of peace, but Azim Bey was by
no means like-minded, and the difficulty was generally settled by a
tremendous quarrel between the respective servants, in the course of
which Masûd, armed with a whip and his young master’s authority,
turned out the intruders in sufficient numbers to secure Cecil and the
other women a resting-place where they would be tolerably free from
the attacks of the mosquitoes and other pests of the region.

Disagreeable as these nightly experiences were, they did not at all
exhaust Jamileh Khanum’s opportunities of making herself unpleasant.
It seemed to Cecil that she was doing her best, with a purposeless
malignity, to lower both Azim Bey and his governess in the eyes of the
servants. Not feeling inclined to assist in this process, Cecil did
her best to keep her followers separate from the rest; but Jamileh
Khanum could never pass the group without an insulting word to her, or
an expression of hatred directed against Azim Bey, who was stigmatised
twenty times a day as the supplanter of his little brother. Cecil’s
patience was sorely tasked, for it was a difficult business to
maintain her own dignity without infringing the respect due to the
Khanum Effendi, and there was no redress. Once on the journey, the
Pasha was scarcely ever to be seen, even by Azim Bey; for custom
required that the gentlemen should all ride at a considerable distance
in front of the harem procession, and for Cecil to have left her
companions to lay her grievances before her employer would have been a
breach of etiquette amounting to a crime. One of the most disagreeable
features of the case was that Jamileh Khanum’s servants imitated their
mistress’s behaviour, and even improved upon it. Azim Bey could always
take care of himself, and Cecil had spirit enough to secure tolerable
respect towards her in her presence, but the treatment which their
household received from that of Jamileh Khanum was galling in the
extreme. Headed by the Levantine Mdlle. Katrina, who had been lent to
her daughter-in-law by the Um-ul-Pasha in view of this journey, the
harem attendants did everything in their power to insult and injure
the servants of the Bey.

What reason there could be for this state of affairs Cecil could not
conceive, until it struck her one day, from various signs which she
observed, that her slighted admirer, M. Karalampi, was in
communication with Jamileh Khanum. As had been the case at Baghdad,
the go-between was Mdlle. Katrina. It was of course impossible for her
to have any actual intercourse with M. Karalampi, who was in front
with the Pasha; but Mdlle. Katrina had a nephew, an ill-conditioned
youth of mixed parentage and doubtful nationality, who was continually
to be seen hanging about in the neighbourhood of the harem tents. Once
or twice Cecil came upon this individual talking to his aunt in
secluded corners, a thing which could not have happened if the agas
had not diplomatically turned their backs; but it seemed ridiculous to
suppose that M. Karalampi’s schemes could be in any way forwarded by
the petty persecution which had been set on foot, and she thought
little of the matter. It was Um Yusuf who first let her into the
secret of the mortifications she had endured, but this was not until
Sardiyeh was reached, and they were safe in their own house, and as
free from insult as in their courtyard at Baghdad.

“Come down the hill with me, Um Yusuf,--I want to make a sketch,”
Cecil said to her maid the morning after their arrival, entranced by
the effects of light and shade produced by the sunrise upon the dark
mountains.

“You not go beyond the gate, mademoiselle?” asked Um Yusuf, anxiously.

“Why not?” asked Cecil, in astonishment. “There is a place just
outside the town-wall which has a splendid view. We will take little
Ishak to carry the paint-box, and we shall be in sight of the guard at
the gate. Besides, the Kurds would not venture so near to the town.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, slowly and impressively, “you not go
one step outside gate without Masûd. Suppose guard looking the other
way; Kurds or any bad men come up quickly, kill you, kill me, run
away. What good guard do?”

“But why should the Kurds be lying in wait for us?” asked Cecil,
laughing.

“I said Kurds _or any bad men_, mademoiselle.”

“What do you mean, Um Yusuf?” asked Cecil, impressed by the woman’s
tone. “Is there any one who wants to kill us?”

“I tell you what I know,” said Um Yusuf, looking fearfully round the
house-top, where they were standing. “Khanum Effendi want get you away
from Azim Bey, mademoiselle. All this time she been rude to you, and
her servants the same, but when you not there they say to Basmeh
Kalfa, to Masûd, to me, ‘You see your Mdlle. Antaza? What she signify
here? Khanum Effendi do what she like with her. Balio Bey big man, but
his arm not reach to Kurdistan. You help Khanum Effendi get rid of
her, you not be punished, get plenty of money. You say she want poison
Azim Bey, Pasha send her away, all right for you.’ That what they say
to us, mademoiselle, we say no, tell Pasha if they do it again. They
laugh at us, but not try it, and I think they kill you if they can.”

Cecil turned pale. It was a horrible thing to feel that her enemies
had tried to bribe her own servants to bear false witness against her,
and to know that she owed her life to their faithfulness. Their safety
as well as her own was now at stake, and she did not need another
warning from Um Yusuf. She kept her pupil with her all day, and did
not attempt to go out unless escorted by Masûd. It did not occur to
her to take further precautions, and she did not know until some time
afterwards that Um Yusuf, fearing poison, made a practice of tasting
beforehand every dish which was to be set before her mistress. All the
food used by the household was purchased separately in the market by
Basmeh Kalfa, and none of the harem slaves were allowed to come near
the kitchen. These measures once taken, Um Yusuf felt that things were
tolerably safe, not knowing that Jamileh Khanum’s messengers had
conveyed to M. Karalampi the news of the failure to corrupt the
members of the household, and also of the precautions which had been
adopted, and that the answer returned was that he had a new plan for
effecting the desired purpose just ready to be put in action.

It afforded a partial relief to Cecil’s anxiety for her pupil when he
was allowed, in answer to his piteous prayers, to accompany his father
and the troops part of the way in their march against the chief
stronghold of the insurgents. He was away for some days, and his
governess employed the time in writing one of the long journal letters
which kept the family at Whitcliffe regularly informed of all her
doings under ordinary circumstances, but had been neglected during the
exciting times of the last few weeks, which were unfavourable to
epistolary composition. But it was still difficult to write, for Cecil
did not dare to say a word on the subject which lay nearest her
heart--that of Charlie’s present whereabouts. The alarm she had felt
on his account in leaving Hillah had increased tenfold now that a
considerable time had elapsed without her hearing from him, and it was
in vain that she tried to comfort herself with the suggestion that the
insurgents might have prevented the passage of any couriers, or that
his letters might have been intercepted once more. She felt sure that
if he had reached Baghdad, he would not have failed to send her some
intimation of his safety through Sir Dugald, with whose letters
neither Azim Bey nor the mountaineers, who cherished a deep veneration
for the British name, would venture to meddle. It was evident, then,
that Charlie was either still in Hillah, or was retracing his steps to
Ispahan by the way he had come--if, at least, he had not been
suspected and seized.

The thought of this last possibility tormented Cecil day and night,
and the more so that no means of solving the mystery presented
themselves to her. Even if she wrote to Sir Dugald to inform him of
her meeting with Charlie and of her fears respecting his safety, and
inquiries were set on foot, it might have just the effect of arousing
suspicion, and endangering him in his journey back to Persia or his
retirement at Hillah, supposing that he had settled down there to
enjoy a taste of Eastern life once more. Cecil longed wearily for some
assurance that this was the case, and wished too late that she had not
set her face so resolutely against her lover’s eccentricities in the
past. Merely to know now that he was safe in the camp of some sheikh
of the Hajar would have been the height of bliss, but it was a bliss
she was not to enjoy.

To write her letter under these circumstances, without alluding to the
subject which filled almost all her waking thoughts, was a difficult
task, but she feared that the epistle might fall into unfriendly
hands, and she wrote it without even mentioning Charlie’s name. The
recital of the alarms and moving incidents which had diversified the
passage of the caravan through the mountains took her so long that she
did not finish the letter until the afternoon of the day on which Azim
Bey was expected back, and she gave a sigh of gratification as she
wrapped the envelope in the strong paper covering which was necessary
to protect it against the rough usage it would probably meet with in
its transit to Baghdad. This operation completed, and the packet
firmly sealed, she went out on the broad _lewan_ or piazza to call one
of the servants, who might give it to the Pasha’s courier before he
started on his journey to the city.

Looking down into the courtyard, without the slightest foreboding of
coming trouble, she saw that the servants had a visitor. Um Yusuf, old
Ayesha, and Basmeh Kalfa were sitting on the ground, entertaining with
coffee and cakes an elderly woman in whom Cecil recognised a former
_kalfa_ of the Um-ul-Pasha’s, who had married a non-commissioned
officer of one of the regiments which formed the guard of honour, and
who had been permitted to accompany her husband on this expedition.
But the cakes stood untasted, and Basmeh Kalfa had paused in the act
of pouring out the coffee, and was holding the pot suspended in the
air, while she and the others stared with eyes of horror at their
visitor, and listened with upraised hands of dismay to some story
which she seemed to be narrating.

“May God visit it upon my own head if it be not true!” concluded the
stranger, and Cecil heard Um Yusuf apostrophising a string of obscure
Syrian saints, while the two other women murmured, “God forbid!” and
“God is great!” in awestruck tones.

“How wilt thou tell thy lady, O Um Yusuf?” asked old Ayesha, just as
Um Yusuf looked up, met her mistress’s eye, and dropped in her
consternation the cup she was holding. A feeling for which she could
not account impelled Cecil to descend the steps leading into the court
and enter the group, the members of which started guiltily when they
found her among them, the visitor alone taking refuge in an assumed
carelessness.

“Is anything wrong? What is the matter?” Cecil asked.

“Oh, nothing, mademoiselle,” replied Um Yusuf, hastily. “You want me?”

“I am sure there is something wrong,” said Cecil. “Latifeh Kalfa has
brought bad news. What is it that you are to tell me, Um Yusuf?”

“You come with me, mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, trying to draw her
mistress aside. “That daughter of Shaitan know nothing--she make it
all up.”

“God forbid!” said Latifeh Kalfa, piously.

“O my soul, come with me!” entreated Um Yusuf.

“I insist upon hearing what she has told you,” said Cecil, standing
her ground, although the affectionate epithet from the lips of the
sedate Syrian woman thrilled her with alarm.

“She say, mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, unwillingly, “that those two
Armenians from Hillah were with Pasha’s caravan in the mountains, and
Kurds carry them off.”

“Is this true?” demanded Cecil of Latifeh Kalfa.

“I heard it from my husband, who was with the rearguard, O my lady,”
replied the woman; “and more than that, I can testify that though I
had often seen them before, yet they disappeared altogether from that
time.”

“But was it Kurds, not Yezidis?” asked Cecil.

“Kurds, O my lady,” purred the woman. She had a soft, smooth voice,
and a way of fastening her eyes sleepily on the person she addressed.
Cecil, standing for a moment overwhelmed, felt an unreasoning hatred
spring up in her heart against her. It was only for the first instant
that the disaster crushed her, however, and she sought immediate
relief in action.

“I want you to come out with me, Um Yusuf,” she said.

“But, mademoiselle, Masûd not here. You not go without him?”

“Yes, I can’t wait.”

“But they kill us, mademoiselle.”

“Then stay behind and I will go alone. Don’t you see that there is not
a moment to lose?”

“If I perish, I perish,” was Um Yusuf’s mental utterance as she
wrapped her sheet round her and followed her mistress without another
word. She would face all the Kurds in Kurdistan rather than let
mademoiselle go out by herself.

“Where you going, mademoiselle?” she asked, as they approached the
gate.

“To the little Christian village down in the valley,” responded Cecil,
steadily. “The priest there will help us. He can speak English.”

“What! Kasha Thoma?” asked Um Yusuf. “Oh yes, he good man, been with
Melican missionaries at Beyrout. But what you say to him,
mademoiselle?”

“I shall ask him to send off a trustworthy messenger at once to
Baghdad, to tell the Balio Bey what we have heard. If the Pasha were
here, I would go straight to

[*** missing text. See Transcriber’s Notes.]

“What you ’fraid of, mademoiselle?” inquired Um Yusuf.

“That the Kurds may carry Dr Egerton away into the mountains, or take
him to Persia, and perhaps treat him badly,” said Cecil.

Um Yusuf’s own fears were of a darker nature, but she was wise enough
to keep silence concerning them, and presently her mind became
engrossed with the thought of the peril into which she and her
mistress were running by leaving the town unattended. True, almost
every foot of the winding path which led to the Nestorian village was
under the eye of the watchman at the town-gate, and also of the
Turkish sentinels at the fort, but the untoward events of the journey,
and the alarms of the last few weeks, would have shaken the nerves of
most people, and Um Yusuf’s imagination conjured up lurking Kurds
behind every rock. More than once she was on the point of declaring
her conviction that Latifeh Kalfa’s whole story was a fraud, invented
for the very purpose of decoying Cecil out in this way, that she might
fall into the hands of the Kurdish raiders; but the certainty that,
even if she turned back, her mistress would infallibly go on alone,
kept her silent, and she followed on in the spirit of a martyr,
casting timid glances on either side. Fervently she longed for the
protection of Masûd and his stout cudgel, but neither was at hand.
Her greatest trial was still to come, for at the foot of the hill a
man rose suddenly from the shelter of a clump of bushes and ran
towards them. Um Yusuf screamed and clutched Cecil’s arm.

“It is only a beggar,” said Cecil, quickly; and indeed the shrunken
form in its multi-coloured rags could scarcely have been considered
formidable in any case. As he reached them the man tore off the
_kaffiyeh_ which enveloped his head, disclosing a face at sight of
which both women started and turned pale. The wasted features were
those of Hanna, the Armenian lad who had been Charlie Egerton’s
servant at Baghdad, and had accompanied him on his foolhardy
adventure.

“O luckless one!” screamed Um Yusuf, finding her tongue first, “what
evil fate has befallen thee? Where is thy master?”

“What is that to do with thee?” demanded Hanna. “I am here with a
message from him to thy lady.”

“Tell me quickly,” cried Cecil, “is he ill? in prison?”

“He had no time to write,” pursued Hanna, evasively, “but I have
carried his words.”

“But is he--is he----” gasped Cecil. “He is not dead?”

“O my lady, he is dead. I am come unto thee with the last words he
said.”

“Go on,” said Cecil, hoarsely, her tearless eyes searching the man’s
face.

“I can tell thee but little, O my lady, for all was done so quickly.
My master and I left Hillah with our mules in the train of the Pasha,
desiring to pass through the mountains in safety. But on a certain day
there was an attack made upon the rear-guard, and the robbers
succeeded in getting between it and the main body. There was a great
turmoil, for all the traders and their beasts were mixed up with the
soldiers and the enemy upon a narrow ledge of rock, and in the
confusion a band of Kurds separated some of us from the rest, and
dragged us away by force. Among these were my master and I, for he had
bidden me keep close beside him. Then they bound our hands and
fastened us to their saddles, and led us along many steep and winding
paths, going continually farther into the mountains. But my master
said, ‘Courage, Hanna! don’t lose heart. We will yet slip away from
them,’ and I was cheered, knowing his coolness and bravery. But at
last they left the horses behind, and began to climb up rocks such as
the wild goats love, still leading my master and me with them. So then
we came to a valley in the highest part of the mountains, in which
there was a pool of water and some sheep, and when my master saw the
place, he said, ‘Our wanderings are over, O Hanna, for they would
never have shown us this stronghold of theirs had they meant us to
leave it alive.’ Now in this valley were caves, and into one of these
they thrust my master and me, leaving us without food or water for two
days and nights. But on the third day one of the Kurds in passing
called out to us between the stones at the mouth of the cave, ‘Dogs of
Christians, prepare for death!’ Then while my master and I looked at
one another, the rest came and took down the stones and led my master
away. But as he went he turned and said to me, ‘If thou shouldst
escape, seek out Mdlle. Antaza, and say this to her from me’--and
truly, O my lady, I have repeated it night and morning on my fingers,
lest I should forget it, for it was seven English words”--and
spreading out his hand, Hanna read off mechanically,
“‘Good--bye--dar--ling--God--bless--you.’”

A choking sob burst from Cecil, but she signed to the man to continue.

“That was the last time I saw my master alive, O my lady. But that
evening they led me forth also, and I thought that surely my hour of
death was come, but they took me only to the brow of a precipice, and
told me to look down. And looking down, I saw----”

“What?” asked Cecil, sharply.

“I saw my master’s body lying far below, in the Armenian dress he had
worn, in a pit as deep as Jehannam. And the robbers laughed at me, and
bade me mark the place well, saying, ‘Thy master’s turn to-day, thine
to-morrow.’ Then they led me back, more dead than alive with fear; but
behold! before we reached the cave we found coming to meet us certain
other Kurds, who had only just arrived in the stronghold, and those
with me stopped to salute them and to ask them of their welfare. And
after welcoming them they killed a sheep and made a feast, leaving me
in the cave, but with no stone at its mouth. And when they were eating
and were merry, and it was dark and no guard set, I crept out, and
finding the sword of a man who had thrown it aside while he ate, I cut
through my bonds. Then, taking the sword with me, and some bread that
lay near, I stole away, and when I was out of earshot of the Kurds, I
started to run. But how I found the way down the mountain, or how I
did not fall and die, I cannot tell; I know only that I made my way
hither, and for three days have I watched for thee, O my lady, to give
thee the message of the dead. But into the town I could not come, for
the watchman at the gate drove me away.”

“And what wilt thou do now?” asked Um Yusuf.

“I should wish to return to Baghdad and my own people,” he said; “but
how am I to go there, when my master is dead, and the Kurds have
robbed me?”

“Go to Baghdad,” said Cecil, emptying her purse mechanically into his
hands, “and tell the Balio Bey what you have told me. Don’t lose
time--but no, there is no need of any hurry now. Let us go back to
Sardiyeh, Um Yusuf. Kasha Thoma cannot help us.”




 CHAPTER XXIV.
 PRISONERS.

They retraced their steps up the rugged hill-path, Cecil first, Um
Yusuf following her, and went in at the gate, climbing the steep
rock-hewn lanes of the little town in silence. At their house-door
Masûd was lounging in his accustomed place, and started up in
astonishment on seeing them approaching from the street.

“This is not well, O my lady,” he said to Cecil, with an air of
respectful remonstrance which would have amused her at any other time.
“Does my lady wish to bring wrath upon her servant’s head from the Bey
Effendi, that she goes out without summoning him to attend upon her?”

“Hold thy peace, foolish one!” cried Um Yusuf, as Cecil turned and
stared at him with unseeing eyes. “Is my lady to be taken to task by
thy insolent tongue? Let her pass, or I will complain to the Bey
Effendi of thy rudeness.”

Sorely perplexed, Masûd yielded the point, and opened the gate for
them. Ayesha and the other women were looking out curiously from the
doorway of their room, but on catching sight of Cecil they drew back,
and she passed on with bowed head. Mounting the steps of the _lewan_,
she entered her own room, and dropped on the divan with a wordless
moan. At present she did not in the least realise the full horror of
the news she had heard; she only knew that a sudden blow had fallen
upon her, blotting out all recollection and deadening every feeling.
All night she lay where she had sunk down, deaf to Um Yusuf’s
remonstrances and entreaties; and when she allowed herself to be
raised from the divan in the morning, it was only to return to it
again, leaving her breakfast untasted, and to sit crouched in a
corner, staring before her with stony eyes. In vain Um Yusuf pleaded
and entreated; her mistress did not even seem to hear her, and noticed
her presence as little as she did that of the other women, who crowded
round the door of her room, looking pityingly at her. They had no idea
of the instinctive desire for solitude of one in deep grief; their
notion of showing sympathy was to assemble together and discuss all
the circumstances of the case in the mourner’s hearing, and Um Yusuf
was too much harassed, too anxious for help and advice, to drive them
away, as she would ordinarily have done. That Mdlle. Antaza had gone
mad was the general opinion, and this was confirmed by the fact that
she took no notice of the intruders, and seemed neither to see nor
hear them. Um Yusuf was at her wits’ end. She knew no more of mental
pathology than she did of comparative anatomy, but she had the help of
long experience to guide her, and she knew that this deadly calm must
be broken.

At last, as the readiest means of effecting this, she went in search
of Azim Bey. He had only just returned, a day later than he was
expected, and was hearing from Masûd all that the worthy aga could
tell him of what had happened. To say that he was appalled is only
faintly to describe his feelings. He had often wished Charlie out of
the way, and it is not improbable that he would have been deeply
grateful for any fatal accident or illness which had removed him from
mademoiselle’s path. But that Dr Egerton should be murdered in cold
blood, and that, too, as a direct consequence of the arrangement he
had made with M. Karalampi, was a very different thing. He shrank back
and shivered at the thought of meeting Cecil, but Um Yusuf would take
no denial, and fairly led him back to the sitting-room. Her stony
silence and the reproachful glances of the other women were sufficient
to make a deep impression even on his hardened young heart; but when
he saw Cecil crouched on the divan, her eyes fixed, her hands hanging
idle, he would have fled if he could. Um Yusuf, expecting such an
attempt, pushed him into the room, and as he entered it timidly, Cecil
looked up and met his gaze, then turned away with a shuddering sigh.
He could not bear it.

“Oh, mademoiselle,” he cried, rushing to her, regardless of the shiver
of repulsion with which she drew herself away from him, “forgive me!”

“Then it was your fault,” said Cecil, slowly. “You had him killed.”

“No, mademoiselle, not that--not that! Oh, my dear mademoiselle, I
have been very wicked, very unkind, but I never wanted him killed. I
wished him to be kept safely, where you would not see him, until the
time came for you to leave us, that I might try to make you stay with
me, and then he was to be set free; but what I wanted was never
this--never this, mademoiselle,” and he flung himself sobbing at her
feet and kissed the hem of her dress.

“Tell me, Bey,” said Cecil, laying a hand on his shoulder, and
speaking in the same restrained tones, “can you say truly that you had
no hand in his death?”

“None, mademoiselle, none!” sobbed Azim Bey. “It is my fault, for I
hated him, and wished him to be carried off by the Kurds, but I never
wanted him dead, and I would give all I have to bring him back to life
now. Oh, mademoiselle, only forgive me, and we will avenge his death a
thousand times over. I will speak to my father of these wretches who
have murdered Dr Egerton, and they shall give a life for every drop of
his blood. They shall be swept from the face of the earth, and their
wives and children and all belonging to them, and their houses shall
be made a desolation for ever. And as for M. Karalampi, that Shaitan,
he shall be----”

“Oh, hush, Bey,” said Cecil, shuddering; “I don’t want vengeance. How
can you suggest it? These men have only understood your orders a
little too well. And how could it comfort me to know that innocent
women and children were punished for the fault of the men?--it would
make my grief ten times greater. But oh, Bey, remember,” and her voice
was choked, “that a life once taken can never be restored.”

She broke down and sobbed passionately, while Azim Bey knelt at her
feet, entreating her forgiveness again and again. He would not leave
her until Um Yusuf laid a strong hand on his shoulder and dragged him
away, telling him that he would make mademoiselle ill. Even then he
broke away from her grasp at the door and rushed back, with a piteous
entreaty that Cecil would say she forgave him; but she was too much
overcome with the violence of her grief to answer, and he went away
sorrowful. Um Yusuf was better pleased, for her plan had succeeded.
She had made her mistress shed tears at last, and she waited until she
was exhausted with weeping and then coaxed her to go to bed. Sheer
bodily fatigue made her sleep, and she awoke the next day in a more
normal condition. It was characteristic of her that when once the
haunting consciousness of overshadowing trouble which oppressed her on
waking had resolved itself into the terrible knowledge that her world
was from henceforth bereft of Charlie, her next thought was that the
ordinary duties of the day must still be fulfilled, and she set
herself mechanically to dress as usual, and went out on the _lewan_ to
seek her pupil. He was there, wandering aimlessly and miserably about,
and came timidly to kiss her hand, with evident fear and reluctance.

“Can you forgive me, mademoiselle?” he asked, anxiously. “It was my
fault, but I never meant to do it.” The sadness in his voice went to
Cecil’s heart.

“God helping me, Bey, I do forgive you,” she answered with quivering
lips; “but please don’t speak about it any more.”

The boy kissed her hand again in silence, and the compact was sealed,
but the subject which neither of them mentioned was continually in
both their minds. They went to lessons as usual, and Cecil tried
honestly to behave to her pupil just as she had always done; but once
or twice the thought of that scene in the Kurdish stronghold returned
upon her so powerfully that she turned from him with an irrepressible
shudder. She could see it all--the group of fanatical mountaineers on
the brow of the precipice surrounding the solitary figure with bound
hands and ragged Armenian dress. She could hear the rapid questions
and answers passing between the Kurds and their prisoner, and the
fierce taunts and shout of derision that succeeded them. And
then--then--she saw the headlong plunge outwards into space, the
piteous crash, the mangled form that lay motionless at the foot of the
steep, a bloodstained heap of rags, as it had appeared to the
trembling Hanna, forced to his knees by the murderers on the cliff
above that he might behold their work.

“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, if I could have died instead!” she cried,
wildly, dropping her book and beginning to pace up and down the
_lewan_, every nerve throbbing with the bitter consciousness of her
own powerlessness at the time of Charlie’s greatest need. And she had
known nothing of it at the time! How was it that no sense of his
danger had penetrated to her mind--that she had not known intuitively
that he was tasting the bitterness of death while she was occupied in
trying to still the petty squabbles between her servants and those of
Jamileh Khanum? Surely there must be something wanting in her, that
such a crisis could arrive in the life of the man to whom her whole
heart was given, and she know nothing of it? True, she could not have
helped him, but she could have prayed with him and for him, and
perhaps some hint of her distant sympathy might have reached him even
at that terrible moment.

“Mademoiselle!” said Azim Bey, timidly, and Cecil pressed her hands to
her head and sat down again, trying hard to conquer the feeling of
repulsion which the boy’s mere presence gave her. The natural fairness
of her mind would not allow her to hold him responsible for the
extreme consequences of his childish jealousy, but she dared not trust
herself to dwell upon the thought that but for his interference
Charlie might be alive and well now. The memory which she thus thrust
from her had come unbidden to the mind of Azim Bey, and for once his
remorse was deep and lasting. Cecil’s white face and heavy eyes were a
constant reproach to him, and he did his utmost to testify his sorrow
for what he had done. Any wish that she expressed was to be gratified
immediately, and he watched over her and waited upon her with a
faithfulness which touched her extremely. The women and Masûd
followed his example, and vied with each other in doing her all the
kindnesses in their power; but as the weeks passed on, it became
evident that other people were not so forbearing. Latifeh Kalfa was a
frequent visitor to the courtyard at this time, and took to gossiping
with the negresses when she found herself shunned by the white women
as a bringer of evil tidings; and what happened immediately afterwards
left little doubt that she had been commissioned to report on what she
saw and heard. Jamileh Khanum sent for Azim Bey and questioned him
closely as to the cause of the change which had come over his
governess. He returned from his interview with her grave and unhappy,
but said nothing before the servants.

“Mademoiselle,” he said to Cecil, as they sat beside the brazier after
supper, “there is something I must say to you. You have enemies in the
harem, and they make up lying reports about you to tell my father when
he returns. The little lady mother said to Mdlle. Katrina when I was
there that you were going mad, and that you had taken a dislike to me
and would murder me. They know what happened to--him, and they think
you will try to avenge his death on me.”

“And you are not afraid, Bey?” asked Cecil, with a sad smile.

“I? oh no, mademoiselle. I know that you are good, and that you love
me, since you have even forgiven me. I don’t want them to send you
away from me, but that is what they wish to do, and they will do it if
they can persuade the Pasha. They are going to send the _hakim bashi_
to see you, and they will talk to him beforehand, so that he will do
what they tell him. Could you not look a little more cheerful, dear
mademoiselle, just when he comes?”

“I will try,” said Cecil, but when she looked at herself in the glass
it struck her that the attempt would be of little use. Could that
pale, sad face, from which mournful eyes looked out at her, be her
own? If so, it was no wonder that Jamileh Khanum was startled by the
change, since even Cecil herself found it surprising. The strain of
keeping up her spirits in Azim Bey’s presence was tremendous, and day
after day the difficulty of going through the routine of work and
recreation became greater. But for his sake she would try to impress
the physician favourably, impossible though it seemed even to affect
cheerfulness.

The _hakim bashi_ arrived, and she did her best, receiving him with
what composure she could muster, and forcing herself to an unexpected
burst of high spirits, which only confirmed the physician in the
belief which his patroness and her attendant had diligently instilled
into his mind, that Mdlle. Antaza’s brain was affected. In this
opinion he was strengthened when, on coming back hastily to fetch
something he had left, he surprised Cecil in a fit of deep depression,
into which she had sunk on the withdrawal of the momentary excitement.
For a time, however, nothing came of his visit, and Azim Bey’s
household began to hope that the alarm had been a false one, designed
by Jamileh Khanum for the purpose of frightening them, when an order
came from the Pasha that everything was to be packed up, and every one
ready to start at a moment’s notice. Flushed with victory, Ahmed
Khémi was returning to Baghdad by a road slightly different from that
which he had taken in coming, and his household, with the military
escort, was to meet him at a spot situated a good deal lower down the
mountain than was Sardiyeh.

Two or three days after the order had been given, Cecil and her pupil
were disturbed at breakfast by a sudden invasion of their courtyard.
Two of the harem agas swaggered in, and with more than their usual
insolence announced that they brought the Khanum Effendi’s orders.
Azim Bey and his attendants were to start that morning with the harem
procession, which was almost ready for the journey, but Mdlle. Antaza
and her nurse were to remain where they were for the present. Cecil’s
anger rose at this cool command.

“The Khanum Effendi has no right to detain me here,” she said,
quickly.

“Pasha’s order,” was the sole reply, and the chief aga held out a
document which on examination proved to be a permission from his
Excellency for Mdlle. Antaza to remain behind in the mountains for
rest, according to the _hakim bashi’s_ recommendation, until her
health should be completely restored. Sardiyeh was to continue to be
her residence until further orders should be received. Cecil read the
paper through and handed it back calmly to the man. Nothing had power
to astonish her now. If the order had been for her instant execution,
she would scarcely have felt surprise. But to the other women the blow
came unexpectedly, and they pressed forward with loud weeping to kiss
her hands and the hem of her dress. That they feared something much
worse than the letter implied was evident, and they heaped blessings
and expressions of pity upon her alternately, while Um Yusuf stood by
and abused the agas roundly, in especial threatening them in such
moving terms with the wrath of the Balio Bey that they glanced round
apprehensively, as though expecting to see Sir Dugald appear
miraculously in all his might as the champion of injured virtue.
Speedily recovering themselves, however, they drove off the women,
wailing and beating their breasts and calling down maledictions upon
the agas’ respective ancestors, while Azim Bey, who had been standing
at Cecil’s side, was also ordered to accompany them. The boy’s very
lips were white as he kissed his governess’s hand.

“Don’t lose heart, mademoiselle,” he whispered. “I know they intend
evil against you, but my father shall know everything, and if he will
not help I will speak to the Balio Bey.”

“Are we to be left here alone?” asked Cecil of the agas.

“My lady’s servants are charged by the Khanum Effendi to wait upon and
watch over her and her nurse,” said the chief, gruffly.

“We are to be prisoners, then?” said Cecil, as Azim Bey shuddered and
gripped her hand more tightly.

“That is as my lady pleases,” returned the man. “Within these walls
she may do what she likes, but outside there are the Kurds and the
worshippers of Shaitan, and the Mutesalim will be returning, who has
no fear of the Balio Bey, and therefore the Khanum Effendi, in her
care for my lady, considers that it will be well for her not to leave
the house.”

“Listen to me, O Aga Mansur,” cried Azim Bey, “and upon thy head be it
if thou fail in what I command thee. I leave mademoiselle in thy
charge, and if she suffers any hurt, I swear by my father’s beard that
thou shalt pay for it.”

“Upon my head be it, O my lord,” was the ceremonious answer. “Will it
please my lord now to depart?”

Azim Bey went out with all the dignity he could muster, though the
tears were very near his eyes, while the two strange agas took
Masûd’s place at the gate and proceeded to arrange their belongings
in his room. The door was now shut, and the two captives returned to
the _lewan_ to consider the situation.

“The Khanum Effendi want kill us,” said Um Yusuf, angry and alarmed.
“You got pistol, mademoiselle? knife? dagger?”

“Only a penknife,” said Cecil, wearily. “What does it signify, Um
Yusuf? I don’t believe they mean to kill us, and if they did, a
penknife wouldn’t prevent them.”

But Um Yusuf was not to be silenced. She instituted a methodical
search for arms, and was successful in discovering two table-knives
which had been brought from Baghdad for Cecil’s use. The shape and
size of these made them difficult to carry about the person, but she
concealed them with great care among the cushions of the divan, and
felt happier. At night her fears revived, and she dragged her bed into
her mistress’s room, and insisted on closing the window and
barricading the door with every movable thing she could find, and this
state of siege she maintained with unflagging perseverance. The two
agas took no notice, and seemed to feel little interest in anything
their prisoners did. If their intentions were evil, they feared Um
Yusuf’s precautions too much to put them into execution, and thus days
and weeks slipped by without alarm.

To Cecil the time was one of rest, so much needed as to be almost
welcome. She made little or no attempt to occupy herself with books or
work, but sat on the house-top gazing at the mountains and the sky,
and seldom speaking. Um Yusuf became very uneasy about her, fearing
this quiet acquiescence in her grief almost more than the feverish
excitement of the days before the departure of Azim Bey and the rest.
It seemed to her that her mistress needed rousing and taking out of
herself, and she honestly did her best to effect this, according to
her lights. She encouraged her to sketch, tried in vain to induce her
to study, and even gave herself the trouble of fashioning a
draught-board and set of men, with the aid of one of the precious
table-knives, so that she might invite her to play.

“Why you not write your memoirs, mademoiselle?” she said more than
once. “The Khanum Effendi’s governess, in Tahir Pasha’s house, she
always write when she was alone, say she get great deal of money some
day. She put in all that everybody say, and all the things she not
like.”

“My experiences are not interesting enough,” Cecil would say,
patiently, for she knew that Um Yusuf teased her from the best
possible motives. “I couldn’t write about the things I have really
felt, and who cares nowadays for descriptions of ruins and deserts?
When I am dead, Fitz and Eily and the rest can publish my letters for
their grandchildren’s benefit, if they like, but I won’t do it.”

Um Yusuf would yield for the moment with a sigh, and proceed to relate
stories from her family history, with the view of diverting Cecil’s
mind from her own sorrows, and showing her that there were people
worse off than herself. The stories were all about massacres, and
fearful torments endured at the hands of Moslems and Druses, of a
character to make the listener’s hair stand on end with horror on
ordinary occasions, but Cecil could not be roused into taking more
than a languid interest in the events described. Sometimes she did not
even hear them. It never struck Um Yusuf that this season of absolute
rest was exactly what her mistress needed, coming, as it did, when
body and mind, stunned by a fearful shock, were almost failing under
the effort to carry on the everyday routine of work. There was an
atmosphere of calm which almost amounted to happiness spread over
these days, and Cecil lived through them idly, her mind dwelling in
the past, with no thought of the future. The sense of abiding loss was
always with her, but she lived over again the five years during which
she had known Charlie, and felt almost as though his presence were
near her still. No thought of picturing the infinite sadness of a
return to daily life without him had yet presented itself to trouble
her, just as she had not energy enough to speculate on the duration of
her imprisonment, nor to form any plans as to her future. It was a
time merely of waiting, uncoloured either by hope or despair.




 CHAPTER XXV.
 “THE VOICE OF ENGLAND IN THE EAST.”

Leaving Cecil and Um Yusuf in their captivity at Sardiyeh, the harem
procession made its way down the winding mountain-paths, a curious
assemblage of closely swathed white figures mounted on mules and
donkeys, and headed by the waving curtains of Jamileh Khanum’s litter.
On either side rode the black agas, armed with whips with which to
drive off any inquisitive wayfarer; and before and behind came the
guard of soldiers whom the Pasha had left under the charge of his
master of the horse for the purpose of protecting his wife. At the end
of the train of women and agas rode Azim Bey and his attendants,
obliged to follow even the negresses who acted as cooks and
scullerymaids, a humiliation which sorely tasked the boy’s proud
spirit. But this was not the worst. He felt convinced, from the
meaning looks and whispered words which passed among the women, that
the Khanum Effendi was considered to have gained not only a moral but
a material victory in that she had succeeded in getting rid of Cecil.
That some evil was intended against him, to which his governess’s
presence was considered a bar, he was sure, and he felt more lonely
and helpless than he had ever done in his life. And indeed Jamileh
Khanum was jubilant as she reclined on her gold-embroidered cushions.
She had accomplished the task in which she had so often failed, and
separated Cecil from her pupil with comparatively little difficulty.

“You must get rid of Mdlle. Antaza if you wish to reach Azim Bey,” had
been one of M. Karalampi’s messages to her through Mdlle. Katrina.
“Separately we can deal with them easily, but together they are too
strong for us.”

This had been the secret of the attempts made to sap the loyalty of
the servants, and induce them to bring a false accusation against
Cecil--this also of the hints and threatenings of murder which had
alarmed Um Yusuf; but it was M. Karalampi, assisted unintentionally by
Azim Bey himself, who had devised the plan by which the news of
Charlie’s murder had after all produced the desired effect. So far
everything had gone smoothly. Immediately after telling his story to
Cecil, Hanna had been seized and conveyed to a distance, and was now
in safe custody, for it was no part of the scheme that he should be
allowed to reach Baghdad and acquaint the Balio Bey with what had
happened. And now, as she counted the hours until the place named by
the Pasha as the rendezvous should be reached, Jamileh Khanum felt
calm and triumphant. Her part in the conspiracy had been faithfully
performed; it only rested with M. Karalampi to do his share.
Everything was ready; Mdlle. Katrina had only to see her nephew and
give him the message that Azim Bey was now unprotected by the presence
of his governess, and might safely be attacked. All details were left
to him; the only thing that Jamileh Khanum cared for was to get her
stepson out of the way.

But at the rendezvous disappointment was awaiting her. Neither M.
Karalampi nor his ill-conditioned servant was to be seen, and it was
some time before Mdlle. Katrina succeeded in discovering that they
were not with the Pasha at all. Instead of being in attendance on his
Excellency, M. Karalampi had been left behind in the disturbed
district, nominally as secretary to the Mutesalim, who had been
wounded during the Pasha’s military operations, but in reality as a
spy upon him, to the great disgust of both. The Mutesalim naturally
resented the indignity of being saddled with a guardian who must be
“squared” by receiving a considerable share of every piece of plunder
unless his charge’s doings were to be reported to the Pasha, and a
good deal blackened in the process, but his emotions were mild
compared with those of M. Karalampi. His anger arose from the fact
that by this action the Pasha had unconsciously neutralised all his
plans. Of what use was it to have devised these complicated manœuvres
for getting Cecil out of the way, if he could not proceed with the
designs he had formed against her pupil? Worse than this, he felt a
presentiment that in her wrath and disappointment Jamileh Khanum would
try to do the work herself, in some clumsy inartistic way that would
lead to the ruin of the whole scheme, and he was right.

Now that the harem procession had rejoined that of his Excellency, no
further stay was made in the mountains, and the whole cavalcade
proceeded on its way towards Baghdad. At one of the towns through
which it passed a fair was being held, and the Pasha consented that
half a day should be spent in this place, at the earnest request of
the master of the horse, who saw a chance of replenishing the Palace
stables at moderate cost. The decision was not quite so satisfactory
to the merchants and country-people who had brought horses to sell at
the fair, for they foresaw an unequal contest, in which their wares
would be taken from them at such prices as seemed good to the master
of the horse, with all the power of the Pasha behind him. With many
laments, therefore, they settled in their own minds the bribe which
must be offered to the official in order to secure his meeting their
views in each case, and bemoaned their hard lot in coming to the fair
just as his Excellency was passing through the town. But to Jamileh
Khanum the fair presented itself as offering a providential solution
of a difficulty. Taking counsel with no one, she intrusted her chief
aga with a confidential commission to buy for her the handsomest and
wickedest Kurdish pony he could find, and to have it fitted with
saddle and bridle of the finest materials and workmanship regardless
of expense. Her order was carried out to the letter. The aga secured a
pony which bore the worst of reputations from all its owners, for it
had already changed hands repeatedly, and would have been got rid of
as useless had it not been for its beauty. Its chief merit with
reference to the particular end in view was the general testimony that
these peculiarities of character did not become evident until the
intending rider was in the saddle, and the chief aga rubbed his hands
with delight as he superintended the decking of the animal with the
most gorgeous trappings he could procure.

“The Khanum Effendi will be well pleased,” he muttered to himself,
feeling already in his hand the bakhshish which his mistress placed
there a short time afterwards, when she had inspected the pony and
heard its record. The next step was to send it round to Azim Bey’s
quarters as a present from his stepmother, and had he been in reality
the guileless child that Jamileh Khanum trusted he might show himself,
his career would probably have ended as abruptly as she wished. But he
was to the full as wily and as suspicious as herself, and the mere
circumstance of her sending him a present was sufficient to put him on
his guard. He sent his thanks to the donor in the most orthodox way,
walked round the pony in delight, examining its beauties, and called
little Ishak, the slipper-bearer.

“Mount the pony for me, O Ishak,” he said, “and ride him round the
courtyard, that I may see his paces.”

“Upon my head be it, O my lord,” responded Ishak, and did his best to
obey. But no sooner was he mounted than the animal gave a complicated
bound, something between a standing leap, a wriggle, and a buck-jump,
and Ishak came to the ground with a crash.

“God is great!” burst from Masûd. “What wisdom is this of my lord’s?”

“Take him up, and send for the _hakim bashi_,” said Azim Bey, “and
take care that the pony is kept for the Pasha to see.”

Severe concussion of the brain was the result of the experiment on
poor little Ishak’s part, but the _hakim bashi_ pointed out that to
any one but a negro the blow would have meant almost certain death, a
fact which spoke volumes to the Pasha. His Excellency accepted the
warning thus conveyed, for he had felt anxious about his son’s safety
ever since he had heard of Cecil’s illness. Had the report of the case
reached him on the authority of Jamileh Khanum alone, he would not
have believed it; but when, at her earnest request, he had sent his
own physician to see Mdlle. Antaza, and he confirmed her account, he
could not well refuse the governess a few weeks of rest, even at the
cost of danger to Azim Bey. Now he resolved to keep the boy with him
constantly until Cecil’s return, and never to allow him out of his
sight.

Under these circumstances Azim Bey made sure that he should be able to
secure Cecil’s recall at once; but in this he was reckoning without
his host, as he found when he tried to approach the subject with his
father. He supposed that he had only to tell the Pasha that the Khanum
Effendi was keeping mademoiselle a prisoner at Sardiyeh for her to be
released immediately; but to his amazement and mortification he was
merely told that it was not so at all--that mademoiselle was taking a
little rest by the doctor’s orders, and could not return to Baghdad
for the present. To be treated like a child in this way was
sufficiently annoying, but it was worse to feel conscious the whole
time that if he only dared to say what he knew, matters would be set
right. But this was impossible. He was afraid to tell his father of
Charlie’s return and death, lest he should get into trouble for his
share in the latter; and he had also a very real fear that M.
Karalampi might revenge himself upon him afterwards, now that he was
so completely in his power. His entreaties that Cecil might be allowed
to rejoin him were thus made in vain, for the Pasha, ignorant of any
reason for her prostrate state, could only attribute it, as the _hakim
bashi_ had done, to an overworked brain and incipient madness.
Complete rest for a short time was the only thing that could be tried;
and the Pasha intended, though he did not tell his son this, to send
the physician again to Sardiyeh in the course of a few weeks, that he
might examine the patient anew, and judge if there were any hope of
her recovery. This being the case, the boy’s constant references to
his governess became rather wearisome to the Pasha, and after several
valiant attempts to press the subject on his father’s attention, Azim
Bey found himself peremptorily silenced, and forbidden to allude to it
again. When they reached Baghdad he was watched over much too closely
to allow of his speaking either to Sir Dugald or Lady Haigh, and thus
his second avenue of escape was closed. The _hakim bashi_ was sent to
the Residency to tell the Balio Bey that Mdlle. Antaza had been ill,
and was spending some time longer in the mountains for rest and
change, and it did not occur to any one that there was anything
strange underlying this apparently straightforward message.

Any anxiety which was felt at the Residency at this time was entirely
on Charlie’s account. Lady Haigh had not heard from him for months,
and no letters from him to Cecil had passed through Sir Dugald’s
hands. It was supposed, however, that she had written to tell him of
the plan of spending the summer in the hills, and that he had found
some new channel of communication with her by way of Mosul or
Erzeroum, while he was probably so busy at home in having his house
done up that he had no time to write to other people. In this happy
confidence Lady Haigh remained until she received a letter from Mrs
Howard White, who with her husband had spent a few days at the
Residency on her homeward journey from Hillah, and was now in England.
Lady Haigh took up the letter and opened it with somewhat languid
interest, anticipating nothing more than a graceful acknowledgment of
her kind hospitality, and some information as to the light in which
Professor Howard White’s discoveries were regarded by the learned
world. But after a very brief message of thanks, the writer dashed at
once into another subject.

“... I feel that I must write to you,” she said, “and only hope that
my warning may prove to be unnecessary. It will be news to you to hear
that your cousin, Dr Egerton, was in Hillah just before we left it,
disguised as an Armenian trader. At his earnest request I arranged a
meeting between him and Miss Anstruther in my house, but they had no
private conversation, owing to the presence of Miss Anstruther’s
pupil. It is my impression that the secret remained undiscovered by
Azim Bey, but I cannot be sure of this. Dr Egerton avowed to me the
next day his intention of following, unknown to her, the Pasha’s
caravan, in which Miss Anstruther was travelling, and I was unable to
dissuade him from it. I promised to keep his secret, lest Sir Dugald
should interfere with the scheme, but now that so long a time has
elapsed without any news of him, I feel it only right to tell you all
I know in order that inquiries may be made. I understand that Dr
Egerton has not returned home, and that neither his aunt nor Miss
Anstruther’s family know anything of his movements....”

Lady Haigh read the letter through with a face of horror, and rushed
with it to Sir Dugald’s office.

“Read that, Dugald!” she cried, flinging it down before him, “and then
leave those papers and go and see the Pasha at once. You must do it.”

“H’m,” said Sir Dugald, lifting his eyebrows as he took up the letter;
“the doctor in trouble again, I suppose? Ah!” as he read it, “this is
what Miss Anstruther was afraid of, is it? Poor girl! It might be the
best thing for her that he should disappear;” but he rose,
nevertheless, and began to put away his papers.

“What a mercy that Cecil is not here!” burst from Lady Haigh. “The
anxiety would kill her. I only hope that she will stay quietly in the
mountains until we hear something certain. Do go, Dugald.”

Sir Dugald was already starting, and reached the Palace unheralded,
regardless of the etiquette for which he was generally so rigorous a
stickler. The Pasha received him with some trepidation. As soon as his
Excellency was told that the Balio Bey wished to see him, an uneasy
conscience led him to recall uncomfortably a few of his recent acts of
government, and in particular to wonder whether the length of Jamileh
Khanum’s latest dressmaker’s bill, and the means adopted to satisfy
the Parisian firm interested, had become public. He was
proportionately relieved on finding that Sir Dugald’s visit had
nothing to do with any of his own peccadilloes, but concerned only the
English doctor, whose existence, as well as his sudden departure from
Baghdad, the Pasha had forgotten long ago. Little time was needed to
show that his Excellency knew nothing of Dr Egerton’s proceedings or
of his fate.

“I must ask your Excellency to let Azim Bey be summoned,” said Sir
Dugald, when he had satisfied himself of the Pasha’s innocence. “No
stone must be left unturned to solve this mystery.”

Azim Bey was sent for, and presently appeared, attended by Masûd.
Glancing from one to the other of the occupants of the room, and
noticing that his father looked perturbed and the Balio Bey stern, he
felt a sudden conviction that the reward of his youthful misdeeds was
at hand.

“Question my son yourself, my dear Balio,” said the Pasha, in his most
urbane manner; and the culprit, shaking with misgiving, found himself
set down opposite the terrible Balio Bey, who looked at him fixedly
for a moment.

“Bey,” he said at last, “where is Dr Egerton?”

Azim Bey’s courage was rapidly oozing away, but he made a brave
attempt to turn the question aside in a sportive and natural manner.

“How, then?” he asked. “Do you ask me about Dr Egerton, M. le Balio?
Surely it is said that no Englishman can enter the pashalik without
your knowing all about him at once?”

“In this case it is more to the point that you knew him to be in the
pashalik,” replied Sir Dugald; and Azim Bey, seeing that he had
betrayed himself, looked blank. “I know very well,” continued the
Balio, taking a bold step in his turn, and fixing his eyes on the
boy’s face, “that you saw him in disguise at Hillah and recognised
him, and that you then gave instructions respecting him to some of his
Excellency’s dependents. What were those orders, and where is Dr
Egerton now?”

Quick as lightning the thought darted into Azim Bey’s head that he had
been betrayed. Not perceiving that what had been said was the result
of a shrewd guess on Sir Dugald’s part, he leaped to the conclusion
that Ishak had been questioned and had implicated him in his answers,
and it seemed to him immediately that the whole plot must be known.

“He is dead,” he murmured, with hanging head. The effect upon his
auditor made Azim Bey perceive too late that he had again incriminated
himself unnecessarily.

“Dead!” cried Sir Dugald, in a voice that made the Pasha jump.

“Yes--Oh, M. le Balio, that was not my fault. I hated him, and I
wanted the Kurds to take him prisoner, and they murdered him. I did
not want him to die--indeed I did not--I did not mean to have him
killed.”

“But this is impossible!” cried the Pasha. “What could make you hate
this English gentleman, my son?”

“I hated him because mademoiselle was in love with him,” returned the
boy without hesitation. His father looked scandalised, and Sir Dugald
frowned heavily.

“There is no need whatever to bring Miss Anstruther’s name into the
conversation,” he said, adding, as he turned to the Pasha, “I cannot
conceive that these are the real facts of the case, your Excellency.
It seems to me that Azim Bey must have been used as a tool by some
enemy of Dr Egerton’s.”

“But indeed it is not so, M. le Balio,” Azim Bey protested eagerly.
“It was I who hated him, and when mad--I mean when _she_ was angry
with me about him, I spoke to M. Karalampi, and he made the people of
the city hate him, so that he had to leave Baghdad.”

“Ah!” broke from Sir Dugald, while the Pasha was silent through sheer
astonishment, the minds of both going back to the mysterious events
which had preceded Charlie Egerton’s departure. Sir Dugald recovered
himself first.

“And Karalampi has been your agent in these last negotiations also,
Bey? I thought so. Your Excellency,” he said to the Pasha, “I must ask
you to have M. Karalampi arrested and brought here at once.”

“The order shall be sent immediately,” said the Pasha, and he called
Ovannes Effendi from the anteroom. While the necessary directions were
being given, Azim Bey crept close to Sir Dugald.

“M. le Balio, you will ask my father to let mademoiselle come back
from Sardiyeh now?” he asked, anxiously.

“Certainly not,” replied Sir Dugald, emphatically. “I am most thankful
to think that Miss Anstruther is out of the way for the present. I
shall not advise her to return until this matter has been inquired
into.”

“Oh, monsieur, but----” began Azim Bey; but Sir Dugald cut him short,
and took his leave of the Pasha, requesting to be summoned as soon as
M. Karalampi arrived. To Lady Haigh he made as light of the matter as
he could, protesting that in Azim Bey’s case he believed that the wish
for Charlie’s death was father to the thought, but in his own mind he
had very little doubt that the news was true. The mutual dislike of M.
Karalampi and Charlie had not escaped his notice, and he felt that it
was extremely probable that the Greek had taken the opportunity of
carrying out his compact with Azim Bey a little too well. While
waiting for him to be arrested and brought down to Baghdad, Sir Dugald
collected a good deal of information which corroborated the boy’s
account of the intrigue by which Charlie had been driven from his
post, and he awaited the arrival of the prisoner with the comfortable
conviction that there was very nearly evidence enough to hang him
already. But the expected summons to the Palace to confront the
accused did not come, and Sir Dugald grew impatient. At last he went
himself to speak to the Pasha on the subject, but in the anteroom he
was seized upon by Azim Bey.

“Oh, M. le Balio, you would not come, and I could not go to see you.
He has been here, and my father has let him go again.”

“Who? Karalampi?” cried Sir Dugald. “Tell me what you mean.”

They sat down on the divan, and Azim Bey poured his tale into the
Balio’s ear. How M. Karalampi had arrived, all unconscious of the
reason for the summons, from his post in the mountains, and had found
himself accused of plotting Dr Egerton’s murder. How he had protested
his innocence, and had promised to bring proofs of it, if he were
allowed to go back to the mountains with an escort and penetrate into
the Kurdish fastnesses. How the Pasha had demurred to this, but had
yielded on M. Karalampi’s declaring that otherwise he would make a
clean breast of everything to the Balio Bey, and involve Jamileh
Khanum in his disclosures. This was the only card he had to play, but,
thanks to the Pasha’s agonised desire to prevent scandal, it was
successful, and he was allowed to depart, under strict supervision.
Sir Dugald listened with lowering brow, and when the recital was ended
he rose from his seat with a fixed resolve to see the Pasha and thresh
the matter out with him, but Azim Bey was still clinging to his arm.

“Oh, M. le Balio, bring mademoiselle back. They are keeping her in
prison there at Sardiyeh, and it is only this--the death of Dr
Egerton--that has made her ill.”

“What? she knows already? and the poor girl is all alone up there!”
cried Sir Dugald, and he strode into the Pasha’s presence with a frown
which made his Excellency tremble. His demand that Cecil should be
sent for was at once granted, and an escort despatched to bring her
from Sardiyeh to Baghdad. But Sir Dugald had been forestalled. The
news of what had been happening had reached the harem, and had caused
a vast amount of commotion there, together with much coming and going
of Mdlle. Katrina, imperfectly disguised in a voluminous sheet,
between her mistress and M. Karalampi, during the short time that he
spent in the city. The result was that an order had been sent to
Sardiyeh, which reached it two days before the Pasha’s.




 CHAPTER XXVI.
 A DREAD TRIBUNAL.

When Jamileh Khanum’s message reached Sardiyeh, it put an end at
once to the tranquil and monotonous life which the two captives had
been leading. They were informed late in the evening, immediately
after the arrival of the courier, that they must prepare to start on a
journey early the next morning, but they sought in vain from their
gaolers for particulars of their destination, and for the reason of
the sudden move. At first they consoled themselves under this
taciturnity by mutual assurances that when they had once started they
would certainly be able to discover at least the general direction of
their march from the features of the country and the course of the
sun; but when the time for the journey came, they found that this
solace was to be denied them. A mule-litter was brought into the
courtyard--not a gorgeous _takhtrevan_ like that in which Jamileh
Khanum queened it at the head of the harem procession, but a far
humbler contrivance--and they were assisted to mount into it. It
consisted simply of two large panniers, or _kajavahs_, suspended one
on either side of a tall and sturdy mule, and surmounted by a high
framework of cane, covered in and curtained all round with thick
haircloth, so that the occupants found themselves in a kind of small
dark tent, with the mule’s back between them as a table. The position
in which they were obliged to remain was an exceedingly cramped and
uncomfortable one, more especially to Cecil, since her pannier had to
be weighted with several large stones in order to balance Um Yusuf’s,
the good woman being much heavier than her mistress. The rough
curtains promised certainly to be useful in keeping out the cold
mountain winds, for it was now winter, and in this highland district
the snow was on the ground, but they would also prevent entirely any
sight of the scenery passed on the road. For the moment, however, they
were left undrawn, while the agas were busy seeing to the loading of
the baggage-mules, and Cecil took a last look through the open doorway
of the court at the white houses of the little town, and at the
frowning mountains beyond, in some cleft of which was Charlie’s
nameless grave.

“It is like leaving home again, Um Yusuf,” she said, with tears in her
eyes. “I should like to stay here always.”

Perhaps Um Yusuf, like Lady Haigh, detested sentiment. At any rate,
she disliked the mountains very heartily, and she answered rather
snappishly--

“You do no good here, mademoiselle. Once we leave this horrid place,
you get plenty work to do, feel better.”

Here the agas came and drew close the black curtains, and the mule
started off, led by a stalwart villager, who had been impressed into
the Pasha’s service, and whose guttural remarks to the animal were the
chief sounds that reached the ears of the two captives during the next
fortnight, after which he was allowed to return to his home as best he
might. The journey, which was carried on under such uncomfortable
conditions for Cecil and Um Yusuf, lasted in all sixteen days, during
which time they never obtained an inkling of their destination,
knowing only that their caravan was kept persistently on the march
during the hours of daylight. At night a tent was pitched for them, in
which they found their own mattresses and other baggage; and with
respect to food, they fared as well as did their guards, who exacted
from the peasantry in the Pasha’s name whatever they desired. They
never halted at night until after the sun was set; and whenever in the
early morning they succeeded, as they passed from the tent to the
litter, in obtaining a glimpse of the surrounding scenery, it was
always unfamiliar to both of them. When on the march, it was possible
for them to tell whether the mule was going up or down hill, and also
whether the road traversed was smooth or rough or slippery, but these
changes were far too frequent and bewildering to be any guide as to
the locality.

When they had journeyed on for about ten days, the prisoners noticed a
great change in their surroundings, much more bustle and conversation
being perceptible about them than before. After much careful
listening, they became aware that their caravan had joined another and
a much larger one, in which women’s voices, all speaking Kurdish, were
distinctly audible. That night they rested at a wayside khan, instead
of in tents; and although a compartment of the building, called by
courtesy a room, was specially reserved for Cecil and her maid, it was
invaded, in the temporary absence of the agas, by several of the
Kurdish ladies, who came to stare at their fellow-travellers. They
seemed to wish to be friendly, but as neither party knew anything of
the other’s language, the only possible approach to communication was
to smile affably at one another and exchange gestures of mutual
goodwill. One of the visitors brought with her her baby, which was
suffering from ophthalmia; and when they were gone, Cecil bethought
her of a little bottle of eye-water among her possessions, and
despatched Um Yusuf after them to offer it to the mother. The
attention seemed to be appreciated, for the chief of the Kurdish
ladies sent them presently, through one of the agas, a dish from her
own supper, and Cecil overlooked the extremely doubtful and untempting
nature of the gift in view of the kindness intended. While she nibbled
daintily at one or two fragments chosen from the mass, and Um Yusuf
ate her way steadily through it, it struck Cecil to ask whether her
maid had found any one among the strangers’ slaves able to speak
Arabic or Turkish. Um Yusuf shook her head, but Cecil, knowing the
marvellous freemasonry of signs by which the servants of different
nationalities were able to carry on whole conversations without
uttering a word, asked whether she had discovered anything about the
Kurdish ladies.

“They prisoners, like us,” said Um Yusuf, withdrawing her attention
for a moment from the tray of food. “They come from the mountains, but
not know where they go. Chief lady’s husband very great man, but I
think he killed or in prison. Ladies all hate Pasha very much.”

This was all that the two captives could learn from their companions
in misfortune, but both parties felt some consolation in each other’s
presence. The agas appeared to have no objection to their charges
mingling with the Kurdish ladies, probably considering that little
mischief could be done without the aid of the tongue, and Cecil found
herself installed as consulting physician to her new friends, thanks
to her eye-water, which showed signs of effecting a cure. With other
ailments she was not so successful, owing to the difficulty of
discovering symptoms by the aid of signs alone; but the mountain
ladies held her in prodigious respect, and acquiesced cheerfully in
the keeping for her of the best room every night at the khan, even
going out of their way to do her little kindnesses. Thus the days went
on until one afternoon when Um Yusuf and her mistress, jogging along
in their respective _kajavahs_, heard one of the agas say to the
other--

“Go to the leader of the caravan, O Mansûr, and urge him to push on,
that we may reach the city by sunset, for there is a storm coming up.”

Cecil and Um Yusuf looked across at one another in the twilight of
their moving tent with a sudden tightening of the breath, and their
hands met mechanically in a convulsive clasp. They were nearing a
city, and therefore some change, possibly some crisis, was at hand. It
was with the most strained interest that they observed the mule’s
stately pace quicken gradually, and heard the shouts and blows of the
camel-drivers around them, as they urged on their animals. After a
time there came a pause, in which the shouting and quarrelling that
generally marked the progress of the caravan seemed to grow louder.

“A block at the gate,” said Cecil in a voice of subdued eagerness, and
presently the caravan moved on again, and the travellers became
conscious of the hum of a great city all around them. But there was
nothing to tell them where they were. The babel of many tongues which
met their ears might belong to almost any city in the East; and the
call of a muezzin, which forced itself upon their hearing from the
minaret of a mosque as they passed along, was as little distinctive.
Immediately afterwards they turned into a stone-paved court, passed
through various doorways and passages, and finally stopped in another
courtyard. One of the agas drew back the curtains, and Cecil, with
beating heart, allowed herself to be helped down, and looked round in
a tumult of anticipation. What she expected to see she could not have
told, but the reality which met her eyes was disappointing. It was
neither familiar nor out of the way, merely the inner court of an
ordinary whitewashed house, which, for all its distinctive
peculiarities, might have been found in any city of South-Western Asia
or Northern Africa. Above was a stormy sky, in which black rolling
clouds were fast obscuring the rays of the setting sun. Standing
beside the mule were the two agas, engaged in giving confidential
directions to a middle-aged negress of a peculiarly stolid and sturdy
type, while Um Yusuf, just helped down from her perch, was sitting on
the ground and groaning out that she had the cramp all over her limbs.
There was no sign of the friendly Kurdish ladies, no trace of any
inhabitants other than their own party in the house. As Cecil realised
this, the agas, having finished their colloquy, led the mule out of
the yard, and the prisoners found themselves left alone with the
negress, who motioned to them silently to follow her. They obeyed
disconsolately enough, and she led them through several passages to a
tiny room with one window high up in the wall. Here she left them,
returning presently to bring in coffee and a dish of food, uncertain
in its nature and by no means captivating in its appearance, and then
departing again. Um Yusuf slipped out immediately, and Cecil divined
that she was going to try her powers of fascination on their guide.
But she returned discouraged.

“She not tell anything,” she observed, morosely. “Worse than the
Kurds; they not able to talk. There! you hear, mademoiselle? She lock
us in.”

The grating of the ponderous key in its complicated lock was
distinctly audible, and Cecil resigned herself with a sigh to the hard
fact that it was absolutely impossible to obtain any clue to their
whereabouts that night. When they had partaken of their untempting
repast, Um Yusuf unrolled and spread out the bedding, but the storm
had begun, and the gusts of wind which shook the house were so violent
that neither she nor her mistress felt inclined to sleep.

“Where are we, Um Yusuf?” asked Cecil. Um Yusuf cast up her eyes and
lifted her empty hands to indicate absolute ignorance.

“Do you think they can have taken us across the mountains to
Sulaminyeh?” pursued Cecil, putting into words a fear which had begun
to haunt her.

“Yes, mademoiselle, that what I think,” returned Um Yusuf.

Cecil was silent, listening to the patter and swish of the storm, and
the fall of the plaster from the ceiling. The wind moaned and howled,
and seemed to be almost strong enough to tear the house from its
foundations, while over all there came a loud rushing sound, now close
at hand, now farther off, like that of water lashed into fury by a
tempest. She did not recognise it at first, but it occurred to her
suddenly what it was.

“Listen!” she said to Um Yusuf, glad of any pretext for doubting the
dreadful suggestion which she had herself made. “I am sure I hear the
sound of waves washing up against the walls. The house must be on the
river somewhere. Can we be at Mohammerah?”

“No, mademoiselle; we not passed the marshes, and journey not long
enough. I think this Sulaminyeh. Why not river there?”

Cecil shuddered. To be imprisoned in the heart of Kurdistan, many long
miles away from any English or even European official, with no one to
whom to appeal for protection or justice, was not a comfortable
prospect. She said no more to Um Yusuf, and at last, as they sat side
by side upon their mattresses, she dropped asleep, lulled by the
howling of the wind. After what seemed only a few minutes, though she
knew later that it must have been some hours, she awoke with a start,
to find that it was broad daylight, and that Um Yusuf was standing
beside her with an excited face.

“Mademoiselle, we in the plains again, not at Sulaminyeh. That storm
not rain at all, dust-storm. I think this place Mosul. When dust fall
about in the night, I think it only stuff off walls, but now I look,
see it all thick on everything. You see this?”

Cecil sat up, and gazed in bewilderment at the handful of dust and
sand which Um Yusuf had gathered up as a precious treasure. Then she
recognised the maid’s allusion to the dust-storms peculiar to the
Euphrates Valley, and conceived for the handful of dust an affection
akin to that which Noah must have felt for the olive-leaf brought him
by the dove. The fact that everything in the room was covered with
gritty sand, and that it had made its way into her hair and clothes,
was not worthy of notice in view of this discovery, and she and Um
Yusuf made a rather difficult toilet with thankful hearts. They
breakfasted on the remains of their last night’s supper, which had
fortunately been covered up and had thus escaped the dust, and
immediately afterwards the unattractive negress who had been their
guide the night before unlocked the door and came in with a great
bundle in her arms.

“It is commanded thee to put on these clothes, O my mistress,” she
said in Arabic, dumping down the bundle before Cecil, and retiring
forthwith.

Much mystified, Cecil helped Um Yusuf to undo the bundle, and drew out
of it one of the long loose gowns with square-cut neck and wide
hanging sleeves, worn by Turkish ladies of the old school. It was of
blue silk interwoven with silver threads, and to wear with it there
was a vest or chemisette of delicate straw-coloured gauze, and a round
velvet cap decorated with silver coins. The two women gazed at one
another in astonishment as they unfolded the garments and smoothed
them out.

“What does it mean, Um Yusuf?” asked Cecil, almost in a whisper.

“It look to me like wedding-dress, mademoiselle,” responded Um Yusuf,
in the same awed tones. “Perhaps you going to be married.”

“That is absurd, Um Yusuf,” said Cecil, with unusual sharpness. “But I
won’t put it on, at any rate.”

Presently the negress returned, and after a glance of surprise at the
neglected finery, informed Cecil that the great ladies commanded her
attendance.

“What ladies?” asked Cecil.

To her amazement the woman replied--

“The Um-ul-Pasha and the Kitchuk Khanum Effendi.” This was Jamileh
Khanum’s official title.

Cecil’s spirits rose with a bound. Here, at any rate, were foemen
worthy of her steel, which was certainly not the case with the agas,
who could only answer, “Khanum Effendi’s orders,” to all
remonstrances, and she sprang up to follow the negress with keen
anticipations of a coming struggle.

“Perhaps they are come to Mosul for Azim Bey’s wedding with Safieh
Khanum,” she whispered to Um Yusuf; but the good woman shook her head
in perplexity.

“Azim Bey not to be married until he seventeen,” she began, but just
then their guide drew back a curtain and ushered them into the
presence of the great ladies. Cecil had made up her mind what to do.
The moment she observed that neither of the ladies made any reply or
return to her salaam and salutation, she sat down at once without
waiting to be invited, regardless of the contrast afforded by her
travel-stained blue wrapper and yellow slippers to the wadded and
fur-trimmed pelisse and trousers of green satin which formed the
winter dress of the Um-ul-Pasha, or to Jamileh Khanum’s Parisian
morning-robe of petunia velvet, with its front of costly lace. The
ladies sat at the upper end of the room, facing her, the Um-ul-Pasha
in the seat of honour in the corner of the divan, her daughter-in-law
beside her. At a respectful distance sat Mdlle. Katrina, palpitating
with eagerness. To this excellent woman conspiracy was the very breath
of life. She would have plotted against herself cheerfully if she
could by any means have imported sufficient mystery into the
proceedings, and she had been the Um-ul-Pasha’s go-between with the
outer world throughout her long series of plots. At her mistress’s
command she now set to work to interpret her words to Cecil without
further parley.

“Why have you not put on the clothes I sent you, mademoiselle?” was
the first question.

“Because they are not suited to my circumstances,” Cecil replied at
once. “I am a stranger and a prisoner, and the clothes seem to be
intended for a festival.”

“What has that to do with you?” asked the Um-ul-Pasha. “Do you wish to
scorn my gifts, mademoiselle?”

“Certainly not, your Excellency,” responded Cecil, politely. “I only
wish to be sure that there are no conditions attaching to them.”

“Mademoiselle, your tone is unsuitable. Know then, that now that your
term of service in the household of my son, the Pasha, has expired, I
have determined to provide suitably for you, and I have found you a
husband, who is willing to take you on my recommendation. And let me
tell you, mademoiselle, that without my recommendation you would have
had little chance indeed of obtaining a husband at all.”

“I am extremely grateful for the Um-ul-Pasha’s kind intentions, but I
must respectfully decline her offer,” said Cecil.

“And why, pray?” demanded the old lady, through her interpreter. “Your
betrothed husband is dead, so what obstacle is there?”

“Dr Egerton may be dead,” returned Cecil, her eyes filling with tears
at this rough mention of her loss, “but that does not alter my
feelings towards him. My heart is his still, and I will not marry any
one else.”

“But we will make you,” cried Jamileh Khanum.

“You ought to know, Khanum, that a British subject cannot be legally
married out here except under the British flag,” said Cecil, somewhat
more calmly.

“Bah! who is to know or care whether the marriage is legal or not?”
demanded Jamileh Khanum, contemptuously.

“There is a British vice-consul in Mosul, and I will appeal to him,”
said Cecil, her colour rising angrily. The affair was becoming
absurdly and irritatingly melodramatic, and she found it difficult to
keep her own part of the conversation to the everyday level that she
felt was safest.

“You speak like a fool,” said the Um-ul-Pasha. “As yet, praise be to
God! our harems are sacred from the infidel. We will give out that you
are a Yezidi captive, and the Frangis cannot touch you.”

“That will not help you,” said Cecil, as coolly as she could. “Do you
think for a moment that when the bride’s proxies came to demand my
consent to the marriage, anything would make me give it?”

“Yes,” said Jamileh Khanum. “We could force you to give it.”

“Could you?” said Cecil, very quietly. “Perhaps you would like to
try?”

She looked so absolutely undaunted as she sat facing them, every nerve
on the stretch with excitement, a red spot burning on either cheek,
that her opponents felt an uncomfortable sensation of approaching
defeat. Was it possible that the Frangi woman was going to defy them
after all? They had thought of her as a gentle, timid creature,
amenable to the slightest pressure after the troubles she had gone
through, but the reality was disappointing. The intended victim had
risen to the occasion, and was ready to fight to the last, and the two
ladies on the divan turned from her and began a hasty conversation,
most of which was perfectly audible to Cecil. Indeed, but for the sake
of the Um-ul-Pasha’s dignity, which she conceived made it derogatory
to her to speak directly to the infidel, the interpreter would have
been unnecessary throughout.

“What are we to do? This will spoil everything,” said the Um-ul-Pasha.

“Starve her, break her spirit!” cried Jamileh Khanum.

“But there is no time,” objected the Um-ul-Pasha. “Whatever we do must
be done at once. Let us send for Azim Bey, and bid him devise a plan
to set things right.”

“Never!” cried Jamileh Khanum, fiercely. “What! shall that young
Shaitan laugh at my son’s beard?” This was a bold figure of speech,
for little Najib Bey was barely two years old. “Let us send the Frangi
woman a cup of coffee.”

“Art thou mad?” cried the Um-ul-Pasha, aghast at the sinister
suggestion. “Are we not yet deep enough in disgrace with my son, and
shall we bring the wrath of the Balio Bey upon our heads as well? I
tell thee this is our only chance. The boy has a wise head, and for
the sake of his family will devise some scheme by which our credit may
be saved and all set right.”

“Do as thou wilt,” said Jamileh Khanum; “I will have no hand in it,”
and she rose and swept from the room, flinging a curse at Cecil as she
went. Presently the Um-ul-Pasha and Mdlle. Katrina followed her out,
and Cecil and Um Yusuf were left alone, waiting in breathless
expectancy.




 CHAPTER XXVII.
 PRACTICAL JOKES.

It seemed a very long time that the two prisoners waited alone, and
it was indeed long enough for the momentary excitement to pass away,
and for Cecil to realise how very little she had to support her, in
spite of her valiant words, beyond her innate British pluck and a
determination not to be bullied. Um Yusuf was not a comforting
companion. She passed the time in giving utterance to doleful
prognostications, covering most of the contingencies which could
reasonably be expected to occur under the circumstances, and ending up
with--

“Yes, mademoiselle, this quite fixed in my mind. Not you nor I shall
eat one morsel nor drink one drop more in this house.”

“Well,” said Cecil, with a half-hearted attempt to turn the affair
into a joke, “if we must choose between being starved and poisoned, Um
Yusuf, I think the poisoning would be less painful in the end. It
would certainly be quicker.”

Um Yusuf gave a contemptuous sniff at her mistress’s flippancy, and
they waited in silence, until there was a sound of hurrying footsteps
in the passage. Then the curtain was pulled aside, and Azim Bey darted
in, radiant with smiles, while behind him appeared the faithful
Masûd, grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, mademoiselle, my dear mademoiselle!” cried the boy, rushing to
kiss Cecil’s hand. “They have brought you back at last, then? But you
have been ill--they have ill-treated you? Ah! they shall pay for it.
But all is right now.”

“Not all, Bey,” said Cecil, grieved that he should so soon have
forgotten the tragedy of the Kurdish hills, but he was too much
excited to listen.

“Come, mademoiselle, don’t stay in this wretched place. You will trust
yourself in the _kajavahs_ once more, if I ride by the side of the
mule? There is a ridiculous formality to go through, and I want to get
it over. My grandmother has promised you in marriage to a certain man,
and he will not accept his dismissal from any lips but your own. That
will not take long to do, will it, mademoiselle?”

“Certainly not,” said Cecil, astonished at this sudden development of
affairs, and smiling down at her pupil as he led her out. But at the
door he stopped and looked her over with a dissatisfied face.

“Mademoiselle, your clothes are so old, so dusty. Have they taken away
your other dresses?”

“I really have nothing but what I have on,” said Cecil, lightly. “Our
luggage seems to have gone astray. It doesn’t signify much, though,
does it?”

“But it does, mademoiselle,” returned Azim Bey, with deep seriousness.
“I cannot bear that this man should see you so poorly dressed. You
have to speak to him, you know.”

“Well,” said Cecil, “the Um-ul-Pasha sent me a dress this morning
which I refused to touch. If you like, I will put it on, though it
scarcely seems fair to wear the dress she meant for a wedding to
refuse the bridegroom in. What do you think?”

“Oh, mademoiselle, it is excellent. Do go and put it on at once. I
will wait, only do make haste. I am dancing with excitement.”

Cecil went away smiling to the room where she had passed the night,
and with Um Yusuf’s help no time was lost in putting on the rejected
dress. Over all came the great white sheet in which it had been
wrapped, replacing the old blue wrapper, and Cecil returned to her
pupil, who, if not actually dancing, was certainly fidgeting with
impatience.

“At last, mademoiselle! Oh, come, come.”

“But where are we going, Bey?” asked Cecil.

“To the Palace, of course, mademoiselle. Where else should we go?”

“But isn’t this Mosul?” she cried. Azim Bey laughed uproariously.

“But, mademoiselle, it is Baghdad--our own beautiful Baghdad.”

“But the people all talked Kurdish,” gasped Cecil.

“Because you came down from the mountains with the harem of Khalil
Khan, the Kurdish chief, who is to remain here as a hostage for his
tribe, mademoiselle.”

“But where are they now?”

“In the rooms at the other side of this house, mademoiselle. The
Um-ul-Pasha arranged that you should be lodged quite alone this last
night.”

A flood of further questions was trembling on Cecil’s lips, but the
courtyard had now been reached, and the mule-litter was waiting. Cecil
and Um Yusuf were helped into their accustomed seats, to carry on
during the ride an incoherent conversation, marked by bursts of
enlightenment as fresh confirmations of Azim Bey’s words occurred to
them. Arrived at their destination, the Bey met them again, and
seizing Cecil’s hand as soon as she had dismounted, hurried her
through rooms and passages in breathless haste.

“Oh, by the bye, mademoiselle,” he said, as they entered the house,
“it was the Um-ul-Pasha’s special wish that I should tell you that the
gentleman you are going to see is the one she meant you to marry.”

“So I understood,” said Cecil, much perplexed.

“Oh, well, you can believe it or not, as you like, mademoiselle.”

“Bey, what do you mean?” demanded Cecil, pausing to look back and see
whether Um Yusuf was following. “Why shouldn’t I believe it when you
told me so yourself?”

“Oh, never mind, mademoiselle, only come. It is all right now--all
right,” he repeated. “My heart is almost bursting, I am so happy.”

“But why?” asked Cecil.

“I can’t help it, mademoiselle, I scarcely know what to do. Now draw
your veil close, we are coming to the _selamlik_. Dear mademoiselle,”
and he stopped suddenly, “you have quite forgiven me--you are
sure--for _his_ death?”

“Dear boy, why do you remind me of this just now?” asked Cecil, the
tears rising to her eyes once more. “I have forgiven you, long ago.”

“I knew it, mademoiselle, but I wanted to hear you say it again. Go
into that room,” and Azim Bey dashed off with something like a sob.

Sorely puzzled, Cecil advanced in the direction he indicated, and drew
aside the curtain over the doorway. Through the mist of her tears she
saw a gaunt, dark-bearded man, wearing the regulation frock-coat and
fez, standing with his back to her and looking out of the window.

“An Armenian!” she said to herself, perceiving at once the unwelcome
suitor whom she was to put out of his misery. “Monsieur----”

The man turned round, and Cecil stood awestruck and speechless. Had
that rocky grave in the mountains of Kurdistan given up its dead? She
dropped the curtain, and staggered blindly across the floor with
outstretched hands.

“_Charlie?_” she gasped, tremblingly.

The room was reeling with her, but strong arms caught her as she
nearly fell, and the voice she had thought never to hear again was in
her ears.

“Cecil, my own darling, look at me. Don’t cry so dreadfully--it breaks
my heart. Have I frightened you so much?”

“They told me you were dead,” she murmured, when she could still the
long-drawn sobs which broke from her in the stress of that first
recognition.

“And they told me you were going to marry another fellow,” he
retorted, quickly, “but I never believed it. Still, I never thought I
should see you again, my dearest girl.”

“But Hanna saw you killed--at least he saw you dead.”

“I don’t know how he managed it,” said Charlie, in his driest tones.

“Nor do I,” cried Cecil, with a burst of hysterical laughter. “But you
must have been wounded, Charlie. You could never have been thrown down
that cliff without being hurt. Besides, he saw you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Charlie. “Have you and Hanna been
concocting horrors between you? Don’t you believe now that I am
alive?”

“But I have seen it,” persisted Cecil, “over and over again.”

“Oh, this is hopeless,” said Charlie. “Leave it alone for the present,
my darling, and let us puzzle it out afterwards. Taking it for granted
that I am alive, are you glad to see me?”

“Glad? Oh, Charlie!” Cecil’s tone was answer enough.

“Let me look at you, dear,” she said, after a blissful pause, and
raising her head from his shoulder she scanned his face. Very thin,
very bright-eyed, very weather-beaten, it was the face of the old
Charlie still, but there seemed to her to be in it a strength and a
purpose which it had lacked in former days.

“And you, Cecil? You have been ill, I’m certain. Been crying over me,
thinking I was dead, poor little girl?” and he kissed her tenderly.

“Oh, what do I signify?” she cried. “Tell me about yourself, Charlie.
Where have you been?”

“In the hills, slave to an old brute of a Kurd named Ismail Khan Beg.
They didn’t treat me badly at first, except that they took away my own
clothes and gave me some of their old ones to wear. When a Kurd has
done with his things, Cecil, I can tell you they are rags and
something more--ugh! Well, they got rather fond of me, because I
doctored them a little, and so on; but it didn’t do me much good after
all, for old Ismail took it into his head to offer to adopt me as his
heir, if I would become a Mohammedan and join the tribe. There was a
giddy pinnacle of success for you, Cecil! but I didn’t mount it, and
they all turned rusty. The less said about the last few months the
better----”

“My dear brave boy,” murmured Cecil.

“Well, one day a messenger came from the Pasha demanding that I should
be given up to him. It sounded rather like a death-sentence,
remembering the circumstances under which I left Baghdad, but anything
was better than the life I was leading, so I came away in durance
vile. I was brought down here under a very strong guard, with that
fiend Karalampi at the head of it. It was he who told me that lie
about you, and of course I didn’t believe it, but when you cried so on
seeing me I couldn’t tell what to think. Then I was put in prison
here, but this morning they fetched me out and gave me fresh clothes
and let me have a bath. I know now just how Joseph felt when he was
taken out of prison and brought before the king, though Ahmed Khémi
in an awful funk isn’t exactly regal.”

“Take care. There’s some one coming,” said Cecil, moving hastily to
the window, away from Charlie.

“Who cares?” he asked, following her immediately, just as the curtain
at the doorway was drawn aside, and M. Karalampi appeared, escorting
Lady Haigh.

“I have the happiness of bringing about a family reunion, M. le
docteur,” observed the Greek to Charlie, as Cecil and her friend
rushed into each other’s arms. Charlie shrugged his shoulders. In this
moment of happiness he could afford to disregard even M. Karalampi,
provided he did not make himself too objectionable.

“And now, Cecil darling,” pursued Lady Haigh, when she had bestowed a
sounding embrace and a burst of tears on Charlie, “come back with me.”

“But am I not to stay here?” asked Cecil in amazement.

“Not unless you wish to become an inmate of the harem for the space of
your natural life,” said Lady Haigh. “Why, my dear child, Christmas is
over, and your engagement here is terminated. I suppose you will soon
be homeward bound, but I must have you for a little while at the
Residency first.”

“Allow me to have the felicity of escorting Mdlle. Antaza,” said M.
Karalampi, as Lady Haigh turned to descend to the courtyard. He
offered his arm to Cecil, but Charlie was before him.

“Thank you, but you shall not come between us again,” he said, and M.
Karalampi was fain to practise his chivalry on Lady Haigh.

  * * * * * * *

Cecil’s stay at the Residency proved to be an eventful one. Lady Haigh
and Charlie put their heads together, and the results of their
consultation presented themselves in the form of two incompatible
propositions--namely, that it was absolutely necessary that an escort
should be found for Cecil throughout her long journey back to England,
but that there was no prospect that any member of the English colony
would be returning home just at present. The net conclusion of these
contradictory premisses was a self-evident truth, which, as Cecil
said, gave the crown to the bad logic of the whole proceeding. The
only thing to be done was that she and Charlie should be married at
Baghdad, and consider the voyage home in the light of a honeymoon
trip. To every one else this seemed a most fitting solution of the
difficulty, and Cecil acquiesced in it with a submissiveness which
would have astonished herself a year or two before.

“It is not fair of you to take me by surprise in this way now,
Charlie, after all that has happened,” she said. “My pride is broken,
and I don’t mind confessing that I couldn’t part with you again.”

This accommodating spirit was hailed as altogether satisfactory by
Lady Haigh, although she took occasion in private to admonish Cecil
not to make Charlie proud by letting him think that she could not do
without him. This advice was supported by many apposite illustrations,
but Cecil laughed in her sleeve, and contrasted Lady Haigh’s preaching
with her practice, for when she and Sir Dugald were separated, she
could think and speak of little beside him. But having done her duty
and relieved her conscience, the elder lady turned with a glad heart
to the making of preparations for the wedding. Of course the ceremony
was to be performed by Dr Yehudi, and Sir Dugald consented, under
protest, to give away the bride.

“I disapprove of the whole affair,” he said to Charlie, “and I cannot
see why I should be obliged to seem to give my sanction to it. If Miss
Anstruther did me the honour to ask my advice even now, I should feel
bound to advise her to throw you over, but she hasn’t. At any rate,
since she is foolish enough to take you, I have had to give up the
opinion I once held of her good sense.”

“Your bark was always worse than your bite, Sir Dugald,” laughed
Charlie, who had had time to arrive at this conclusion now that he was
no longer on an official footing with the Balio Bey. And indeed Sir
Dugald gave himself infinite trouble in disentangling and setting
right the complicated affairs of the pair, although when he was at
home he entreated his wife to keep those two out of his sight, for
they looked so absurdly happy he could not stand it.

“You will be pleased to know,” he said, coming into the Residency
verandah one day after a lengthy interview with the Pasha at the
Palace, “that all you have gone through is nothing but a series of
practical jokes.”

“Very practical jokes indeed!” said Charlie, growing rather red, while
Cecil, glancing up into Sir Dugald’s impenetrable eyes, saw his
eyebrows twitching at the corners.

“Oh, Sir Dugald, you are joking!” she cried.

“Not at all,” said Sir Dugald, sitting down in a long wicker chair and
stretching himself luxuriously; “the joke is all on the side of the
Pasha’s household, I assure you. Egerton’s leaving Baghdad was a joke
of Azim Bey’s; so was his capture by the Kurds. His pretended death,
your imprisonment, Miss Anstruther, and the attempt to marry you off
to some native, were little jokes of the Kitchuk Khanum Effendi’s, got
up in pure lightness of heart, just to relieve the monotony of harem
existence. The Um-ul-Pasha shares in the family tastes, so she
co-operated with her Excellency, and Karalampi acted as a kind of
master of the revels, humouring the rest by lending his experience to
make their play more real.”

“I can’t make out that business about the native,” said Charlie,
meditatively. “We are evidently meant to understand that he was a
myth, and that the Um-ul-Pasha intended all along to play the part of
a fairy godmother, and bring us together again. Is it so?”

“Not a bit,” said Sir Dugald. “The fellow was a flesh-and-blood
reality. I believe he is some relation to the Levantine woman who has
done all the Um-ul-Pasha’s dirty work in this business.”

“Mdlle. Katrina’s nephew!” cried Cecil, in mingled astonishment and
disgust.

“Yes, the plan was very complete,” said Sir Dugald. “And it was
splendidly managed!” he cried, with the admiration of an accomplished
artist for the masterpiece of a fellow-craftsman. “The way all the
parts dovetail into one another is so good. Why, if it had not been
for that utterly unexpected letter from Mrs Howard White, we might
never have been the wiser! Just think of it, Miss Anstruther. There
was Egerton up in the mountains, unable to escape or to communicate
with me. There were you at Sardiyeh, miles away from Egerton in
reality, and practically much more, since your gaolers were Turks and
his Kurds. Still, you would have been pretty sure to have made
inquiries and discovered where he was, and to have found some way of
communicating with him, as long as you thought he was alive, so you
had to believe him dead. That, again, was excellently done. To dress
up some dead body in Egerton’s clothes, pitch it over the cliff, and
show it to Hanna as his master’s, was very good, but it was still
better to let him escape and tell his tale, and best of all to secure
him and put him in safe keeping as soon as it was done. That disposed
of both of you, besides working off Karalampi’s little grudges. He
felt quite safe, for he had Azim Bey’s authority for a good deal, and
he knew that he would not dare to say anything about it.”

“But what was the good of it all?” said Charlie. “It seems rather
aimless--so much trouble without any very important result.”

“Ah, you forget the part of the plot which failed,” said Sir Dugald,
quickly. “It may be rather lowering to your self-esteem, but you must
remember that you two Europeans were not the chief persons aimed at.
The Um-ul-Pasha and the Kitchuk Khanum Effendi had their end in view,
and that was to get rid of Azim Bey; to get rid of you and Miss
Anstruther was only a means of attaining that end. Everything went
well as far as that. You were out of the way, and that gave them the
opportunity of keeping Miss Anstruther out of the way too. Azim Bey
was left unprotected. Then came the unlooked-for blow which spoiled
the scheme--the Pasha’s leaving Karalampi behind with the Mutesalim.
The Kitchuk Khanum Effendi completed the ruin of the plot, and when
once we had had Mrs White’s letter, and begun to make inquiries, they
had to patch things up as best they could. Miss Anstruther was to be
married off and taken out of the way; and as for you, Egerton, I think
you would have disappeared mysteriously as soon as you set foot
outside the Palace, which would have saved them a good deal of
trouble.”

“And you are really going to let them carry it all off as a joke?”
asked Cecil, indignantly.

“Well,” said Sir Dugald, “I have pointed out to the Pasha the fact
that the peculiar sense of humour inherent in his family is
inconveniently strong and must be checked, and he has promised to see
to it.”

“But what does it all mean?” inquired Cecil, in bewilderment.

“It simply means that the Pasha is bound to hush the matter up at any
cost, and that this is the only way in which he can make a show of
accounting for the circumstances. Of course he has to pay for it, but
he prefers that to embroiling himself with Tahir Pasha, the Khanum
Effendi’s father, or with the Hajar, and creating a fearful scandal in
the city. I have made sure, Miss Anstruther, that your salary is not
to be docked on account of your alleged illness, and you are to
receive the _bakhshish_ agreed upon from the beginning. Your maid, and
Egerton and his servant, are all to receive compensation, of course on
the understood condition that they hold their tongues about what has
taken place.”

“But is the Pasha to pay it all?” asked Cecil. “Surely that isn’t
fair?”

“It is not poetical justice, I grant you, especially since Karalampi
retires to his native Smyrna with a handsome sum of hush-money in his
pocket. But it puts it in a better light when you consider that if the
Pasha had never employed Karalampi, he would never have had to pay.
Or, to go back to first principles, it would have been the same if he
had been content with one wife, or even with having had three, and had
not married the Khanum Effendi, or if, having married her, he had kept
her in better order. As for her, she has done for her son’s chance of
inheriting any but a very small share of his father’s property, and
brought herself very near a divorce, and that ought to keep her quiet
for the future. Then she and her mother-in-law have quarrelled
violently, and the Um-ul-Pasha has cursed Najib Bey, and taken Azim
Bey into favour, which is also satisfactory. By the bye, that pupil of
yours is a queer little specimen, Miss Anstruther.”

“He is very happy just now in having realised an old ambition,” said
Cecil, laughing. “He has been both the villain and the _deus ex
machinâ_ of the story.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for tastes,” said Sir Dugald,
sententiously. “Ambitions are queer things. Egerton’s is to set things
right generally, I believe. I hope you realise, Miss Anstruther, that
you are in for a hornets’ nest at home? Egerton will go about hunting
up abuses and attacking vested interests until you are universally
hated, and even think with envy of us sweltering out here. Still,
better at home than in Baghdad. There may be a niche for faddists in
England, but in the East we want men who can pull together.”

“And in your view that covers a multitude of sins?” said Cecil. “No,
Sir Dugald, I am not going to begin an argument. I know that when you
and I argue it only leads to our each being more firmly convinced of
the truth of our respective opinions than before. But I am sorry, for
one thing, that we are going to live at home. I used to like to think
that we might settle down here, and Charlie could start a medical
mission to help Dr Yehudi’s work.”

“Poor old Yehudi! I think I should have been obliged to interfere to
protect him,” said Sir Dugald. “He would have had the mob pulling the
Mission-house about his ears in a week. No; for the sake of the
Mission, and of the unoffending missionaries, I am sure we may be
thankful that Egerton’s past record effectually prevents his settling
in Baghdad.”

“Well,” said Cecil, with a little sigh, “I think I am learning not to
try and plan my life beforehand, but to take it as it comes. Nothing
has ever happened yet as I have expected it.”

“I should not have suspected you of being a disenchanted cynic,” said
Sir Dugald, as he rose, but Cecil looked up at him in surprise.

“But I am not complaining,” she said. “What I meant was that I thought
I was beginning to see how much better it was that it should be so,
because we can’t tell what is before us. Why, when we left Sardiyeh, I
felt so miserable that I told Um Yusuf that I should like to stay
there always. She said that was only foolishness, but it was what I
really felt, and just think what I should have missed if I had been
able to do as I liked! And at the very beginning, too, before I came
out here at all, if my life had been as I planned it, I should have
been teaching the children at home still, and I should never have left
England--nor met Charlie.”

“And that would have been a loss?” asked Sir Dugald.

Cecil gave him a glance of pity and reproach.

“A very great loss,” she said.

 THE END.




 FOOTNOTES.

 [01]
 Emineh this name, the feminine form of Emin or Amin, is the Amina of
 the earlier translations of the ‘Arabian Nights.’ Khanum means lady.

 [02]
 Baghdad is not now a station of the London Society for Promoting
 Christianity among the Jews. The Church Missionary Society has a
 medical mission there.

 [03]
 Jamileh this name is also spelt Gemila, Djamilé, and Jameelie. The
 last form gives the pronunciation.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.

This book is part of the author’s “Modern East” series. The full
series, in order, being:

  The Flag of the Adventurer
  Two Strong Men
  The Advanced-Guard
  His Excellency’s English Governess
  Peace With Honour
  The Warden of the Marches

The last line on page 308 is missing, leaving the sentence “If the
Pasha were here, I would go straight to” unfinished. I have marked
this lacuna in the text. This flaw (as well as those below) is also
present in the 1896 and 1902 Blackwood (UK) editions. If you can
provide the missing text from an authoritative source please contact
Project Gutenberg support.

Alterations to the text:

A few minor punctuation corrections--mostly involving the pairing of
quotation marks.

Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies have been left
as is.

[Title Page]

Add brief note indicating this novel’s position in the series. See
above.

[Footnotes]

Relabel footnote markers, collect footnotes at end of text, and add
an entry to the TOC.

[Chapter III]

Change “mingled Turkish, Circassian, and _Egyptain_ blood” to
_Egyptian_.

[Chapter VII]

“they were conducted to a _minature_ courtyard” to _miniature_.

[Chapter IX]

“Much _suprised_ that the Pasha should pay” to _surprised_.

[Chapter XVI]

“he was at first _ininclined_ to admire” to _inclined_.

[Chapter XVII]

“observation of Sir Dugald and Captain _Rossitter_” to _Rossiter_.

[Chapter XXII]

“while a brisk _fusilade_ from the summit” to _fusillade_.

[Chapter XXVI]

“Um Yusuf shook her head but Cecil, knowing the...” add comma after
_head_.

[Chapter XXVII]

“the _ceremomy_ was to be performed by Dr Yehudi” to _ceremony_.

 [End of Text]



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