“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.”