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.
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.”
“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.
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.”