PEACE AND STRIFE
"They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die."
John Grayson and Gabriel Meneshian were threading their way through the
narrow, unsavoury streets of Urfa, the gutters which ran down the middle
often not leaving them room to walk side by side. They had left their
horses at a khan, and were now seeking the dwelling of the Vartonians,
to which they had been directed. Emerging at last into a wider
thoroughfare, they saw a church, standing in the midst of its
churchyard, of which the gate was open. "We must be in our own quarter,"
cried Gabriel, delighted, "for this is a Christian church."
Jack stepped inside the gate and looked at it with interest. The door of
the church was open also; and Gabriel, seeing him look towards it, said,
"You might go in there, Yon Effendi, and rest a little, for I see you
are tired to death; I will run on and try and find the house. It cannot
be far off now."
"But you are tired too."
"Not a bit. I would feel quite fresh this minute if I only had a drink.
And, by good luck, there goes a fellow outside, a Turk too, with a
bucket full of _iran_ to sell."
The Turk, who had been crying his ware, stopped at the moment, for he
saw an Armenian boy coming down the street with a large empty pitcher in
his hand. "You want this?" said he, preparing to pour his sour milk into
it.
The boy said he wanted nothing of the kind. He had been sent for water,
and water he must bring. His people were waiting for it, and would be
very angry. He tried to pass on, but the Turk laid hold on him, seized
his pitcher, and emptied the bucket of _iran_ into it, not without
spilling a good deal in the street. "Now pay me my money," he said.
"But the thing is no use to me," the boy protested ruefully.
"What does that matter, dog of a Giaour? You got it; and, by the beard
of the Prophet, you must pay for it."
As the boy, crying bitterly, searched for the few piastres he had about
him, Jack's honest English face flushed with wrath, and Gabriel would
have sprung to the rescue had he not laid his hand on him and whispered,
"Wait."
They waited until the Turk had turned down a side street, then Jack
hailed the lad, who was standing quite still, gazing dolefully at his
useless pitcher of _iran_. "Will you give us a drink?" he asked, coming
out of the gate. "We are dying of thirst."
The boy checked his sobs; and for answer held up his pitcher to the lips
of the stranger. Jack took a long deep draught, then passed it on to
Gabriel, while he made the boy happy with more piastres than the Turk
had taken from him. His tears all gone, he blessed the strangers for
good Christians, and thanked them in the Name of the Lord.
"What church is that?" asked Gabriel, giving back the pitcher.
"That? Oh, that is the church of the Protestants."
"Is it English then?" Jack asked, feeling a pull at his heart strings.
"No; it is Armenian. But it is of the religion of the foreigners, who
talk English. They are good people, and very kind to the poor."
"Perhaps there is service going on, as the church is open," Jack said.
"I will go and see."
"Do," said Gabriel; "meanwhile, this lad will help me to find the
Vartonians, and I will come back for you."
Jack passed through the churchyard, and, leaving his shoes on the
threshold, entered the church. The interior was very handsome, all of
white stone, and adorned with fine pillars and beautiful carving. It was
not unlike a Gregorian church, save for the absence of pictures. In the
window, over what the Gregorians called the Altar and the Protestants
the Table of the Lord, was a small red cross. There was a very low
partition, separating the places where the men and the women sat, and
the floor was covered with rushes.
Before the Holy Table, on a kind of couch, all draped in snowy white,
and covered with flowers, something lay. Jack knew what it was, for he
had seen the dead laid in the church at Biridjik, to await their final
rest. With bowed head and reverent footsteps he drew near to look.
Venturing gently to draw aside the face-cloth from the face, he saw it
was that of a woman. Not, evidently, a young and lovely girl like
Shushan, but one who had lived her life, had borne the burden and heat
of the day, and, it well might be, was glad to rest. Perhaps yesterday
there were wrinkles on the cheek and furrows on the brow; now
death,--"kind, beautiful death,"--had smoothed them all away, and
stamped instead his own signet there of which the legend is "Peace." The
closed white lips had that look we have seen on the faces of our dead,
as if they are of those "God whispers in the ear,"--and they _know_,
though they cannot tell us, _yet_. English words, that he had heard long
ago, came floating through the brain of John Grayson. "The peace of God
that passeth all understanding." He found himself once more in the
church of his childhood, while a solemn voice breathed over the hushed
congregation those words of blessing. Then, coming back to the present,
he thought, "It takes away the fear of death to see a dead face like
that." He reverently replaced the veil, and withdrawing somewhat into
the shadow, knelt down to pray.
As he knelt there, he heard the footsteps of one who came to look upon
the dead. Rising noiselessly, he saw a tall, noble-looking man, dressed
_à la Frank_, approach the bier. His bent head was streaked with grey,
his face pale with intense, though quiet sorrow. As he knelt down
silently beside his dead, John Grayson knew instinctively that the love
of those two had been what his love and Shushan's might become, if God
left them together for half a happy lifetime.
For a few minutes the silence lasted, then came that most sorrowful of
all earth's sounds of sorrow, the sob of a strong man. Jack kept quiet
in the shadow of his pillar, in reverence and awe; not for worlds would
he have betrayed his presence there.
Afraid Gabriel might come in search of him, he looked round for some
chance of escape. He saw, to his relief, a small side door, near where
he was standing. He crept towards it noiselessly, found it unlocked,
withdrew the little bolt, and going through the pastor's study, slipped
out into the churchyard to wait for Gabriel. Yes, there he was, just
coming in at the gate. He went to meet him.
"Did you think me long, Yon Effendi?" asked the boy. "I have found the
Vartonians, and I am to bring you to them at once. Baron Vartonian
himself is away from home, but one of his sons would have come with me
to bid you welcome to their house, only they are in great trouble
to-day, for Pastor Stepanian, their Badvellie, whom they love, has just
lost his wife. Shushan will be very sorry, for Oriort Elmas Stepanian,
the Badvellie's daughter, is her greatest friend."
"I know," Jack answered softly. "I have seen the face of the dead.
Gabriel, I do not think _now_ that it can be very hard to die."
"No," said Gabriel. "It would not be hard to die for Christ's sake, Yon
Effendi."
"It reminds me," Jack went on, as if talking to himself, "of the last
words I heard my father say, 'The dark river turns to light.'"
Jack was received with open arms by the whole Vartonian household. It
was even a larger household than that of the Meneshians in Biridjik. Its
head, a prosperous merchant, was absent in Aleppo, but there was his old
infirm father, and there were his numerous sons and daughters, two or
three of them married, with children of their own, but the youngest
still a child. There were also many servants. Some of the family were
Gregorians and some Protestants, but there was no friction or jealousy
between the two. Being people of substance, their house, built as usual
around a court, was large and very handsomely furnished, the wood-work
carved elaborately, and the curtains, rugs, and carpets of rich
materials, and beautifully embroidered.
The Vartonians considered Jack in the light of a hero. But they were
uneasy at Shushan's being left, even for the present, in a village
exposed to the attacks of the Kourds; for much more was known at Urfa
than at Biridjik about the disturbed state of the country, and the
terrible massacres that had taken place in many towns and villages. Was
not the Armenian quarter still full of the miserable refugees from
Sassoun, who had come there during the past winter--diseased, starving,
wounded, sometimes dying, and with horrible tales of the cruelties they
and theirs had suffered?
It was agreed on all hands that the best thing Jack could do was to
refer his case to the lady at the head of the American Mission, whose
school Shushan had attended. We shall call this heroic lady, who is
happily still living, Miss Celandine. She thought the best plan would be
to bring Shushan, as soon as she was married, back to Urfa in disguise,
since under her charge and in the mission premises she would be, for the
time, absolutely safe. She believed the English Consul would be able to
give permission for the marriage without being personally present. But
she was not certain as to where the Consul was to be found. Very likely
he was at the baths of Haran, the season being August, and very hot. She
would find out as soon as possible, and put Mr. Grayson into
communication with him.
Two or three days later, Jack was setting out, with one of the young
Vartonians, to explore the hill that overhangs Urfa, and to visit the
remains of the ancient citadel, and the other interesting ruins with
which it is strewn,--when Kevork Meneshian walked in. As soon as they
had got through the usual salutations, Barkev Vartonian and John Grayson
asked him together, "What has brought you here?" And Barkev added, "It
is not the time for vacation."
"True," answered the young man, smiling; "I did very wrong to come away.
And I am very glad I came."
"You speak in a riddle," said Jack.
"It is easily read. When Pastor Stepanian's wife died, the news came by
telegraph to Oriort Elmas in Aintab. It was in her heart to go home at
once to her father and her young brothers, who must need her sorely. But
what a journey for a girl, and a girl all alone, with only khartijes for
companions and protectors! Only think of it, four long days on
horseback, and three nights in the wayside khans! And then the perils of
the road--wild Kourds everywhere, not to speak of other robbers, more
treacherous, if less violent. I could not have it! So I told no one, but
just wrote a note of apology, and left it for the Principal, slipped out
without waiting for leave, put on a servant's dress, and became her
shadow, from the moment her lady teacher bade farewell to her in Aintab
until she fell fainting into her father's arms here in Urfa, last
night."
"A proper person _you_ were to act as a young lady's guardian!" said
Barkev laughing.
"I did not say 'guardian,' I said 'shadow,'" Kevork returned coolly.
"One's shadow is always before or behind. So I took care to keep; only
letting her know I _was_ there, if I was wanted. There were many ways I
could help her. That is how I came to be here; and I suppose the Mission
folk at Aintab will have no more of me, since I have broken all their
rules. But I have got a good deal of their learning already," he added
with some complacency. "Yon Effendi, how are my father and my mother,
and all our house in Biridjik, for we did not stay there on our way? And
what in the world has brought _you_ here?"
Jack answered his questions, marvelling the while at the mixture in his
character. Shrewd, practical, and almost selfish in the pursuit of his
ambition as he used to think him, he had served Elmas Stepanian with a
delicate, self-sacrificing chivalry of which any lover might have been
proud.
"I think," said Barkev, "you would do well to go to the Badvellie. He is
very learned, and might give you the lessons you have missed."
"I will not trouble the Pastor _yet_," answered Kevork with
decision--"not until I can go to him for something else. No; I shall beg
of Miss Celandine to give me work, teaching the boys that come to her
school, and study for myself in the evenings."
"You'll get on," said Barkev approvingly. "For you know what you want.
'A polished stone is not left on the ground.'"
"I might, in any other country. But," lowering his voice, "what is this
I hear of fresh massacres?"
"Oh, rumours, rumours! There are always rumours. I would not think too
much of them--not until we hear more."
"You may well talk of rumours," Kevork returned. "Some of the things
people say are past thinking for foolishness. Do you know I heard in
Aintab that some people say in Europe it is _we_ who are massacring the
Turks? As if we _could_, even suppose we would! Without firearms, or
weapons of any kind, so much as to defend ourselves from the Kourdish
robbers--good for _us_ to think of killing Turks! 'Twould be striking
the point of a goad with one's fist."
"The wolf eats the lamb, and cries out that the lamb is eating him,"
said Barkev. "But," he added, glancing round apprehensively, "is there
any talk of the English coming to help us?"
"Much talk there is of the Sultan's having consented, moved thereto no
doubt by the English and the other Christians, to grant us certain
privileges."
"We do not want privileges," said Barkev; "we want _justice_. We want
security for our lives and properties, and, above all, for our women."
"Well, that is what these reforms are intended to give us."
"I'll believe in them, when I see a Moslem punished for a crime against
one of _us_. And that is what my grandfather, in his seven and eighty
years, has never seen, nor I think will little Nerses, who is not weaned
yet, live to see it."
"Where is the use of that kind of talk, true though it be?" said Kevork;
"it only brings trouble."
The heart of Kevork Meneshian was not just then attuned to trouble. The
deepest gorges of the Alps have every day their gleam of sunshine,
though it be but for one short hour; so even in the most shadowed lives
there is usually some brief, golden moment, when the light in a soft eye
or the smile on a dear lip is more than the fate of nations or of
empires. It was such a moment now with Kevork; and it ought to have been
such a moment with John Grayson, only, for him, it was love itself that
hung suspended in the balance of fate.
Fate, for the time, seemed to have turned against him. The ride from
Biridjik to Urfa had been done at headlong speed, and he had not reached
his destination until it was almost noon, and the sun's heat absolutely
overpowering. He thought his miserable sensations afterwards were only
the result of fatigue, and kept up bravely until the coming of Kevork,
when he had to own to overpowering headache, and feverish alternations
of heat and cold. He just managed somehow to write a letter to the
Consul, which he asked the Vartonians to get Miss Celandine to forward
for him, if she could. Then he yielded to destiny. For eight days he
tossed in fever, with Kevork as his special nurse, his kind hosts also
giving him every care and attention in their power.
Once the fever left him however, he recovered rapidly, his good
constitution, strengthened by a simple and healthy life, coming to his
aid. As soon as he was able to be about again, he said he would go to
the Mission House, and ask Miss Celandine if she had any tidings for
him. As he spoke, he was standing near one of the few windows of the
Vartonian House which looked out upon the street. Something he saw there
made him break off suddenly, pause a moment, then utter an exclamation
of pity and horror.
"What is it?" asked Kevork, coming to the window, followed by Barkev,
and two of the ladies of the house, who chanced to be present.
Along the street passed slowly, by twos and threes, in a straggling
procession, some of the most miserable creatures the eye of man has ever
looked upon. Gaunt, half famished, with limbs reduced to skin and bone,
or else swollen out of all shape by disease, they walked on with uneven,
tottering footsteps. All were in filthy, ragged garments; some had rags
clotted with blood tied about their heads or their arms, others limped
along with the aid of sticks. Just under the window a woman dropped in
the street, and lay as one dead. The man who was walking beside her
stood and looked, without doing anything to help. How could he? Both his
hands were gone.
The three young men ran to the street together. Jack proved the
quickest, and was already kneeling on the ground and trying to raise the
poor woman when the others came up. "It is no use," said the man beside
her in a dreary, almost indifferent, tone. "She is dead."
"I don't know that," said Jack. "Give her air, for heaven's sake.
Kevork, keep back the others. Barkev, you could fetch us some cordial."
It was not so easy to obey him; for those before had stopped, while
those behind came crowding up, and with the strangers a few Armenians of
the town. One of these pushed through the rest with an air of authority.
"Make way, good people," he said; "I am a doctor."
He did not seem a very prosperous member of the fraternity, to judge by
his dress; but then he was young, and had the world before him. He felt
the woman's pulse and her heart, and said presently, "She is not dead;
but she soon will be unless she gets proper care and nourishment. Who
will help me to carry her into my dispensary close by?"
Jack volunteered, quite forgetting his recent illness; but Barkev raised
an objection. "Better bring her to the Mission House," he said. "Miss
Celandine has food and medicine, and will take good care of her."
"Miss Celandine will have her hands full. Besides, my place is near.
Yes, sir, take her feet,"--he nodded to Jack. "I'll manage the rest.
This way, please."
"You are a good fellow, Melkon Effendi, and I believe you are right,"
said Barkev, his attention claimed by another of the miserable group,
who was begging in God's name for a bit of bread, as they had eaten
nothing for several days but grass and roots.
Jack helped Melkon to lay his patient on the surgery table, and watched
his efforts to restore animation. "Who are they?" he asked.
The young doctor answered in broken phrases without stopping his work.
"From one of the villages--Rhoumkali--fugitives--there has been a
massacre--wholesale--of our people--by Turks and Kourds."
"Horrible!"
"Horrible? If you had seen the Sassoun refugees when they came here last
winter, you might talk of horror. I believe the young Mission lady, Miss
Fairchild, sacrificed her life to them."
Miss Fairchild, Shushan's friend! "Is she dead then?" Jack asked
anxiously.
"They sent her away still hanging between life and death, and we know
not yet which will conquer. But, as for massacres--to-day there,
to-morrow here."
"Not _here_, in a great city like this--not here surely," Jack said.
"But the villages, the little towns like Biridjik, for them one's heart
trembles," he added, his thoughts flying to Shushan.
"She is coming to," said Melkon cheerfully, the duty of the moment
shutting out the terrors of the future.
"Well, my lad, what do _you_ want?"--this to a youth who appeared in the
doorway. "Oh, I see; you are one of Baron Thomassian's people, and come
just in time to fetch what I want. I am out of these drugs," and he
handed him a list.
"You shall have them, Melkon Effendi," said the young man. "But my
business now is with the other gentleman. I have just met Baron Barkev
Vartonian, who told me I should find him here."
"With _me_?" said Jack, a little excited; for what possible business
could Thomassian have with him, except to give him a letter from
England; or, at least, a letter or a message from the Consul?
"With you, sir. My master salutes you with all respect, and begs of you
to honour his poor dwelling with a visit, and to drink his black
coffee."
Still under the same impression, and with bright visions floating before
him of bringing his young bride in triumph to England, Jack only waited
to see the poor woman fully restored to consciousness, and to give
Melkon a little money to supply her immediate necessities. He then
accompanied the youth to the house of Thomassian, leaving a message on
his way for the Vartonians, to say whither he had gone.
He was rewarded with the first specimen of genuine Oriental wealth and
splendour he had seen in Armenia. He had thought the house of the
Vartonians a model of luxury, but this was a fairy palace! Muggurditch
Thomassian himself, in a faultless European costume, met him at the
door. He had heard nothing of his illness, which was not surprising, as
he seldom saw his kinsfolk the Vartonians. He explained that he had
taken the freedom of asking him to visit him at the earnest request of
his wife, who had a great desire to see an Englishman once more. "She is
from Constantinople," he said a little proudly. "There she used to have
much intercourse with the Franks, and especially with the English, whom
she greatly esteems." Then he led his visitor across the spacious marble
court, with its beautiful fountain in the midst, its bushes laden with
fragrant roses, its flowers of many kinds and hues. Some of them, which
were rare and newly brought to the country, he pointed out to the
Englishman.
Jack admired them duly, and expressed the satisfaction he would have in
waiting on "the Madam"; but, the claims of courtesy thus fulfilled, he
could not help adding, "I hoped you might have a letter to give me from
my friends in England, or at least a communication from the Consul."
"Have you had, yourself, no answer to your letter, Effendi?" Thomassian
asked, as he stopped to gather for his guest some roses he had
particularly admired.
"None whatever."
"Djanum!" (my soul! a common exclamation) "Then I fear it must have gone
astray in the post. You know how often, unfortunately, that happens
here."
"But the Consul?" Jack asked eagerly; "you spoke to him, did you not?"
"He was absent when I went to Aleppo," Thomassian answered. "I wrote to
him about your matters; but I fear that letter may have miscarried, like
the other one."
"That Consul is always _somewhere else_," Jack thought despairingly, as
he took off his shoes at the beautifully carved and polished door that
led to the apartment of the ladies. He found himself, on entering, in a
large room heavy with perfume. Silken hangings, richly embroidered,
adorned the walls. Silk and satin cushions of all colours, often heavy
with gold and silver, lay about in profusion. The only other furniture
the room contained was the long satin-covered divan which occupied one
side of it, and upon which there half sat and half reclined a very
handsome lady. Her dress was of the costliest materials, and of a
fashion partly Eastern and partly European. Jack made the usual
compliments in his best style; and was invited to sit upon luxurious
cushions, and by-and-by to partake of choice coffee, sherbet and
sweetmeats, which were handed to him on silver trays by pretty,
dark-eyed girls in silk zebouns and jackets. Meanwhile his host
entertained him with what he could not help calling, in his disappointed
soul, vapid and uninteresting commonplaces, the lady putting in now and
then a languid but courteous word or two. His heart full of his own
perplexities and of what he had just seen of the wretched fugitives
from Rhoumkali, he began a question about the massacres there, but his
host, with a warning glance directed towards his wife, turned the
conversation immediately. Jack could understand his not wishing to alarm
her, or to wring her heart with terrible details; especially as she did
not look very strong.
But the time seemed long to him; and as soon as he thought it consistent
with good manners, he rose to take his leave.
The lady called one of her attendants, and gave her a brief direction.
The girl left the room, and speedily returned, bearing a pretty
card-board box about a foot square, covered with coloured straw wrought
in patterns. "Will you do me a kindness, Mr. Grayson?" said "the Madam."
"Will you take charge of this box of Turkish sweetmeats from
Constantinople, and present it, with my salutations, to the little
Vartonians, the cousins of my husband? But, I pray you, take toll of it
in passing. Open the box, and eat the first sweetmeat yourself." As she
said this her dark eyes, for one instant, met and _fixed_ the English
blue eyes of Jack Grayson; the next, she was bidding him good-bye with
perfect Eastern courtesy, just touched with the dignified nonchalance of
the typical fine lady.
When Jack was once more alone with Thomassian, he spoke again of the
horrors of Rhoumkali. Thomassian shrugged his shoulders. "It is very
dreadful," he said.
"Can nothing be done?"
"_Nothing_, Mr. Grayson. Foolish people, who run about talking of things
they do not understand, only get themselves and other men into trouble.
Here is what happens many a time--there is some wild talk going of help
from England, or some such nonsense, and on the strength of it some
hot-headed fellow kills a Kourd, or resists a zaptieh, and then all hell
is let loose upon us."
"But if the zaptieh is torturing his father for not paying a tax he does
not owe, or giving up a rifle he has not got? Or, if the Kourd is
taking--well, you know what I mean; the word chokes me," said Jack,
thinking of Shushan.
"Let be! let be! 'Speech is silver, silence is golden.' 'The heart of
the fool is in his tongue, the tongue of the wise man is in his
heart.'--Mr. Grayson, I thank you for honouring me with a visit. I beg
of you to salute my cousins in my name. I hope old Father Hagop's cough
is not so troublesome now? And how is the little one? Does he begin to
walk yet? I hope to have the pleasure of visiting them very shortly, but
business is pressing just now." With such talk as this he led Jack once
more to the outer door; and he, as he took his final leave, remembered
an English word which he had hardly thought of since he left the shores
of his native land. He confessed himself decidedly "bored."
As soon as he got home, he opened the box of sweetmeats and looked
anxiously for what the giver might mean by the "first." Each of the
dainty morsels was wrapped up separately in thin paper; but one of them
looked, on close inspection, as if the paper had been removed, and then
carefully replaced. He took it off, and found--traced upon it in very
fine, faint handwriting--the following words:
"MR. JOHN GRAYSON.--Shushan is in danger. The chief wife of Mehmed
Ibrahim is my friend. She does not wish Shushan to be found. She tells
me Mehmed has discovered the name of the village where she is, and will
set on the Kourds to attack it, and to make her a prisoner. There is no
safe place for her, except the house of the American missionaries
here--if only you can bring her to it secretly, in some disguise--for
the Turks do not dare to enter it. I may not write to the Mission ladies
myself, as my husband forbids me to have any communication with them,
therefore I write to you. You will know what to do. God bless
you.--YEVNEGA THOMASSIAN."