INTERCEPTED LETTERS.
In her own room that night, Cecil, in the first strength of her
grief and desolation, took a solemn resolution never on any account to
mention Charlie to Azim Bey again. He was jealous of him--well, he
should have no more cause to be so. So far as her intercourse with her
pupil went, all should be as though Charlie had never existed. In view
of the armed neutrality which had hitherto subsisted between them on
this subject, it was not, perhaps, quite clear in what way she could
do more than she had already done, but it soothed her feelings to make
these resolutions. She would never allude to her engagement in
conversation with Azim Bey again, no, not if she were dying for a
sight of Charlie. Even though all that had happened was to be ascribed
to his malevolent interposition, she would never degrade herself and
Charlie so far as to seek his help in setting things right, nor yet to
recur to the part he had played in the events which had just occurred.
After all, she had come to Baghdad to teach Azim Bey, and not to find
a husband for herself, and it might be that her pupil considered
himself justified in objecting to her interesting herself in such
extraneous matters. At any rate, he should not have to complain of
this again. She would devote herself more earnestly than ever to his
education, but he should never be so far honoured as to have Charlie’s
name mentioned in his hearing.
The plan seemed to work beautifully. Cecil laboured long the next
morning in removing from her face the traces left by her tears and by
an almost sleepless night, and appeared in the schoolroom as if the
events of the day before had never occurred. Azim Bey understood the
situation perfectly, and accepted it. He was very gracious, and he
could afford to be so, for he had gained all he wanted. Nothing could
well have been more delightful than his behaviour--it might almost be
called chivalrous. If Cecil had not had the memory of yesterday to
warn her, she might have been tempted to imagine that her young
barbarian was becoming a gentleman; but her eyes were opened now, and
she could only wonder and admire, without being convinced.
The days passed on. Sir Dugald received a telegram from Bandr Abbas to
say that Charlie had reached that place safely, and found an
extraordinary amount of work awaiting him. After that there came a
long unbroken silence. From the Indian newspapers, and through
official channels, they heard occasionally that the epidemic was
running its course, and that the two surgeons were working heroically
among the sick and dying, but there did not come one single message
from Charlie himself. Cecil was astonished, but she never thought of
blaming him. Possibly he would not write to her lest the letter should
convey infection, and he was certainly overwhelmed with work, very
likely with insufficient leisure even for needed rest. In this belief
she bestowed all the more pains on her own letters, doing her best, by
means of their fulness and tenderness, to bridge over the distance
which separated her from her lover, so far as this could be done from
one side only.
At last Sir Dugald received another telegram, which said that before
resigning his position under Government, Charlie was making a tour of
inspection, in company with a high medical official, of the British
settlements in the Gulf. The cholera had been stamped out at Bandr
Abbas, and when this tour was over, Charlie was going home. The
telegram concluded with the words, “Letters all missed,” which seemed
to shed a little light on the mystery of the sender’s long silence. No
doubt he had written, but in some way or other all his letters had
gone astray. It was strange, however, that even after this none
arrived. Sir Dugald expressed it as his opinion that Charlie must go
about looking for pumps in which to post his letters, under the
impression that they were pillar-boxes; but Lady Haigh and Cecil held
firmly to the belief that, moving about as he was from place to place,
he was too busy to write. In vain did Sir Dugald, who had assumed
quite a paternal authority over Cecil since their confidential talk on
the Sunday preceding Charlie’s departure, urge her to bring her lover
to a sense of his undeserved blessings by suspending her own letters
for a time--she felt that this was impossible. The long
journal-letters supplied the place to her of the Sunday afternoon
talks which she had been accustomed to enjoy. A third telegram
informed them that Charlie was going home, and gave his English
address very clearly. “Letters still gone wrong,” it said again, and
Cecil triumphed over Sir Dugald, although he told her that she was
only saving Charlie’s character as a lover at the expense of his
common-sense.
The news of Dr Egerton’s resignation of his post was now public
property, and people began to perceive merits which they had hitherto
ignored in the way he had performed his duties. His colleague at Bandr
Abbas and the rest of the English community there were loud in their
praises of his behaviour during the epidemic, and this caused his
former adventurous journeys, undertaken for the purpose of
investigating the diffusion of the disease, to be brought to mind.
Even the fact of his having been instrumental in checking the spread
of a cholera epidemic in his former post,--a success which had been
followed, as he had told Cecil bitterly long before, by his enforced
resignation,--was recalled, and one or two very hard things were said
of the superior who had insisted on his removal. In fact, he was the
hero of the hour among a certain set in India, chiefly consisting, it
is to be feared, of those who had been disappointed and passed over,
like himself, but numbering in their ranks some few who could command
a hearing in the Press. The remarks of the Indian papers were balm to
the souls of Cecil and Lady Haigh, and they read with avidity all that
was said in Charlie’s praise, although Lady Haigh once remarked
sadly--
“It all comes too late, Cecil. A little of this encouragement and
appreciation, bestowed three years ago, would have saved this
‘valuable public servant,’ whose loss they deplore so feelingly, to
the public service, for he would have stayed in India, and persevered
in trying for a better post, instead of taking this as a
forlorn-hope.”
“And then we should never have met!” said Cecil. “Well, Lady Haigh, I
am sorry if you are.”
To which no answer could be made, and Lady Haigh ceased her
lamentations. But time was passing on, and still there came no news
from Charlie, with the exception of one telegram announcing his safe
arrival in England. Things were becoming more and more mysterious. Why
should four telegrams alone, all addressed to Sir Dugald, arrive out
of all the missives which it was tolerably certain Charlie had sent
off? Cecil felt sure that he could never have received her letters
without answering them; what, then, had become of the answers? It was
not until Christmas-time that the mystery was solved. Cecil was at the
Residency as usual, and when the mail came in she looked eagerly to
see whether there were any letters for her. Again she was
disappointed; there was only one, and this was a bulky epistle from
her stepmother. The appearance of the letter was characteristic of the
writer. The many closely-written sheets were stuffed into a thin
envelope much too small for them, and this had naturally resented such
treatment by giving way, in consequence of which it had been “found
open, and officially sealed.” The direction was blotted and irregular,
and had evidently been written in a violent hurry; and the stamp,
which was upside down, was of double the proper value. Cecil laughed
at the appearance of the envelope, and mentally pictured little Mrs
Anstruther writing in feverish haste to catch the mail, and scrambling
the letter into the post just in time. As usual, the first page was
dated about a fortnight earlier than the last, and Cecil hurried on to
the end. Here at last was the news for which she had been longing.
“Oh, my dear Cecil,” wrote Mrs Anstruther, “we have had such a
delightful surprise. Your friend Dr Egerton came to see us yesterday,
and we talked about you for hours and hours. Your father and I are
greatly pleased with him, and the little children love him already. He
is staying at the Imperial Hotel, and his aunt is there too, but she
has not her health here, and I don’t think this place suits her. They
seem very well off, and Fitz says that one of the boys at the school
told him that Dr Egerton has really an immensity of money, for it has
been accumulating for him ever since he has been in the East. But,
dear childie, why don’t you write to him? Indeed, indeed, I think you
are not treating him well. He says he has never had one single line
from you, though he has written to you every week. It is not kind of
you, and we were so greatly astonished to hear it that we couldn’t
think of any excuses for you. Sure the poor boy”--these four words
were scratched out, for Mrs Anstruther flattered herself that both her
literary style and her accent were extremely English--“Poor Dr Egerton
is deeply in love with you, but he said himself he could not
understand it. Indeed he was in a great state lest something had
happened to you, but we were able to reassure him about that----”
Cecil read thus far, and then looked up with a horrified face.
“Lady Haigh!” she gasped, “every one of my letters has missed, as well
as Charlie’s. What can it be?”
“Impossible, my dear!” cried Lady Haigh, briskly. “You must have
mistaken what he says. Is his letter from home?”
“It isn’t from him even now,” said Cecil. “It’s from Mrs Anstruther.
There must have been some dreadful mistake, and what can we do?”
“I think this concerns you rather than myself, Miss Anstruther,” said
Sir Dugald, coming into the room. “I hope I haven’t read much of it,
but I really did not see at first that the letter which I was desired
under such fearful penalties to deliver to you was on the same sheet
as my own.”
He held out a letter in Charlie’s writing, which Cecil almost snatched
from his hand. As he said, the first page was occupied by an earnest
request to him to give the letter into Miss Anstruther’s own hands, as
the writer could not help thinking that there had been foul play
hitherto with regard to their correspondence. The other three pages
contained the letter proper, closely written, and overflowing with
passionate anxiety.
“My darling,” Charlie concluded, “I am certain there must be something
wrong, or you would never have left me without a line all these
months. I heard from D’Silva the other day that that fellow Karalampi
had been at the Residency a good deal lately, and I should not wonder
if he had something to do with it. I do entreat you not on any account
to trust him in the very smallest matter. The man is capable of
anything. I am consumed with anxiety about you. I was talking
yesterday about going out at once to see you and find out what was the
matter, but your father said I should only bring you into trouble, and
entreated me not to think of such a thing. Dearest, you know I would
do anything rather than get you into trouble; but if I can be of the
very smallest help or use to you, let me have a wire, and I will start
at an hour’s notice. Only write, my darling, or I shall go mad.”
Cecil dropped the letter with a groan, which attracted the attention
of Sir Dugald, who had considerately been discussing his own letters
with Lady Haigh while she read it.
“Anything wrong, Miss Anstruther?” he asked, kindly.
“Our letters!” groaned Cecil, “his and mine. Neither of us has ever
received one of them, and we have both written once a-week.”
“This is serious indeed,” said Sir Dugald. “About sixty letters
altogether, and spread over more than six months! Well, it is quite
evident what has happened, though I confess I should scarcely have
thought the game worth the candle in this case. They have been
tampering with the mail-bags again.”
“Tampering--who?” cried Cecil.
“Interested parties, I presume,” said Sir Dugald, drily. “Some
post-office clerk who is learning English and likes to study it by
means of other people’s letters, possibly, but I should scarcely think
so. It’s an old trick, and they have tried it several times here, but
not just lately.”
“But can you get the letters back?” asked Cecil.
“Scarcely, I’m afraid. They would be much too compromising to be
allowed to remain in the thief’s possession. No; but we may be able to
stop the robberies in future. I will communicate with Constantinople
at once, and set the Embassy to work. Shall we make the abstraction of
your love-letters a _casus belli_, Miss Anstruther?”
“It isn’t a laughing matter to me,” said Cecil, dolefully.
“No, nor to poor Egerton either,” said Sir Dugald. “It was a most
happy thing that he thought of writing to you under cover to me, or we
might never have found out how the trick was worked. You see they have
simply suppressed all Egerton’s letters to you, and all yours directed
to him. Your home letters have arrived as usual, have they not? I
thought so. Well, suppose you set Egerton’s mind at rest by
telegraphing him a Christmas message at once. I think I can guarantee
that it won’t go astray from here.”
Cecil accepted gratefully Sir Dugald’s suggestion, and despatched a
sufficiently lengthy message. This done, she had leisure to think over
the strange fate of her letters. She could not doubt that their
disappearance had been arranged by the same hand that had contrived
Charlie’s removal from Baghdad, and yet it seemed scarcely likely that
Azim Bey would have thought of such a thing. Charlie’s suggestion as
to M. Karalampi she scouted at once, for what motive could he have for
abstracting her letters, even though he had an old grudge against her,
and no liking for Charlie? But M. Karalampi was destined to be brought
to her mind once again that evening, when she went to have tea with
Mrs Hagopidan, of whom she had seen but little of late.
“So I hear you have set up another admirer, Cecil?” said the hostess,
when she had inquired and heard the latest news from Whitcliffe.
“I don’t know what you mean, Myrta,” said Cecil, laughing.
“My dear girl, you must have noticed that M. Karalampi does you the
honour to admire you. Of course it’s impossible that you could have
the bad taste not to admire him.”
“I think you forget that I am engaged,” said Cecil, in her stateliest
manner.
“Not at all, dear, nor does he. He only thinks that it is a merciful
dispensation of Providence which has removed Dr Egerton from Baghdad
and left the way clear for him. They didn’t love each other, those
two. Really, Cecil, I could have danced at times to see Dr Egerton
freeze him with a look, and to behold the murderous glances M.
Karalampi bestowed upon him behind his back. He daren’t have looked at
you then,--it would have been as much as his life was worth,--but now
he has a fair field. How do you like him, dear?”
“Myrta, you know that if there is a person I detest, it’s that man. I
wish you would not make up these things about him. I don’t like it.”
“But I am perfectly in earnest, I assure you--much more so than he is.
Of course he only intends a flirtation, just to pass the time, for he
has a wife somewhere. Some people say he has a wife in a good many
places, but no doubt that is merely scandal. But seriously, Cecil, the
creature has the conceit to believe that now that Dr Egerton is safely
out of the way, his own charms will prove irresistible. I believe he
has a bet with young Vogorides on the subject. His sister, Arghiro,
let something drop about it when she was here yesterday, and I thought
I would give you warning.”
“Thank you, Myrta. I don’t think M. Karalampi will make any more bets
about me.”
“But you won’t make a scene, Cecil?”
“I don’t think I am likely to want the world to know how M. Karalampi
thinks of me,” said Cecil, as she rose to go, and her hostess could
learn no more from her. Nor, to her great disappointment, did she ever
succeed in finding out the exact results of her warning. Whether Cecil
snubbed M. Karalampi in public, or administered a few home-truths to
him in private, Mrs Hagopidan never knew, but M. Karalampi’s visits to
the Residency became once more few and far between, and Arghiro
Vogorides let slip that her brother had won his bet, but could not get
the money paid. That was all, and Cecil went on her way satisfied, and
unconscious that her own name was added, deeply underlined, to the
long list in M. Karalampi’s black-books. In this list there were to be
found already all the names of those from whom he had received
slights, or against whom he had conceived a grudge, and also of some
of those whom he had injured, and therefore found it impossible to
forgive. In which category the Pasha’s name appeared it would be
difficult to say,--possibly in all three,--but both that of the
Um-ul-Pasha and that of Azim Bey might have been found in the first.
Most of M. Karalampi’s employers were in his black-books, and it was
one of the chief beauties of his peculiar method of working that he
was able to play them off one against another, and to punish them all
in the course of business.
The account against Azim Bey was allowed to stand over for a while
just now. By way of making himself agreeable to all parties, M.
Karalampi had done what the Bey wanted, and succeeded in banishing
Charlie from Baghdad. He had even improved upon his instructions by
arranging for the abstraction of the letters, a master-stroke which
delighted Azim Bey when it was communicated to him; but now he
returned to his former employers, whose interests were by no means
identical with those of Cecil’s pupil. The Um-ul-Pasha was once more
embarked on a plot in favour of her eldest grandson, but this time M.
Karalampi held the threads in his own hands, and the result bade fair
to be a work of art. The old vulgar methods of secret assassination,
which had been attempted in vain two years before, were decisively
dropped, and M. Karalampi luxuriated in the employment of moral
suasion alone. He could set strings in motion at Constantinople which
would ensure the Pasha’s ruin if needful, and it was on this fact that
he relied. At the proper moment the question would be put before him,
and he must choose between disgrace and dishonour. Unless he broke his
promise to Azim Bey’s dead mother, and made the outlawed Hussein Bey
his heir, the intriguers who surrounded the Padishah would bring about
his downfall. In either case M. Karalampi would be happy and
victorious. Already he was gloating in anticipation over the thought
of his triumph, already he imagined himself fingering the reward of
his unrighteousness, when a single unlooked-for event dashed all his
plans to the ground.
After spending some time comparatively quietly in the hills, Hussein
Bey had recommenced his raids into the low country, and his practice
of exacting blackmail from travellers. Attacking one day a rich
caravan which had crossed the mountains in safety from Persia, he met
with an unexpected resistance, which was speedily accounted for by the
arrival of a body of the Pasha’s troops, who had been on the march
from one town to another, and to whom the merchants had sent a swift
messenger imploring help. The robber band was hopelessly outnumbered
by the combined forces of the troops and the armed servants of the
travellers, and a short conflict ended in the death of Hussein Bey and
the utter defeat of his followers. In this way Ahmed Khémi Pasha was
freed from the son who had for so long been a thorn in his side, and
the Bey’s mother and grandmother and their fellow-plotters were left
without an object for their schemes. All their arrangements were
useless, and they recognised this fact after a good deal of mutual
recrimination on the subject of the delay which had occurred. It was
undeniable that Hussein Bey’s death had been so utterly unexpected
that the wisest head could not have arranged the _dénoûment_ of the
plot in time, and nothing more could be done.