PRISONERS.
They retraced their steps up the rugged hill-path, Cecil first, Um
Yusuf following her, and went in at the gate, climbing the steep
rock-hewn lanes of the little town in silence. At their house-door
Masûd was lounging in his accustomed place, and started up in
astonishment on seeing them approaching from the street.
“This is not well, O my lady,” he said to Cecil, with an air of
respectful remonstrance which would have amused her at any other time.
“Does my lady wish to bring wrath upon her servant’s head from the Bey
Effendi, that she goes out without summoning him to attend upon her?”
“Hold thy peace, foolish one!” cried Um Yusuf, as Cecil turned and
stared at him with unseeing eyes. “Is my lady to be taken to task by
thy insolent tongue? Let her pass, or I will complain to the Bey
Effendi of thy rudeness.”
Sorely perplexed, Masûd yielded the point, and opened the gate for
them. Ayesha and the other women were looking out curiously from the
doorway of their room, but on catching sight of Cecil they drew back,
and she passed on with bowed head. Mounting the steps of the _lewan_,
she entered her own room, and dropped on the divan with a wordless
moan. At present she did not in the least realise the full horror of
the news she had heard; she only knew that a sudden blow had fallen
upon her, blotting out all recollection and deadening every feeling.
All night she lay where she had sunk down, deaf to Um Yusuf’s
remonstrances and entreaties; and when she allowed herself to be
raised from the divan in the morning, it was only to return to it
again, leaving her breakfast untasted, and to sit crouched in a
corner, staring before her with stony eyes. In vain Um Yusuf pleaded
and entreated; her mistress did not even seem to hear her, and noticed
her presence as little as she did that of the other women, who crowded
round the door of her room, looking pityingly at her. They had no idea
of the instinctive desire for solitude of one in deep grief; their
notion of showing sympathy was to assemble together and discuss all
the circumstances of the case in the mourner’s hearing, and Um Yusuf
was too much harassed, too anxious for help and advice, to drive them
away, as she would ordinarily have done. That Mdlle. Antaza had gone
mad was the general opinion, and this was confirmed by the fact that
she took no notice of the intruders, and seemed neither to see nor
hear them. Um Yusuf was at her wits’ end. She knew no more of mental
pathology than she did of comparative anatomy, but she had the help of
long experience to guide her, and she knew that this deadly calm must
be broken.
At last, as the readiest means of effecting this, she went in search
of Azim Bey. He had only just returned, a day later than he was
expected, and was hearing from Masûd all that the worthy aga could
tell him of what had happened. To say that he was appalled is only
faintly to describe his feelings. He had often wished Charlie out of
the way, and it is not improbable that he would have been deeply
grateful for any fatal accident or illness which had removed him from
mademoiselle’s path. But that Dr Egerton should be murdered in cold
blood, and that, too, as a direct consequence of the arrangement he
had made with M. Karalampi, was a very different thing. He shrank back
and shivered at the thought of meeting Cecil, but Um Yusuf would take
no denial, and fairly led him back to the sitting-room. Her stony
silence and the reproachful glances of the other women were sufficient
to make a deep impression even on his hardened young heart; but when
he saw Cecil crouched on the divan, her eyes fixed, her hands hanging
idle, he would have fled if he could. Um Yusuf, expecting such an
attempt, pushed him into the room, and as he entered it timidly, Cecil
looked up and met his gaze, then turned away with a shuddering sigh.
He could not bear it.
“Oh, mademoiselle,” he cried, rushing to her, regardless of the shiver
of repulsion with which she drew herself away from him, “forgive me!”
“Then it was your fault,” said Cecil, slowly. “You had him killed.”
“No, mademoiselle, not that--not that! Oh, my dear mademoiselle, I
have been very wicked, very unkind, but I never wanted him killed. I
wished him to be kept safely, where you would not see him, until the
time came for you to leave us, that I might try to make you stay with
me, and then he was to be set free; but what I wanted was never
this--never this, mademoiselle,” and he flung himself sobbing at her
feet and kissed the hem of her dress.
“Tell me, Bey,” said Cecil, laying a hand on his shoulder, and
speaking in the same restrained tones, “can you say truly that you had
no hand in his death?”
“None, mademoiselle, none!” sobbed Azim Bey. “It is my fault, for I
hated him, and wished him to be carried off by the Kurds, but I never
wanted him dead, and I would give all I have to bring him back to life
now. Oh, mademoiselle, only forgive me, and we will avenge his death a
thousand times over. I will speak to my father of these wretches who
have murdered Dr Egerton, and they shall give a life for every drop of
his blood. They shall be swept from the face of the earth, and their
wives and children and all belonging to them, and their houses shall
be made a desolation for ever. And as for M. Karalampi, that Shaitan,
he shall be----”
“Oh, hush, Bey,” said Cecil, shuddering; “I don’t want vengeance. How
can you suggest it? These men have only understood your orders a
little too well. And how could it comfort me to know that innocent
women and children were punished for the fault of the men?--it would
make my grief ten times greater. But oh, Bey, remember,” and her voice
was choked, “that a life once taken can never be restored.”
She broke down and sobbed passionately, while Azim Bey knelt at her
feet, entreating her forgiveness again and again. He would not leave
her until Um Yusuf laid a strong hand on his shoulder and dragged him
away, telling him that he would make mademoiselle ill. Even then he
broke away from her grasp at the door and rushed back, with a piteous
entreaty that Cecil would say she forgave him; but she was too much
overcome with the violence of her grief to answer, and he went away
sorrowful. Um Yusuf was better pleased, for her plan had succeeded.
She had made her mistress shed tears at last, and she waited until she
was exhausted with weeping and then coaxed her to go to bed. Sheer
bodily fatigue made her sleep, and she awoke the next day in a more
normal condition. It was characteristic of her that when once the
haunting consciousness of overshadowing trouble which oppressed her on
waking had resolved itself into the terrible knowledge that her world
was from henceforth bereft of Charlie, her next thought was that the
ordinary duties of the day must still be fulfilled, and she set
herself mechanically to dress as usual, and went out on the _lewan_ to
seek her pupil. He was there, wandering aimlessly and miserably about,
and came timidly to kiss her hand, with evident fear and reluctance.
“Can you forgive me, mademoiselle?” he asked, anxiously. “It was my
fault, but I never meant to do it.” The sadness in his voice went to
Cecil’s heart.
“God helping me, Bey, I do forgive you,” she answered with quivering
lips; “but please don’t speak about it any more.”
The boy kissed her hand again in silence, and the compact was sealed,
but the subject which neither of them mentioned was continually in
both their minds. They went to lessons as usual, and Cecil tried
honestly to behave to her pupil just as she had always done; but once
or twice the thought of that scene in the Kurdish stronghold returned
upon her so powerfully that she turned from him with an irrepressible
shudder. She could see it all--the group of fanatical mountaineers on
the brow of the precipice surrounding the solitary figure with bound
hands and ragged Armenian dress. She could hear the rapid questions
and answers passing between the Kurds and their prisoner, and the
fierce taunts and shout of derision that succeeded them. And
then--then--she saw the headlong plunge outwards into space, the
piteous crash, the mangled form that lay motionless at the foot of the
steep, a bloodstained heap of rags, as it had appeared to the
trembling Hanna, forced to his knees by the murderers on the cliff
above that he might behold their work.
“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, if I could have died instead!” she cried,
wildly, dropping her book and beginning to pace up and down the
_lewan_, every nerve throbbing with the bitter consciousness of her
own powerlessness at the time of Charlie’s greatest need. And she had
known nothing of it at the time! How was it that no sense of his
danger had penetrated to her mind--that she had not known intuitively
that he was tasting the bitterness of death while she was occupied in
trying to still the petty squabbles between her servants and those of
Jamileh Khanum? Surely there must be something wanting in her, that
such a crisis could arrive in the life of the man to whom her whole
heart was given, and she know nothing of it? True, she could not have
helped him, but she could have prayed with him and for him, and
perhaps some hint of her distant sympathy might have reached him even
at that terrible moment.
“Mademoiselle!” said Azim Bey, timidly, and Cecil pressed her hands to
her head and sat down again, trying hard to conquer the feeling of
repulsion which the boy’s mere presence gave her. The natural fairness
of her mind would not allow her to hold him responsible for the
extreme consequences of his childish jealousy, but she dared not trust
herself to dwell upon the thought that but for his interference
Charlie might be alive and well now. The memory which she thus thrust
from her had come unbidden to the mind of Azim Bey, and for once his
remorse was deep and lasting. Cecil’s white face and heavy eyes were a
constant reproach to him, and he did his utmost to testify his sorrow
for what he had done. Any wish that she expressed was to be gratified
immediately, and he watched over her and waited upon her with a
faithfulness which touched her extremely. The women and Masûd
followed his example, and vied with each other in doing her all the
kindnesses in their power; but as the weeks passed on, it became
evident that other people were not so forbearing. Latifeh Kalfa was a
frequent visitor to the courtyard at this time, and took to gossiping
with the negresses when she found herself shunned by the white women
as a bringer of evil tidings; and what happened immediately afterwards
left little doubt that she had been commissioned to report on what she
saw and heard. Jamileh Khanum sent for Azim Bey and questioned him
closely as to the cause of the change which had come over his
governess. He returned from his interview with her grave and unhappy,
but said nothing before the servants.
“Mademoiselle,” he said to Cecil, as they sat beside the brazier after
supper, “there is something I must say to you. You have enemies in the
harem, and they make up lying reports about you to tell my father when
he returns. The little lady mother said to Mdlle. Katrina when I was
there that you were going mad, and that you had taken a dislike to me
and would murder me. They know what happened to--him, and they think
you will try to avenge his death on me.”
“And you are not afraid, Bey?” asked Cecil, with a sad smile.
“I? oh no, mademoiselle. I know that you are good, and that you love
me, since you have even forgiven me. I don’t want them to send you
away from me, but that is what they wish to do, and they will do it if
they can persuade the Pasha. They are going to send the _hakim bashi_
to see you, and they will talk to him beforehand, so that he will do
what they tell him. Could you not look a little more cheerful, dear
mademoiselle, just when he comes?”
“I will try,” said Cecil, but when she looked at herself in the glass
it struck her that the attempt would be of little use. Could that
pale, sad face, from which mournful eyes looked out at her, be her
own? If so, it was no wonder that Jamileh Khanum was startled by the
change, since even Cecil herself found it surprising. The strain of
keeping up her spirits in Azim Bey’s presence was tremendous, and day
after day the difficulty of going through the routine of work and
recreation became greater. But for his sake she would try to impress
the physician favourably, impossible though it seemed even to affect
cheerfulness.
The _hakim bashi_ arrived, and she did her best, receiving him with
what composure she could muster, and forcing herself to an unexpected
burst of high spirits, which only confirmed the physician in the
belief which his patroness and her attendant had diligently instilled
into his mind, that Mdlle. Antaza’s brain was affected. In this
opinion he was strengthened when, on coming back hastily to fetch
something he had left, he surprised Cecil in a fit of deep depression,
into which she had sunk on the withdrawal of the momentary excitement.
For a time, however, nothing came of his visit, and Azim Bey’s
household began to hope that the alarm had been a false one, designed
by Jamileh Khanum for the purpose of frightening them, when an order
came from the Pasha that everything was to be packed up, and every one
ready to start at a moment’s notice. Flushed with victory, Ahmed
Khémi was returning to Baghdad by a road slightly different from that
which he had taken in coming, and his household, with the military
escort, was to meet him at a spot situated a good deal lower down the
mountain than was Sardiyeh.
Two or three days after the order had been given, Cecil and her pupil
were disturbed at breakfast by a sudden invasion of their courtyard.
Two of the harem agas swaggered in, and with more than their usual
insolence announced that they brought the Khanum Effendi’s orders.
Azim Bey and his attendants were to start that morning with the harem
procession, which was almost ready for the journey, but Mdlle. Antaza
and her nurse were to remain where they were for the present. Cecil’s
anger rose at this cool command.
“The Khanum Effendi has no right to detain me here,” she said,
quickly.
“Pasha’s order,” was the sole reply, and the chief aga held out a
document which on examination proved to be a permission from his
Excellency for Mdlle. Antaza to remain behind in the mountains for
rest, according to the _hakim bashi’s_ recommendation, until her
health should be completely restored. Sardiyeh was to continue to be
her residence until further orders should be received. Cecil read the
paper through and handed it back calmly to the man. Nothing had power
to astonish her now. If the order had been for her instant execution,
she would scarcely have felt surprise. But to the other women the blow
came unexpectedly, and they pressed forward with loud weeping to kiss
her hands and the hem of her dress. That they feared something much
worse than the letter implied was evident, and they heaped blessings
and expressions of pity upon her alternately, while Um Yusuf stood by
and abused the agas roundly, in especial threatening them in such
moving terms with the wrath of the Balio Bey that they glanced round
apprehensively, as though expecting to see Sir Dugald appear
miraculously in all his might as the champion of injured virtue.
Speedily recovering themselves, however, they drove off the women,
wailing and beating their breasts and calling down maledictions upon
the agas’ respective ancestors, while Azim Bey, who had been standing
at Cecil’s side, was also ordered to accompany them. The boy’s very
lips were white as he kissed his governess’s hand.
“Don’t lose heart, mademoiselle,” he whispered. “I know they intend
evil against you, but my father shall know everything, and if he will
not help I will speak to the Balio Bey.”
“Are we to be left here alone?” asked Cecil of the agas.
“My lady’s servants are charged by the Khanum Effendi to wait upon and
watch over her and her nurse,” said the chief, gruffly.
“We are to be prisoners, then?” said Cecil, as Azim Bey shuddered and
gripped her hand more tightly.
“That is as my lady pleases,” returned the man. “Within these walls
she may do what she likes, but outside there are the Kurds and the
worshippers of Shaitan, and the Mutesalim will be returning, who has
no fear of the Balio Bey, and therefore the Khanum Effendi, in her
care for my lady, considers that it will be well for her not to leave
the house.”
“Listen to me, O Aga Mansur,” cried Azim Bey, “and upon thy head be it
if thou fail in what I command thee. I leave mademoiselle in thy
charge, and if she suffers any hurt, I swear by my father’s beard that
thou shalt pay for it.”
“Upon my head be it, O my lord,” was the ceremonious answer. “Will it
please my lord now to depart?”
Azim Bey went out with all the dignity he could muster, though the
tears were very near his eyes, while the two strange agas took
Masûd’s place at the gate and proceeded to arrange their belongings
in his room. The door was now shut, and the two captives returned to
the _lewan_ to consider the situation.
“The Khanum Effendi want kill us,” said Um Yusuf, angry and alarmed.
“You got pistol, mademoiselle? knife? dagger?”
“Only a penknife,” said Cecil, wearily. “What does it signify, Um
Yusuf? I don’t believe they mean to kill us, and if they did, a
penknife wouldn’t prevent them.”
But Um Yusuf was not to be silenced. She instituted a methodical
search for arms, and was successful in discovering two table-knives
which had been brought from Baghdad for Cecil’s use. The shape and
size of these made them difficult to carry about the person, but she
concealed them with great care among the cushions of the divan, and
felt happier. At night her fears revived, and she dragged her bed into
her mistress’s room, and insisted on closing the window and
barricading the door with every movable thing she could find, and this
state of siege she maintained with unflagging perseverance. The two
agas took no notice, and seemed to feel little interest in anything
their prisoners did. If their intentions were evil, they feared Um
Yusuf’s precautions too much to put them into execution, and thus days
and weeks slipped by without alarm.
To Cecil the time was one of rest, so much needed as to be almost
welcome. She made little or no attempt to occupy herself with books or
work, but sat on the house-top gazing at the mountains and the sky,
and seldom speaking. Um Yusuf became very uneasy about her, fearing
this quiet acquiescence in her grief almost more than the feverish
excitement of the days before the departure of Azim Bey and the rest.
It seemed to her that her mistress needed rousing and taking out of
herself, and she honestly did her best to effect this, according to
her lights. She encouraged her to sketch, tried in vain to induce her
to study, and even gave herself the trouble of fashioning a
draught-board and set of men, with the aid of one of the precious
table-knives, so that she might invite her to play.
“Why you not write your memoirs, mademoiselle?” she said more than
once. “The Khanum Effendi’s governess, in Tahir Pasha’s house, she
always write when she was alone, say she get great deal of money some
day. She put in all that everybody say, and all the things she not
like.”
“My experiences are not interesting enough,” Cecil would say,
patiently, for she knew that Um Yusuf teased her from the best
possible motives. “I couldn’t write about the things I have really
felt, and who cares nowadays for descriptions of ruins and deserts?
When I am dead, Fitz and Eily and the rest can publish my letters for
their grandchildren’s benefit, if they like, but I won’t do it.”
Um Yusuf would yield for the moment with a sigh, and proceed to relate
stories from her family history, with the view of diverting Cecil’s
mind from her own sorrows, and showing her that there were people
worse off than herself. The stories were all about massacres, and
fearful torments endured at the hands of Moslems and Druses, of a
character to make the listener’s hair stand on end with horror on
ordinary occasions, but Cecil could not be roused into taking more
than a languid interest in the events described. Sometimes she did not
even hear them. It never struck Um Yusuf that this season of absolute
rest was exactly what her mistress needed, coming, as it did, when
body and mind, stunned by a fearful shock, were almost failing under
the effort to carry on the everyday routine of work. There was an
atmosphere of calm which almost amounted to happiness spread over
these days, and Cecil lived through them idly, her mind dwelling in
the past, with no thought of the future. The sense of abiding loss was
always with her, but she lived over again the five years during which
she had known Charlie, and felt almost as though his presence were
near her still. No thought of picturing the infinite sadness of a
return to daily life without him had yet presented itself to trouble
her, just as she had not energy enough to speculate on the duration of
her imprisonment, nor to form any plans as to her future. It was a
time merely of waiting, uncoloured either by hope or despair.