It often happens, when our hopes are raised to the highest pitch of
expectation, and when we think we are on the eve of realizing our
well-considered plans, that an unexpected obstacle arises in our path,
like the impenetrable wall which so often in our dreams suddenly
interposes itself between us and the enemy we are pursuing. At such
moments we are apt to despair of ourselves, and it is the inability to
rise above this dejection at the important crisis which too often causes
failure. After we had discovered the watch, and after Balsamides had
traced it to the house of Laleli Khanum Effendi, it seemed to me that
the end could not be far. It could not be an operation of superhuman
difficulty to bribe some one in the harem to tell us what we wanted to
know. In a few days this might be accomplished, and we should learn the
fate of Alexander Patoff.
It was at this point, however, that failure awaited us. The house of
Laleli was impenetrable. The scheme to establish communication by means
of the story-teller did not succeed. The old woman was received once,
but saw nothing, and never succeeded in gaining admittance again. Selim,
the Lala, ceased at that time to pay regular visits to Stamboul on
Thursday, and Balsamides realized that he had perhaps not done wisely in
letting him go free from the bazaar. We paid several visits to Yeni Koej,
and contemplated the dismal exterior of the Khanum's villa. High walls
of mud and stone surrounded it on all sides except the front, and there
the long, low wooden facade exhibited only its double row of latticed
windows, overlooking the water, while two small doors, which were always
closed, constituted the entrance from the narrow stone quay. Nothing
could penetrate those lattices, nor surmount the blank steepness of
those walls. Our only means of reaching the interior of the dwelling and
the secrets which perhaps were hidden there lay in our power over Selim;
but the Lala had no difficulty in eluding us, and either kept resolutely
within doors, or sallied out in company with his mistress. It was
remarkable, however, that we had never met him in charge of the ladies
of the harem, as Paul had so often met him during the summer when
Alexander had made his visit to his brother. We went to every place
where Turkish ladies are wont to resort in their carriages during the
winter, but we never saw Selim nor the lady with the thick veil.
Meanwhile, Paul grew nervous, and his anxiety for the result of our
operations began to show itself in his face. I had written to John
Carvel, and he had replied that he was making his preparations, and
would soon join us. Then Macaulay Carvel arrived, and, having found
Paul, came with him to see me. The young man's delight at being at last
appointed to Constantinople knew no bounds, and he almost became
enthusiastic in his praises of the city and the scenery. He smiled
perpetually, and was smoother than ever in speech and manner. Balsamides
conceived a strong dislike for him, but condescended to treat him with
civility in consideration of the fact that he was Paul's cousin and the
son of my old friend.
Indeed, Macaulay had every reason to be happy. He had succeeded in
getting transferred to the East, where he could see his cousin every
day; he was under one of the most agreeable and kind-hearted chiefs in
the service; and now his whole family had determined to spend the summer
with him. What more could the heart of a good boy desire? It was rather
odd that Paul should like him so much, I thought. It seemed as though
Patoff, who was inclined to repel all attempts at intimacy, and who at
four-and-thirty years of age was comparatively friendless, was touched
by the admiration of his younger cousin, and had for him a sort of
half-paternal affection, which was quite enough to satisfy the modest
expectations of the quiet young man. Yet Macaulay was far from being a
match for Paul in any respect. Where Paul exhibited the force of his
determination by intelligent hard work, Macaulay showed his desire for
excellence by doggedly memorizing in a parrot-like way everything which
he wished to know. Where Paul was enthusiastic, Macaulay was
conscientious. Where Paul was original, Macaulay was a studious but dull
imitator of the originality of others. Instead of Paul's indescribable
air of good-breeding, Macaulay possessed what might be called a
well-bred respectability. Where Paul was bold, Macaulay exhibited a
laudable desire to do his duty.
Yet Macaulay Carvel was not to be despised on account of his high-class
mediocrity. He did his best, according to his lights. He endeavored to
improve the shining hour, and admired the busy little bee, as he had
been taught to do in the nursery. If he had not the air of a
thoroughbred, he had none of the plebeian clumsiness of the cart-horse.
Though he was not the man to lead a forlorn hope, he was no coward; and
though he had not invented gunpowder, he had the requisite intelligence
to make use of already existing inventions under the direction of
others. He had a way of remembering what he had learned laboriously
which his brilliant chief found to be very convenient, and he was a
useful secretary. His admiration for Paul was the honest admiration
which many a young man feels for those qualities which he does not
possess, but which he believes he can create in himself by closely
imitating the actions of others.
It is unnecessary to add that Macaulay was discreet, and that in the
course of a few days he was put in possession of the details of what had
occurred. I had feared at first that his presence might irritate Paul,
in the present state of affairs, but I soon found out that the younger
man's uniformly cheerful, if rather colorless, disposition seemed to
act like a sort of calming medicine upon his cousin's anxious moods.
"That fellow Carvel," Balsamides would say, "is the ultimate expression
of your Western civilization, which tends to make all men alike. I
cannot understand why you are both so fond of him. To me he is insipid
as boiled cucumber. He ought to be a banker's clerk instead of a
diplomatist. The idea of his serving his country is about as absurd as
hunting bears with toy spaniels."
"You do not do him justice," I always answered. "You forget that the
days of original and personal diplomacy are over, or very nearly over.
Plenipotentiaries now are merely persons who have an unlimited credit at
the telegraph office. The clever ones complain that they can do nothing
without authority; the painstaking ones, like Macaulay Carvel,
congratulate themselves that they need not use their own judgment in any
case whatever. They make the best government servants, after all."
"When servants begin to think, they are dangerous. That is quite true,"
was Gregorios' scornful retort; and I knew how useless it was to attempt
to convince him. Nevertheless, I believe that as time proceeded he began
to respect Macaulay on account of his extreme calmness. The young man
had made up his mind that he would not be astonished in life, and had
therefore systematically deadened his mental organs of astonishment, or
the capacity of his mental organs for being astonished. As no one has
the least idea what a mental organ is, one phrase is about as good as
another.
We had not advanced another step in our investigations, in spite of all
our efforts, when we received news that the Carvels, accompanied by
Madame Patoff and Chrysophrasia Dabstreak, were on their way to
Constantinople. We had looked at several houses which we thought might
suit them, but as the season was advancing we supposed that John would
prefer to spend the remainder of the spring in a hotel, and then engage
a villa on the Bosphorus, at Therapia or Buyukdere. At last the day came
for their arrival, and Macaulay took the kavass of his embassy with him
to facilitate the operations of the custom-house. Paul did not go with
him, thinking it best not to meet his mother, for the first time since
her recovery, in the hubbub of landing. I, however, went with Macaulay
Carvel on board the Varna boat. In a few minutes we were exchanging
happy greetings on the deck of the steamer, and in the midst of the
confusion I was presented to Madame Patoff.
She was not changed since I had seen her last, except that she now
looked quietly at me and offered her hand. Her fine features were
perhaps a little less pale, her dark eyes were a little less cold, and
her small traveling-bonnet concealed most of her thick gray hair. She
was dressed in a simple costume of some neutral tint which I cannot
remember, and she wore those long loose gauntlets commonly known as
Biarritz gloves. I thought her less tall and less imposing than when I
had seen her in the black velvet which it was her caprice to wear during
the period of her insanity; but she looked more natural, too, and at
first sight one would have merely said that she was a woman of sixty,
who had once been beautiful, and who had not lost the youthful
proportions of her figure. As I observed her more closely in the broad
daylight, on the deck of the steamer, however, I began to see that her
face was marked by innumerable small lines, which followed the shape of
her features like the carefully traced shadows of an engraving; they
crossed her forehead, they made labyrinths of infinitesimal wrinkles
about her eyes, they curved along the high cheek-bones and the somewhat
sunken cheeks, and they surrounded the mouth and made shadings on her
chin. They were not like ordinary wrinkles. They looked as though they
had been drawn with infinite precision and care by the hand of a cunning
workman. To me they betrayed an abnormally nervous temperament, such as
I had not suspected that Madame Patoff possessed, when in the yellow
lamp-light of her apartment her white skin had seemed so smooth and
even. But she was evidently in her right mind, and very quiet, as she
gave me her hand, with the conventional smile which we use to convey the
idea of an equally conventional satisfaction when a stranger is
introduced to us.
John was delighted to see me, and was more like his old self than when I
had last seen him. Mrs. Carvel's gentle temper was not ruffled by the
confusion of landing, and she greeted me as ever, with her sweet smile
and air of sympathetic inquiry. Chrysophrasia held out her hand, a very
forlorn hope of anatomy cased in flabby kid. She also smiled, as one may
fancy that a mosquito smiles in the dark when it settles upon the nose
of some happy sleeper. I am sure that mosquitoes have green eyes,
exactly of the hue of Chrysophrasia's.
"So deliciously barbarous, is it not, Mr. Griggs?" she murmured,
subduing the creaking of her thin voice.
"Dear Mr. Griggs, I am so awfully glad to see you again," said Hermione
with genuine pleasure, as she laid her little hand in mine.
It seemed to me that Hermione was taller and thinner than she had been
in the winter. But there was something womanly in her lovely face, as
she looked at me, which I had not seen before. Her soft blue eyes were
more shaded,--not more sad, but less carelessly happy than they used to
be,--and the delicate color was fainter in her transparent skin. There
was an indescribable look of gravity about her, something which made me
think that she was very much in earnest with her life.
"Paul is at the hotel," I said, rather loudly, when the first meeting
was over. "He has made everything comfortable for you up there. The
kavass will see to your things. Let us go ashore at once, out of all
this din."
We left the steamer, and landed where the carriages were waiting. John
talked all the time, recounting the incidents of the journey, the
annoyance they had had in crossing the Danube at Rustchuk, the rough
night in the Black Sea, the delight of watching the shores of the
Bosphorus in the morning. When we landed, Chrysophrasia turned suddenly
round and surveyed the scene.
"We are not in Constantinople at all," she said, in a tone of bitter
disappointment.
"No," said Macaulay; "nobody lives in Stamboul. This is Galata, and we
are going up to Pera, which is the European town, formerly occupied by
the Genoese, who built that remarkable tower you may have observed from
the harbor. The place was formerly fortified, and the tower has now been
applied to the use of the fire brigade. Much interest is attached"----
How long Macaulay would have continued his lecture on Galata Tower is
uncertain. Chrysophrasia interrupted him in disgust.
"A fire brigade!" she exclaimed. "We might as well be in America at
once. Really, John, this is a terrible disappointment. A fire brigade!
Do not tell me that the people here understand the steam-engine,--pray
do not! All the delicacy of my illusions is vanishing like a dream!"
Chrysophrasia sometimes reminds me of a certain imperial sportsman who
once shot an eagle in the Tyrol.
"An eagle!" he cried contemptuously, when told what it was. "Gentlemen,
do not trifle with me,--an eagle always has two heads. This must be some
other bird."
In due time we reached the hotel. Paul was standing in the doorway, and
came forward to help the ladies as they descended from the carriage,
greeting them one by one. When his mother got out, he respectfully
kissed her hand. To the surprise of most of us, Madame Patoff threw her
arms round his neck, and embraced him with considerable emotion.
"Dear, dear Paul,--my dear son!" she cried. "What a happy meeting!"
Paul was evidently very much astonished, but I will do him the credit to
say that he seemed moved as he kissed his mother on both cheeks, for his
face was pale and he appeared to tremble a little.
The travelers were conducted to their rooms by Macaulay, and I saw no
more of them. But John insisted that I should dine with them in the
evening. In the mean while I went home, and found Gregorios reading, as
usual when he was not on duty at Yildiz-Kioeshk,--the "Star-Palace,"
where the Sultan resides.
"Have you deposited your friends in a place of safety?" he asked,
looking up from his book. "Have they all come,--even the old maid with
the green eyes, and the mad lady whom Patoff is so unfortunate as to
call his mother?"
"All," I answered. "They are real English people, and my old friend John
Carvel is the patriarch of the establishment. There are maid-servants
and men-servants, and more boxes than any house in Pera will hold. The
old lady seems perfectly sane again."
"Then she will probably die," said Gregorios, reassuringly. "Crazy
people almost always have a lucid interval before death."
"You take a cheerful view," I observed.
"Fate would confer a great benefit on Patoff by removing his mother from
this valley of tears," returned my friend. "Besides, as our proverb
says, mad people are the only happy people. Madame Patoff, in passing
from insanity to sanity, has therefore fallen from happiness to
unhappiness."
"If all your proverbs were true, the world would be a strange place."
"I will not discuss the inexhaustible subject of the truth of proverbs,"
answered Balsamides. "I only doubt whether Madame Patoff will be happy
now that she is sane, and whether the uncertainty of the issue of our
search may not drive her mad again. She will probably spoil everything
by chattering at all the embassies. By the by, since we are on the
subject of death, lunacy, and other similar annoyances, I may as well
tell you that Laleli is very ill, and it is not expected that she can
live. I heard it this morning on very good authority."
"That is rather startling," I said.
"Very. Dying people sometimes make confessions of their crimes, but to
hear the confession you must be there when they are about to give up the
ghost."
"That is impossible in this case, unless you can get into the harem as a
doctor."
"Who knows? We must make a desperate attempt of some kind. Leave it to
me, and do not be surprised if I do not appear for a day or two. I have
made up my mind to strike a blow. You are too evidently a Frank to be of
any use. I wish you were a Turk, Griggs. You have such an enviably sober
appearance. You speak Turkish just well enough to make me wish you would
never betray yourself by little slips in the verbs and mistakes in using
Arabic words. Only educated Osmanlis can detect those errors: just now
they are the very people we want to deceive."
"I can pass for anything else here without being found out," I answered.
"I can pass for a Persian when there are no Persians about, or for a
Panjabi Mussulman, if necessary."
"That is an idea. You might be an Indian Hadji. I will think of it."
"What in the world do you intend to do?" I asked, suspecting my friend
of some rash or violent project.
"A very sly trick," he replied, with his usual sarcastic smile. "There
need not necessarily be any violence about it, unless we find Alexander
alive, in which case you and I must manage to get him out of the house."
"Tell me your plan," I said. "Let me hear what it is like."
"No; I will tell you to-night, when I know whether it is possible or
not. You are going to dine with your friends? Yes; very well, when you
have finished, come here, and we will see what can be done. We must only
pray that the iniquitous old woman may live till morning."
It was clear that Gregorios was not ready, and that nothing would induce
him to speak what was in his mind. I showed no further curiosity, and at
the appointed time I left the house to go and dine with the Carvels.
"Say nothing to Patoff," said Balsamides, as I went out.
I found the Carvels assembled in their sitting-room, and we went to
dinner. I could not help looking from time to time at Paul's mother, who
surprised me by her fluent conversation and perfect self-possession.
With the exception that she was present and that Professor Cutter was
absent, the dinner was very much like the meals at Carvel Place. I
noticed that Paul was placed between Mrs. Carvel and his mother, while
Hermione was on the opposite side of the table. But their eyes met
constantly, and there was evidently a perfect understanding between
them. Paul looked once more as I had seen him when he was talking to
Hermione in England, and the coldness I so much disliked had temporarily
disappeared from his face. I did not know what had occurred during the
afternoon, since I had left the hotel, and it was not until later that I
learned some of the details of the meeting.
When the members of the party retired to their rooms, on arriving at
Missiri's, Macaulay had gone off with his father, and Paul had been left
alone for a few minutes in the sitting-room. When all was quiet,
Hermione opened her door softly and looked in. Paul was standing by the
chimney-piece, contemplating the smouldering logs with the interest of a
man who has nothing to do. He raised his head suddenly, and saw that
Hermione had entered the room and was standing near him. She had taken
off her traveling-hat, and her golden hair was in some disorder, but the
tangled coils and waves of it only showed more perfectly how beautiful
she was. She came forward, and he, too, left his place. She took his
hands rather timidly in hers.
"Paul--I never meant that you should go!" she exclaimed, while the tears
stood in her eyes. "Why did you take me so literally at my word?"
"It was better, darling," said he, drawing her nearer to him. "You were
quite right. I could not bear the idea of any one being free to speak to
me as your aunt did; but I was very unhappy. How could I know that you
were coming here so soon?"
"I did not know," she said simply. "But I was very unhappy, too, and the
days seemed so long. I could worship my brother for bringing it about."
"So could I," answered Paul, rather absently. He was looking down into
her eyes that met his so trustfully. "Do you really and truly believe in
me, Hermione?" he asked.
"Indeed I do; I always did!" she cried passionately. Then he kissed her
very tenderly, and held her in his arms.
"Thank you,--thank you, my darling," he murmured in her ear.
Presently they stood by the chimney-piece, still holding each other's
hands.
"I must speak to your father," he said. "You know his way. He wrote all
about it to Griggs, telling him to show me the letter."
"I could not keep the secret to myself any longer," she answered. "And I
knew that papa loved me and liked you."
"Yes, dear, you were quite right," said Paul. "But I did not mean to
tell him, after what happened that evening, until I had found my
brother. Do you know? I have almost found him. I hope to reach the end
in a day or two."
"Oh, Paul! that is splendid!" cried Hermione. "I knew you would. You
must tell me all about it."
There was a sound of footsteps in one of the rooms. Hermione slipped
quickly away, and throwing a kiss towards Paul with her fingers,
disappeared through the door by which she had entered, leaving him once
more alone. The moments of their meeting had been few and short, but
they had more than sufficed to show that these two loved each other as
much as ever. Some time afterwards Paul had been alone with his mother
for half an hour and had frankly asked her whether she was able to hear
him speak of Alexander or not. Her face twitched nervously, but she
answered calmly enough that she wished to hear all he had to tell. But
when he had finished she shook her head sadly.
"You may find out how he died, but you will never find him," she said.
Then, with a sudden energy which startled Paul, she gazed straight into
his eyes. "You know that you cannot," she added, almost savagely.
"I do not know, mother," he answered, calmly. "I still have hope."
Madame Patoff looked down, and seemed to regain her self-control almost
immediately. The long habit of concealing her feelings, which she had
acquired when deceiving Professor Cutter, stood her in good stead, and
she had not forgotten what she had studied so carefully. But Paul had
seen the angry glance of her eyes, and the excited tone of her voice
still rang in his ears. He guessed that, although she had come to
Constantinople with the full intention of forgetting the accusations she
had once uttered, the mere sight of him was enough to bring back all her
virulent hatred. She still believed that he had killed his brother. That
was clear from her words, and from the tone in which they were spoken.
Whether the thought was a delusion, or whether she sanely believed Paul
to be a murderer, made little difference. Her mind was evidently still
under the influence of the idea. But Paul determined that he would hold
his peace, and it was not until later, when all necessity for
concealment was removed, that I learned what had passed. Paul believed
that in a few days he should certainly solve the mystery of Alexander's
disappearance, and thus effectually root out his mother's suspicions.
All this had occurred before dinner, and without my knowledge. Madame
Patoff seemed determined to be agreeable and to make everything go
smoothly. Even Chrysophrasia relaxed a little, as we talked of the city
and of what the party must see.
"I am afraid," said I, "that you do not find all this as Oriental as you
expected, Miss Dabstreak."
"Ah, no!" she sighed. "If by 'this' you mean the hotel, it is European,
and unpleasantly so at that."
"I think it is a very good hotel; and this rice--what do you call
it?--is very good, too," said John Carvel, who was tasting pilaff for
the first time.
"Your carnal love of food always shocks me, John," murmured
Chrysophrasia. "But I dare say there is a good deal that is Oriental on
the other side. There, I am sure, we should be sitting on very precious
carpets, and eating sweetmeats with golden spoons, while some fair young
Circassian slave sang wild melodies and played upon a rare old inlaid
lute."
"Yes," I answered. "I have dined with Turks in Stamboul."
"Oh, do describe it!" exclaimed Miss Dabstreak.
"We squatted on the floor around a tiny table, and we devoured ragouts
of mutton and onions with our fingers," I said.
"How very disgusting!" Miss Dabstreak made an unaesthetic grimace, and
looked at me with profound contempt.
"But I suppose they eat other things, Griggs?" asked John, laughing.
"Yes. But mutton and onions and pilaff are the staple of their
consumption. They eat jams of all sorts. Sometimes soup is brought in in
a huge bowl, and put down in the middle of the table. Then each one dips
in his spoon in the order of precedence, and eats as much as he can.
They will give you a dozen courses in half an hour, and they never speak
at their meals if they can help it."
"Pigs!" exclaimed Chrysophrasia, whose delicacy did not always assert
itself in her selection of epithets.
"No; I assure you," I objected, "they are nothing of the kind. They
consider it cleaner to eat with their fingers, which they can wash
themselves, than with forks, which are washed in a common bath of
soapsuds by the grimy hands of a scullery maid. It is not so
unreasonable."
"You have such a terrible way of putting things, Mr. Griggs!" exclaimed
Mrs. Carvel in a tone of gentle protest. "But I dare say," she added, as
though fearing lest her mild rebuke should have hurt my feelings,--"I
dare say you are quite right."
"To tell the truth," I answered, "I am rather fond of the Turks."
"I have always noticed," remarked Madame Patoff, "that you Americans
generally admire people who live under a despotic government. Americans
all like Russia and Russians."
"Our government is not quite despotic," observed Paul, who felt bound to
defend his country. "We have laws, and the laws are respected. The Czar
would not think of acting against the established law, even though in
theory he might."
"The Turks must have laws, too," objected Madame Patoff.
"I don't know," said Chrysophrasia. "I already feel a delicious
sensation, as though I might be strangled with a bow-string at any
moment and dropped into the Bosphorus."
John Carvel looked very grave. Perhaps he was offering up a silent
prayer to the end that such a consummation might soon be reached; but
more probably he considered the topic of sudden death by violence as one
to be avoided. Macaulay Carvel came to the rescue.
"The Turks have laws," he said, fluently. "All their law is founded upon
the Koran, and they are most ingenious in making the Koran answer the
purpose of our more learned and therefore more efficacious codes. The
Supreme Court really exists in the person of the Sheik ul Islam, who may
be called the High Pontiff, a sort of Pontifex Maximus with judicial
powers. All important cases are ultimately referred to him, and as most
of these important cases are connected with the Vakuf, the real estate
held by the mosques, like our glebe lands at home, it follows that the
Sheik ul Islam generally decides in favor of his own class, who are the
Ulema, or priests. The consequences of this mode of administering the
laws are very"----
"Capital!" exclaimed John Carvel. "Where on earth did you learn all
that, my boy?"
"I began to coach the East when I saw there was a chance of my coming
here," answered Macaulay, much pleased at his father's acknowledgment of
his learning. It struck me that the young man had got his information
out of some rather antiquated book, in which no mention was made of the
present division of the civil and criminal courts under the Ministry of
Justice, and of the ecclesiastical courts under the Sheik ul Islam. But
I held my peace, being grateful to Macaulay for delivering his lecture
at the right moment. Mrs. Carvel looked with undisguised admiration at
her son, and even Hermione smiled and felt proud of her brother.
"Wonderful, this modern education, is it not?" said John Carvel, turning
to me.
"Amazing," I replied.
"I want to see all those delightful creatures, you know," said
Chrysophrasia. "The Sultan and the Sheik--what do you call him?"
"Sheik ul Islam," said the ready Macaulay.
"Sheik Ool is lamb!" repeated Chrysophrasia, thoughtfully. "Lamb,--so
symbolical in our own very symbolic religion. It means so much, you
know."
"Chrysophrasia!" ejaculated Mary Carvel, in a tone of gentle reproach.
She thought she detected the far-off shadow of a possible irreverence in
her sister's tone. Macaulay again interposed, while Paul and I
endeavored to avoid each other's eyes, lest we should be overtaken by an
explosion of laughter.
"It is '_Is_lam,' not 'is _lamb_,' aunt Chrysophrasia," said Macaulay,
mildly.
"I don't see much difference," retorted Miss Dabstreak, "except that you
say it _is_ lamb, and I say it is _lamb_. Oh! you mean it is one
word,--yes; I dare say," she added quickly, in some confusion. "Of
course, I don't speak Turkish."
"It is Arabic," observed the implacable Macaulay.
"John," said Chrysophrasia, ignoring the correction with a fine
indifference, "we must see everything at once. When shall we begin?"
The question effectually turned the conversation, for all the party were
anxious to see what Macaulay was equally anxious to show, having himself
only seen each sight once. The remainder of the time while we sat at
table was occupied in discussing the various expeditions which the party
must undertake in order to see the city and its surroundings
systematically. After dinner John and I remained behind for a while.
Paul wanted to talk to Hermione, and Macaulay, who was the most domestic
of young men, preferred the society of his mother and aunts, whom he had
not seen for several months, to the smell of cigars and Turkish coffee.
"What do you think of her?" asked John Carvel when we were alone. "She
seems perfectly sane, does she not?"
"Perfectly. What proves it best is the way she treats Paul. She is very
affectionate. I suppose there is no fear of a relapse?"
"I hope not, I hope not!" repeated John fervently. "She has behaved
admirably during the journey. Now, about Paul," he continued, lowering
his voice a little: "how does he strike you since you have known him
better? You have seen him every day for some time. What sort of a fellow
is he?"
"I think he is very much in earnest," I answered.
"Yes, yes,--no doubt. But you know what I mean, Griggs: is he the kind
of man to whom I can give my daughter? That is what I am thinking of. I
know that he works hard and will succeed, and all that."
"I can tell you what I think," said I, "but you must form your own
judgment as well. I like Paul very much, but you must like him too,
before you decide. In my opinion he is a man of fine character,
scrupulously honest, and not at all capricious. I cannot say more."
"A little wild when he was younger?" suggested John.
"Not very, I am sure. He was unhappy in his childhood; he was one of
those boys who make up their minds to work, and who grow so fond of it
that they go on working when other boys begin to play."
"Very odd," observed John. "He is not at all a prig."
"No, indeed. He is as manly a fellow as you could meet, and at first
sight he does not produce the impression of being so serious as he is. I
think that is put on. He once told me that he had made a study of small
talk and of the art of appearing well, because he thinks it so important
in his career. I dare say he is right. He knows a great deal, and knows
it thoroughly."
"He does not know any more than Macaulay," said John, as though in
praising Paul I had attacked his son. "What a clever fellow he is! I
only wish he were a little tougher,--just a little more shell to him, I
mean."
"He will get that," I answered. "He is younger than Paul, and has not
seen so much of the world."
"You say you like Paul. Do you think he would make a good husband?"
"Yes, I really believe he would," I replied. "But do not take him on my
recommendation. You must know him better yourself. You will meet many
people here who know him, and some who know him well."
"What do you think of that story about his brother?" asked John, looking
at me very earnestly.
"I believe he is as innocent as you or I. But we are getting near the
truth, and have made some valuable discoveries."
I explained to Carvel what we had found, and without mentioning the name
of Laleli Khanum I told him how far we had traced the mystery, and he
listened with profound interest to my account.
"I hope you may find him alive," he said, as we rose from the table.
"For my part, I do not believe we shall ever see him. Paul was alone
with his mother this afternoon, and I dare say he told her what you have
told me. She does not seem to object to the subject, though of course we
generally avoid it."
I stayed an hour longer with the party, during which time Paul talked a
great deal to Hermione, occasionally joining in the general
conversation, and certainly not trying to prevent what he said to the
young girl from being heard. At last I took my leave and went home, for
I was anxious to see Gregorios, and to hear from him what plan he
proposed to adopt for the solution of our difficulties at this critical
moment. I found him waiting for me.
"Have you made up your mind?" I asked.
Balsamides was sitting beside his table with a book. He looked even
paler than usual, and was evidently more excited than he liked to own.
He is eminently a man who loves danger, and his nature never warms so
genially as when something desperate is to be done. A Christian by race
and belief, he has absorbed much of the fatalism of the Oriental races,
and his courage is of the fatalist kind, reckless and devoted.
"Yes," he answered. "I have made up my mind. One must either be the
camel or the camel-driver. One must either submit to the course of
events, or do something to violently change their direction. If we
submit much longer, we shall lose the game. The old woman will die,--the
Turkish women always die when they are ill; and if she is once dead
without confessing, we may give up all hope."
"We should always have Selim to examine," I remarked.
"If Laleli Khanum dies, Selim will disappear the same hour,--laying
hands on everything within reach, of course. How could we catch him? He
would cross the Bosphorus, put on a disguise of some sort, and make his
way to Egypt in no time. Those fellows are very cunning."
"Then you mean to try and extort a confession from Laleli herself? How
in the world do you mean to do it? It is a case of life or death."
"I have got life and death in my pocket," answered Gregorios, his eyes
beginning to sparkle. "Can you read Turkish? Of course you can. Read
that."