NO PLACE OF REPENTANCE.
The sojourn at Urtas, which had proved so irksome to Cyril, was not
doomed to last much longer. As soon as the watchful Mr Hicks could be
induced, against his better judgment, to allow him to travel, he was
on the road again, riding whenever it was possible. When the country
was so rough as to render horse exercise unsafe for a rider able only
to use one hand, he was content to be conveyed ignominiously in the
mule-litter. In his train followed Mr Hicks, acting both as surgeon
and chronicler. Cyril was well pleased to keep the American supplied
with exclusive information on points of general interest, since he
found him prepared to exercise a wise discretion with regard to
matters of real importance. Mr Hicks asked no more favourable
treatment than this. He had been sent out to write up the Palestine
question for the ‘Crier,’ and how could he do so better than by
encamping continually, so to speak, close to the fountainhead of
information on the subject? His retinue, added to Cyril’s, made an
imposing cavalcade, and the local governors and petty sheikhs honoured
with a visit were duly impressed.
The minds of these functionaries were found to be much perturbed,
owing to the reports which had been spread as to the intentions of the
new government, and it was sometimes a long business to reassure them.
Curiously enough, the worst and most malevolent of the mischief-makers
were the Jews whose families had been settled in the larger towns for
two or more generations. Supported in idleness by means of the
Chalukah--a kind of voluntary tax which the Jews throughout the world
imposed on themselves for the benefit of their poor brethren in
Palestine--these men, quite naturally, were fully satisfied with the
present. The prospect of a future in which their pretensions would be
examined and their privileges curtailed was not enticing. Hard work in
stubborn soil, even on land which was their own, would be a poor
exchange for ease and idleness, and these degenerate Israelites did
their best to avert it by inciting the Moslems to resist the change of
rule. Calumny after calumny was brought forward by the local
authorities, and refuted by Cyril, who made his way to the hardest
hearts by dint of a judicious combination of _bonhomie_ and
_bakhshish_. It is true that the natives, having seen the colour of
his money, and heard of the liberty and other blessings in store for
them, chose to ignore the existence of the Jewish State altogether.
However, since they accepted all Cyril’s suggestions, and agreed to
pay their taxes to the officials whom he should appoint, their belief
that England was about to take possession of the country, and had sent
him in advance as her representative, mattered little.
Owing to the singular success of his labours, Count Mortimer’s journey
through the country bore the aspect of a triumphal progress. When he
arrived at length at Damascus, there remained only the Beni Ismail and
their Desert Queen to be placated before he could announce that the
whole Moslem population of Palestine was well affected towards the new
rule. To gain the goodwill of the Christians was a hopeless task, he
knew; but at this moment they were all fully occupied in intriguing,
with the support of the consuls of the Powers who protected them
respectively, for the aggrandisement of their property or prestige at
the expense of rival sects. Even Bishop Philaret had forgotten the
iniquities of the Jews for a time, and was so hotly engaged in a
controversy with the Latins over a piece of ground some seven feet
square, in which a ruined cistern (which he imagined to be a tomb) had
been discovered, that he had no leisure to waste in attacking Cyril.
As the travellers approached Damascus, it seemed to Mansfield and Mr
Hicks that their pace was faster than it had been at first. Cyril had
become more impatient of delay, less tolerant of any proposal to
digress from the appointed route for the purpose of visiting some
object of interest. They could see that his spirits were variable, in
spite of the rigid self-control which he exercised, and his physician
discovered that for the first time in his life he slept badly night
after night. When they reached the city, however, and had taken up
their quarters in the house of an Oriental cousin of the Chevalier’s,
he was calm and cheerful again. On the first evening of their stay he
was the life of the party, which included a cheerful young Roumi
aide-de-camp of the Vali or Governor-General, who was the bearer of
his superior’s respects and compliments. When the story of their
journeys had been told, Mahmud Fadil Bey had a good deal to say about
the one task that remained to be completed.
“We are all anxious to see how you get on with the Beni Ismail,” he
said, in his excellent French. “They have been a thorn in our side for
many a day, and we shall not be sorry to turn them over to you.”
“What is their peculiar wickedness?” asked Cyril.
Mahmud Fadil shrugged his shoulders. “They are simply an Arab tribe
who inhabit a tract of desert of which almost nothing is known, and
who make themselves rather more disagreeable than the rest. Of course
they have never paid any tribute--though our treasury officials
devised a pleasing fiction that the arrears had been accumulating for
centuries. It was practically a case of our paying tribute to them.
When the usual presents were not forthcoming, it was not long before
we heard that the Beni Ismail had robbed a caravan or two. It was no
use sending soldiers after them, for they knew the desert and we did
not, so we lay low and said nothing.” He glanced smilingly at Mr
Hicks, as he made the quotation in English. “Two years ago there was a
famine, and I suppose caravans became scarce. At any rate, the Beni
Ismail were foolish enough to wander close to the city in search of
food, and the Vali saw his opportunity. He drew a cordon of troops
round their encampment, and arrested them for non-payment of their
taxes. We had very nearly the whole tribe in our hands, and it was
intended to deport them to some other part of the country, where they
would be absolutely at the mercy of the Government. But, somehow or
other, they managed to pay up, though I will do the Vali the justice
to say that he did not diminish the sum he had named by a single
piastre. This tardy virtue was all very well; but he had no intention
of leaving the tribe at liberty to begin their old game again, and the
preparations for removing them were going forward, when--of all
people--the Pannonian Ambassador at Czarigrad took up the affair. It
was said that the Empress of Pannonia was interesting herself in the
creatures, though why she should I don’t know, but we were obliged to
let them go, on the understanding that the taxes should be paid in
future, and the attacks on caravans cease. Wonderful to relate, they
have kept their promise, thanks, I suppose, to their Queen, whom no
one had ever heard of before they got into trouble. It seems that she
holds her Court at some spot in the desert that the Arabs call Sitt
Zeynab. She had been wise enough to keep out of our reach, and we
restored her subjects to her.”
“Do you mean that the lady’s existence had been absolutely
unsuspected?” asked Cyril.
“Absolutely. It was supposed that the tribe were ashamed to confess
they were ruled by a woman, or perhaps afraid that we should make a
bold dash and secure her as a hostage. I believe the idea of appealing
to the Empress was hers, though it is a mystery why she should hit
upon Pannonia as the friend in need.”
“But has no one from Damascus ever seen her?”
“No one. Moreover, I have questioned different members of the tribe,
when they came to bring their tribute, since that time, and I think
very few of them have seen her either. I have been assured by one man
that she is ineffably old and practises magic, and by the next that
she is a perfect _houri_ in youth and beauty. The most credible thing
I have heard is that she is always wrapped in a white sheet, like the
Druse ladies, that she is attended only by women, and that no one has
ever seen her face. The tribe speak of her as the Great Princess, and
her word is law. She is a splendid horse-woman, and she lives in a
haunted palace, and both these things impress them very much.”
“Is that so, sir?” said Mr Hicks. “And why do you expect this
interesting female to come to blows with his Excellency, if I may
ask?”
Mahmud Fadil laughed. “I am afraid we are to blame for that. When the
last tribute came in, the Vali told the messengers that they might
think themselves independent if they liked, but let them wait until
the Prince of the Jews came, and see what all the Emperors in Europe
could do for them then! They asked innumerable questions, and got all
the information of the same kind we could give them, and retired to
tell their Princess, saying that she would know what to do.”
“I think this will involve a visit to her Highness as soon as we have
had two or three days’ rest and a look at Lebanon,” said Cyril.
“I hardly think you will get as far as Sitt Zeynab,” laughed the
aide-de-camp. “No one has ever yet reached it from Damascus, though
many have tried, some out of curiosity, and some for other reasons.
The Beni Ismail alone among the Arabs know the way, and they will
never take any one there. Once or twice we have caught one of the
tribe off his guard, and forced him to take charge of an exploring
party, but the explorers have always returned unsuccessful and without
their guide, after wandering very uncomfortably in the desert for a
few days. It is difficult to see how the place can be reached. We have
offered a reward to the Beni Ayub, a rival tribe, if they will find
out the way to it, but whenever the Beni Ismail discover trespassers
in their country, they cut their trespassing severely short. The town
does not seem to have been visited by any traveller, and the other
Arabs cannot even say how long the Queen has reigned.”
“Decidedly we must face these perils and make a dash for Sitt Zeynab,”
repeated Cyril; “but I intend to spend to-morrow in exploring
Anti-Lebanon.”
When the next day arrived, however, Mr Hicks came into Mansfield’s
room early in the morning, and roused him unceremoniously from a sound
sleep.
“Hullo! am I late?” asked the victim vaguely. “I’ll be down in a
minute. Does the Count want to start already?”
“I want you to start right now,” said Mr Hicks, “if you’re game to do
the boss a kindness at the risk of his turning ugly.”
“Of course I’ll do anything that wants doing,” said Mansfield, yawning
furiously.
“Well, the boss’s strength has just about petered out. This hard
travelling, and holding pow-wows with those old sinners all the time,
has been too much for him, considering he was dead set on getting to
his journey’s end right away. I looked in on him an hour back, at a
word from Dietrich, and found that he hadn’t slept a wink all night,
and was in something very like a fever. I took the liberty of giving
him a sleeping-mixture that will keep him quiet till the evening, you
bet. But if he starts riding up Mount Lebanon to-morrow, and finds
maybe that Queen Ernestine won’t see him at the end, it will about
settle his business. Now, what I want you to do is----”
“To go and see the Queen,” said Mansfield, sitting up in bed.
“If she will permit you; but I want you to go and prospect around at
Brutli, any way. If you are able to see her, start right in and work
on her feelings till she can’t see for crying. I incline to think she
will come down to him at once, but allowing for wounded feelings and
insulted dignity, we’ll conclude that she only sends a message to
invite him up there. But even if you can’t see her, you can find out
when she walks out and where, so that we may bring him face to face
with her suddenly. Don’t give the boss away, of course. To every one
but the Queen you’re a tourist wishing to inspect the Institution, and
my darkey, who knows the country, shall go with you for a guide.”
“All right. I’m your man.” The words followed Mr Hicks as he left the
room, and another hour saw Mansfield set forth on his embassy. The
Citadel, the Seraglio, and the bridge over the Barada left behind, the
route lay for a while along a broad, poplar-bordered road, on either
side of which were white houses set in green gardens. This pleasant
shade came to an end at the foot of the hills, and the rest of the
journey presented itself as a hot and weary climb up steep
mountain-paths, the monotony of which was only occasionally relieved
by a grove of myrtles, or a happy valley with its terraced sides
covered with vineyards and mulberry-trees. The interest which he took
in his mission armed Mansfield against fatigue, and he clattered at a
dangerous pace down slippery paths, and dismounted to lead his horse
up steep ascents, with a dogged persistence which did not commend
itself to Mr Hicks’s elderly servant, who was irreverently known as
Uncle Sam. Two or three brief halts, undertaken purely for the sake of
the horses, failed to mollify Uncle Sam, and when the travellers rode
into the village of Brutli, only to behold the Deaconesses’
Institution towering above them at the head of a further long ascent,
his feelings overcame him. Approaching Mansfield, he hinted darkly
that the consequences would probably be serious for both of them if
they did not pause and lunch, in view of the early hour at which they
had started. Mansfield acquiesced reluctantly, and they asked their
way to the inn, which proved to be a more imposing building than those
in the other villages they had passed. The reason for this superiority
was revealed when the landlord explained with much pride that two
gentlemen and several servants belonging to the household of the Queen
of Thracia had occupied his best rooms for more than two years past,
and that this gratifying fact had obliged him to increase his
accommodation for visitors. He pointed, as he spoke, to a pleasant
vine-shaded verandah on the opposite side of the courtyard, in which a
table was set out in European fashion. A tall thin man had just taken
his seat, and a second European, stout and elderly, was standing at
the edge of the verandah, peering across the yard into the darkness of
the archway in which Mansfield stood. The landlord, with a hurried
apology, hastened towards him, to return in a moment beaming with
smiles, and bearing a request from the Thracian gentlemen that the
English traveller would share their meal. Delighted to find his path
made so smooth, Mansfield crossed the courtyard, to be met by the
short man at the foot of the verandah-steps, and received with
flattering assurances of welcome.
“I am ashamed to intrude upon you in this way,” began the guest.
“Intrude, monsieur! The sight of you is a perfect feast for our eyes,”
was the reply, in very rapid French. “We rejoice to greet one of your
nation. Once we regarded all Englishmen as our friends, now there is
an exception”--the thin man at the table growled indistinctly--“but
there is no need to proscribe a whole people for the fault of one man.
Let me present to you General Banics, formerly governor to his Majesty
the King of Thracia, now master of the household to her Majesty Queen
Ernestine. General, pray do me a similar kindness.”
“Monsieur,” growled the General, “permit me to present to you M. Peter
Stefanovics, grand chamberlain to her Majesty. The coffee is growing
cold, Stefanovics.”
“All in good time,” cried M. Stefanovics, ushering Mansfield into his
place, and bowing himself to the head of the table. “Who can think of
coffee when one sees a new face? We are quite free and easy at this
meal, M. Mansfield, and wait upon ourselves. Madame Stefanovics does
not appear so early in the day.” Mansfield struggled with a look of
astonishment, for the meal which the two Thracians considered as
breakfast he had regarded as a midday lunch. M. Stefanovics caught his
glance.
“Ah, you wonder at our hours, monsieur! But picture to yourself our
life--what is one to do here? We rise, we eat, we proceed to the
Institution to pay our respects to her Majesty, and inquire her
orders. It is very rarely that she honours us with any. We take,
perhaps, a walk or a ride for health’s sake. We return here, the
General sets to work at the military history he is writing, and I--I
go to sleep! Madame Stefanovics spends the afternoon and evening in
attendance upon her Majesty. We dine, we end the day with a game of
cards or dominoes. What would you have? Sometimes her Majesty is good
enough to make an errand for one of us into Damascus, sometimes one
has a week’s leave of absence. Then what dissipation, monsieur! One is
accustomed to Bellaviste, to Vindobona--can you conceive that one
feels a visit to Damascus to be a riotous affair?”
“But why does the Queen condemn you to such a life?” asked Mansfield
indignantly. “What right has she to keep you----”
“Monsieur!” cried General Banics, bristling up like a tiger. M.
Stefanovics laid a soothing hand upon his arm.
“Calm yourself, General. Our friend does not understand. You may not
be aware, monsieur, that General Banics refused the post offered him
in the King’s household in order to attend her Majesty here. The
unhappy events----”
“Stefanovics, you talk too fast,” growled the General.
“My good General, how am I to explain things if you will interrupt me?
Circumstances, monsieur, impelled the General, as a man of honour, to
quit his Majesty’s service and enter that of the Queen. I was already
in her Majesty’s household, and my wife and I followed her here as a
matter of course. She did not ask us to remain. In fact, she entreated
us with tears to return to Thracia and make our peace with her son,
while she retained only her ladies about her person. Would you expect
us to do that, monsieur? to forsake our august mistress when she was
abandoned by all her friends, treated with the most revolting cruelty
by those who ought to have----” an inarticulate remonstrance from the
General. “In a word, monsieur, we are here, and here we stay.”
“You could do nothing else,” said Mansfield warmly. Then, remembering
the object of his journey, he added, with lamentable duplicity, “I was
anxious to see the Institution; but if her Majesty is there, I suppose
visitors are not admitted. Or perhaps there are stated hours?”
“It is always possible to see the Institution, monsieur. Her Majesty
would never consent to interfere with the work of the good sisters,
who are a blessing to the whole countryside. But her own apartments,
and a small enclosed garden upon which they look, are sacred to her.
She receives no one, and she has not quitted the Institution since
first she entered it.”
“Never left the one spot!” cried Mansfield, aghast. “Surely she
must--I mean, has she taken any vows?”
“The Lutherans are not like the Orthodox or the Latins, monsieur, and
their deaconesses are not bound by irrevocable vows. It is her
Majesty’s pleasure not to receive, and it is not for us to question
it. The emissaries of the King and the Princess of Dardania made
themselves so obnoxious on her first arrival that, outraged by their
presumption and persistence, she came to this resolution. And is there
any one who has a right to decide for her Majesty in the matter?”
“Certainly not,” said Mansfield politely, for the tone of the question
was fierce.
“There is a certain person,” pursued M. Stefanovics, “attached to the
household of the Princess of Dardania--a Colonel Czartoriski, I
believe--who has been hanging about this neighbourhood for weeks,
riding up from Damascus day after day, in the hope of being received
by her Majesty and delivering into her hands a letter from his
mistress. Of course he has not been successful. Is it likely that her
Majesty would receive him, when we, her two faithful servants, have
never been permitted to see her face the whole time she has been
here?”
“You have never once seen her?” cried Mansfield.
“Stefanovics, you talk too much,” said General Banics again.
“And why should we be granted such an honour?” asked M. Stefanovics,
trying to cover his confusion. “If her Majesty, deceived and forsaken
by the man she trusted--no, General, I mention no names--and by her
own son, chooses to confine herself to the society of her ladies, who
will venture to blame her? The decision lies entirely with her.”
“Her Majesty’s retirement is very sad, but no doubt it is natural,”
agreed Mansfield, whose heart had sunk lower and lower as he discerned
each fresh obstacle in the way of his mission. In his own mind he was
convinced that the Queen was mad, but in the hope that sheer audacity
might succeed where the courtly training of the two Thracians held
them back, he determined to make an effort to penetrate into her
presence, that he might at least know the worst. He answered with much
patience the questions which M. Stefanovics, who had relieved his mind
by his outburst of confidence, showered upon him, and took his leave
when the meal was over without disclosing on whose behalf he had come.
He observed that neither M. Stefanovics nor the General asked any
questions about the great Palestine scheme, and that they both ignored
the tentative references he made to it; and it seemed to him that to
proclaim himself Cyril’s emissary would be to destroy the small hope
of success he still possessed. Leaving Uncle Sam and the horses at the
inn, he climbed the path to the Institution on foot, and asked the
lame Syrian who acted as porter whether it was possible for him to see
the place. The man bade him enter.
“The lady there is the senior sister,” he said, indicating a stately
woman in the blue dress and white cap of the Königshof deaconesses,
who was passing along the piazza. “She will direct you.”
Stepping forward and bowing to the deaconess, Mansfield repeated his
question in German, and found himself cordially welcomed. The interest
which he displayed as Sister Chriemhild conducted him in due course
through the hospital, the schools, the asylum, and the chapel, was in
no way feigned, for he intended to write Lady Caerleon an account of
his visit, and perhaps Philippa would read it. Nevertheless, his
attention wandered slightly as the tour of inspection drew to a close,
for he had not succeeded in making any allusion to the Queen, and it
seemed impossible to introduce her name naturally and without undue
emphasis. At last he relinquished all attempt at concealment, and
turned suddenly to Sister Chriemhild, who was explaining the methods
of instruction, peculiar to Königshof, which were in use among the
deaconesses.
“Sister, is it possible for me to see Queen Ernestine?”
“Quite impossible,” replied the deaconess, not showing the slightest
surprise at the abrupt question.
“I come from--at least, I have a message for her.”
She looked him straight in the face. “There is only one name that
would justify me in asking one of her Majesty’s ladies to see you and
take charge of your message.”
“I come from Count Mortimer.”
The glow of delight that irradiated Sister Chriemhild’s face
astonished Mansfield, for in view of her grey hair and faded blue eyes
he had not expected to find the deaconess’s heart still young and
sympathetic. She took him into a small parlour, and hurried away.
Presently a stout middle-aged lady in black burst into the room; no
other word will express the excitement which characterised her
entrance. Bitter disappointment overspread her face at the sight of
Mansfield, and she returned his bow with a frigid curtsey.
“Have I the honour of speaking to her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting?”
began Mansfield, perplexed by the change in her manner.
“I am Sophie von Staubach, her Majesty’s lectrice. I am on duty
to-day. You must have heard my name from Count Mortimer. Excuse my
hurry. I could not wait to hear what Sister Chriemhild said. I took it
into my head that the Count was here himself. He always looks so
young, you know,” returned the lady, all in a breath. Her resentment
seemed to have evaporated.
“I am here on Count Mortimer’s behalf,” said Mansfield. “He is at
Damascus, making arrangements with the Roumi authorities for the
benefit of the Jews, and----”
Fräulein von Staubach uttered a little scream. “Sit down,” she said,
pointing to a chair, “and let us talk comfortably. Then Count Mortimer
is the Prince of the Jews, after all? Now tell me----”
She poured forth her questions. Where was Cyril staying, what was the
exact nature of his present occupation, how long had Mansfield known
him, what had he been doing since he left Thracia, did he look any
older, did he often mention the Queen, what was his object in seeking
her out?--and so on, without a pause. Mansfield answered her inquiries
as fully as she would let him, describing Cyril’s condition with all
the pathos he could command, and felt that success was in his grasp
when Fräulein von Staubach, who had been making occasional dabs at
her eyes with her handkerchief, suddenly broke down and wept noisily.
“Of course he treated the dear Queen abominably, but I have always
longed that he should come back and make it up with her,” she sobbed.
“Then will you tell me how I can see her Majesty, Fräulein?”
Mansfield felt it advisable not to protest against the lady’s opinion
of Cyril’s behaviour, but his self-suppression failed of its effect.
Fräulein von Staubach started violently, sat up and wiped her eyes,
and looked at him severely.
“It is quite evident that you are not accustomed to courts, sir,” she
said. “Her Majesty has not commanded you to wait upon her, I believe?”
“How could she, when she didn’t know of my existence?” asked
Mansfield, with not unreasonable impatience. “But if you will be kind
enough to tell her why I am here, no doubt she will allow me to wait
upon her.”
“It is impossible--quite impossible,” said the lady, nervously.
“Because her Majesty only receives ladies? But I am merely a
messenger--Count Mortimer’s messenger.”
“I know; but it is out of the question--I dare not--I mean, I cannot,”
stammered Fräulein von Staubach, with more distress than the occasion
seemed to warrant.
“Well, then, at least you will help to bring them together. Count
Mortimer will ride up here to-morrow, and you will manage to admit him
into the Queen’s private garden?”
“You won’t understand!” she cried. “Her Majesty’s decision is
irrevocable. Nothing I could do would induce her to alter it. If Count
Mortimer were here at this moment, and if he presented himself day
after day, entreating her Majesty to receive him, it would have no
effect.”
“But surely, Fräulein, her Majesty must be very much changed if this
is the case? And yet, from all you have been saying, I should almost
have thought she would be glad to see Count Mortimer.”
Fräulein von Staubach flushed angrily. “I cannot answer for her
Majesty,” she said, with dignity, “and you have no right to put an
interpretation of your own on my unguarded remarks, sir. The utmost I
can do for Count Mortimer is to watch for an opportunity of bringing
his name to the Queen’s recollection; and I shall certainly not have
the chance for a fortnight, perhaps a month. It is useless for the
Count to come here at present.”
Mansfield gazed at her aghast. This could only mean that the Queen was
mad, but enjoyed occasional lucid intervals. “Fräulein,” he said
reluctantly, “I entreat you to pardon me, but I must ask you a very
important question. Is it unhappily the case that her Majesty is--that
her troubles have--that her mind is affected?”
Fräulein von Staubach rose and glared at him before she could find
words to reply. “Oh, that is what your master wants to know, is it?”
she cried. “Go back and tell him that if she is mad he has made her
so. He wishes to free himself from her and marry the Princess of
Dardania, does he? Oh, yes; Princess Anna Mirkovics heard of his
recent proceedings from Colonel Czartoriski when she was on duty here.
Mad, indeed! her Majesty mad! Out of the way, sir; let me pass. You
have insulted my august mistress.”
“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Mansfield, amazed by this sudden burst of
passion. It was so timely that it might almost seem to have occurred
in order to afford the lady an excuse for terminating the interview,
but he was between her and the door. “If you refuse to answer me, I
must sorrowfully conclude that my conjecture was well founded. Is that
the message I am to take back to Count Mortimer?”
“Do you call yourself sane?” demanded Fräulein von Staubach
viciously; “because her Majesty is far saner than you are. You thought
she was mad, did you? No; you may tell Count Mortimer that if his
object was to drive her mad, he failed. Let me pass, sir!”
She swept out of the room in a whirlwind of righteous indignation. As
for Mansfield, he took a sorrowful leave of Sister Chriemhild, walked
down regretfully to the spot at which he had told Uncle Sam to meet
him with the horses, and rode back to Damascus with a gloomy
countenance. He had felt so sure of success, so confident of bringing
back with him some message, though perhaps only a word or two, from
the Queen to Cyril, and he had accomplished nothing. It was possible,
even, that he had done harm, and he began to wonder what Cyril would
think of the way in which Mr Hicks and he had meddled in his affairs.