“THE BITTER CLOSE OF ALL.”
“Phil, I want a word or two with you.”
“I’m so glad, father. I’ve been longing for a talk. Let us come up to
the roof.”
They mounted to the marble terrace, shaded by orange-trees in pots,
and Lord Caerleon began to pull off withered leaves as busily as if he
had had no other intention in coming. Suddenly he turned to his
daughter, who sat watching him patiently, the usual sparkle of fun
missing from her blue eyes.
“Phil, the King wants your answer. You promised he should have it the
day after the wedding, and that is to-day.”
“I don’t think he ought to take a mean advantage of your having put
the wedding forward two days, do you, father? But perhaps it’s as well
to get it over.”
“I--I hope you’ve thought what you’re doing, Phil?”
“Well, it hasn’t needed very much thought. I have known all along what
I should say.”
“Phil,” Lord Caerleon spoke with tremendous energy, “I am awfully
anxious about you. It’s not that I distrust your common-sense, for you
are old enough to judge for yourself, nor that I suspect you for a
moment of intending to marry for the sake of a crown. But I was
talking things over with your mother last night, and she is very much
cut up--afraid that your sense of duty will lead you to accept the
King. I don’t want to bias you unfairly--we have always prided
ourselves on leaving you as free as possible--but you may not have
thought what such a marriage would involve. I have tested the delights
of royalty, you know, and I felt that I could not stand it alone. With
your mother to help me I might have managed it, but--you know how
things fell out. I suppose it may be different when you are born to
it--I am sure I hope so for the sake of all royal personages--but I am
absolutely certain that my little girl could never support such a
burden and that of a loveless marriage at the same time. I am only
thinking of your happiness, Phil.”
“Oh, father, I know that. But I’m not nearly as good as you and mother
think. I never dreamed of accepting the King.”
“Phil, Phil! then why did you take time to consider his offer?”
“Don’t look so miserable, father. Can’t you really guess? It was just
after the Queen--Aunt Ernestine, I mean--and I had found out about
poor Uncle Cyril. She begged me to keep the King in a good temper, and
this was the only way of doing it. And it was quite successful, you
see. He has been on his best behaviour the whole time, and everything
has gone off well.”
“And now?”
“Oh, now,” Philippa shook herself uncomfortably,--“now I have to pay
the bill.”
“I’ll settle matters with the King for you, Phil. It wasn’t like you
to do such a thing, and I shall be horribly ashamed, but your
intention was good, at any rate.”
“No, father, I won’t put it upon you. I am the sinner, and I must bear
the penalty. Yes, I suppose it was rather like doing evil that good
might come, wasn’t it? You can’t think how wicked and miserable I have
felt, and Usk and--people--have been so horrid, and I couldn’t
explain. But you see how it was, don’t you? I would have done anything
to help Uncle Cyril.”
“Yes, I see, Phil. But I am more sorry than I can say. I am
afraid----”
“Oh, father, don’t say you are disappointed in me, or you’ll break my
heart. I don’t care if all the whole world turn their backs upon me,
if my own people trust me still--indeed I don’t.”
“Poor little Phil! I hope it mayn’t be as bad as that.”
“Well, I can’t help it if it is. Please let the King come up here,
father, if he will have his answer. It’s a horrid thing to do, but it
has got to be done. Would you rather have an ambitious daughter
scheming for a throne, or a wicked flirt entangling the affections of
poor young men and then casting them aside?”
Lord Caerleon’s smile was troubled as he went down the stairs, and
Philippa fairly shivered. She felt miserably that her hands were not
clean in the matter, and this unprecedented experience handicapped her
seriously as regarded the approaching interview. With the instinct of
self-protection, she straightened her tie as she heard footsteps
ascending the staircase, tucked away a curl that was straggling over
her brow, and did her best to look absolutely unapproachable, and even
rather indignant at being subjected to such an ordeal. Her blushes she
could not control, however, and King Michael, never a very close
observer, may be pardoned for reading in them, when he reached the
roof, an encouragement to his suit.
“You have sent for me to tell me that you will share my throne, Lady
Phil?” he cried, with genuine delight and admiration in his tones.
Philippa’s downcast eyes were raised suddenly, and met his with an
indignant flash. It was this young man’s misfortune that he could
never forget his throne. “No, certainly not--just the opposite,” she
replied promptly.
“But you--you gave me hope.” The King was angry in his turn.
“That I never did. It isn’t my fault if you took it.”
“But why did you ask for time?”
“I didn’t. You insisted I was not to give an answer at once.”
“Oh, you thought you would make a fool of me, Lady Phil?”
It was on the tip of Philippa’s tongue to reply that no such process
was needed, but she choked back the retort. “I warned you I should not
change,” she said.
“But your taking time to think gave me ground for hope, and all the
considerations I have urged in your hearing the last few days could
only influence you in my favour. Have you given them due thought?”
“No,” said Philippa, with sudden humility, “I haven’t, because it
would be no good. Nothing could ever make me marry you. The truth is
that I didn’t refuse you definitely because I thought you would make
yourself disagreeable to your mother and Uncle Cyril if I did. I
haven’t treated you well, and I am very sorry and very much ashamed.”
“You are willing to take the responsibility of throwing me back into
my old way of life, and undoing all the good that the last few months
have effected in the kingdom? I suppose you know that I shall go to
the bad, and that my ruin and the ruin of Thracia will be on your
head?”
“I can’t marry you for the sake of your kingdom.”
“Then I presume that there is nothing left for me to do but to retire
as gracefully as I can.”
“Yes, there is something else to do,” said Philippa sharply. “You
ought to learn to take a disappointment like a man, not like a baby.”
“Pray continue, Lady Phil. You have the right to rebuke me.”
The sarcastic tone roused Philippa’s anger. “I did treat you badly,
and I have told you I am sorry for it,” she cried. “You are very angry
with me, but it never seems to strike you how selfish you have been
all this time. You know that I don’t care a scrap for you, but you
have been trying to get me to marry you by making out that it would be
for the good of your kingdom. You know that I should be
miserable--perfectly miserable--but you don’t mind a bit.”
“On my honour as a king, I would do my best to make you happy.”
“But you couldn’t; how could you? You aren’t the right person.
Besides,” Philippa rushed on hastily, “even if I cared for you I
couldn’t bear to be a Queen. I want to be free, to be able to go about
and do as I like. It would kill me to be cooped up and never able to
get away from people.”
“But that is my life, always.”
“Oh, you like it. You would be miserable if you hadn’t people for ever
hanging about and keeping an eye on you. But I have heard all about it
from my father, and though I suppose one could just bear it if one
loved a person very much, still--well, I don’t love you, you know.”
“It is a happy prospect for me, since you consider me unable to
inspire love, and yet think that love alone could induce a woman to
take up such a burden.”
“Oh, but you might find some one who liked it, some princess who was
born to that sort of thing. Besides, there’s no reason why another
person should not love you, though I don’t.”
“Pardon me, Lady Phil--my selfishness?”
“But you must cure that. Don’t talk about going to the bad and ruining
your kingdom because I refuse you. It’s a miserable, cowardly thing to
say. What has your kingdom got to do with me? It’s yours, not mine,
and you are responsible for it. Besides, you can’t pretend that all
the interest you have taken in it lately has been for my sake. You
know you find it interesting yourself. These last few months you have
been a real king, looking into things and forming your own opinion
about them, and your people are pleased. You couldn’t go back to your
old way of leaving everything to your Ministers if you wished. You are
far too fond of power.”
“Indeed, Lady Phil, I believe you are right.” The King looked
surprised, and somewhat ashamed. “After what you have said I can’t
very well be so selfish as to entreat you again to make yourself
miserable for my sake, and I will try to feel glad that I am to be
miserable instead. I may be lonely, but at least you will be happy.”
“Oh, no!” cried Philippa, her eyes filling with tears. “It’s too
late.”
“Allow me to ask you one question,” said King Michael, judiciously
ignoring the tears. “Do you refuse me because you care for any one
else? I think I have the right to ask, for if I am so fortunate as to
be without a rival, there might be some hope for me in the future.”
“Oh, no!” cried Philippa again. Then, her honest heart fearing that
the negative might convey a false impression, she added, in an agony
of blushes, “It isn’t fair--it is very unkind of you to ask, because
he has never said anything, but there is some one.”
“Thank you. That was all I wanted to know,” said the King. He lifted
Philippa’s reluctant hand and kissed it, then took his leave gravely.
“Why, he is a man after all!” said Philippa to herself, as he went
down the steps. She was too miserable to rise and look after him, or
she would have seen him stop in crossing the court, and address
Mansfield, who was driving the gold-fish to distraction by throwing
pebbles into the fountain. Wild horses could not have dragged
Mansfield from the hotel that morning. He had been bearing from the
Chevalier of the duties and emoluments of his new post, but his
interest had been so languid that the financier was half offended, and
had taken his departure without giving him an invitation to accompany
him to Jerusalem, as he had intended. It was a relief to Mansfield to
see him go, for he had only one wish, to be left alone. Philippa was
to make her decision to-day, and he must know the worst. As he sat
upon the edge of the fountain, and took half-hearted shots at the
gold-fish, he became aware that King Michael was approaching him, had
paused beside him. To triumph over his discomfiture, of course!
thought Mansfield, and refused to turn his head and look at his rival.
“Mr Mansfield,” said the King, “I yield in your favour the match at
billiards which we were to decide this evening. It was foolish of me
to contest the point, for your success was never in doubt. Only,” his
tone was so significant that Mansfield glanced up in spite of himself,
“let me advise you never again to throw down your cue in disgust
before the end. It is not fair to--the game.”
Their eyes met, and Mansfield read the meaning which underlay the
words.
“You are a good fellow!” he said hastily. “I ought to have known that
your mother’s son couldn’t be a cad.”
“Allow me to thank you in my mother’s name,” and King Michael went on
his way, lighting a cigarette with a hand which did not shake more
than a very little. Mansfield watched him out of sight, then, waking
as if from a dream, mounted the staircase four or five steps at a
time, and presented himself suddenly before Philippa.
“I’ve been a regular beast, Lady Phil,” he cried. “Forgive me.”
Philippa raised a tear-stained face with a little start.
“Oh!” she said, “it’s you!”
“You do forgive me, don’t you?” persisted Mansfield.
“But what has it to do with me?” Philippa was on the defensive again.
“I thought you were going to marry the King.”
“But what has that to do with you?” with the faintest suspicion of a
smile about the corners of the mouth.
“It’s because I love you. Oh, Phil, you know it, you have known it for
a long time. It nearly drove me mad to think I had lost you.”
Philippa drew herself up. “But how do you know you haven’t?” she
asked. “And, besides, how can you lose a thing you have never had?”
Mansfield turned pale, but recovered himself promptly. “Are you trying
to torment me because you know I care for you?” he demanded.
“I think you are a little too fond of taking things for granted,” said
Philippa demurely, looking away from him.
“Well, there shall be no doubt about it in future,” said Mansfield,
seizing her hands. “Look at me and tell me whether you care for me or
not. Answer me, Phil.”
“Oh, you are hurting my wrists! You are unkind! I--I----”
“If you don’t care for me, it can’t hurt you to look at me and say so.
I will let you go the moment you do.”
“It’s very wrong of you to tempt me to tell a story,” said Philippa,
with a sigh.
“By all means tell the truth, then.”
“But then you won’t let me go. There! I knew it.”
“Then you do care? Tell the truth, Phil.”
“Just a little.” For one moment the blue eyes met Mansfield’s, then
they were hidden; but he was satisfied.
“Ugh! it is cold,” cried Usk, throwing his reins to a gorgeously
apparelled groom. “What a blessing to get in out of this beastly
wind!”
It was the second of January, and the genial, if unseasonable, weather
of the past month had been succeeded by hard frosts and biting blasts,
most difficult to cope with in a summer city like Damascus. Usk and Mr
Judson dismounted from their horses and entered the hotel, stamping
vigorously to warm their frozen feet.
“A cup of Phil’s hottest tea suggests itself as a suitable
restorative,” Usk went on. “After all, there are some advantages in
her choosing to sit over the stove with her young man instead of
facing the wintry wind. Come in, Judson. The family party is
assembled, you see. What!” with an instantaneous change of tone as his
eye fell upon Philippa’s dark-blue habit and Mansfield’s leggings,
“you unblushing pair of frauds, do you mean to say that you went out,
after all?”
“Oh, we had a little ride on our own account,” said Philippa calmly.
“Your society is always delightful, Usk, but sometimes it is slightly
wearing,” said Mansfield, who had endured a good deal at the hands of
his future brother-in-law during the last three days.
“Ah, you lazy beggar, I know now why you cried off going to Jerusalem
with the poor old Chevalier! It’s perfectly sickening to see Phil
demoralising you with her attentions when she won’t even give her only
and frozen brother a cup of tea.”
“Sit still, Phil. I will pour out the tea,” said Lady Caerleon, with a
loving pat on her daughter’s shoulder. In Philippa’s love-story her
mother renewed her own youth, and in her overflowing happiness forgot
to curb the little caressing ways which she had spent her married life
in trying to repress as un-English.
“I wonder we haven’t had a telegram from the Chevalier, or, at any
rate, from Hicks,” said Mansfield, jumping up to pour some more water
into the teapot for Lady Caerleon. “They both promised to let us know
how the transfer of power went off.”
“It’s a curious thing,” said Lord Caerleon; “but I met Monckton just
now, and he tells me that no telegrams have come from Jerusalem to-day
or yesterday, and no letters to-day. They hear that there has been a
heavy snowfall in the south, and the Jerusalem trains have not arrived
at Jaffa, so the post may be interrupted; but it seems queer that the
city should be altogether isolated.”
“I hope poor old Goldberg hasn’t got snowed up on his journey,”
laughed Usk. “Hicks has a pretty fair idea of making himself
comfortable; but the Chevalier doesn’t know the ropes as he does.
Besides, it must be soothing to be able to turn an honest penny out of
one’s misfortunes by writing a column or two about them.”
“Perhaps the Roumis have refused to budge, after all,” suggested Mr
Judson. “They are quite capable of holding on in spite of their
promises, and the provisional government have no means of making them
turn out.”
“That would be a deadlock, indeed,” said Lord Caerleon. “We must
hope----”
“Why, here’s the Chevalier himself!” cried Usk, and all eyes were
turned to the doorway, where the financier stood like a man in a
dream, travel-stained and bent, with disordered garments.
“My dear Chevalier!” said Lord Caerleon, advancing and taking him by
the arm. “Come and sit down; you are ill--frozen, perhaps.”
“I am not ill, but sick at heart. Yerushalem, de holy city, de choy
off de whole earth”--his voice rose into a cry of agony--“iss in de
hends off Scythia. O God----” he broke into Hebrew, “the heathen are
come into Thine inheritance.... Oh that Thou wouldst rend the heavens,
that Thou wouldst come down, that the mountains might flow down at Thy
presence!”
“Cyril’s warning!” cried Lady Caerleon.
“Yes,” said the Chevalier heavily, “he warned me, but I did not see.
None off us saw. We are helpless widout him. O my broder, de cheriot
off Israel and de horsemen dereof! All our labour iss in fain. I hef
beggared myself for dis!”
“But how did it happen?” urged Mr Judson. “How was it possible----”
“Dey hed deir plens laid. Eferythink wass arranched beforehend. Dey
knoo det widout de Count we hed no head to metch Prince Soudaroff’s.
Efen de Armenians--de irreconcilables--hed been squared.”
“But did you escape?” cried Lord Caerleon; “or were you warned in
time?”
“I heard de noose yesterday efenink, Mr Hicks and I were delayed in
our chourney by de snow--we were fumink to think we hed missed de
great ceremony. Den, ess we approached de City on horsebeck, we were
met by Levinssohn, one off de profissional gofernment, who hed
escaped, and pauced to warn me, lest de enemy should get command of de
Goldberg millions by seizink me. He told us de story.”
“Yes, yes, and what had happened?” cried everybody.
“De transfer off power wass made yesterday mornink in proper form, de
Roumi gofernor hendink ofer to de consuls de charche off de Holy
Places, and to de profissional gofernment de control off de city and
de remainink troops. Dere wass great rechoicink--light and gledness, a
feast and a goot day. De Letins were celebratink de feast off de
Circumecision, de Greeks, busy preparink to fissit Bethlehem for deir
Christmas Day, were all widin doors. It iss not known how de
disturbance began. I cannot beliefe det my people--but dey hef bitter
memories to afenche, and dey hef disappointed me griefously off late.
At any rate, de Letins declare det de Chews broke in upon one off deir
serfices, and insulted de worshippers. De noose spread like wildfire,
de Letins poured from all deir churches and confents, and gadered in
de street before de Serai, now become de bureau off de profissional
gofernment. De members were all assembled et deir deliberations.
Suddenly dey found de buildink besieched, so det dey must needs
berricade demselfs in. De consuls, hearink de uproar, ordered de Roumi
troops to clear de street and quell de disturbance, but dey hed been
got at. Dey refuced to mofe except under de orders off de profissional
gofernment, and dose orders it wass impossible to obtain, on account
off de mob riotink between. De consuls, attemptink to use deir
influence, were insulted and derided. Den de Scythian consul propoced
a plen. ‘Dere are here’ said he, ‘two thousand or more Scythian and
Thracian pilgrims, who hef all done military serfice and are amenable
to discipline. In a quarter off an hour I can assemble dem from de
different confents where dey are quartered, and dey will ect ess
police under de orders off de consular body, armed wid sticks and such
oder weapons ess dey can improfice.’ De consuls were doubtful, and de
British consul propoced to arm de Chews instead, but de idea wass
scouted. Arm de wicked bloodthirsty Chews against de mild chentle
Christians--nefer! De crisis wass acute, and de consuls yielded. Den
appeared a marfel. De two thousand pilgrims were dere--and a thousand
more wid dem--and wonderful to relate, dere wass also de Scythian
Cheneral Adrianoff, on pilgrimache, two or three colonels and machors,
seferal captains, lieutenants, sub-lieutenants, all on
pilgrimache--officers for an army. De pilgrims assembled, profided wid
sticks by de monks. De Cheneral Adrianoff wass neturally put in
command off de force. ‘Shoulder arms!’ and beholt, efery stick wass a
rifle! Emmunition wass immediately forthcomink, and so wass a
machine-gun and its kerrich. De Cheneral Adrianoff marched out to
conquer. De street was quickly cleared, de Cheneral approaches to
release and reassure de members off de gofernment, when a tumult
arices amonk his own men. De Bishop Philaret off Tatarjé hess
discofered a plot on de part off de Chews to blow up de Church off de
Holy Sepulchre wid dynamite. All de Christians off efery sect and
church are transported wid rache. Perish de Chews! De pilgrims dessire
to tear de gofernment to pieces, de Cheneral Adrianoff places de
members under arrest to save dem from dese frients off order. A new
confusion! De Roumis hef been informed by de Bishop det de plot wass
directed also against de Haram-es-Sherif--de holy place off all Israel
from de beginnink!--and all de soldiers come runnink to put demselfs
under de orders off de Cheneral to fight against dose wretched Chews.
In fiew off de serious state of affairs, de Cheneral does not
hessitate a moment. He clears de streets, proclaims himself gofernor
off de city ess representink de Emperor off Scythia, and reliefes de
consuls off deir functions ess guardians off de Holy Places. De
British and Pannonian consuls protest; dey cannot ressist, for anoder
miracle hess heppened. Efery Greek or Scythian church and confent and
larche buildink hess become a fort. Cannon are mounted on deir walls,
de monks are soldiers, dere iss emmunition in plenty. To de
stupefection off de consuls, de Cheneral’s forces occupy efery
strategical point, dey command efery corner off de city. Scythia hess
been preparink de ground for many years, now she hess played her game,
and won.”
“But this is monstrous, unheard-of!” cried Lord Caerleon. “It will
never be allowed to go on. England----”
“England,” said the Chevalier bitterly, “will protest.”
“But the rest of the Powers--Neustria, Hercynia----”
“Neustria iss led by de noce by Scythia. Hercynia hess, no doubt,
receifed gretifyink assurances--her consul did not efen go through de
form off protestink. Pannonia and Magnagrecia will be coerced or
flettered into ecquiescence.”
“Then you think it is useless to struggle against this outrageous
usurpation?”
“We shell make representations, doubtless. But do we wish to be
deprifed altogeder off de Land we hef bought? We must submit to
circumstances, until”--there was a cunning gleam in the Chevalier’s
eye--“we can alter dem. Det will be de task off de remainder off my
life--to return de poisson of dese reptiles upon deir own head. I tell
you”--he turned fiercely upon Mr Judson, who had made a deprecating
gesture--“I would conclude an alliance wid de Enemy off menkind
himself to get dis wronk redressed!”
“Oh, Chevalier!” cried Lady Caerleon, “be patient. Can you not wait
upon God a little longer? Think how wonderfully He has furthered your
plans during the last few years--how the way of the Kings of the East
has been prepared in spite of what seemed insuperable obstacles.”
“Kinks off de East!” cried the Chevalier. “A month ago we were de
kinks off de worrlt! Shell we rest contented wid a gofernment sittink
at Hebron or Nablûs, regulatink metters off commerce and land, when
de Holy City iss in de hends of idolaters, persecutors, creepink
things, and de sons off de apostate are gadered togeder to mock at
us?”
“You are misjudging me, Chevalier,” remonstrated Mr Judson, against
whom the last sentence had been directed. “I feel the wrong done as
deeply as you do, although the study of prophecy had warned me that
some blow of the kind might be expected.”
“At least leafe us our prophecies!” cried the Chevalier. “May we not
interpret dem in our own way, or must de renegades steal dem also?”
“We have no wish to rob you of them; but you must not try to exclude
us Hebrew Christians from the heritage of Israel. Yours are the
adoption, and the glory, and the covenants, and the promises; but they
are ours, too. Don’t refuse our help. I think you have no idea of the
deep interest taken in the Jewish question in Evangelical circles in
England. Give us leave to do what we can to arouse these English
friends of Zion, and stimulate them to action. Believe me, when the
facts are fully known, there will be such a strong feeling throughout
the country, with regard to the action of Scythia, that the Government
will be forced to insist on her withdrawing from Jerusalem.”
“Accept help from de apostate? Nefer, son off a traitor! I will unite
wid Christians, wid agnostics, wid Reformed Chews, wid de Adfersary
himself, in de cause off Zion, but not wid you. You hef no part in de
congregation off Israel.”
“Come, Chevalier,” said Lady Caerleon, laying her hand on his clenched
fist, as he shook it furiously at Mr Judson, “you are over-excited.
Rest a little, and have a cup of tea,” she motioned the young people
away, “and then we will talk things over quietly, and see what can be
done.”
“Have you thought what all this will mean to Uncle Cyril?” asked
Philippa of Mansfield, as they left the room together. He nodded
gravely.
“I know. He came into my mind first thing. It’s awful.”
“To see all his work undone, and to know that he can’t put it right!”
wailed Philippa, breaking down suddenly. “I think his heart will
break, or--or----” the more terrible fear remained unuttered.
“Do you know,” said Mansfield diffidently, “I don’t think it will
break him altogether. It might have done once, but he has some one
else to think of now. He will have his wife to comfort and take care
of, and that helps a man, Phil.”
“‘It is very good for strength, To know that some one needs you to be
strong,’” reflected Philippa. “Oh, dear!” she cried, with a watery
smile, “I’m quoting poetry again, just as Uncle Cyril told me not to.”
It is possible that Philippa’s anxiety might have been somewhat
relieved if she could have read a confidential letter from Queen
Ernestine to her mother, written some months later:--
“This answer to your loving letter, my dear sister, is for your own
eyes alone. It seems to me (I hope I am mistaken, and that I detect a
criticism where none was intended) that I can read between the lines
something that is not exactly a distrust of my husband, but a fear
lest his terrible trials may have rendered him less regardful of me.
In no case but yours would I condescend to notice such a suspicion;
but I like to think of you, the wife of Cyril’s beloved brother, as a
dear sister of my own, and I cannot bear that you should be in any
doubt as to my happiness. When my beloved’s trial came upon him, I
said to him (I am almost ashamed now to write it) that he must be
content, instead of ruling the world, to make one woman happy, and
this is what he does. Do you realise what that means? He bends all his
powers, his whole mind, to please a woman whose life has been so
desolate that for years it seemed the height of bliss, unattainable
bliss, to be near him, to belong to him. Do you wonder my joy is so
great that I look upon it with trembling? That such a man should
devote himself to ensure the happiness of one whose only claim is that
she loves him--it is wonderful! How can you say that I have given up
everything for him? I have done nothing--nothing. You would do far
more for your Carlino; why should you think it strange in me?
“Besides, my sister, I have given up nothing that I care for. Court
life has had no attractions for me since I left girlhood behind, at
seventeen, and although Michael was quite willing--even desirous--that
I should return to Thracia, I can see that it is better not. It is
characteristic of him to wish to go his own way, and earn his own
experience, and a mother’s anxieties and counsel would quickly become
irksome to him. There is nothing to regret there, you see. I was
cradled in romanticism (alas! my education and my fate were sadly
incongruous), and now at last I am happy. I have the society of the
man I love and of a few faithful friends, the affectionate loyalty of
these poor Arabs, and freedom from the cares of civilisation and
state. The Arabs, indeed, have transferred their allegiance from
myself to Cyril, and I rejoice in the change. We are both studying
their language, for I am anxious to be able to do something to raise
the condition of the women and girls, but he has no need of anything
to bring him into close touch with the men. Under his direction they
are beginning to build themselves more permanent houses instead of
their wretched huts, as well as to repair the ruined walls of the
fortress in case of need. He is interested also in improving their
system of irrigation, so as to utilise much of the water that is at
present wasted, and says that he is a candidate for the honour of
making two bunches of dates grow where only one grew before.
“Nor are we shut off altogether from the old life. You may have heard
that we sent poor Stefanovics (who found the desert insupportable) and
his wife back to Brutli, to serve as a means of communication with our
friends in the world, and superintend our arrangements for visitors,
and they do their work admirably. That good, droll Mr Hicks paid us a
visit before returning to America, and the Chevalier Goldberg intends
to brave the terrors of the desert before long. Our last visitor was
dear Fred Mansfield, whose affection for my husband brings the tears
to my eyes. I can see, however (is not this candid of me?), that he
has improved immensely since he has found himself in a more
responsible position. He has gained enormously in readiness and the
habit of command since he was removed from the shadow of Cyril’s
personality. His open-air life suits him, and he has earned golden
opinions from the Chevalier and his confidential agent. Please let
Phil hear this. Fred tells us that he hopes to visit England and bring
her back with him next year, and he showed us the plans for his house.
How I shall delight to see her again!
“You hint at our visiting Europe. I am foolishly nervous, I dare say,
but I cannot feel that Cyril is safe anywhere outside the desert. I
have visions of treachery on the part of the Powers if they knew he
was within their reach. Still, if he wishes to make the attempt, he
will hear nothing against his plan from me, even should he decide to
visit Thracia _incognito_, as Michael has suggested. At present we are
planning a trip to Palmyra, which, with the help of the Arabs, we hope
to accomplish without difficulty, posing as English tourists--not for
the first time in our lives, you will remember. The opportunity will
be valuable, in allowing my husband to make acquaintance with the
sheikhs of other tribes than ours, who have shown a strong disposition
to invite him to become their head.
“It is a curious thing that the Arabs refuse to believe in Cyril’s
illness for a moment. According to them, he has been treated with dire
ingratitude by the Jews, and to mark his displeasure has retired into
the desert, whence he will emerge at the head of an Arab host on the
occasion of some great crisis, and carry all before him. Oh that this
might indeed be the case! Day by day, as I pray for it, I vow upon my
knees that should he ever regain his old powers I will be no hindrance
to his schemes. These few months have had more happiness crowded into
them than I could ever have anticipated, and I will show that I also
can be unselfish. But alas! there is no hope. One terrible day--I have
told this to no one on earth but yourself--when the news of the
Scythian seizure of Jerusalem arrived, I thought he would have gone
out of his mind. He walked up and down the room for a long time,
muttering and moving his hands as if he was addressing an assembly,
then he turned suddenly to me, looking like his old self. ‘Paper,
Ernestine!’ he cried. ‘They thought I was done for, did they?’ I gave
him the paper, he sat down, burning with eagerness, and made a few
marks upon the first sheet--a kind of plan. Then he began to dig the
pen into the paper, and at last threw it down in despair. ‘It’s all
gone, Ernestine, but for a moment I saw the whole thing.’ He called
Paschics, and told him to write and advise the Chevalier to make the
best terms he could for a Jewish Legislature sitting at Nablûs, and
since then he has never once alluded, at least in my hearing, to the
affairs of Palestine. It is unspeakably sad. At ordinary times he
appears perfectly contented, rides with me, hunts with Banics and the
Arabs, plans improvements for the place, reads aloud to us in the
evenings, but when the mail comes in----! Ah, my dear sister, pray
that you may never know such sorrow as I endure then. He reads of all
that is going on--without him: he sees that he is forgotten where he
was once supreme. He goes up to the ruined colonnade, at the summit of
the palace, and spends hours there alone. Once I crept up after him;
he was gazing out over the desert as Napoleon looked out upon the sea
from the cliffs of St Helena. He does not know I saw him, for I dared
not disturb his mournful reverie. I am only too well aware that I
cannot comfort him, and he would not wish me to behold him in his
desolation. I can but pray for him, and pretend to notice nothing when
he returns, full of kindness, and apologises for his long absence. He
has been reading his letters, he says. On the subject of politics we
never open our lips to one another.--Believe me to be, my dear Nadia,
your loving sister,
Ernestine.”
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.
Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.
This book is part of the author’s “Balkan Series.” The full series, in
order, being:
An Uncrowned King
A Crowned Queen
The Kings of the East
The Prince of the Captivity
Alterations to the text:
Puncuation corrections: missing periods, quotation mark pairing, etc.
Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies (_e.g._
ascendency/ascendancy, anteroom/ante-room, by-the-bye/by the bye,
etc.) have been preserved.
[Chapter II]
“the pleasure of your _accquaintance_” to _acquaintance_.
[Chapter IV]
“interested in _Ludswigsbad_ and your letters” to _Ludwigsbad_.
[Chapter VI]
“_Sho_ grasped the idea at once” to _She_.
[Chapter VII]
“If it did not _suceed_ in saving” to _succeed_.
[Chapter X]
“Mansfield thought she was a _Kurgast_” to _Kurgäste_.
[Chapter XI]
“from his ecclesiastical lips was _doubless_ a solemn curse” to
_doubtless_.
[End of Text]