“I should wish to return to Baghdad and my own people,” he said; “but how am I to go there, when my master is dead, and the Kurds have robbed me?”
“Go to Baghdad,” said Cecil, emptying her purse mechanically into his hands, “and tell the Balio Bey what you have told me. Don’t lose time—but no, there is no need of any hurry now. Let us go back to Sardiyeh, Um Yusuf. Kasha Thoma cannot help us.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
PRISONERS.
They retraced their steps up the rugged hill-path, Cecil first, Um Yusuf following her, and went in at the gate, climbing the steep rock-hewn lanes of the little town in silence. At their house-door Masûd was lounging in his accustomed place, and started up in astonishment on seeing them approaching from the street.
“This is not well, O my lady,” he said to Cecil, with an air of respectful remonstrance which would have amused her at any other time. “Does my lady wish to bring wrath upon her servant’s head from the Bey Effendi, that she goes out without summoning him to attend upon her?”
“Hold thy peace, foolish one!” cried Um Yusuf, as Cecil turned and stared at him with unseeing eyes. “Is my lady to be taken to task by thy insolent tongue? Let her pass, or I will complain to the Bey Effendi of thy rudeness.”
Sorely perplexed, Masûd yielded the point, and opened the gate for them. Ayesha and the other women were looking out curiously from the doorway of their room, but on catching sight of Cecil they drew back, and she passed on with bowed head. Mounting the steps of the lewan, she entered her own room, and dropped on the divan with a wordless moan. At present she did not in the least realise the full horror of the news she had heard; she only knew that a sudden blow had fallen upon her, blotting out all recollection and deadening every feeling. All night she lay where she had sunk down, deaf to Um Yusuf’s remonstrances and entreaties; and when she allowed herself to be raised from the divan in the morning, it was only to return to it again, leaving her breakfast untasted, and to sit crouched in a corner, staring before her with stony eyes. In vain Um Yusuf pleaded and entreated; her mistress did not even seem to hear her, and noticed her presence as little as she did that of the other women, who crowded round the door of her room, looking pityingly at her. They had no idea of the instinctive desire for solitude of one in deep grief; their notion of showing sympathy was to assemble together and discuss all the circumstances of the case in the mourner’s hearing, and Um Yusuf was too much harassed, too anxious for help and advice, to drive them away, as she would ordinarily have done. That Mdlle. Antaza had gone mad was the general opinion, and this was confirmed by the fact that she took no notice of the intruders, and seemed neither to see nor hear them. Um Yusuf was at her wits’ end. She knew no more of mental pathology than she did of comparative anatomy, but she had the help of long experience to guide her, and she knew that this deadly calm must be broken.
At last, as the readiest means of effecting this, she went in search of Azim Bey. He had only just returned, a day later than he was expected, and was hearing from Masûd all that the worthy aga could tell him of what had happened. To say that he was appalled is only faintly to describe his feelings. He had often wished Charlie out of the way, and it is not improbable that he would have been deeply grateful for any fatal accident or illness which had removed him from mademoiselle’s path. But that Dr Egerton should be murdered in cold blood, and that, too, as a direct consequence of the arrangement he had made with M. Karalampi, was a very different thing. He shrank back and shivered at the thought of meeting Cecil, but Um Yusuf would take no denial, and fairly led him back to the sitting-room. Her stony silence and the reproachful glances of the other women were sufficient to make a deep impression even on his hardened young heart; but when he saw Cecil crouched on the divan, her eyes fixed, her hands hanging idle, he would have fled if he could. Um Yusuf, expecting such an attempt, pushed him into the room, and as he entered it timidly, Cecil looked up and met his gaze, then turned away with a shuddering sigh. He could not bear it.
“Oh, mademoiselle,” he cried, rushing to her, regardless of the shiver of repulsion with which she drew herself away from him, “forgive me!”
“Then it was your fault,” said Cecil, slowly. “You had him killed.”