“No, mademoiselle, not that—not that! Oh, my dear mademoiselle, I have been very wicked, very unkind, but I never wanted him killed. I wished him to be kept safely, where you would not see him, until the time came for you to leave us, that I might try to make you stay with me, and then he was to be set free; but what I wanted was never this—never this, mademoiselle,” and he flung himself sobbing at her feet and kissed the hem of her dress.
“Tell me, Bey,” said Cecil, laying a hand on his shoulder, and speaking in the same restrained tones, “can you say truly that you had no hand in his death?”
“None, mademoiselle, none!” sobbed Azim Bey. “It is my fault, for I hated him, and wished him to be carried off by the Kurds, but I never wanted him dead, and I would give all I have to bring him back to life now. Oh, mademoiselle, only forgive me, and we will avenge his death a thousand times over. I will speak to my father of these wretches who have murdered Dr Egerton, and they shall give a life for every drop of his blood. They shall be swept from the face of the earth, and their wives and children and all belonging to them, and their houses shall be made a desolation for ever. And as for M. Karalampi, that Shaitan, he shall be——”
“Oh, hush, Bey,” said Cecil, shuddering; “I don’t want vengeance. How can you suggest it? These men have only understood your orders a little too well. And how could it comfort me to know that innocent women and children were punished for the fault of the men?—it would make my grief ten times greater. But oh, Bey, remember,” and her voice was choked, “that a life once taken can never be restored.”
She broke down and sobbed passionately, while Azim Bey knelt at her feet, entreating her forgiveness again and again. He would not leave her until Um Yusuf laid a strong hand on his shoulder and dragged him away, telling him that he would make mademoiselle ill. Even then he broke away from her grasp at the door and rushed back, with a piteous entreaty that Cecil would say she forgave him; but she was too much overcome with the violence of her grief to answer, and he went away sorrowful. Um Yusuf was better pleased, for her plan had succeeded. She had made her mistress shed tears at last, and she waited until she was exhausted with weeping and then coaxed her to go to bed. Sheer bodily fatigue made her sleep, and she awoke the next day in a more normal condition. It was characteristic of her that when once the haunting consciousness of overshadowing trouble which oppressed her on waking had resolved itself into the terrible knowledge that her world was from henceforth bereft of Charlie, her next thought was that the ordinary duties of the day must still be fulfilled, and she set herself mechanically to dress as usual, and went out on the lewan to seek her pupil. He was there, wandering aimlessly and miserably about, and came timidly to kiss her hand, with evident fear and reluctance.
“Can you forgive me, mademoiselle?” he asked, anxiously. “It was my fault, but I never meant to do it.” The sadness in his voice went to Cecil’s heart.
“God helping me, Bey, I do forgive you,” she answered with quivering lips; “but please don’t speak about it any more.”
The boy kissed her hand again in silence, and the compact was sealed, but the subject which neither of them mentioned was continually in both their minds. They went to lessons as usual, and Cecil tried honestly to behave to her pupil just as she had always done; but once or twice the thought of that scene in the Kurdish stronghold returned upon her so powerfully that she turned from him with an irrepressible shudder. She could see it all—the group of fanatical mountaineers on the brow of the precipice surrounding the solitary figure with bound hands and ragged Armenian dress. She could hear the rapid questions and answers passing between the Kurds and their prisoner, and the fierce taunts and shout of derision that succeeded them. And then—then—she saw the headlong plunge outwards into space, the piteous crash, the mangled form that lay motionless at the foot of the steep, a bloodstained heap of rags, as it had appeared to the trembling Hanna, forced to his knees by the murderers on the cliff above that he might behold their work.
“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, if I could have died instead!” she cried, wildly, dropping her book and beginning to pace up and down the lewan, every nerve throbbing with the bitter consciousness of her own powerlessness at the time of Charlie’s greatest need. And she had known nothing of it at the time! How was it that no sense of his danger had penetrated to her mind—that she had not known intuitively that he was tasting the bitterness of death while she was occupied in trying to still the petty squabbles between her servants and those of Jamileh Khanum? Surely there must be something wanting in her, that such a crisis could arrive in the life of the man to whom her whole heart was given, and she know nothing of it? True, she could not have helped him, but she could have prayed with him and for him, and perhaps some hint of her distant sympathy might have reached him even at that terrible moment.
“Mademoiselle!” said Azim Bey, timidly, and Cecil pressed her hands to her head and sat down again, trying hard to conquer the feeling of repulsion which the boy’s mere presence gave her. The natural fairness of her mind would not allow her to hold him responsible for the extreme consequences of his childish jealousy, but she dared not trust herself to dwell upon the thought that but for his interference Charlie might be alive and well now. The memory which she thus thrust from her had come unbidden to the mind of Azim Bey, and for once his remorse was deep and lasting. Cecil’s white face and heavy eyes were a constant reproach to him, and he did his utmost to testify his sorrow for what he had done. Any wish that she expressed was to be gratified immediately, and he watched over her and waited upon her with a faithfulness which touched her extremely. The women and Masûd followed his example, and vied with each other in doing her all the kindnesses in their power; but as the weeks passed on, it became evident that other people were not so forbearing. Latifeh Kalfa was a frequent visitor to the courtyard at this time, and took to gossiping with the negresses when she found herself shunned by the white women as a bringer of evil tidings; and what happened immediately afterwards left little doubt that she had been commissioned to report on what she saw and heard. Jamileh Khanum sent for Azim Bey and questioned him closely as to the cause of the change which had come over his governess. He returned from his interview with her grave and unhappy, but said nothing before the servants.