“Why you not write your memoirs, mademoiselle?” she said more than once. “The Khanum Effendi’s governess, in Tahir Pasha’s house, she always write when she was alone, say she get great deal of money some day. She put in all that everybody say, and all the things she not like.”
“My experiences are not interesting enough,” Cecil would say, patiently, for she knew that Um Yusuf teased her from the best possible motives. “I couldn’t write about the things I have really felt, and who cares nowadays for descriptions of ruins and deserts? When I am dead, Fitz and Eily and the rest can publish my letters for their grandchildren’s benefit, if they like, but I won’t do it.”
Um Yusuf would yield for the moment with a sigh, and proceed to relate stories from her family history, with the view of diverting Cecil’s mind from her own sorrows, and showing her that there were people worse off than herself. The stories were all about massacres, and fearful torments endured at the hands of Moslems and Druses, of a character to make the listener’s hair stand on end with horror on ordinary occasions, but Cecil could not be roused into taking more than a languid interest in the events described. Sometimes she did not even hear them. It never struck Um Yusuf that this season of absolute rest was exactly what her mistress needed, coming, as it did, when body and mind, stunned by a fearful shock, were almost failing under the effort to carry on the everyday routine of work. There was an atmosphere of calm which almost amounted to happiness spread over these days, and Cecil lived through them idly, her mind dwelling in the past, with no thought of the future. The sense of abiding loss was always with her, but she lived over again the five years during which she had known Charlie, and felt almost as though his presence were near her still. No thought of picturing the infinite sadness of a return to daily life without him had yet presented itself to trouble her, just as she had not energy enough to speculate on the duration of her imprisonment, nor to form any plans as to her future. It was a time merely of waiting, uncoloured either by hope or despair.
CHAPTER XXV.
“THE VOICE OF ENGLAND IN THE EAST.”
Leaving Cecil and Um Yusuf in their captivity at Sardiyeh, the harem procession made its way down the winding mountain-paths, a curious assemblage of closely swathed white figures mounted on mules and donkeys, and headed by the waving curtains of Jamileh Khanum’s litter. On either side rode the black agas, armed with whips with which to drive off any inquisitive wayfarer; and before and behind came the guard of soldiers whom the Pasha had left under the charge of his master of the horse for the purpose of protecting his wife. At the end of the train of women and agas rode Azim Bey and his attendants, obliged to follow even the negresses who acted as cooks and scullerymaids, a humiliation which sorely tasked the boy’s proud spirit. But this was not the worst. He felt convinced, from the meaning looks and whispered words which passed among the women, that the Khanum Effendi was considered to have gained not only a moral but a material victory in that she had succeeded in getting rid of Cecil. That some evil was intended against him, to which his governess’s presence was considered a bar, he was sure, and he felt more lonely and helpless than he had ever done in his life. And indeed Jamileh Khanum was jubilant as she reclined on her gold-embroidered cushions. She had accomplished the task in which she had so often failed, and separated Cecil from her pupil with comparatively little difficulty.
“You must get rid of Mdlle. Antaza if you wish to reach Azim Bey,” had been one of M. Karalampi’s messages to her through Mdlle. Katrina. “Separately we can deal with them easily, but together they are too strong for us.”
This had been the secret of the attempts made to sap the loyalty of the servants, and induce them to bring a false accusation against Cecil—this also of the hints and threatenings of murder which had alarmed Um Yusuf; but it was M. Karalampi, assisted unintentionally by Azim Bey himself, who had devised the plan by which the news of Charlie’s murder had after all produced the desired effect. So far everything had gone smoothly. Immediately after telling his story to Cecil, Hanna had been seized and conveyed to a distance, and was now in safe custody, for it was no part of the scheme that he should be allowed to reach Baghdad and acquaint the Balio Bey with what had happened. And now, as she counted the hours until the place named by the Pasha as the rendezvous should be reached, Jamileh Khanum felt calm and triumphant. Her part in the conspiracy had been faithfully performed; it only rested with M. Karalampi to do his share. Everything was ready; Mdlle. Katrina had only to see her nephew and give him the message that Azim Bey was now unprotected by the presence of his governess, and might safely be attacked. All details were left to him; the only thing that Jamileh Khanum cared for was to get her stepson out of the way.
But at the rendezvous disappointment was awaiting her. Neither M. Karalampi nor his ill-conditioned servant was to be seen, and it was some time before Mdlle. Katrina succeeded in discovering that they were not with the Pasha at all. Instead of being in attendance on his Excellency, M. Karalampi had been left behind in the disturbed district, nominally as secretary to the Mutesalim, who had been wounded during the Pasha’s military operations, but in reality as a spy upon him, to the great disgust of both. The Mutesalim naturally resented the indignity of being saddled with a guardian who must be “squared” by receiving a considerable share of every piece of plunder unless his charge’s doings were to be reported to the Pasha, and a good deal blackened in the process, but his emotions were mild compared with those of M. Karalampi. His anger arose from the fact that by this action the Pasha had unconsciously neutralised all his plans. Of what use was it to have devised these complicated manœuvres for getting Cecil out of the way, if he could not proceed with the designs he had formed against her pupil? Worse than this, he felt a presentiment that in her wrath and disappointment Jamileh Khanum would try to do the work herself, in some clumsy inartistic way that would lead to the ruin of the whole scheme, and he was right.
Now that the harem procession had rejoined that of his Excellency, no further stay was made in the mountains, and the whole cavalcade proceeded on its way towards Baghdad. At one of the towns through which it passed a fair was being held, and the Pasha consented that half a day should be spent in this place, at the earnest request of the master of the horse, who saw a chance of replenishing the Palace stables at moderate cost. The decision was not quite so satisfactory to the merchants and country-people who had brought horses to sell at the fair, for they foresaw an unequal contest, in which their wares would be taken from them at such prices as seemed good to the master of the horse, with all the power of the Pasha behind him. With many laments, therefore, they settled in their own minds the bribe which must be offered to the official in order to secure his meeting their views in each case, and bemoaned their hard lot in coming to the fair just as his Excellency was passing through the town. But to Jamileh Khanum the fair presented itself as offering a providential solution of a difficulty. Taking counsel with no one, she intrusted her chief aga with a confidential commission to buy for her the handsomest and wickedest Kurdish pony he could find, and to have it fitted with saddle and bridle of the finest materials and workmanship regardless of expense. Her order was carried out to the letter. The aga secured a pony which bore the worst of reputations from all its owners, for it had already changed hands repeatedly, and would have been got rid of as useless had it not been for its beauty. Its chief merit with reference to the particular end in view was the general testimony that these peculiarities of character did not become evident until the intending rider was in the saddle, and the chief aga rubbed his hands with delight as he superintended the decking of the animal with the most gorgeous trappings he could procure.
“The Khanum Effendi will be well pleased,” he muttered to himself, feeling already in his hand the bakhshish which his mistress placed there a short time afterwards, when she had inspected the pony and heard its record. The next step was to send it round to Azim Bey’s quarters as a present from his stepmother, and had he been in reality the guileless child that Jamileh Khanum trusted he might show himself, his career would probably have ended as abruptly as she wished. But he was to the full as wily and as suspicious as herself, and the mere circumstance of her sending him a present was sufficient to put him on his guard. He sent his thanks to the donor in the most orthodox way, walked round the pony in delight, examining its beauties, and called little Ishak, the slipper-bearer.