“On whom be peace!” said Azim Bey, quickly. “But if I were dead, mademoiselle? You have seen already how greatly I am beloved in the harem.”
“Don’t be so suspicious,” said Cecil. “I thought you prided yourself on your strength of mind?”
“So be it, mademoiselle,” said the boy. “What is to happen will happen. We shall see.”
In spite of these little rubs, however, the journeying life was very pleasant to Cecil, and she even looked forward with a certain degree of dread to the time when she must exchange the blue wrapper and high boots she wore in riding for the trailing dress and white sheet of the Palace. Everything out here was so entirely new, and she was separated from the troublesome personal questions and problems which had worried her lately at Baghdad. In these the chief factor was Charlie Egerton. She had never seen him since the day of the riot, when he had so suddenly and unwarrantably kissed her hand, but this was by her own wish, for she felt that she did not know how to meet him again. Anger at his presumption, and rage against herself for the display of weakness which had emboldened him to the act, combined to embitter her against him. And yet she could not keep him out of her thoughts. Her mind dwelt on the scene at the Residency so constantly that she became alarmed. What did all this mean? She must get away from Dr Egerton’s disturbing influence, and think the matter out calmly. With this in view, she had acquiesced in hurrying on her departure from Baghdad without seeing him, and she had since taken full advantage of her opportunity for thought.
She had never exactly formulated to herself her views of an ideal lover, but she was vaguely conscious that, allowing for the difference of standpoint, her requirements were much on a level with those of the seventeenth-century poet who sang the praises of the “not impossible she.” And here, as she could not help perceiving, was the real lover—Charlie Egerton, frivolous, unstable, unsuccessful. These were the hard epithets she applied to him, while all the while admitting to herself that she could not help liking him, and that there was something noble and quixotic about his unfortunate efforts to keep other people up to their duty. But here again the softness of her own mood alarmed her, and she proceeded to examine into her feelings with all the systematic thoroughness of a practised student of mental science. After long cogitation, and much analysis of complex emotions into their elements, she came to the conclusion that she was not in love with Charlie. She even assured herself that she despised him a little, and this was obviously an insurmountable bar to love. But the chief drawback to the introspective method of studying mental phenomena is, as the text-books tell us, the danger of the mind’s forgetting its own states, or even misinterpreting them, owing to the distracting influence of personal fears and wishes. This Cecil forgot, while assuring herself that her clear duty now was to show Charlie plainly what her feelings were. It would be unkind to allow him to labour any longer under a delusion, and she became at last almost anxious to return to Baghdad, for the sake of undeceiving him.
By the time that this desirable conclusion was reached, the steps of the travellers were really turned homewards. Jamileh Khanum was tired of wandering, and if the truth must be told, was “spoiling for a fight” with the Um-ul-Pasha. Where every one was anxious to do what she wished, there was no excuse for bad temper, and she felt that her choicest weapons were being wasted, while the enemy was doubtless making the best use of her time by entrenching herself more strongly. Accordingly, the young lady intimated to her husband that the tour had lasted long enough, and the Pasha gave orders for the return. His Excellency’s long absence had so far made the heart of the Baghdadis grow fonder that they pressed to meet him and greeted him with acclamations, which were especially pleasing to him as tending to prove that the Balio Bey had been wrong in his dismal prognostications. Even Azim Bey received a special ovation, and the official who had acted as the Pasha’s deputy in his absence reported that Sir Dugald Haigh, and the English colony generally, had quite regained their former popularity.
As for Cecil, she felt as though she were returning home, and the sight of the Residency almost brought tears to her eyes. She could scarcely wait until Sunday to get news of her friends, and they on their part gave her the warmest of welcomes when her donkey reached the great gate. Lady Haigh exclaimed on her improved appearance, Sir Dugald paid her a courtly compliment on her looks, and Captain Rossiter and the other young men who were employed at the Consulate in various capacities expressed in their faces as much pleasure and admiration as they dared. But there was something wanting even in this wealth of greeting. Charlie Egerton did not appear, nor add his voice to the chorus. Although Cecil had come back resolved to snub and repress him,—for his own good, of course,—she could not help feeling that there was undeserved unkindness in this absolute neglect. He must have known that she was coming home, and that he should have chosen this special occasion on which to visit old Isaac Azevedo, or even Dr Yehudi, showed a callousness which she had not expected in him. It was not until she was closeted with Lady Haigh for a good talk, after morning service, that she heard the reason of Charlie’s absence.
“My dear,” cried Lady Haigh, when Cecil had remarked casually that she supposed Dr Egerton was visiting some of his friends, “Charlie isn’t in Baghdad at all. Haven’t you heard? He has been sent off on an expedition into the Bakhtiari country, and may be away for months.”
“Indeed!” said Cecil. It was all that she could say.
“Yes, indeed. And you never heard about it? Well, I will tell you. You know that there has been a good deal of talk lately about a mysterious epidemic which has sprung up among the Bakhtiaris, and seemed to be spreading along the Gulf? The Indian Government were getting very nervous about it, and Sir Dugald has had a great deal of correspondence with them on the subject. At last it was suggested that a medical commission should visit the district, and try to find out the root of the disease, and see exactly what conditions caused it to spread. The idea was taken up, and it was settled that the commission should consist of a doctor sent by the Shah (the Bakhtiaris are under Persia, you know), and Charlie, representing our Government. They know his worth, you see, though they have treated him so badly. And so he started, just a fortnight ago now.”