“My dear Phil, you are most penetrating and far-sighted, I don’t doubt, but after all, I’m Helene’s husband, and I may be allowed to know her better than you do. Look at her now, tormenting old Fred with a catechism on vine-growing. She’s only a child, vividly interested in everything, and devoted to me just because I’ve been kind to her—as if I could help it. I suppose she’ll grow up some day, but I’m not going to turn her into a little old woman before the time.”
Philippa rose and looked over the carved wooden railing that safeguarded the balcony, for the house stood on a precipitous hillside. Up the winding path her husband and Helene were slowly climbing, with a pleasant murmur of voices, after visiting the vineyard which occupied a more gradual slope below. Far in the distance could be seen the blue of the Mediterranean, with a wilderness of hills between, some bare and rugged, others cultivated almost to the summit. The native house in which the Mansfields had taken refuge from the heat and possible fever of the Palestinian lowlands where their work lay was situated on the western slope of Mount Lebanon.
“They won’t be here for a minute,” said Philippa hastily. “Usk, tell me quickly—I’m most frightfully anxious—is it because you are still in love with Félicia that you can’t care properly for Helene?”
Usk laughed. “You’ve quite determined that I’m a brute to Helene. No, Phil, I can’t say that I feel the very slightest envy of King Michael. If Félicia was cruel, she was kind too. As I was not to love her, she left me nothing to do but hate her. No, I don’t mean that exactly. You know, don’t you?”
“And now she has probably had her wish, and been a queen, for two days. It doesn’t seem at all fair or moral. Even Becky Sharp never quite succeeded in getting what she wanted. But she’s out of your way, and I’m glad of it. Poor little Helene must ‘dree her ain weird,’ I suppose, as you won’t listen to what I say about her.”
“A telegram!” cried Helene, running up the steps at the end of the balcony. “We met the servant coming from Beyrout with the letters, and he had this for you, Usk. What can it be?”
“What can it be?” echoed Usk, as he tore open the envelope. “I say!” his tone changed. “Just listen: ‘Your uncle has disappeared. Meet me immediately at Novigrad, viâ Trieste.—Ernestine.’ What does it mean?”
“Uncle Cyril disappeared!” gasped Philippa.
“They’ve murdered him at last!” cried Mansfield. “Don’t stand staring, Usk; they shall pay for it! We’ll track them to the world’s end.”
“It doesn’t say he’s dead,” suggested Helene, very pale. “Perhaps it’s brigands, and they are holding him to ransom.”