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.”

“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.

“Mademoiselle,” he said to Cecil, as they sat beside the brazier after supper, “there is something I must say to you. You have enemies in the harem, and they make up lying reports about you to tell my father when he returns. The little lady mother said to Mdlle. Katrina when I was there that you were going mad, and that you had taken a dislike to me and would murder me. They know what happened to--him, and they think you will try to avenge his death on me.”

“And you are not afraid, Bey?” asked Cecil, with a sad smile.

“I? oh no, mademoiselle. I know that you are good, and that you love me, since you have even forgiven me. I don’t want them to send you away from me, but that is what they wish to do, and they will do it if they can persuade the Pasha. They are going to send the _hakim bashi_ to see you, and they will talk to him beforehand, so that he will do what they tell him. Could you not look a little more cheerful, dear mademoiselle, just when he comes?”

“I will try,” said Cecil, but when she looked at herself in the glass it struck her that the attempt would be of little use. Could that pale, sad face, from which mournful eyes looked out at her, be her own? If so, it was no wonder that Jamileh Khanum was startled by the change, since even Cecil herself found it surprising. The strain of keeping up her spirits in Azim Bey’s presence was tremendous, and day after day the difficulty of going through the routine of work and recreation became greater. But for his sake she would try to impress the physician favourably, impossible though it seemed even to affect cheerfulness.

The _hakim bashi_ arrived, and she did her best, receiving him with what composure she could muster, and forcing herself to an unexpected burst of high spirits, which only confirmed the physician in the belief which his patroness and her attendant had diligently instilled into his mind, that Mdlle. Antaza’s brain was affected. In this opinion he was strengthened when, on coming back hastily to fetch something he had left, he surprised Cecil in a fit of deep depression, into which she had sunk on the withdrawal of the momentary excitement. For a time, however, nothing came of his visit, and Azim Bey’s household began to hope that the alarm had been a false one, designed by Jamileh Khanum for the purpose of frightening them, when an order came from the Pasha that everything was to be packed up, and every one ready to start at a moment’s notice. Flushed with victory, Ahmed Khémi was returning to Baghdad by a road slightly different from that which he had taken in coming, and his household, with the military escort, was to meet him at a spot situated a good deal lower down the mountain than was Sardiyeh.

Two or three days after the order had been given, Cecil and her pupil were disturbed at breakfast by a sudden invasion of their courtyard. Two of the harem agas swaggered in, and with more than their usual insolence announced that they brought the Khanum Effendi’s orders. Azim Bey and his attendants were to start that morning with the harem procession, which was almost ready for the journey, but Mdlle. Antaza and her nurse were to remain where they were for the present. Cecil’s anger rose at this cool command.

“The Khanum Effendi has no right to detain me here,” she said, quickly.

“Pasha’s order,” was the sole reply, and the chief aga held out a document which on examination proved to be a permission from his Excellency for Mdlle. Antaza to remain behind in the mountains for rest, according to the _hakim bashi’s_ recommendation, until her health should be completely restored. Sardiyeh was to continue to be her residence until further orders should be received. Cecil read the paper through and handed it back calmly to the man. Nothing had power to astonish her now. If the order had been for her instant execution, she would scarcely have felt surprise. But to the other women the blow came unexpectedly, and they pressed forward with loud weeping to kiss her hands and the hem of her dress. That they feared something much worse than the letter implied was evident, and they heaped blessings and expressions of pity upon her alternately, while Um Yusuf stood by and abused the agas roundly, in especial threatening them in such moving terms with the wrath of the Balio Bey that they glanced round apprehensively, as though expecting to see Sir Dugald appear miraculously in all his might as the champion of injured virtue. Speedily recovering themselves, however, they drove off the women, wailing and beating their breasts and calling down maledictions upon the agas’ respective ancestors, while Azim Bey, who had been standing at Cecil’s side, was also ordered to accompany them. The boy’s very lips were white as he kissed his governess’s hand.

“Don’t lose heart, mademoiselle,” he whispered. “I know they intend evil against you, but my father shall know everything, and if he will not help I will speak to the Balio Bey.”

“Are we to be left here alone?” asked Cecil of the agas.

“My lady’s servants are charged by the Khanum Effendi to wait upon and watch over her and her nurse,” said the chief, gruffly.

“We are to be prisoners, then?” said Cecil, as Azim Bey shuddered and gripped her hand more tightly.

“That is as my lady pleases,” returned the man. “Within these walls she may do what she likes, but outside there are the Kurds and the worshippers of Shaitan, and the Mutesalim will be returning, who has no fear of the Balio Bey, and therefore the Khanum Effendi, in her care for my lady, considers that it will be well for her not to leave the house.”

“Listen to me, O Aga Mansur,” cried Azim Bey, “and upon thy head be it if thou fail in what I command thee. I leave mademoiselle in thy charge, and if she suffers any hurt, I swear by my father’s beard that thou shalt pay for it.”

“Upon my head be it, O my lord,” was the ceremonious answer. “Will it please my lord now to depart?”

Azim Bey went out with all the dignity he could muster, though the tears were very near his eyes, while the two strange agas took Masûd’s place at the gate and proceeded to arrange their belongings in his room. The door was now shut, and the two captives returned to the _lewan_ to consider the situation.

“The Khanum Effendi want kill us,” said Um Yusuf, angry and alarmed. “You got pistol, mademoiselle? knife? dagger?”

“Only a penknife,” said Cecil, wearily. “What does it signify, Um Yusuf? I don’t believe they mean to kill us, and if they did, a penknife wouldn’t prevent them.”

But Um Yusuf was not to be silenced. She instituted a methodical search for arms, and was successful in discovering two table-knives which had been brought from Baghdad for Cecil’s use. The shape and size of these made them difficult to carry about the person, but she concealed them with great care among the cushions of the divan, and felt happier. At night her fears revived, and she dragged her bed into her mistress’s room, and insisted on closing the window and barricading the door with every movable thing she could find, and this state of siege she maintained with unflagging perseverance. The two agas took no notice, and seemed to feel little interest in anything their prisoners did. If their intentions were evil, they feared Um Yusuf’s precautions too much to put them into execution, and thus days and weeks slipped by without alarm.

To Cecil the time was one of rest, so much needed as to be almost welcome. She made little or no attempt to occupy herself with books or work, but sat on the house-top gazing at the mountains and the sky, and seldom speaking. Um Yusuf became very uneasy about her, fearing this quiet acquiescence in her grief almost more than the feverish excitement of the days before the departure of Azim Bey and the rest. It seemed to her that her mistress needed rousing and taking out of herself, and she honestly did her best to effect this, according to her lights. She encouraged her to sketch, tried in vain to induce her to study, and even gave herself the trouble of fashioning a draught-board and set of men, with the aid of one of the precious table-knives, so that she might invite her to play.

“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.