Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Go now, my child,” said Madame Patoff. “Remember your promise. Remember that I am a wretched old woman, come here to be left alone, to die. Remember what I have told you, and beware of being deceived. You love a murderer — a murderer — remember that.”

  Hermione stood a moment and gazed at her aunt’s face, grown calm and almost beautiful again. Her tears had left no trace, her thick gray hair was as smooth as ever, her great dark eyes were deep and full of light. Then, without another word, the young girl turned away and left the room, closing the door behind her, and nodding a good-night to Mrs. North, who sat by her lamp in the outer room, gray and watchful as ever.

  If her aunt was sane, was she human? The question suggested itself to Hermione’s brain as she walked along the passage; but she had not time to frame an answer. As she went out into the hall she saw Paul standing by the huge carved, fireplace, his back turned towards her, his tall figure thrown into high relief by the leaping flames. She went up to him, and as he heard her step he started and faced her. He had finished his cigar with us, and was about to go quietly to his room in search of solitude, when he had paused by the hall fire. His face was very sad as he looked up.

  “Paul,” said the young girl, taking both his hands and looking into his eyes, “I believe in you, — you could not do anything wrong. People would never suspect you if you answered them, if you would only take the trouble to defend yourself.”

  “Defend myself?” repeated Paul. “Against what, Hermione?”

  “When people say, ‘Where is your brother?’ — or mean to say it, as aunt Chrysophrasia did this evening, — you ought to answer; you ought not to turn pale and be silent.”

  “You too!” groaned the unhappy man, looking into her eyes. “You too, my darling! Ah, no! It is too much.” He dropped her hands, and turned again, leaning on the chimney-piece.

  “How can you think I believe it? Oh, Paul! how unkind!” exclaimed Hermione, clasping her hands upon his shoulder, and trying to look at his averted face. “I never, never believed it, dear. But no one else must believe it either; you must make them not believe it.”

  “My dearest,” said Paul, almost sternly, but not unkindly, “this thing has pursued me for a long time. I thought it was dead. It has come between you and me on the very day of our happiness. You say you believe in me. I say you shall not believe in me without proof. Good-by, love, — good-by!”

  He drew her to him and kissed her once; then he tried to go.

  “Paul,” she cried, holding him, “where are you going?” She was terrified by his manner.

  “I am going away,” he said slowly. “I will find my brother, or his body, and I will not come back until then.”

  “But you must not go! I cannot bear to let you go!” she cried, in agonized tones.

  “You must,” he answered, and the color left his cheeks. “You cannot marry a man who is suspected. Good-by, my beloved!”

  Once more he kissed her, and then he turned quickly away and left the hall. Hermione stood still one moment, staring at his retreating figure. Then she sank into the deep chair by the side of the great fire and burst into tears. She had good cause for sorrow, for she had sent Paul Patoff away, she knew not whither. She had not even the satisfaction of feeling that she had been quite right in speaking to him as she had spoken, and above all she feared lest he should believe, in spite of her words, that in her own mind there was some shadow of suspicion left. But he was gone. He would probably leave the house early in the morning, and she might never see him again. What could she do but let her tears flow down as freely as they could?

  Late at night I sat in my room, reading by the light of the candles, and watching the fire as it gradually died away in the grate. It was very late, and I was beginning to think of going to bed, when some one knocked at the door. It was Paul Patoff. I was very much surprised to see him, and I suppose my face showed it, for he apologized for the intrusion.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “It is very late, but could you spare me half an hour before going to bed?”

  “Certainly,” I answered, noticing his pallor, and fancying that something had happened.

  “Thank you,” said he. “I believe I have heard you say that you know Constantinople very well?”

  “Tolerably well — yes. I know many of the natives. I have been there very often.”

  “I am going back there,” said Patoff. “They sent me to Persia for a year and more, and now I am to return to my old post. I want to ask your advice about a very delicate matter. You know — or perhaps you do not know — that my brother disappeared in Stamboul, a year ago last summer, under very strange circumstances. I did all I could to find him, and the ambassador did more. But we never discovered any trace of him. I have made up my mind that I will not be disappointed this time.”

  “Could you tell me any of the details?” I asked.

  Paul looked at me once, and hesitated. Then he settled himself in his chair, and told me his story very much as I have told it, from the afternoon of the day on which Alexander disappeared to the moment when Paul left his mother at Teinach in the Black Forest. He told me also how Professor Cutter had written to him his account of the accident at Weissenstein, when Madame Patoff, as he said, had attempted to commit suicide.

  “Pardon me,” I said, when he had reached this stage. “I do not believe she tried to kill herself.”

  “Why not?” asked Patoff, in some surprise.

  “I was the man with the rope. Cutter has never realized that you did not know it.”

  Paul was very much astonished at the news, and looked at me as though hardly believing his senses.

  “Yes,” I continued. “I happened to be leaning out of the window immediately over the balcony, and I saw your mother fall. I do not believe she threw herself over; if she had done that, she would probably not have been caught on the tree. The parapet was very low, and she is very tall. I heard her say to Professor Cutter, ‘I am coming;’ then she stood up. Suddenly she grew red in the face, tottered, tried to save herself, but missed the parapet, and fell over with a loud scream of terror.”

  “I am very much surprised,” said Paul, “very grateful to you, of course, for saving her life. I do not know how to thank you; but how strange that Cutter should never have told me!”

  “He saw that we knew each other,” I remarked. “He supposed that I had told you.”

  “So it was not an attempt at suicide, after all. It is amazing to think how one may be deceived in this world.”

  For some minutes he sat silent in his chair, evidently in deep thought. I did not disturb him, though I watched the melancholy expression of his face, thinking of the great misfortunes which had overtaken him, and pitying him, perhaps, more than he would have liked.

  “Griggs,” he said at last, “do you know of any one in Constantinople who would help me, — who could help me if he would?”

  “To find your brother? It is a serious affair. Yes, I do know of one man; if he could be induced to take an interest in the matter, he might do a great deal.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Balsamides Bey,” I answered.

  “I have seen him, but I do not know him,” said Paul. “Could you give me a letter?”

  “It would not be of the slightest use. You can easily make his acquaintance, but it will be a very different matter to get him to help you. He is one of the strangest men in the world. If he takes a fancy to you, he will do anything imaginable to oblige you.”

  “And if not?”

  “If not, he will laugh at you. He is a queer fellow.”

  “Eccentric, I should think. I am not prepared to be laughed at, but I will risk it, if there is any chance.”

  “Look here, Patoff,” I said. “I have nothing to do this spring, and the devil of unrest is on me again. I will go to Constantinople with you, and we will see what can be done. You are a Russian, and those people will not trust you; your nationality will be against you at every turn. Balsamides hims
elf hates Russians, having fought against them ten years ago, in the last war.”

  Paul started up in his chair, and stretched out his hand. “Will you really go with me?” he cried in great excitement. “That would be too good of you. Shall we start to-morrow?”

  “Let me see, — we must have an excuse. Could you not telegraph to your chief to recall you at once? You must have something to show to Carvel. He will be startled at our leaving so suddenly.”

  “Will he?” said Paul, absently. “I suppose so. Perhaps I can manage it.”

  It was very late when he left my room. I went to bed, but slept little, thinking over all he had told me, but knowing that he had not told me all. I guessed then what I knew later, — that he had asked Hermione to marry him, and that, in consequence of Chrysophrasia’s remark at dinner, she had asked him about his brother. It was easy to understand that the question, coming from her, would produce a revival of his former energy in the search for Alexander. But it was long before I knew all the details of Hermione’s visit to Madame Patoff.

  The matter was arranged without much difficulty. Paul received a despatch the next day from Count Ananoff, requesting him to return as soon as possible, and I announced my determination to accompany him. The news was received by the different members of the household in different ways, according to the views of each. Poor Hermione was pale and silent. Chrysophrasia’s disagreeable eyes wore a greenish air of cat-like satisfaction. Mrs. Carvel herself was sincerely distressed, and John opened his eyes in astonishment. Professor Cutter looked about with an inquiring air, and Macaulay expressed a hope that he might be appointed to Constantinople very soon, adding that he should take pains to learn Turkish as quickly as possible. That fellow regards everything in life as a sort of lesson, and takes part in events as a highly moral and studious undergraduate would attend a course of lectures.

  I think Paul and I both breathed more freely when we had announced our departure. He looked ill, and it was evident that he was sorry to go, but it was also quite clear that nothing could move him from his determination. Even at the last minute he kept himself calm, and though he was obliged to part from Hermione in the presence of all the rest, he did not wince. Every one joined in saying that they hoped he would pay them another visit, and even Chrysophrasia drawled out something to that effect, though I have no doubt she was inwardly rejoicing at his going away; and just as we were starting she ostentatiously kissed poor Hermione, as though to reassert her protectorate, and to show that Hermione’s safety was due entirely to her aunt Chrysophrasia’s exertions on her behalf.

  Paul would have been willing to go to his mother once again before parting, but Cutter thought it better not to let him do so, as his presence irritated her beyond measure. Hermione looked as though she would have said something, but seemed to think better of it. At last we drove away from the old place in the chilly February afternoon, and I confess that for a moment I half repented of my sudden resolution to go to the East. But in a few minutes the old longing for some active occupation came back, and though I thought gratefully of John Carvel’s friendly ways and pleasant conversation, I found myself looking forward to the sight of the crowded bazaars and the solemn Turks, smelling already the indescribable atmosphere of the Levant, and enjoying the prospect almost as keenly as when I first set my face eastwards, many years ago.

  These were the circumstances which brought me back to Constantinople last year. If, in telling my story, I have dwelt long upon what happened in England, I must beg you to remember that it is one thing to construct a drama with all possible regard for the unities and no regard whatever for probability, whereas it is quite another to tell the story of a man’s life, or even of those years which have been to him the most important part of it.

  XII.

  IT WAS NOT an easy matter to make Balsamides Bey take a fancy to Paul, for he was, and still is, a man full of prejudice, if also full of wit. In his well-shaped head resides an intelligence of no mean order, and the lines graven in his pale face express thought and study, while suggesting also an extreme love of sarcasm and a caustic, incredulous humor. His large and deep-set blue eyes seem to look at things only to criticise them, never to enjoy them, and his arched eyebrows bristle like defenses set up between the world with its interests on the one side and the inner man Balsamides on the other. Though he wears a heavy brown mustache, it is easy to see that underneath it his thin lips curl scornfully, and are drawn down at the extremities of his mouth. He is very scrupulous in his appearance, whether he wears the uniform of a Sultan’s adjutant, or the morning dress of an ordinary man of the world, or the official evening coat of the Turks, made like that of an English clergyman, but ornamented by a string of tiny decorations attached to the buttonhole on the left side. Gregorios Balsamides is of middle height, slender and well built, a matchless horseman, and long inured to every kind of hardship, though his pallor and his delicate white hands suggest a constitution anything but hardy.

  He is the natural outcome of the present state of civilization in Turkey; and as it is not easy for the ordinary mind to understand the state of the Ottoman Empire without long study, so it is not by any means a simple matter to comprehend the characters produced by the modern condition of things in the East. Balsamides Bey is a man who seems to unite in himself as many contradictory qualities and characteristics as are to be found in any one living man. He is a thorough Turk in principle, but also a thorough Western Frank in education. He has read immensely in many languages, and speaks French and English with remarkable fluency. He has made an especial study of modern history, and can give an important date, a short account of a great battle, or a brief notice of a living celebrity, with an ease and accuracy that many a student might envy. He reads French and English novels, and probably possesses a contraband copy of Byron, whose works are proscribed in Turkey and confiscated by the custom-house. He goes into European society as well as among Turks, Greeks, and Armenians. Although a Greek by descent, he loves the Turks and is profoundly attached to the reigning dynasty, under whom his father and grandfather lived and prospered. A Christian by birth and education, he has a profound respect for the Mussulman faith, as being the religion of the government he serves, and a profound hatred of the Armenian, whom he regards as the evil genius of the Osmanli. He is a man whom many trust, but whose chief desire seems to be to avoid all show of power. He is often consulted on important matters, but his discretion is proof against all attacks, and there is not a journalist nor correspondent in Pera who can boast of ever having extracted the smallest item of information from Balsamides Bey.

  These are his good qualities, and they are solid ones, for he is a thoroughly well-informed man, exceedingly clever, and absolutely trustworthy. On the other hand, he is cold, sarcastic, and possibly cruel, and occasionally he is frank almost to brutality.

  On the very evening of our arrival in Pera I went to see him, for he is an old friend of mine. I found him alone in his small lodgings in the Grande Rue, reading a yellow-covered French novel by the light of a German student-lamp. The room was simply furnished with a table, a divan, three or four stiff, straight-backed chairs, and a bookcase. But on the matted floor and divan there were two or three fine Siné carpets; a couple of trophies of splendidly ornamented weapons adorned the wall; by his side, upon a small eight-sided table inlaid with tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl, stood a silver salver with an empty coffee-cup of beautiful workmanship, — the stand of beaten gold, and the delicate shell of the most exquisite transparent china. He had evidently been on duty at the palace, for he was in uniform, and had removed only his long riding-boots, throwing himself down in his chair to read the book in which he was interested.

  On seeing me, he rose suddenly and put out his hand.

  “Is it you? Where have you come from?” he cried.

  “From England, to see you,” I answered.

  “You must stay with me,” he said at once. “The spare room is ready,” he added, leading me to the door. The
n he clapped his hands to call the servant, before I could prevent him.

  “But I have already been to the hotel,” I protested.

  “Go to Missiri’s with a hamál, and bring the Effendi’s luggage,” he said to the servant, who instantly disappeared.

  “Caught,” he exclaimed, laughing, as he opened the door and showed me my little room. I had slept there many a night in former times, and I loved his simple hospitality.

  “You are the same as ever,” I said. “A man cannot put his nose inside your door without being caught, as you call it.”

  “Many a man may,” he answered. “But not you, my dear fellow. Now — you will have coffee and a cigarette. We will dine at home. There is pilaff and kebabi and a bottle of champagne. How are you? I forgot to ask.”

  “Very well, thanks,” said I, as we came back to the sitting-room. “I am always well, you know. You look pale, but that is nothing new. You have been on duty at the palace?”

  “Friday,” he answered laconically, which meant that he had been at the Selamlek, attending the Sultan to the weekly service at the mosque.