“I want to see all those delightful creatures, you know,” said Chrysophrasia. “The Sultan and the Sheik — what do you call him?”
“Sheik ul Islam,” said the ready Macaulay.
“Sheik Ool is lamb!” repeated Chrysophrasia, thoughtfully. “Lamb, — so symbolical in our own very symbolic religion. It means so much, you know.”
“Chrysophrasia!” ejaculated Mary Carvel, in a tone of gentle reproach. She thought she detected the far-off shadow of a possible irreverence in her sister’s tone. Macaulay again interposed, while Paul and I endeavored to avoid each other’s eyes, lest we should be overtaken by an explosion of laughter.
“It is ‘Islam,’ not ’is lamb,’ aunt Chrysophrasia,” said Macaulay, mildly.
“I don’t see much difference,” retorted Miss Dabstreak, “except that you say it is lamb, and I say it is lamb. Oh! you mean it is one word, — yes; I dare say,” she added quickly, in some confusion. “Of course, I don’t speak Turkish.”
“It is Arabic,” observed the implacable Macaulay.
“John,” said Chrysophrasia, ignoring the correction with a fine indifference, “we must see everything at once. When shall we begin?”
The question effectually turned the conversation, for all the party were anxious to see what Macaulay was equally anxious to show, having himself only seen each sight once. The remainder of the time while we sat at table was occupied in discussing the various expeditions which the party must undertake in order to see the city and its surroundings systematically. After dinner John and I remained behind for a while. Paul wanted to talk to Hermione, and Macaulay, who was the most domestic of young men, preferred the society of his mother and aunts, whom he had not seen for several months, to the smell of cigars and Turkish coffee.
“What do you think of her?” asked John Carvel when we were alone. “She seems perfectly sane, does she not?”
“Perfectly. What proves it best is the way she treats Paul. She is very affectionate. I suppose there is no fear of a relapse?”
“I hope not, I hope not!” repeated John fervently. “She has behaved admirably during the journey. Now, about Paul,” he continued, lowering his voice a little: “how does he strike you since you have known him better? You have seen him every day for some time. What sort of a fellow is he?”
“I think he is very much in earnest,” I answered.
“Yes, yes, — no doubt. But you know what I mean, Griggs: is he the kind of man to whom I can give my daughter? That is what I am thinking of. I know that he works hard and will succeed, and all that.”
“I can tell you what I think,” said I, “but you must form your own judgment as well. I like Paul very much, but you must like him too, before you decide. In my opinion he is a man of fine character, scrupulously honest, and not at all capricious. I cannot say more.”
“A little wild when he was younger?” suggested John.
“Not very, I am sure. He was unhappy in his childhood; he was one of those boys who make up their minds to work, and who grow so fond of it that they go on working when other boys begin to play.”
“Very odd,” observed John. “He is not at all a prig.”
“No, indeed. He is as manly a fellow as you could meet, and at first sight he does not produce the impression of being so serious as he is. I think that is put on. He once told me that he had made a study of small talk and of the art of appearing well, because he thinks it so important in his career. I dare say he is right. He knows a great deal, and knows it thoroughly.”
“He does not know any more than Macaulay,” said John, as though in praising Paul I had attacked his son. “What a clever fellow he is! I only wish he were a little tougher, — just a little more shell to him, I mean.”
“He will get that,” I answered. “He is younger than Paul, and has not seen so much of the world.”
“You say you like Paul. Do you think he would make a good husband?”
“Yes, I really believe he would,” I replied. “But do not take him on my recommendation. You must know him better yourself. You will meet many people here who know him, and some who know him well.”
“What do you think of that story about his brother?” asked John, looking at me very earnestly.
“I believe he is as innocent as you or I. But we are getting near the truth, and have made some valuable discoveries.”
I explained to Carvel what we had found, and without mentioning the name of Laleli Khanum I told him how far we had traced the mystery, and he listened with profound interest to my account.
“I hope you may find him alive,” he said, as we rose from the table. “For my part, I do not believe we shall ever see him. Paul was alone with his mother this afternoon, and I dare say he told her what you have told me. She does not seem to object to the subject, though of course we generally avoid it.”
I stayed an hour longer with the party, during which time Paul talked a great deal to Hermione, occasionally joining in the general conversation, and certainly not trying to prevent what he said to the young girl from being heard. At last I took my leave and went home, for I was anxious to see Gregorios, and to hear from him what plan he proposed to adopt for the solution of our difficulties at this critical moment. I found him waiting for me.
“Have you made up your mind?” I asked.
Balsamides was sitting beside his table with a book. He looked even paler than usual, and was evidently more excited than he liked to own. He is eminently a man who loves danger, and his nature never warms so genially as when something desperate is to be done. A Christian by race and belief, he has absorbed much of the fatalism of the Oriental races, and his courage is of the fatalist kind, reckless and devoted.
“Yes,” he answered. “I have made up my mind. One must either be the camel or the camel-driver. One must either submit to the course of events, or do something to violently change their direction. If we submit much longer, we shall lose the game. The old woman will die, — the Turkish women always die when they are ill; and if she is once dead without confessing, we may give up all hope.”
“We should always have Selim to examine,” I remarked.
“If Laleli Khanum dies, Selim will disappear the same hour, — laying hands on everything within reach, of course. How could we catch him? He would cross the Bosphorus, put on a disguise of some sort, and make his way to Egypt in no time. Those fellows are very cunning.”
“Then you mean to try and extort a confession from Laleli herself? How in the world do you mean to do it? It is a case of life or death.”
“I have got life and death in my pocket,” answered Gregorios, his eyes beginning to sparkle. “Can you read Turkish? Of course you can. Read that.”
I took the folded document and examined it.
“This is an Iradè!” I exclaimed, in great surprise; “an imperial order to arrest Laleli Khanum Effendi, — good heavens! Balsamides, I had no idea that you possessed such tools as this!”
“To tell you how I got it would be to tell you my own history during the last ten years,” he answered, in low tones. “I trust you, Griggs, but there are other reasons why I cannot tell you all that. You see the result, at all events, and a result very dearly paid for,” he added gravely. “But I have got the thing, and what is more, I have permission to personate the Sultan’s private physician.”
“What is that for? I should think the Iradè were quite enough.”
“Laleli might die of fright, if I merely presented myself and threatened to arrest her. But I shall see her in the assumed character of the court physician. Laleli is a Turkish woman, who understands no other language but her own and Greek. She is very superstitious, and believes in all manner of charms and spells; for she has no ideas at all concerning Western science, except that it is all contrary to the Koran. I can talk the jargon of an old Hadji well enough, and besides I know something of medicine; very little, but enough to tell me whether she is absolutely in a dying state. It is a great compliment for the Sultan to send his private physici
an, and if she is in a conscious state she will be flattered and thrown off her guard. If I can manage to get her slaves out of the way, I may induce her to confess. If I fail in this, I have the means to frighten her. If she dies, I have the means of arresting Selim before he can escape. It is all very well arranged, and there is nothing to be done but to put the plan into execution. When you left me I had not got the Iradè; it came about an hour ago.”
“How can I help you?” I asked.
“You must have a disguise, too. When the court physician is sent to visit a person of consequence, he is always accompanied by an adjutant from the palace. You must play this part. I have borrowed a uniform from a brother officer which will fit you. It is in your room, and I will help you to put it on. You need say nothing, nor answer any questions the slaves may put to you unless you are quite sure of your words. You have a very military figure, and the sight of a uniform acts like magic on fellows like the Lala and his companions. As I am an adjutant myself, I can tell you exactly what to do, so that no one could detect you. Are you willing to try?”
“Of course,” I said, rising and going towards my room. “How are we to go to Yeni Köj?”
“A carriage from the palace will be at the door in half an hour,” answered Gregorios, looking at his watch. “Now, then, we must turn you into a Turkish officer,” he added, with a laugh.
In ten minutes the change was complete, and I do not believe that my best friend would have recognized me in the close-fitting dress, cut like that of a Prussian dragoon’s parade uniform, but made of dark cloth with red facings. I buckled on the sabre, and Gregorios set the fez carefully on my head. I looked at myself in the glass. The costume fitted as though it were made for me.
“I feel as though I were going to a masked ball,” I said, laughing. “I never was so disguised before in my life.”
“I hope you may feel so when you come home,” answered Balsamides, with a smile. “Now you must take some of your own clothes in a bag. We may not get home before morning, and we might meet some one of the adjutants when we come back. They would know that you are not one of us, and there might be trouble. We must take some money, too. We may need to hire a boat or horses; one can never tell.”
Balsamides stood a moment and looked at me, apparently well satisfied with my appearance. Then he opened the window to see whether the carriage was below, but it had not yet come.
“While we are waiting, I will explain our plan of action,” he said, as he opened his writing-desk and took a small roll of gold pieces and a handful of silver. “We shall be driven to the door of the house, and when we knock, Selim or some other Lala, if there are others, will open the door. He will see you and recognize your uniform, as well as the livery of the palace carriage. He will salute us, and you must of course return the salutation. I will then explain that I am the court physician, and that his majesty, having just heard of the Khanum Effendi’s illness, has sent me down to attend her. Selim will salute us again, and show us into the house. You will be left in the salamlek, the lower hall, and I shall be shown into the harem, after a few minutes have elapsed to give time for preparation. Then you will have to wait, but you will probably not be disturbed, unless a slave brings you coffee and cigarettes. Selim will probably remain in the harem all the time I am there. But if you hear anything like a scuffle, you must come when you recognize my voice. This will not occur unless Selim hears something which frightens him, and tries to get away. Of course you are supposed to be present for my protection, and you must affect a certain deference towards me.”
“I will be humility itself,” I answered.
“No, not too much humility. A mere show of respect for my position will do. We adjutants about the palace are not much given to self-abasement of any sort. There is one catastrophe which may occur. If the old woman is really dying, as they say she is, she may die while we are there. We must then take possession of the person of Selim and carry him off. There will not be much trouble about that. The house is in a lonely place, and the driver of the carriage knows his orders. He will obey instantly, no matter what I tell him to do.”
“And if we should, by any chance, find Alexander in the house,” I asked, “shall we be able to get him out without trouble?”
“Not without trouble,” answered Gregorios, with a grim smile. “But we will not stick at trifles so long as we have the imperial Iradè with us. I hear the carriage. Let us be off.”
So we left the house on our errand without further words.
XV.
PAUL STAYED AT the hotel until a late hour, and went home, feeling lighter at heart than he had felt for many days. He was in love, and the passion had a very salutary effect upon his nature. His heart had been crushed down when he was a child, until he doubted whether he had any heart at all. His early sufferings had hardened his nature, and his cool strong mind had approved the process, so that he was well satisfied with his solitary condition and his loveless life. He had seen much of the world, and had known many women of all nations, but his immovable indifference was proverbial among his colleagues, and if he had ever entertained a passing fancy for any one, the fact was unknown to gossip. It might be supposed that this very coldness would have rendered him attractive to women, for it is commonly said, and with some truth, that they are sometimes drawn to those men who show them no manner of attention. But I think that the case is not always the same, and admits of very subtle distinctions. It is not a man’s coldness that attracts a woman, but the belief that, though he is cold to others, he may soften towards herself; and this belief often rests on mere vanity, and often on the truth of the supposition. There are many men who systematically affect outward indifference in order to make themselves interesting in the eyes of the other sex, allowing a word, a look, a gesture, to betray at stated intervals that they are not indifferent to the one woman whose love they covet. They give these signs with the utmost skill and with a strange, calculating avarice. Women watch such men jealously from a distance, to see if they can detect the slightest softening of manner towards other women; and when they have convinced themselves that they alone have the power to influence the frozen nature they admire, they very easily fall wholly in love. In general a man who is very cold and indifferent is not to be trusted. The chances are ten to one that he is playing the old and time-honored part for a definite purpose.
But there are those who play no part, nor need to affect any characteristic not theirs. When women find out that a man is really indifferent to all women, their disgust knows no bounds. So long as he is known to have loved any one in the past, or to love any one in the present, or to be even likely to love any one in the future, he may be pardoned. But if it is firmly believed that he is incapable of love, woman-kind arises in a body and abuses him in unmeasured terms. He is selfish. He is arrogant. He is so conceited that he thinks no one good enough for him. He is a stone, a prig, a hypocrite, a maniac, a monster, a statue, and especially he is a bore. In other words, he is a man’s man, and not a woman’s man; and unless it can be proved that his madness proceeds from disappointed love, even Dives in hell is not further removed from forgiveness than he. Men may admire his strength, his talents, his perseverance, and some friend will be found foolish enough to sing his praises to some woman of the world. She will answer the panegyrist with a blank stare, and will very likely say coldly, that he is a bore, or that he is very rude. No amount of praise or ingenious argument will extort an admission that the unfortunate man is worthy of human sympathy. And yet, he may be very human, after all. At all events, if we say with the Greek philosopher that a man shall not be called happy until he be dead, we should not allow that he is beyond the reach of love until the life has gone out of him, certainly not until he is sixty years of age at the very least.
Now Paul Patoff was not sixty years old when he found himself in the quiet English country house, and looked on his fair English cousin and loved her. He was, as the times go, a young man, just entered upon the prime of his life, just pa
st the age when youth is considered foolish, and just reaching the time when it is considered desirable. The fact that he had not loved before was not likely to make his passion less strong now that it had come at last, and he knew it, as men generally understand themselves better when they are in love with a good woman. He asked himself, indeed, why he had so suddenly given himself up, heart and soul, to the lovely girl he had known only for a month; but such questions are necessarily futile, because the heart does not always go through the formality of asking the mind’s consent before acting, and the mind consequently refuses to be called to account in a matter for which it is in no way responsible. It seemed to Paul very strange that after so many years of a busy life, in which no passion but ambition had played any part, he should all at once find his whole existence involved in a new and un-dreamed-of labyrinth of feeling. But though it was indeed a labyrinth, from which he did not even desire to escape, he acknowledged that the paths of it were full of roses, and that life in its winding walks was pleasanter than life outside.
The uncertainty of his position, however, disturbed his dreams, and even the pleasant hours he spent with Hermione, listening to her rippling laughter and gentle voice, were somewhat disturbed by the thought of the morrow, and of what the end would be. His own instinct would have led him to speak to Carvel at once and to have the matter settled, but another set of ideas argued that he should wait and see what happened, and if possible put off asking the fatal question until he had unraveled the mystery of his brother’s disappearance. That Carvel could have believed him in any way implicated in the tragedy, and yet have asked him to his house, he knew to be impossible; but he knew also that the shadow of Alexander’s fate hung over him, and now that there existed a chance of completely and brilliantly establishing his innocence before the world, he was unwilling to take so serious a step as formally proposing for Hermione’s hand, until the long desired result should be reached. He had deeply felt the truth of what she had said to him in England, — that he should be able to silence hints like those Chrysophrasia had let fall, that he should place himself in such a position as to defy insults instead of being obliged to bear them quietly; and the conviction brought home to him by Hermione’s words had resulted in his immediate departure, with the determination to fathom the mystery, and to clear himself forever, or to sacrifice his love in case of failure.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 281