CHAPTER XIV.
NO PLACE OF REPENTANCE.
THE sojourn at Urtas, which had proved so irksome to Cyril, was not doomed to last much longer. As soon as the watchful Mr Hicks could be induced, against his better judgment, to allow him to travel, he was on the road again, riding whenever it was possible. When the country was so rough as to render horse exercise unsafe for a rider able only to use one hand, he was content to be conveyed ignominiously in the mule-litter. In his train followed Mr Hicks, acting both as surgeon and chronicler. Cyril was well pleased to keep the American supplied with exclusive information on points of general interest, since he found him prepared to exercise a wise discretion with regard to matters of real importance. Mr Hicks asked no more favourable treatment than this. He had been sent out to write up the Palestine question for the ‘Crier,’ and how could he do so better than by encamping continually, so to speak, close to the fountainhead of information on the subject? His retinue, added to Cyril’s, made an imposing cavalcade, and the local governors and petty sheikhs honoured with a visit were duly impressed.
The minds of these functionaries were found to be much perturbed, owing to the reports which had been spread as to the intentions of the new government, and it was sometimes a long business to reassure them. Curiously enough, the worst and most malevolent of the mischief-makers were the Jews whose families had been settled in the larger towns for two or more generations. Supported in idleness by means of the Chalukah—a kind of voluntary tax which the Jews throughout the world imposed on themselves for the benefit of their poor brethren in Palestine—these men, quite naturally, were fully satisfied with the present. The prospect of a future in which their pretensions would be examined and their privileges curtailed was not enticing. Hard work in stubborn soil, even on land which was their own, would be a poor exchange for ease and idleness, and these degenerate Israelites did their best to avert it by inciting the Moslems to resist the change of rule. Calumny after calumny was brought forward by the local authorities, and refuted by Cyril, who made his way to the hardest hearts by dint of a judicious combination of bonhomie and bakhshish. It is true that the natives, having seen the colour of his money, and heard of the liberty and other blessings in store for them, chose to ignore the existence of the Jewish State altogether. However, since they accepted all Cyril’s suggestions, and agreed to pay their taxes to the officials whom he should appoint, their belief that England was about to take possession of the country, and had sent him in advance as her representative, mattered little.
Owing to the singular success of his labours, Count Mortimer’s journey through the country bore the aspect of a triumphal progress. When he arrived at length at Damascus, there remained only the Beni Ismail and their Desert Queen to be placated before he could announce that the whole Moslem population of Palestine was well affected towards the new rule. To gain the goodwill of the Christians was a hopeless task, he knew; but at this moment they were all fully occupied in intriguing, with the support of the consuls of the Powers who protected them respectively, for the aggrandisement of their property or prestige at the expense of rival sects. Even Bishop Philaret had forgotten the iniquities of the Jews for a time, and was so hotly engaged in a controversy with the Latins over a piece of ground some seven feet square, in which a ruined cistern (which he imagined to be a tomb) had been discovered, that he had no leisure to waste in attacking Cyril.
As the travellers approached Damascus, it seemed to Mansfield and Mr Hicks that their pace was faster than it had been at first. Cyril had become more impatient of delay, less tolerant of any proposal to digress from the appointed route for the purpose of visiting some object of interest. They could see that his spirits were variable, in spite of the rigid self-control which he exercised, and his physician discovered that for the first time in his life he slept badly night after night. When they reached the city, however, and had taken up their quarters in the house of an Oriental cousin of the Chevalier’s, he was calm and cheerful again. On the first evening of their stay he was the life of the party, which included a cheerful young Roumi aide-de-camp of the Vali or Governor-General, who was the bearer of his superior’s respects and compliments. When the story of their journeys had been told, Mahmud Fadil Bey had a good deal to say about the one task that remained to be completed.
“We are all anxious to see how you get on with the Beni Ismail,” he said, in his excellent French. “They have been a thorn in our side for many a day, and we shall not be sorry to turn them over to you.”
“What is their peculiar wickedness?” asked Cyril.
Mahmud Fadil shrugged his shoulders. “They are simply an Arab tribe who inhabit a tract of desert of which almost nothing is known, and who make themselves rather more disagreeable than the rest. Of course they have never paid any tribute—though our treasury officials devised a pleasing fiction that the arrears had been accumulating for centuries. It was practically a case of our paying tribute to them. When the usual presents were not forthcoming, it was not long before we heard that the Beni Ismail had robbed a caravan or two. It was no use sending soldiers after them, for they knew the desert and we did not, so we lay low and said nothing.” He glanced smilingly at Mr Hicks, as he made the quotation in English. “Two years ago there was a famine, and I suppose caravans became scarce. At any rate, the Beni Ismail were foolish enough to wander close to the city in search of food, and the Vali saw his opportunity. He drew a cordon of troops round their encampment, and arrested them for non-payment of their taxes. We had very nearly the whole tribe in our hands, and it was intended to deport them to some other part of the country, where they would be absolutely at the mercy of the Government. But, somehow or other, they managed to pay up, though I will do the Vali the justice to say that he did not diminish the sum he had named by a single piastre. This tardy virtue was all very well; but he had no intention of leaving the tribe at liberty to begin their old game again, and the preparations for removing them were going forward, when—of all people—the Pannonian Ambassador at Czarigrad took up the affair. It was said that the Empress of Pannonia was interesting herself in the creatures, though why she should I don’t know, but we were obliged to let them go, on the understanding that the taxes should be paid in future, and the attacks on caravans cease. Wonderful to relate, they have kept their promise, thanks, I suppose, to their Queen, whom no one had ever heard of before they got into trouble. It seems that she holds her Court at some spot in the desert that the Arabs call Sitt Zeynab. She had been wise enough to keep out of our reach, and we restored her subjects to her.”
“Do you mean that the lady’s existence had been absolutely unsuspected?” asked Cyril.
“Absolutely. It was supposed that the tribe were ashamed to confess they were ruled by a woman, or perhaps afraid that we should make a bold dash and secure her as a hostage. I believe the idea of appealing to the Empress was hers, though it is a mystery why she should hit upon Pannonia as the friend in need.”
“But has no one from Damascus ever seen her?”
“No one. Moreover, I have questioned different members of the tribe, when they came to bring their tribute, since that time, and I think very few of them have seen her either. I have been assured by one man that she is ineffably old and practises magic, and by the next that she is a perfect houri in youth and beauty. The most credible thing I have heard is that she is always wrapped in a white sheet, like the Druse ladies, that she is attended only by women, and that no one has ever seen her face. The tribe speak of her as the Great Princess, and her word is law. She is a splendid horse-woman, and she lives in a haunted palace, and both these things impress them very much.”
“Is that so, sir?” said Mr Hicks. “And why do you expect this interesting female to come to blows with his Excellency, if I may ask?”
Mahmud Fadil laughed. “I am afraid we are to blame for that. When the last tribute came in, the Vali told the messengers that they might think themselves independent if they liked, but let them wait until the Prince of the Jews came, and see what all the Emperors in Europe could do for them then! They asked innumerable questions, and got all the information of the same kind we could give them, and retired to tell their Princess, saying that she would know what to do.”
“I think this will involve a visit to her Highness as soon as we have had two or three days’ rest and a look at Lebanon,” said Cyril.
“I hardly think you will get as far as Sitt Zeynab,” laughed the aide-de-camp. “No one has ever yet reached it from Damascus, though many have tried, some out of curiosity, and some for other reasons. The Beni Ismail alone among the Arabs know the way, and they will never take any one there. Once or twice we have caught one of the tribe off his guard, and forced him to take charge of an exploring party, but the explorers have always returned unsuccessful and without their guide, after wandering very uncomfortably in the desert for a few days. It is difficult to see how the place can be reached. We have offered a reward to the Beni Ayub, a rival tribe, if they will find out the way to it, but whenever the Beni Ismail discover trespassers in their country, they cut their trespassing severely short. The town does not seem to have been visited by any traveller, and the other Arabs cannot even say how long the Queen has reigned.”
“Decidedly we must face these perils and make a dash for Sitt Zeynab,” repeated Cyril; “but I intend to spend to-morrow in exploring Anti-Lebanon.”
When the next day arrived, however, Mr Hicks came into Mansfield’s room early in the morning, and roused him unceremoniously from a sound sleep.
“Hullo! am I late?” asked the victim vaguely. “I’ll be down in a minute. Does the Count want to start already?”
“I want you to start right now,” said Mr Hicks, “if you’re game to do the boss a kindness at the risk of his turning ugly.”
“Of course I’ll do anything that wants doing,” said Mansfield, yawning furiously.
“Well, the boss’s strength has just about petered out. This hard travelling, and holding pow-wows with those old sinners all the time, has been too much for him, considering he was dead set on getting to his journey’s end right away. I looked in on him an hour back, at a word from Dietrich, and found that he hadn’t slept a wink all night, and was in something very like a fever. I took the liberty of giving him a sleeping-mixture that will keep him quiet till the evening, you bet. But if he starts riding up Mount Lebanon to-morrow, and finds maybe that Queen Ernestine won’t see him at the end, it will about settle his business. Now, what I want you to do is——”
“To go and see the Queen,” said Mansfield, sitting up in bed.
“If she will permit you; but I want you to go and prospect around at Brutli, any way. If you are able to see her, start right in and work on her feelings till she can’t see for crying. I incline to think she will come down to him at once, but allowing for wounded feelings and insulted dignity, we’ll conclude that she only sends a message to invite him up there. But even if you can’t see her, you can find out when she walks out and where, so that we may bring him face to face with her suddenly. Don’t give the boss away, of course. To every one but the Queen you’re a tourist wishing to inspect the Institution, and my darkey, who knows the country, shall go with you for a guide.”
“All right. I’m your man.” The words followed Mr Hicks as he left the room, and another hour saw Mansfield set forth on his embassy. The Citadel, the Seraglio, and the bridge over the Barada left behind, the route lay for a while along a broad, poplar-bordered road, on either side of which were white houses set in green gardens. This pleasant shade came to an end at the foot of the hills, and the rest of the journey presented itself as a hot and weary climb up steep mountain-paths, the monotony of which was only occasionally relieved by a grove of myrtles, or a happy valley with its terraced sides covered with vineyards and mulberry-trees. The interest which he took in his mission armed Mansfield against fatigue, and he clattered at a dangerous pace down slippery paths, and dismounted to lead his horse up steep ascents, with a dogged persistence which did not commend itself to Mr Hicks’s elderly servant, who was irreverently known as Uncle Sam. Two or three brief halts, undertaken purely for the sake of the horses, failed to mollify Uncle Sam, and when the travellers rode into the village of Brutli, only to behold the Deaconesses’ Institution towering above them at the head of a further long ascent, his feelings overcame him. Approaching Mansfield, he hinted darkly that the consequences would probably be serious for both of them if they did not pause and lunch, in view of the early hour at which they had started. Mansfield acquiesced reluctantly, and they asked their way to the inn, which proved to be a more imposing building than those in the other villages they had passed. The reason for this superiority was revealed when the landlord explained with much pride that two gentlemen and several servants belonging to the household of the Queen of Thracia had occupied his best rooms for more than two years past, and that this gratifying fact had obliged him to increase his accommodation for visitors. He pointed, as he spoke, to a pleasant vine-shaded verandah on the opposite side of the courtyard, in which a table was set out in European fashion. A tall thin man had just taken his seat, and a second European, stout and elderly, was standing at the edge of the verandah, peering across the yard into the darkness of the archway in which Mansfield stood. The landlord, with a hurried apology, hastened towards him, to return in a moment beaming with smiles, and bearing a request from the Thracian gentlemen that the English traveller would share their meal. Delighted to find his path made so smooth, Mansfield crossed the courtyard, to be met by the short man at the foot of the verandah-steps, and received with flattering assurances of welcome.
“I am ashamed to intrude upon you in this way,” began the guest.
“Intrude, monsieur! The sight of you is a perfect feast for our eyes,” was the reply, in very rapid French. “We rejoice to greet one of your nation. Once we regarded all Englishmen as our friends, now there is an exception”—the thin man at the table growled indistinctly—“but there is no need to proscribe a whole people for the fault of one man. Let me present to you General Banics, formerly governor to his Majesty the King of Thracia, now master of the household to her Majesty Queen Ernestine. General, pray do me a similar kindness.”
“Monsieur,” growled the General, “permit me to present to you M. Peter Stefanovics, grand chamberlain to her Majesty. The coffee is growing cold, Stefanovics.”
“All in good time,” cried M. Stefanovics, ushering Mansfield into his place, and bowing himself to the head of the table. “Who can think of coffee when one sees a new face? We are quite free and easy at this meal, M. Mansfield, and wait upon ourselves. Madame Stefanovics does not appear so early in the day.” Mansfield struggled with a look of astonishment, for the meal which the two Thracians considered as breakfast he had regarded as a midday lunch. M. Stefanovics caught his glance.
“Ah, you wonder at our hours, monsieur! But picture to yourself our life—what is one to do here? We rise, we eat, we proceed to the Institution to pay our respects to her Majesty, and inquire her orders. It is very rarely that she honours us with any. We take, perhaps, a walk or a ride for health’s sake. We return here, the General sets to work at the military history he is writing, and I—I go to sleep! Madame Stefanovics spends the afternoon and evening in attendance upon her Majesty. We dine, we end the day with a game of cards or dominoes. What would you have? Sometimes her Majesty is good enough to make an errand for one of us into Damascus, sometimes one has a week’s leave of absence. Then what dissipation, monsieur! One is accustomed to Bellaviste, to Vindobona—can you conceive that one feels a visit to Damascus to be a riotous affair?”
“But why does the Queen condemn you to such a life?” asked Mansfield indignantly. “What right has she to keep you——”
“Monsieur!” cried General Banics, bristling up like a tiger. M. Stefanovics laid a soothing hand upon his arm.
“Calm yourself, General. Our friend does not understand. You may not be aware, monsieur, that General Banics refused the post offered him in the King’s household in order to attend her Majesty here. The unhappy events——”
“Stefanovics, you talk too fast,” growled the General.
“My good General, how am I to explain things if you will interrupt me? Circumstances, monsieur, impelled the General, as a man of honour, to quit his Majesty’s service and enter that of the Queen. I was already in her Majesty’s household, and my wife and I followed her here as a matter of course. She did not ask us to remain. In fact, she entreated us with tears to return to Thracia and make our peace with her son, while she retained only her ladies about her person. Would you expect us to do that, monsieur? to forsake our august mistress when she was abandoned by all her friends, treated with the most revolting cruelty by those who ought to have——” an inarticulate remonstrance from the General. “In a word, monsieur, we are here, and here we stay.”
“You could do nothing else,” said Mansfield warmly. Then, remembering the object of his journey, he added, with lamentable duplicity, “I was anxious to see the Institution; but if her Majesty is there, I suppose visitors are not admitted. Or perhaps there are stated hours?”
“It is always possible to see the Institution, monsieur. Her Majesty would never consent to interfere with the work of the good sisters, who are a blessing to the whole countryside. But her own apartments, and a small enclosed garden upon which they look, are sacred to her. She receives no one, and she has not quitted the Institution since first she entered it.”
“Never left the one spot!” cried Mansfield, aghast. “Surely she must—I mean, has she taken any vows?”
“The Lutherans are not like the Orthodox or the Latins, monsieur, and their deaconesses are not bound by irrevocable vows. It is her Majesty’s pleasure not to receive, and it is not for us to question it. The emissaries of the King and the Princess of Dardania made themselves so obnoxious on her first arrival that, outraged by their presumption and persistence, she came to this resolution. And is there any one who has a right to decide for her Majesty in the matter?”
“Certainly not,” said Mansfield politely, for the tone of the question was fierce.
“There is a certain person,” pursued M. Stefanovics, “attached to the household of the Princess of Dardania—a Colonel Czartoriski, I believe—who has been hanging about this neighbourhood for weeks, riding up from Damascus day after day, in the hope of being received by her Majesty and delivering into her hands a letter from his mistress. Of course he has not been successful. Is it likely that her Majesty would receive him, when we, her two faithful servants, have never been permitted to see her face the whole time she has been here?”
“You have never once seen her?” cried Mansfield.
“Stefanovics, you talk too much,” said General Banics again.
“And why should we be granted such an honour?” asked M. Stefanovics, trying to cover his confusion. “If her Majesty, deceived and forsaken by the man she trusted—no, General, I mention no names—and by her own son, chooses to confine herself to the society of her ladies, who will venture to blame her? The decision lies entirely with her.”
“Her Majesty’s retirement is very sad, but no doubt it is natural,” agreed Mansfield, whose heart had sunk lower and lower as he discerned each fresh obstacle in the way of his mission. In his own mind he was convinced that the Queen was mad, but in the hope that sheer audacity might succeed where the courtly training of the two Thracians held them back, he determined to make an effort to penetrate into her presence, that he might at least know the worst. He answered with much patience the questions which M. Stefanovics, who had relieved his mind by his outburst of confidence, showered upon him, and took his leave when the meal was over without disclosing on whose behalf he had come. He observed that neither M. Stefanovics nor the General asked any questions about the great Palestine scheme, and that they both ignored the tentative references he made to it; and it seemed to him that to proclaim himself Cyril’s emissary would be to destroy the small hope of success he still possessed. Leaving Uncle Sam and the horses at the inn, he climbed the path to the Institution on foot, and asked the lame Syrian who acted as porter whether it was possible for him to see the place. The man bade him enter.
“The lady there is the senior sister,” he said, indicating a stately woman in the blue dress and white cap of the Königshof deaconesses, who was passing along the piazza. “She will direct you.”
Stepping forward and bowing to the deaconess, Mansfield repeated his question in German, and found himself cordially welcomed. The interest which he displayed as Sister Chriemhild conducted him in due course through the hospital, the schools, the asylum, and the chapel, was in no way feigned, for he intended to write Lady Caerleon an account of his visit, and perhaps Philippa would read it. Nevertheless, his attention wandered slightly as the tour of inspection drew to a close, for he had not succeeded in making any allusion to the Queen, and it seemed impossible to introduce her name naturally and without undue emphasis. At last he relinquished all attempt at concealment, and turned suddenly to Sister Chriemhild, who was explaining the methods of instruction, peculiar to Königshof, which were in use among the deaconesses.
“Sister, is it possible for me to see Queen Ernestine?”
“Quite impossible,” replied the deaconess, not showing the slightest surprise at the abrupt question.
“I come from—at least, I have a message for her.”
She looked him straight in the face. “There is only one name that would justify me in asking one of her Majesty’s ladies to see you and take charge of your message.”
“I come from Count Mortimer.”
The glow of delight that irradiated Sister Chriemhild’s face astonished Mansfield, for in view of her grey hair and faded blue eyes he had not expected to find the deaconess’s heart still young and sympathetic. She took him into a small parlour, and hurried away. Presently a stout middle-aged lady in black burst into the room; no other word will express the excitement which characterised her entrance. Bitter disappointment overspread her face at the sight of Mansfield, and she returned his bow with a frigid curtsey.
“Have I the honour of speaking to her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting?” began Mansfield, perplexed by the change in her manner.
“I am Sophie von Staubach, her Majesty’s lectrice. I am on duty to-day. You must have heard my name from Count Mortimer. Excuse my hurry. I could not wait to hear what Sister Chriemhild said. I took it into my head that the Count was here himself. He always looks so young, you know,” returned the lady, all in a breath. Her resentment seemed to have evaporated.
“I am here on Count Mortimer’s behalf,” said Mansfield. “He is at Damascus, making arrangements with the Roumi authorities for the benefit of the Jews, and——”
Fräulein von Staubach uttered a little scream. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to a chair, “and let us talk comfortably. Then Count Mortimer is the Prince of the Jews, after all? Now tell me——”
She poured forth her questions. Where was Cyril staying, what was the exact nature of his present occupation, how long had Mansfield known him, what had he been doing since he left Thracia, did he look any older, did he often mention the Queen, what was his object in seeking her out?—and so on, without a pause. Mansfield answered her inquiries as fully as she would let him, describing Cyril’s condition with all the pathos he could command, and felt that success was in his grasp when Fräulein von Staubach, who had been making occasional dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief, suddenly broke down and wept noisily.
“Of course he treated the dear Queen abominably, but I have always longed that he should come back and make it up with her,” she sobbed.
“Then will you tell me how I can see her Majesty, Fräulein?” Mansfield felt it advisable not to protest against the lady’s opinion of Cyril’s behaviour, but his self-suppression failed of its effect. Fräulein von Staubach started violently, sat up and wiped her eyes, and looked at him severely.
“It is quite evident that you are not accustomed to courts, sir,” she said. “Her Majesty has not commanded you to wait upon her, I believe?”
“How could she, when she didn’t know of my existence?” asked Mansfield, with not unreasonable impatience. “But if you will be kind enough to tell her why I am here, no doubt she will allow me to wait upon her.”
“It is impossible—quite impossible,” said the lady, nervously.
“Because her Majesty only receives ladies? But I am merely a messenger—Count Mortimer’s messenger.”
“I know; but it is out of the question—I dare not—I mean, I cannot,” stammered Fräulein von Staubach, with more distress than the occasion seemed to warrant.
“Well, then, at least you will help to bring them together. Count Mortimer will ride up here to-morrow, and you will manage to admit him into the Queen’s private garden?”
“You won’t understand!” she cried. “Her Majesty’s decision is irrevocable. Nothing I could do would induce her to alter it. If Count Mortimer were here at this moment, and if he presented himself day after day, entreating her Majesty to receive him, it would have no effect.”
“But surely, Fräulein, her Majesty must be very much changed if this is the case? And yet, from all you have been saying, I should almost have thought she would be glad to see Count Mortimer.”
Fräulein von Staubach flushed angrily. “I cannot answer for her Majesty,” she said, with dignity, “and you have no right to put an interpretation of your own on my unguarded remarks, sir. The utmost I can do for Count Mortimer is to watch for an opportunity of bringing his name to the Queen’s recollection; and I shall certainly not have the chance for a fortnight, perhaps a month. It is useless for the Count to come here at present.”
Mansfield gazed at her aghast. This could only mean that the Queen was mad, but enjoyed occasional lucid intervals. “Fräulein,” he said reluctantly, “I entreat you to pardon me, but I must ask you a very important question. Is it unhappily the case that her Majesty is—that her troubles have—that her mind is affected?”
Fräulein von Staubach rose and glared at him before she could find words to reply. “Oh, that is what your master wants to know, is it?” she cried. “Go back and tell him that if she is mad he has made her so. He wishes to free himself from her and marry the Princess of Dardania, does he? Oh, yes; Princess Anna Mirkovics heard of his recent proceedings from Colonel Czartoriski when she was on duty here. Mad, indeed! her Majesty mad! Out of the way, sir; let me pass. You have insulted my august mistress.”
“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Mansfield, amazed by this sudden burst of passion. It was so timely that it might almost seem to have occurred in order to afford the lady an excuse for terminating the interview, but he was between her and the door. “If you refuse to answer me, I must sorrowfully conclude that my conjecture was well founded. Is that the message I am to take back to Count Mortimer?”
“Do you call yourself sane?” demanded Fräulein von Staubach viciously; “because her Majesty is far saner than you are. You thought she was mad, did you? No; you may tell Count Mortimer that if his object was to drive her mad, he failed. Let me pass, sir!”
She swept out of the room in a whirlwind of righteous indignation. As for Mansfield, he took a sorrowful leave of Sister Chriemhild, walked down regretfully to the spot at which he had told Uncle Sam to meet him with the horses, and rode back to Damascus with a gloomy countenance. He had felt so sure of success, so confident of bringing back with him some message, though perhaps only a word or two, from the Queen to Cyril, and he had accomplished nothing. It was possible, even, that he had done harm, and he began to wonder what Cyril would think of the way in which Mr Hicks and he had meddled in his affairs.