Chapter XX: Intercepted Letters

In her own room that night, Cecil, in the first strength of her grief and desolation, took a solemn resolution never on any account to mention Charlie to Azim Bey again. He was jealous of him--well, he should have no more cause to be so. So far as her intercourse with her pupil went, all should be as though Charlie had never existed. In view of the armed neutrality which had hitherto subsisted between them on this subject, it was not, perhaps, quite clear in what way she could do more than she had already done, but it soothed her feelings to make these resolutions. She would never allude to her engagement in conversation with Azim Bey again, no, not if she were dying for a sight of Charlie. Even though all that had happened was to be ascribed to his malevolent interposition, she would never degrade herself and Charlie so far as to seek his help in setting things right, nor yet to recur to the part he had played in the events which had just occurred. After all, she had come to Baghdad to teach Azim Bey, and not to find a husband for herself, and it might be that her pupil considered himself justified in objecting to her interesting herself in such extraneous matters. At any rate, he should not have to complain of this again. She would devote herself more earnestly than ever to his education, but he should never be so far honoured as to have Charlie’s name mentioned in his hearing.

The plan seemed to work beautifully. Cecil laboured long the next morning in removing from her face the traces left by her tears and by an almost sleepless night, and appeared in the schoolroom as if the events of the day before had never occurred. Azim Bey understood the situation perfectly, and accepted it. He was very gracious, and he could afford to be so, for he had gained all he wanted. Nothing could well have been more delightful than his behaviour--it might almost be called chivalrous. If Cecil had not had the memory of yesterday to warn her, she might have been tempted to imagine that her young barbarian was becoming a gentleman; but her eyes were opened now, and she could only wonder and admire, without being convinced.

The days passed on. Sir Dugald received a telegram from Bandr Abbas to say that Charlie had reached that place safely, and found an extraordinary amount of work awaiting him. After that there came a long unbroken silence. From the Indian newspapers, and through official channels, they heard occasionally that the epidemic was running its course, and that the two surgeons were working heroically among the sick and dying, but there did not come one single message from Charlie himself. Cecil was astonished, but she never thought of blaming him. Possibly he would not write to her lest the letter should convey infection, and he was certainly overwhelmed with work, very likely with insufficient leisure even for needed rest. In this belief she bestowed all the more pains on her own letters, doing her best, by means of their fulness and tenderness, to bridge over the distance which separated her from her lover, so far as this could be done from one side only.

At last Sir Dugald received another telegram, which said that before resigning his position under Government, Charlie was making a tour of inspection, in company with a high medical official, of the British settlements in the Gulf. The cholera had been stamped out at Bandr Abbas, and when this tour was over, Charlie was going home. The telegram concluded with the words, “Letters all missed,” which seemed to shed a little light on the mystery of the sender’s long silence. No doubt he had written, but in some way or other all his letters had gone astray. It was strange, however, that even after this none arrived. Sir Dugald expressed it as his opinion that Charlie must go about looking for pumps in which to post his letters, under the impression that they were pillar-boxes; but Lady Haigh and Cecil held firmly to the belief that, moving about as he was from place to place, he was too busy to write. In vain did Sir Dugald, who had assumed quite a paternal authority over Cecil since their confidential talk on the Sunday preceding Charlie’s departure, urge her to bring her lover to a sense of his undeserved blessings by suspending her own letters for a time--she felt that this was impossible. The long journal-letters supplied the place to her of the Sunday afternoon talks which she had been accustomed to enjoy. A third telegram informed them that Charlie was going home, and gave his English address very clearly. “Letters still gone wrong,” it said again, and Cecil triumphed over Sir Dugald, although he told her that she was only saving Charlie’s character as a lover at the expense of his common-sense.

The news of Dr Egerton’s resignation of his post was now public property, and people began to perceive merits which they had hitherto ignored in the way he had performed his duties. His colleague at Bandr Abbas and the rest of the English community there were loud in their praises of his behaviour during the epidemic, and this caused his former adventurous journeys, undertaken for the purpose of investigating the diffusion of the disease, to be brought to mind. Even the fact of his having been instrumental in checking the spread of a cholera epidemic in his former post,--a success which had been followed, as he had told Cecil bitterly long before, by his enforced resignation,--was recalled, and one or two very hard things were said of the superior who had insisted on his removal. In fact, he was the hero of the hour among a certain set in India, chiefly consisting, it is to be feared, of those who had been disappointed and passed over, like himself, but numbering in their ranks some few who could command a hearing in the Press. The remarks of the Indian papers were balm to the souls of Cecil and Lady Haigh, and they read with avidity all that was said in Charlie’s praise, although Lady Haigh once remarked sadly--

“It all comes too late, Cecil. A little of this encouragement and appreciation, bestowed three years ago, would have saved this ‘valuable public servant,’ whose loss they deplore so feelingly, to the public service, for he would have stayed in India, and persevered in trying for a better post, instead of taking this as a forlorn-hope.”

“And then we should never have met!” said Cecil. “Well, Lady Haigh, I am sorry if you are.”

To which no answer could be made, and Lady Haigh ceased her lamentations. But time was passing on, and still there came no news from Charlie, with the exception of one telegram announcing his safe arrival in England. Things were becoming more and more mysterious. Why should four telegrams alone, all addressed to Sir Dugald, arrive out of all the missives which it was tolerably certain Charlie had sent off? Cecil felt sure that he could never have received her letters without answering them; what, then, had become of the answers? It was not until Christmas-time that the mystery was solved. Cecil was at the Residency as usual, and when the mail came in she looked eagerly to see whether there were any letters for her. Again she was disappointed; there was only one, and this was a bulky epistle from her stepmother. The appearance of the letter was characteristic of the writer. The many closely-written sheets were stuffed into a thin envelope much too small for them, and this had naturally resented such treatment by giving way, in consequence of which it had been “found open, and officially sealed.” The direction was blotted and irregular, and had evidently been written in a violent hurry; and the stamp, which was upside down, was of double the proper value. Cecil laughed at the appearance of the envelope, and mentally pictured little Mrs Anstruther writing in feverish haste to catch the mail, and scrambling the letter into the post just in time. As usual, the first page was dated about a fortnight earlier than the last, and Cecil hurried on to the end. Here at last was the news for which she had been longing.

“Oh, my dear Cecil,” wrote Mrs Anstruther, “we have had such a delightful surprise. Your friend Dr Egerton came to see us yesterday, and we talked about you for hours and hours. Your father and I are greatly pleased with him, and the little children love him already. He is staying at the Imperial Hotel, and his aunt is there too, but she has not her health here, and I don’t think this place suits her. They seem very well off, and Fitz says that one of the boys at the school told him that Dr Egerton has really an immensity of money, for it has been accumulating for him ever since he has been in the East. But, dear childie, why don’t you write to him? Indeed, indeed, I think you are not treating him well. He says he has never had one single line from you, though he has written to you every week. It is not kind of you, and we were so greatly astonished to hear it that we couldn’t think of any excuses for you. Sure the poor boy”--these four words were scratched out, for Mrs Anstruther flattered herself that both her literary style and her accent were extremely English--“Poor Dr Egerton is deeply in love with you, but he said himself he could not understand it. Indeed he was in a great state lest something had happened to you, but we were able to reassure him about that----”

Cecil read thus far, and then looked up with a horrified face.

“Lady Haigh!” she gasped, “every one of my letters has missed, as well as Charlie’s. What can it be?”

“Impossible, my dear!” cried Lady Haigh, briskly. “You must have mistaken what he says. Is his letter from home?”

“It isn’t from him even now,” said Cecil. “It’s from Mrs Anstruther. There must have been some dreadful mistake, and what can we do?”

“I think this concerns you rather than myself, Miss Anstruther,” said Sir Dugald, coming into the room. “I hope I haven’t read much of it, but I really did not see at first that the letter which I was desired under such fearful penalties to deliver to you was on the same sheet as my own.”

He held out a letter in Charlie’s writing, which Cecil almost snatched from his hand. As he said, the first page was occupied by an earnest request to him to give the letter into Miss Anstruther’s own hands, as the writer could not help thinking that there had been foul play hitherto with regard to their correspondence. The other three pages contained the letter proper, closely written, and overflowing with passionate anxiety.

“My darling,” Charlie concluded, “I am certain there must be something wrong, or you would never have left me without a line all these months. I heard from D’Silva the other day that that fellow Karalampi had been at the Residency a good deal lately, and I should not wonder if he had something to do with it. I do entreat you not on any account to trust him in the very smallest matter. The man is capable of anything. I am consumed with anxiety about you. I was talking yesterday about going out at once to see you and find out what was the matter, but your father said I should only bring you into trouble, and entreated me not to think of such a thing. Dearest, you know I would do anything rather than get you into trouble; but if I can be of the very smallest help or use to you, let me have a wire, and I will start at an hour’s notice. Only write, my darling, or I shall go mad.”

Cecil dropped the letter with a groan, which attracted the attention of Sir Dugald, who had considerately been discussing his own letters with Lady Haigh while she read it.

“Anything wrong, Miss Anstruther?” he asked, kindly.

“Our letters!” groaned Cecil, “his and mine. Neither of us has ever received one of them, and we have both written once a-week.”

“This is serious indeed,” said Sir Dugald. “About sixty letters altogether, and spread over more than six months! Well, it is quite evident what has happened, though I confess I should scarcely have thought the game worth the candle in this case. They have been tampering with the mail-bags again.”

“Tampering--who?” cried Cecil.

“Interested parties, I presume,” said Sir Dugald, drily. “Some post-office clerk who is learning English and likes to study it by means of other people’s letters, possibly, but I should scarcely think so. It’s an old trick, and they have tried it several times here, but not just lately.”

“But can you get the letters back?” asked Cecil.

“Scarcely, I’m afraid. They would be much too compromising to be allowed to remain in the thief’s possession. No; but we may be able to stop the robberies in future. I will communicate with Constantinople at once, and set the Embassy to work. Shall we make the abstraction of your love-letters a _casus belli_, Miss Anstruther?”

“It isn’t a laughing matter to me,” said Cecil, dolefully.

“No, nor to poor Egerton either,” said Sir Dugald. “It was a most happy thing that he thought of writing to you under cover to me, or we might never have found out how the trick was worked. You see they have simply suppressed all Egerton’s letters to you, and all yours directed to him. Your home letters have arrived as usual, have they not? I thought so. Well, suppose you set Egerton’s mind at rest by telegraphing him a Christmas message at once. I think I can guarantee that it won’t go astray from here.”

Cecil accepted gratefully Sir Dugald’s suggestion, and despatched a sufficiently lengthy message. This done, she had leisure to think over the strange fate of her letters. She could not doubt that their disappearance had been arranged by the same hand that had contrived Charlie’s removal from Baghdad, and yet it seemed scarcely likely that Azim Bey would have thought of such a thing. Charlie’s suggestion as to M. Karalampi she scouted at once, for what motive could he have for abstracting her letters, even though he had an old grudge against her, and no liking for Charlie? But M. Karalampi was destined to be brought to her mind once again that evening, when she went to have tea with Mrs Hagopidan, of whom she had seen but little of late.

“So I hear you have set up another admirer, Cecil?” said the hostess, when she had inquired and heard the latest news from Whitcliffe.

“I don’t know what you mean, Myrta,” said Cecil, laughing.

“My dear girl, you must have noticed that M. Karalampi does you the honour to admire you. Of course it’s impossible that you could have the bad taste not to admire him.”

“I think you forget that I am engaged,” said Cecil, in her stateliest manner.

“Not at all, dear, nor does he. He only thinks that it is a merciful dispensation of Providence which has removed Dr Egerton from Baghdad and left the way clear for him. They didn’t love each other, those two. Really, Cecil, I could have danced at times to see Dr Egerton freeze him with a look, and to behold the murderous glances M. Karalampi bestowed upon him behind his back. He daren’t have looked at you then,--it would have been as much as his life was worth,--but now he has a fair field. How do you like him, dear?”

“Myrta, you know that if there is a person I detest, it’s that man. I wish you would not make up these things about him. I don’t like it.”

“But I am perfectly in earnest, I assure you--much more so than he is. Of course he only intends a flirtation, just to pass the time, for he has a wife somewhere. Some people say he has a wife in a good many places, but no doubt that is merely scandal. But seriously, Cecil, the creature has the conceit to believe that now that Dr Egerton is safely out of the way, his own charms will prove irresistible. I believe he has a bet with young Vogorides on the subject. His sister, Arghiro, let something drop about it when she was here yesterday, and I thought I would give you warning.”

“Thank you, Myrta. I don’t think M. Karalampi will make any more bets about me.”

“But you won’t make a scene, Cecil?”

“I don’t think I am likely to want the world to know how M. Karalampi thinks of me,” said Cecil, as she rose to go, and her hostess could learn no more from her. Nor, to her great disappointment, did she ever succeed in finding out the exact results of her warning. Whether Cecil snubbed M. Karalampi in public, or administered a few home-truths to him in private, Mrs Hagopidan never knew, but M. Karalampi’s visits to the Residency became once more few and far between, and Arghiro Vogorides let slip that her brother had won his bet, but could not get the money paid. That was all, and Cecil went on her way satisfied, and unconscious that her own name was added, deeply underlined, to the long list in M. Karalampi’s black-books. In this list there were to be found already all the names of those from whom he had received slights, or against whom he had conceived a grudge, and also of some of those whom he had injured, and therefore found it impossible to forgive. In which category the Pasha’s name appeared it would be difficult to say,--possibly in all three,--but both that of the Um-ul-Pasha and that of Azim Bey might have been found in the first. Most of M. Karalampi’s employers were in his black-books, and it was one of the chief beauties of his peculiar method of working that he was able to play them off one against another, and to punish them all in the course of business.

The account against Azim Bey was allowed to stand over for a while just now. By way of making himself agreeable to all parties, M. Karalampi had done what the Bey wanted, and succeeded in banishing Charlie from Baghdad. He had even improved upon his instructions by arranging for the abstraction of the letters, a master-stroke which delighted Azim Bey when it was communicated to him; but now he returned to his former employers, whose interests were by no means identical with those of Cecil’s pupil. The Um-ul-Pasha was once more embarked on a plot in favour of her eldest grandson, but this time M. Karalampi held the threads in his own hands, and the result bade fair to be a work of art. The old vulgar methods of secret assassination, which had been attempted in vain two years before, were decisively dropped, and M. Karalampi luxuriated in the employment of moral suasion alone. He could set strings in motion at Constantinople which would ensure the Pasha’s ruin if needful, and it was on this fact that he relied. At the proper moment the question would be put before him, and he must choose between disgrace and dishonour. Unless he broke his promise to Azim Bey’s dead mother, and made the outlawed Hussein Bey his heir, the intriguers who surrounded the Padishah would bring about his downfall. In either case M. Karalampi would be happy and victorious. Already he was gloating in anticipation over the thought of his triumph, already he imagined himself fingering the reward of his unrighteousness, when a single unlooked-for event dashed all his plans to the ground.

After spending some time comparatively quietly in the hills, Hussein Bey had recommenced his raids into the low country, and his practice of exacting blackmail from travellers. Attacking one day a rich caravan which had crossed the mountains in safety from Persia, he met with an unexpected resistance, which was speedily accounted for by the arrival of a body of the Pasha’s troops, who had been on the march from one town to another, and to whom the merchants had sent a swift messenger imploring help. The robber band was hopelessly outnumbered by the combined forces of the troops and the armed servants of the travellers, and a short conflict ended in the death of Hussein Bey and the utter defeat of his followers. In this way Ahmed Khémi Pasha was freed from the son who had for so long been a thorn in his side, and the Bey’s mother and grandmother and their fellow-plotters were left without an object for their schemes. All their arrangements were useless, and they recognised this fact after a good deal of mutual recrimination on the subject of the delay which had occurred. It was undeniable that Hussein Bey’s death had been so utterly unexpected that the wisest head could not have arranged the _dénoûment_ of the plot in time, and nothing more could be done.