Chapter VII: “in Inmost Bagdat.”

“My last day of this!” said Charlie to himself the next morning, as he went on deck. It was a sad thought, and he tried hard to be duly miserable, but the morning was so fine and the air so clear that he could not help whistling, in a sort of sympathy with nature; and then Cecil came on deck, looking as bright and fresh as the day, her headache all gone, and it became his duty to invite her to join him in a promenade, since the morning was a little chilly. It was impossible to feel melancholy long under such circumstances, and he soon found himself rattling away in his usual style, and predicting all kinds of delightful times at Baghdad. Lady Haigh, having once declared her pleasure, had perfect confidence in Charlie’s sense of honour, and was even a little sorry for him, and therefore she did not declare that she and Cecil were busy, and send him off to talk to the captain, a perverse habit which she had developed of late, but allowed him to remain beside her, and instruct Cecil in the habits and folk-lore of the wild tribes on the river-banks. Thus the day passed pleasantly until, towards evening, Cecil, who was looking ahead, uttered a cry of delight as the steamer swung round a bend in the river. Before them lay Baghdad, bathed in the sunset light, which brought out in all their brilliance the green and turquoise hues of the tiles with which the domes of the mosques were inlaid, and the gilded casing of the minarets; while other buildings, ordinarily most prosaic and unlovely, looked mysterious and beautiful rising from the sea of foliage which everywhere surrounded them. Palm, orange, and pomegranate trees filled the gardens which spread over the flat country as far as eye could reach, and even the ruined walls of the city, emerging here and there from the expanse of green, lost their meanness and looked imposing.

“This is really Baghdad!” said Cecil, with a sigh of contentment.

“And I am sure you are longing to walk through the enchanted streets,” said Charlie.

“Of course,” said Cecil. “When do we land, Lady Haigh? Is it soon?”

“Naturally, the steamer will stop opposite the Residency for us to land,” said Lady Haigh with dignity. “Don’t worry about your things, my dear child. Um Yusuf will see to them, and if you really like to look at Baghdad, it’s a pity you shouldn’t.”

They had reached the city now, and were passing between terraced gardens, with elaborate gateways leading to the water, and queer, brightly-painted boats bobbing about in the current. There were fanciful summer-houses in some of the gardens, and Cecil strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of the veiled beauties who ought to be reclining gracefully in the shade. Then came a more crowded quarter, with old mansions of brown brick overhanging the water, coffee-houses with highly decorated gables and terraces where companies of men were sitting smoking and talking, newer-looking dwellings with latticed balconies, and trees--trees everywhere. Cecil gazed on in breathless admiration, but her raptures were suddenly interrupted.

“There’s the dear old rag!” cried Lady Haigh, in an ecstasy of mingled patriotism and affection, and Charlie Egerton took off his hat to the Union-Jack which floated over the Residency. Cecil awoke from her dream with a start. The steamer was slowing down as it approached a great house, standing at the end of a long garden, with a terrace overlooking the water, and an avenue of aged orange-trees. The flag scarcely fluttered in the light breeze, and all the garden looked dreamlike and peaceful. Only on the terrace was there a certain amount of bustle, and presently a boat put forth from the steps and shot towards the steamer. From the pomp and circumstance which characterised this embarkation, Cecil divined that the boat carried Sir Dugald Haigh, and she began to feel rather nervous. It would be idle to deny that Charlie’s conversation had infected her with a certain amount of prejudice against her Majesty’s Consul-General at Baghdad. For this very reason she had resolved to meet him with an exaggeratedly open mind, and to look very carefully for his good points. After all, Lady Haigh’s early devotion and long affection ought to weigh more than Dr Egerton’s dislike, especially since he was so notoriously addicted to disagreeing with his superiors.

With this in her mind, Cecil stood observant in the background while Sir Dugald gained the deck and greeted his wife. She saw a thin, almost insignificant-looking man, with a skin like parchment, and a small, carefully-trimmed grey moustache. In his dress there was visible a precision so extreme as almost to appear affectation, and his manners were the perfection of elaborate politeness. Sir Dugald Haigh at Baghdad was eminently the right man in the right place. The Indian authorities who appointed him knew that he would never wantonly or ignorantly outrage the prejudices nor shock the susceptibilities of the most jealous and sensitive oriental; but they knew also, and rejoiced in the knowledge, that under the silken glove the iron hand was always ready. Sir Dugald could insist and threaten when it was necessary--nay, he could even bluster, in a dignified and most effective way--and the Pashas and Sheikhs with whom he had to deal knew that, when he had once put his foot down, they might as well try to shake the Great Pyramid as to move him.

Something of all this Cecil read in her cursory observation of him, but she had only time to hear Charlie’s muttered remark, “The very incarnation of red tape!” before she found herself summoned forward by Lady Haigh.

“And this is Miss Anstruther!” said Sir Dugald, as he bowed and shook hands. There was nothing offensive about the remark--it expressed a kindly interest, possibly admiration--but Cecil saw Sir Dugald raise his eyebrows very slightly as he uttered it. Before long she was to learn to watch his eyebrows narrowly, for they were the most expressive feature of his face, betraying all the feelings of worry, impatience, amusement, or concern, which the rest of his visage was under much too good control to show. Now they said, “Far too young! Not nearly backbone enough for such a place!” while Sir Dugald’s lips were saying--

“Welcome to Baghdad, Miss Anstruther! It is a long time since we have had the honour of a young lady’s company at the Residency.”

Then he greeted Charlie, with a courteous ease of manner, and a kindly expression of a hope that he had come to stay this time, which made Cecil decide that if the hope should not be fulfilled, the provocation would come from Charlie’s side and not from Sir Dugald’s; and then they went on shore. The Residency proved to be a fine old house, built round two courtyards, which, as Charlie told Cecil, corresponded to the account he had given her of the special functions of Sir Dugald and Lady Haigh, since one was devoted to business and the other to social purposes. The ground-floor rooms in the family courtyard were low and dark, but those on the floor above them large and airy, with broad verandahs supported on curiously carved wooden pillars. Cecil, casting a hurried glance in at the various doors as Lady Haigh took her to her room, carried away a confused memory of fretted ceilings inlaid with coloured marbles, walls panelled with looking-glasses, and gilded mouldings, and again she sighed with satisfaction. The Baghdad of good Haroun-al-Raschid had not quite disappeared yet.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Cecil was summoned to the drawing-room to receive a messenger from the Pasha. This proved to be Ovannes Effendi, his Excellency’s secretary, a clever-looking young Armenian with a marvellous gift of tongues. He proffered his employer’s felicitations on mademoiselle’s safe arrival, inquired anxiously whether she had an agreeable journey, and concluded by entreating that she would take up her abode in the Palace at her earliest convenience.

“Let me see,” said Lady Haigh--“this is Saturday. We can’t let you go before Monday morning, Cecil, but you and I will go and pay our respects to the Palace ladies this afternoon.”

Having received his answer, Ovannes Effendi retired, after formally presenting Lady Haigh and Cecil, in the Pasha’s name, with several trays of fruit and sweetmeats which had been carried after him by a corresponding number of porters. The idea was so thoroughly oriental that Cecil forgot the untempting nature of the sweetmeats to a Western taste, and noted the little attention joyfully in her diary. It was evident that the Pasha, at any rate, was anxious to do all in his power to show her that she was a welcome guest; but when they prepared for their visit to the harem that afternoon, she found that Lady Haigh entertained distinct misgivings as to their reception by the ladies.

“It is our duty to pay them a formal call, my dear,” she said, vigorously completing an elaborate toilet the while. “I have no doubt that that horrid woman, the Um-ul-Pasha, will give us a bad half-hour, but it is better that I should be there to help you to face her.”

To get to the Palace it was necessary to mount ridiculously small donkeys, which picked their way carefully among the inequalities and mud-heaps of the narrow winding streets; while a small army of servants, headed by two gorgeous cavasses in gold-embroidered liveries, who kept back the crowd with whips, gave the occasion the dignity which would otherwise have been sorely wanting to it. It was irritating, if not exactly disappointing, to find on reaching the Palace that all this grandeur had been wasted, since the answer returned to their inquiries by the stout negro who kept the door of the harem, after long colloquies with an invisible maid-servant within, who was apparently displaying an undue eagerness to catch a glimpse of the Frangi ladies, was that the Um-ul-Pasha was indisposed, and that visitors were therefore not received in the harem that day.

“That is all her spite,” said Lady Haigh, as they picked their way back to their donkeys. “She is no more ill than I am. If she had been indisposed this morning, Ovannes Effendi would have known it, and told us not to come, but now she thinks she has slighted you, and given me a slap in the face. Very well, Nazleh Khanum, we shall see!”

But here, just as they were about to mount, Ovannes Effendi overtook them, and after expressing the Pasha’s sorrow that their trouble should have been in vain, begged them to honour his Excellency’s poor abode by deigning to rest for a few minutes, assuring them that his employer would be much hurt if they did not. On Lady Haigh’s acquiescence, he ushered them into a large room furnished in European style, where they found their old acquaintance, Denarien Bey, talking to a very stout gentleman in a very tight frock-coat and a fez. Lady Haigh’s salaam warned Cecil that this was Ahmed Khémi Pasha himself, and she imitated her friend’s reverence as faithfully as she could when she was brought forward and presented. The Pasha was all politeness, evidently anxious to atone for his mother’s incivility, and insisted on sending for coffee and sherbet at once. While the refreshments were being consumed, he kept up a slow and stately conversation with Lady Haigh respecting the journey, pausing with special care to compose each sentence before uttering it. It was evident that he had had a purpose in view in inviting them in, for presently he nodded to Denarien Bey, who took up the conversation in his turn. Lady Haigh told Cecil afterwards that this was because the Pasha now disliked intensely speaking French, and was by no means a master of English, which he was yet too proud to speak badly.

“His Excellency’s heart is much rejoiced by this happy meeting, mademoiselle,” said Denarien Bey; “since he can now impress upon you certain cautions which you will find all-important in your new sphere.”

“I will do my best to conform to his Excellency’s wishes,” murmured Cecil, nervously.

“First, as regards your own position, mademoiselle. You are aware that the state of public opinion here obliges you and your pupil always to remain in the harem while you are at the Palace, while yet it is from the harem that the gravest dangers threaten the life of Azim Bey.” He glanced rather fearfully at the Pasha as he said this, but meeting only a nod of acquiescence, went on. “It has therefore been arranged, mademoiselle, that the quarters occupied by yourself, the Bey, and your attendants, shall be in a separate courtyard, to which none but yourselves shall have access. Thus, while technically in the harem, you will in reality be separated from it, and the door will be guarded by a negro called Aga Masûd, who was the faithful attendant of the Bey’s late mother. His special duty will be to prevent the entrance of emissaries from the harem. It is his Excellency’s most earnest wish that Azim Bey should never cross the threshold of the harem but in your charge, and that while there you should never let him out of your sight. The slaves are not to be trusted.”

He said this apologetically, and as if in explanation, but Cecil knew that he was pointing at much more exalted persons than the slaves. It was the Um-ul-Pasha and his Excellency’s wives who were not to be trusted with the life of the boy so nearly related to them, and she began to feel more than ever the great responsibility of her post. After a few more unimportant remarks, Lady Haigh rose to go, but the Pasha detained her, begging Cecil also to remain.

“I have sent for my son,” he said, “and I hear him coming.”

As he spoke, there appeared in the doorway a small thin boy, looking like a miniature edition of the Pasha in his long black coat, with his dark, solemn, old little face surmounted by the usual tasselled cap. When he saw Cecil, his expression brightened suddenly.

“_C’est enfin Mdlle. Antaza!_” he cried, in an ecstasy of delight, and he ran forward and salaamed, raising her hand to her lips. The Pasha interposed, and reminded him to salute Lady Haigh, which he did, and then retired behind his father’s chair, watching Cecil all the while with grave, unchildlike eyes.

“You will come soon, mademoiselle?” he said entreatingly as they took their leave. “When my father is busy I have no one now.”

“Mademoiselle is coming on Monday, Bey,” said Lady Haigh kindly, and the boy looked somewhat comforted. With his father and Denarien Bey he escorted the two ladies to the gate, and they rode home quietly, Cecil pondering over what she had seen of the Pasha and his little son. But it was strange how completely the Residency was like home to her already. It seemed to be a bit of England, and when once she had crossed its threshold again, the Palace and its occupants were like the fabric of a dream, while Sir Dugald, Charlie Egerton, and one or two Englishmen who happened to be passing through Baghdad, and were staying at the Residency, took their places.

“Well, what do you think of our friend Sir Hector Stubble?” Charlie asked her that evening, when they were sitting out on the verandah after dinner.

“I suppose you mean Sir Dugald,” said Cecil, “and I don’t like the name. I think Lord Stratford de Redcliffe was a splendid man, and I never can forgive Grenville Murray for drawing him so unfairly. I suppose the fact is that he saw him in the light of his own grievances, just as you look at Sir Dugald through the medium of your prejudice.”

“Not a prejudice, Miss Anstruther, honestly not,” said Charlie. “We are antagonistic by nature, and we rub each other the wrong way already. You would scarcely think we had had time to have words together yet, would you?”

“Already?” said Cecil. “It’s absurd!”

“Well,” said Charlie, “I told him that the hospital was quite behind the times, and horribly short of stores, and he as good as refused to do anything to it.”

“Possibly,” said Cecil, “he did not relish the stores being demanded in a your-money-or-your-life sort of tone.” Charlie laughed uncomfortably.

“You always contrive to put me in the wrong, Miss Anstruther. The fact is, he said one ought to be very careful with public money, and that he was not prepared to sanction the expenditure of any more at present. Then the prison, it is not in a particularly sanitary condition----”

“But that can’t be Sir Dugald’s fault,” objected Cecil.

“Oh, I don’t mean the town prison; I haven’t been poaching on the Pasha’s preserves just yet. I mean our private prison here, in the Residency. Now, Miss Anstruther, don’t say that you will never be able to dine here again in peace, on account of the shrieks of tortured victims ringing in your ears in the pauses in the conversation. The place isn’t so bad as all that. In fact, I daresay it’s a model jail, as things are here.”

“And you forget that you are in your beloved unchanging East, where no one makes any reforms,” said Cecil. “I am very sorry that you have taken this prejudice against Sir Dugald. I think he is a delightful man, and so kind.”

“How could he be otherwise than kind to you?” Charlie wished to know. “It is to his unfortunate subordinates that he shows his other side.”

“And I have no doubt they deserve it,” retorted Cecil, crushingly. “I do hope you will try to get on with him, and not start with the idea that you are bound to quarrel with him, because you have got on badly with your superiors before. If you are determined to bring about a dispute, I suppose it will certainly come, no matter how forbearing Sir Dugald may be, but that is not a very wise spirit in which to set to work. Surely you must see it yourself, don’t you? This is really an excellent chance for you, you know, and Lady Haigh will be dreadfully disappointed if you throw it away.”

“Oh, I mean to stick to the place,” said Charlie eagerly, somewhat to Cecil’s surprise. “I do really intend to stay on, unless I am driven away. But you must let me have the privilege of telling my woes to you, Miss Anstruther, and getting a lecture in return. I take to lectures as a duck takes to water; you ask Cousin Elma.”

Cecil laughed, and as Lady Haigh came just then to ask her to sing, she had no more talk with Charlie. The next day was her first Sunday in Baghdad, the prototype of nearly all her Sundays for five years. There was an English service, conducted by Mr Schad, the colleague of Dr Yehudi in his mission-work among the Jews, and Cecil felt that she had never fully appreciated the beauty of the Liturgy until she heard it read, with a strong German accent, in this far land. It took her back to her father’s beautiful church at Whitcliffe, and to the dingy and ornate edifice in a city street, which she had attended in her school-days, and it linked her with the services held in both places to-day. She treasured every hour of that Sunday, which slipped by all too quickly, and left her to face the duties and responsibilities of her new position.

On the Monday morning she dressed herself, with great reluctance, in her official costume, lamenting that she could not wear European dress, as she might have done without difficulty in Constantinople or Smyrna. But, after all, the long loose gown, falling straight from the shoulders, and only caught in at the waist with a striped sash, would be very comfortable in the hot weather, though the wide, trailing sleeves would be dreadfully in the way. What Cecil disliked most in the costume was the head-dress, a little round cap, with a gauze veil, which could be brought over the face in case of need, depending from it behind. To wear this it was necessary that the hair should be plaited in a number of little tails, and allowed to hang down, since any arrangement of coils must interfere either with the cap or with the flow of the veil. For outdoor wear there was provided a huge linen wrapper, which enveloped the wearer from head to foot, but Cecil had resolutely refused to don the hideous horse-hair mask worn under this by the Baghdadi ladies. The absurdity of her appearance so overcame her while dressing, that she projected a caricature of herself for the benefit of the children at home; but even then she did not realise the difficulty of shuffling through the courtyard in her yellow slippers, and of mounting the donkey which was waiting for her. Lady Haigh had mercifully got all the gentlemen out of the way; but her own mirth was contagious, and she and Cecil relapsed into little explosions of laughter several times in the street.

Arrived at the Palace, they were conducted to a miniature courtyard, the buildings around which bore traces of having been lately painted and done up. The gate occupied the greater part of one side, guarded by the faithful Masûd, a gigantic and particularly ugly negro. The rooms on the other three sides were like those at the Residency, low and mean-looking on the ground-floor, but large and lofty above.

“The apartments of Azim Bey,” said their guide, a tall Circassian woman who spoke French, with a wave of her hand towards the rooms on the right; “the apartments of mademoiselle,” indicating those on the left; “the Bey Effendi’s study and reception-room,” showing that in the middle.

“We will look at your rooms, Cecil,” said Lady Haigh, and they mounted the stairs leading to the verandah. The “apartments” were three in number, and comprised a bedroom and sitting-room for Cecil, and a bedroom for Um Yusuf, opening out of her mistress’s. Another staircase led from the verandah to the roof, which was flat and surrounded by a parapet, with several orange-trees in great pots to give shade in hot weather.

“But you won’t be able to stay up here when it is really hot, Cecil,” said Lady Haigh, “except just at night. You will have to spend the day in the cellars. We do it ourselves--every one does in Baghdad--and it’s not often that the thermometer is more than 88° down there.”

They descended from the roof and entered the rooms. The bedroom furniture was evidently a “complete suite,” of the most highly-polished mahogany, imported from Europe at some trouble and expense. The things in the sitting-room were of the same style, but one or two chairs seemed not to have survived the journey, for their places were filled by a common Windsor arm-chair, and a very ornate Louis XV. _fauteuil_, with gilded and twisted legs. On a side-table was a gorgeous gilt clock, which did not go, and the walls were decorated with fearful oleographs, and one or two theatrical portraits, which the guide pointed out with great pride.

“Well, Cecil, my dear,” said Lady Haigh, sitting down in the gilt chair, while the two servants retired into the verandah. “I think you will be very comfortable here. I see that they have forgotten one or two things, but I will send you those from the Residency. I am very glad that you have Basmeh Kalfa to superintend your little household. She was head _kalfa_ (which means an upper slave) to Azim Bey’s mother, so she will look after you well. You will have to be careful just at first, until you get into the ways of the place. Be sure if you ever come to the Residency in European dress to put on that sheet over it. It will pass muster in the streets. And do mind never to go outside your own courtyard without the sheet on. This place is your castle, you know, and not even the Pasha dare put his nose in without your consent. If you should hear rather a commotion at the gate, and Masûd comes striding along, shouting _Dastûr! Dastûr!_ at the top of his voice, pull your veil over your face at once. _Dastûr_ means “custom,” and is the warning that a man is coming. It will probably be the Pasha coming to see how the Bey is getting on with his lessons, or some old man who comes to teach him the Koran, but be sure you remember. And, my dearest child, you must never go anywhere without Um Yusuf. She must be always with you--in lesson-time, recreation, coming to us, everything. You must never be impatient, and think she is spying upon you. It is her duty to keep you always in sight, and she knows it. And now I must be going. Basmeh Kalfa, I leave Mademoiselle Antaza and her nurse in your charge. Take care of them.”

“Upon my head be it, O my lady,” responded Basmeh Kalfa, impassively.