to Berlin.
June 1. In the middle of the religious exercises with which the new school is being inaugurated, cries of “Allah” come from a great crowd which has gathered. From my window where I am writing I can see how insolent the attitude of this Mohammedan riffraff is becoming. They spit upon the ground – a pebble is tossed at a convert – a sudden shout of “Allah” – pushing and jostling – a lighted torch blazes! I take my whip of rhinoceros hide and go down into the court to put a stop to this insolence–
Her father slowly closed the book.
“Daddy! Is that where poor Herr Wilner died?”
“Yes, dear.”
After a silence his wife said thoughtfully:
“I have always considered it very strange that the German Government did not send for Herr Wilner’s papers.”
“Probably they did, Mary. And very probably Murad Bey told them that the papers had been destroyed.”
“And you never believed it to be your duty to send the papers to the German Government?”
“No. It was an unholy alliance that Germany sought with that monster Abdul. And when Enver Pasha seized the reins of government such an alliance would have been none the less unholy. You know and so do I that if Germany did not actually incite the Armenian massacres she at least was cognisant of preparations made to begin them. Germany is still hostile to all British or American missions, all Anglo-Saxon influence in Turkey.
“No; I did not send Herr Wilner’s papers to Berlin; and the events of the last fifteen years have demonstrated that I was right in withholding them.”
His wife nodded, laid aside her work basket, and rose.
“Come, Ruhannah,” she said with decision; “put everything back into the wonder-box.”
And, stooping, she lifted and laid away in it the scowling, menacing Yellow Devil.
And so, every month or two, the wonder-box was opened for the child to play with, the same story told, extracts from the diary read; but these ceremonies, after a while, began to recur at lengthening intervals as the years passed and the child grew older.
And finally it was left to her to open the box when she desired, and to read for herself the pencilled translation of the diary, which her father had made during some of the idle and trying moments of his isolated and restricted life. And, when she had been going to school for some years, other and more vivid interests replaced her dolls and her wonder-box; but not her beloved case of water-colours and crayon pencils.
CHAPTER II
BROOKHOLLOW
The mother, shading the candle with her work-worn hand, looked down at the child in silence. The subdued light fell on a freckled cheek where dark lashes rested, on a slim neck and thin shoulders framed by a mass of short, curly chestnut hair.
Though it was still dark, the mill whistle was blowing for six o’clock. Like a goblin horn it sounded ominously through Ruhannah’s dream. She stirred in her sleep; her mother stole across the room, closed the window, and went away carrying the candle with her.
At seven the whistle blew again; the child turned over and unclosed her eyes. A brassy light glimmered between leafless apple branches outside her window. Through the frosty radiance of sunrise a blue jay screamed.
Ruhannah cuddled deeper among the blankets and buried the tip of her chilly nose. But the grey eyes remained wide open and, under the faded quilt, her little ears were listening intently.
Presently from the floor below came the expected summons:
“Ruhannah!”
“Oh, please, mother!”
“It’s after seven–”
“I know: I’ll be ready in time!”
“It’s after seven, Rue!”
“I’m so cold, mother dear!”
“I closed your window. You may bathe and dress down here.”
“B-r-r-r! I can see my own breath when I breathe!”
“Come down and dress by the kitchen range,” repeated her mother. “I’ve warm water all ready for you.”
The brassy light behind the trees was becoming golden; slim bluish shadows already stretched from the base of every tree across frozen fields dusted with snow.
As usual, the lank black cat came walking into the room, its mysterious crystal-green eyes brilliant in the glowing light.
Listening, the child heard her father moving heavily about in the adjoining room.
Then, from below again:
“Ruhannah!”
“I’m going to get up, mother!”
“Rue! Obey me!”
“I’m up! I’m on my way!” She sprang out amid a tempest of bedclothes, hopped gingerly across the chilly carpet, seized her garments in one hand, comb and toothbrush in the other, ran into the hallway and pattered downstairs.
The cat followed leisurely, twitching a coal-black tail.
“Mother, could I have my breakfast first? I’m so hungry–”
Her mother turned from the range and kissed her as she huddled close to it. The sheet of zinc underneath warmed her bare feet delightfully. She sighed with satisfaction, looked wistfully at the coffeepot simmering, sniffed at the biscuits and sizzling ham.
“Could I have one little taste before I–”
“Come, dear. There’s the basin. Bathe quickly, now.”
Ruhannah frowned and cast a tragic glance upon the tin washtub on the kitchen floor. Presently she stole over, tested the water with her finger-tip, found it not unreasonably cold, dropped the night-dress from her frail shoulders, and stepped into the tub with a perfunctory shiver – a thin, overgrown child of fifteen, with pipestem limbs and every rib anatomically apparent.
Her hair, which had been cropped to shoulder length, seemed to turn from chestnut to bronze fire, gleaming and crackling under the comb which she hastily passed through it before twisting it up.
“Quickly but thoroughly,” said her mother. “Hasten, Rue.”
Ruhannah seized soap and sponge, gasped, shut her grey eyes tightly, and fell to scrubbing with the fury of despair.
“Don’t splash, dear–”
“Did you warm my towel, mother?” – blindly stretching out one thin and dripping arm.
Her mother wrapped her in a big crash towel from head to foot.
Later, pulling on stockings and shoes by the range, she managed to achieve a buttered biscuit at the same time, and was already betraying further designs upon another one when her mother sent her to set the table in the sitting-room.
Thither
