After the insults and neglect which had been meted out to us at Beyrout,
I expected in Damascus, where official position is everything, and where
women are of no account, that I should be, figuratively speaking,
trampled underfoot. I was mistaken. I can never describe the gratitude,
affection, and respect which were showered upon me during my last days in
Syria. The news of our recall spread like wildfire. All the surrounding
villagers poured in. The house and gardens at Bludan were always full of
people--my poor of course, but others too. Moslems flung themselves on
the ground, shedding bitter tears, and tearing their beards with grief
for the loss of the man whose life the Wali had the audacity to report
they wished to take. They kept asking, "What have we done that your
Government should take him away from us?" "Let some of us go over to
your land, and kneel at the feet of your Queen, and pray that he may
be sent back to us again." This thing went on for days and days, and I
received from nearly all the country round little deputations of Shaykhs,
who bore letters of affection or condolence or praise. I loved Syria so
dearly it broke my heart to leave it, and always with me was the gnawing
thought: How shall I tear the East out of my heart, and adapt myself
again to the bustling, struggling, everyday life of Europe?
I lost no time in settling our affairs at Bludan. I paid all the
bills, packed Richard's boxes and sent them to England, broke up
our establishment at Bludan, and had all that was to accompany me
transferred to Damascus.
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