I never had heard, nor
indeed, I believe, had the rest of the world ever heard, anything
like a certain account of the heroine's adventures; all I knew was,
that in one of the drawers which were the delight of my childhood,
along with attar of roses and fragrant wonders from Hindustan,
there were letters carefully treasured, and trifling presents which
I was taught to think valuable because they had come from the queen
of the desert, who dwelt in tents, and reigned over wandering
Arabs.
This subject, however, died away, and from the ending of my
childhood up to the period of my arrival in the Levant, I had
seldom even heard a mentioning of the Lady Hester Stanhope, but
now, wherever I went, I was met by the name so familiar in sound,
and yet so full of mystery from the vague, fairy-tale sort of idea
which it brought to my mind; I heard it, too, connected with fresh
wonders, for it was said that the woman was now acknowledged as an
inspired being by the people of the mountains, and it was even
hinted with horror that she claimed to be MORE THAN A PROPHET.
I felt at once that my mother would be sadly sorry to hear that I
had been within a day's ride of her early friend without offering
to see her, and I therefore despatched a letter to the recluse,
mentioning the maiden name of my mother (whose marriage was
subsequent to Lady Hester's departure), and saying that if there
existed on the part of her ladyship any wish to hear of her old
Somersetshire acquaintance, I should make a point of visiting her.
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