Madar waited for a while, until he saw that the Khan’s servants had
arrived; when, taking his silver stick of office with him, he sought
their little separate encampment, which, busy as it had seemed
elsewhere, was now swallowed up in the mass that occupied the space
around them. He lurked about the busy and tired men for some time, not
hazarding a remark to any one, lest he should meet with a sharp repulse,
which indeed was to be expected; seeing that after a long march, men who
must provide and cook their dinners, have much more to do than to hold
conversations with prying inquirers.
At last, seeing Daood, the Khan’s attendant, busy preparing his master’s
hooka, he advanced towards him, and seated himself upon his hams close
to him.
‘Salaam Aliekoom, brother!’ said he.
‘Salaam!’ was the only reply Daood chose to give.
‘Mashalla! the Khan has returned in good health.’
‘Shookr Khoda! he has.’
‘Inshalla! he will long continue so.’
‘Inshalla!’
‘And so he has married a young wife! Well, the Khan is a powerful man,—a
youth, yet.’
‘Inshalla, brother!’ and Daood continued his employment most
assiduously, humming a popular tune.
‘The brother of the Khanum is a fine-looking youth—may his prosperity
increase!’
Daood looked at the speaker with no amicable eyes. ‘Who, in the name of
the Sheitan, art thou, O unlucky man? How darest thou, even in thy
speech, to allude to the Khanum, and what mean these questions? Go! stay
not here, or it may be that some of our folks may lay a stick over thee;
and haply myself, if thou stayest much longer. Go, I tell thee; or thou
mayst chance to eat dirt.’
Madar saw plainly enough there was little to be gained by conversation
with Daood, so he left him; and after a while tried a groom who was busy
with one of the Khan’s horses.
With him he was more successful, and soon he learned the history of the
young man and the events which had occurred during their march from
Hyderabad. Stored with these, he was preparing to depart, when he was
roughly accosted by Kasim and Dilawur Ali, who had observed him in
conversation with the groom; for Dilawur Ali well knew the character of
the man to be of the worst kind, and that the inquiries he was making
were to gratify the curiosity of his master, or perhaps to serve worse
purposes.
Dilawur Ali was an officer who commanded a Duffa or division of the
corps, and a man of some authority; so he cared little, now that his
commander had arrived, either for the man or his master. For he was
secure in the Khan’s favour, and well knew that the Jemadar dared not
complain to him, even should his servant receive ill usage, or at any
rate hard words. So he cried out lustily, ‘Ho! Madar Sahib, what seekest
thou among the newly-arrived servants of the Khan? By the soul of the
Prophet, thine appearance is like a bird of ill-omen,—like the first
vulture to a dying sheep. What has he been asking of thee?’ he said to
the groom; ‘speak, and fear not.’
‘May I be your sacrifice,’ replied the man; ‘he did but ask about the
Patél Sahib yonder,’ for so Kasim continued to be called among them.
‘And what wouldst thou know about me, O base-born!’ cried Kasim; ‘what
am I to thee or to thy master?’
‘Nothing, nothing, noble sir; only my master (may his prosperity
increase!) bid me ask, in order that he might know something of one
whose appearance is so like that of a youth brave in war; and he saw too
that your worship had been wounded, and naturally wished to know whether
the Khan Sahib (may his name be exalted!) had been in any danger on the
way down, which may Alla avert!’
‘Thy words are smooth for once,’ said Dilawur Ali, ‘and well calculated
to disarm suspicion; but I know thee well, Madar Sahib, and thy master
too, and I warn thee of both, Kasim. In the present case there may be no
harm meant, and perhaps it is unjust to accuse or to suspect thee; but
thou hadst as well take the hint, for, Inshalla! we are neither fathers
of owls or of jackasses, and can see and hear as far as other people:
dost thou understand?’
‘I will tell thee more plainly, Madar Sahib,’ said the young
Patél,—whose blood was fired by the thought that any one should be so
soon prying into his affairs in the camp,—‘that if ever I catch thee
about this encampment of ours, or tampering with any of my lord the
Khan’s servants, I will break every bone in thy skin: dost thou hear?’
‘My lord!’ began the fellow.
‘Nay, no more,’ continued Kasim, ‘or I may be tempted to give way to
wrath; begone, in the name of the devils on whose errand thou camest. I
like thee not, by Alla! thy face is like an executioner’s,—a fellow who
would give a brave man a cup of poison, or stab him from behind with a
knife, and boast he had done some valiant deed.’
Some others who were standing by caught the words of the young man, and
laughed loudly at the truth he had so unwittingly told; and their
taunts, added to the previous ones he had been obliged to hear, caused
Madar to slink off as fast as possible, followed by the jeers and abuse
of those who had joined in the laugh against him.
‘He is off like a maimed cur!’ cried one. ‘You have eaten dirt!’ cried
another. ‘Alla give thee a good digestion of it, and appetite for more
the next time thou comest!’
‘Let us seize him and cut off his beard and mustachios! such an impotent
coward and prying rascal is not worthy to wear the emblems of
manhood—let him be shaven like an eunuch!’ cried a masculine virago, the
wife of a camel-driver, setting her arms a-kimbo, who thought it a fair
opportunity to join in. ‘Return, O Madar Sahib, that I may spit on thy
beard!’
Madar did not apparently choose to accept this polite invitation, for he
thought it possible that the first threat might be attempted, and the
shout of laughter which followed the latter part of the speech caused
him to quicken his pace considerably; and only once looking behind him,
to throw a glance of hate towards those by whom he had been menaced, he
pursued his way, and was soon lost in the crowd.
‘There goes a spiteful heart,’ said Kasim; ‘didst thou see the look he
cast behind him?’
‘Ay, brother,’ replied Dilawur Ali; ‘thou hast said truly, he has a
spiteful heart, and I could tell thee many a tale of his iniquity; but I
am half sorry that we did not speak him fair.’
‘I am not: I would rather have an open enemy than one under the garb of
civility or friendship.’
‘The scoundrel will tell all he has heard, and as much more as he can
invent, to the Jemadar yonder.’
‘And what of that?’ said Kasim; ‘what have I to fear?’
‘This is no place to speak of him,’ said his friend; ‘come to my tent, I
will tell thee much of him.’
And truly the account the worthy Syud gave of the Jemadar was not
calculated in any way to allay fear, if any had existed in Kasim’s
heart: for it was one of deceit, of villainy often successful, of
constant intrigue, and of cruel revenge; but the young man’s fearless
spirit only made light of these, which might have disquieted a more
experienced person; and he asked gaily,
‘But what makest thee think that he bears me any enmity? we have as yet
hardly seen each other.’
‘I know it from his vile face, Kasim. While the Khan often spoke to thee
kindly in his presence, his eyes wandered to thee with a bad expression,
and they no sooner left thee than he and that Sontaburdar of his
exchanged furtive glances. I was watching them, for I saw at once he
would be jealous of thee.’
‘He may do his worst,’ said Kasim, ‘I care not.’ But in spite of this
expression, his heart was not quite so free of care about what had
happened as it had been before he had heard Dilawur Ali’s stories.
Madar returned, burning with spiteful and revengeful feelings, and with
much excitement visible in his countenance, he rushed into his master’s
presence and flung his turban on the ground, while he gnashed his teeth
in rage.
‘What news hast thou, Madar? What has been done to thee? speak, good
man. What has happened?’
‘Judge if I have not cause to be revenged, Khodawund: I am less than a
dog; and may my grave be unblessed if I do not avenge the insults I have
suffered both for myself and you, O my lord!’
‘Why, what has happened?’
‘I tell you, you have been reviled by that son of perdition Dilawur Ali,
and the boy whom that old fool the Khan has brought with him. Hear,
Jemadar Sahib, what they said; they said they would—Inshalla!’ and Madar
twisted up his mustachios fiercely as he spoke, ‘defile your beard, and
throw dirt on it; they called you a coward and less than man. They said
they did not value you a broken couree; and they threatened to beat me,
to break every bone in my skin; and set up a vile woman, one without
shame, with an uncovered face, to abuse me in vile terms, to call me an
eunuch, and to threaten to shave my beard and mustachios; and this
before a thousand others, loochas and shodas[26] like themselves. But I
will be revenged. Ya Alla! ya Hoosein! ya Hyder!’ he cried, as he took
up his turban which he had thrown down in his passion, and began to tie
it awry upon his head. ‘I will be revenged!’
-----
Footnote 26:
Dissolute vagabonds.
-----
‘They said this?—Ah, Kumbukht!’—cried the Jemadar, who had heard out his
servant’s tale with some difficulty,—‘they said it,—and thou hadst ears
to hear it? Alla! Alla! am I a sheep or a cow to bear this?—I who am,
Inshalla! a tiger, an eater of men’s hearts,—before whom men’s livers
turn to water,—that I should be obliged to devour such abomination! What
ho! Furashes! any one without there! go, bring Dilawur Ali, Duffadar,
and— But no,’ he said mentally, checking the torrent of passion; ‘it
cannot be so. I have no authority now to punish, and they would defy me;
the Khan would take fire in a moment if he heard I had been inquiring
into the station of this proud youth,—whom, Inshalla! I will yet
humble.’
‘Go,’ he continued to the servants, who had suddenly entered the tent;
‘when I want you I will call again; at present I would be alone with
Madar.’
‘And so thou heardest all this abuse of me, and ate dirt thyself, and
had not the heart to say a word or strike a blow in return! I could spit
on thee, coward!’
‘May I be your sacrifice, Khodawund, I was helpless; what could I have
done in that crowd? had I only returned a word, the woman whom they set
up would have poured filthy abuse on me.’
‘They shall rue the day that they uttered the words thou hast repeated:
Madar, they shall wish their tongues had never said them, and that their
hearts had eaten them, ere they had birth: Ul-humd-ul-illa! I have yet
power, and can crush that butterfly, whose gay bearing is only for a
season,—but not yet—not yet.’
‘And who is this proud fool?’ he continued after a pause to Madar, who
had been drinking in every word of his master’s soliloquy with greedy
ears, and rejoicing in the hope of speedy revenge. ‘Who saidst thou he
is?’
‘A Patél, noble sir,—a miserable Patél of a village, Alla knows where,—a
man whose mother, Inshalla! is vile.’
‘I care not for his mother,—who is he? and how comes he with the Khan?
Tell me, or I will beat thee with my shoe!’
‘My lord,—Khodawund!—be not angry, but listen: he is the Patél of a
village where the Khan and his young wife were nearly drowned; he saved
the lady, and he fought afterwards against some Mahrattas when they
attacked the village where the Khan was resting for the night, and was
wounded in his defence.’
‘And this is all, Madar?’
‘It is, protector of the poor! it is all; they say the Patél is a
Roostum—a hero—a man who killed fourteen Mahrattas with his own hand,
who—’
‘Bah!’ cried Jaffur impatiently, ‘and thou art a fool to believe them;’
and he fell to musing. ‘He must have seen her face,’ he said at length
aloud.
‘He must,’ echoed his attendant; ‘they say he carried her in his arms
from the river.’
‘Khoob! and what said they of her beauty?’
‘That she is as fair as the full moon in the night of Shub-i-Barāt.’
‘Khoob! and he has seen her again, I doubt not, since then.’
‘Willa alum!’ said Madar, raising his thumbs to his ears.
‘How should your slave know? but it is likely,—people cannot conceal
their faces when they are travelling.’
‘No, nor, Inshalla! wish to do so! but we shall see,—take care that you
mention not abroad what occurred this evening,—they will forget it.’
‘But my lord will not!’
‘I never forget an insult till I have had its exchange, and that thou
well knowest, Madar. Begone! make it known without that I may now be
visited. We will consider of this matter.’
But we must return to the Khan, whose active furashes had encircled
several of the pillars of the cloisters with high tent walls, swept out
the inclosures thus made, spread the carpets, and converted what was
before open arches and naked walls and floors into a comfortable
apartment, perfectly secure from observation. Ameena took possession of
it, and was soon joined by her lord, who, in truth, was in nowise sorry
after the fatigues of the day to enjoy first a good dinner, and
afterwards the luxury of a soft cotton mattress, and to have his limbs
gently kneaded by the tiny hands of his fair wife, while she amused him
with a fairy tale, or one of those stories of intrigue and love which
are so common among the Easterns.
The cool air of the Mysore country had apparently invigorated her, and
the languor which the heat and the fatigue of constant travelling had
caused in the Carnatic had entirely disappeared, and given place to her
usual lively and joyous expression. She had thrown a deep
orange-coloured shawl, with a very richly-worked border, around her, to
protect her from the night breeze that blew chilly over the tent walls,
which did not reach to the roof of the building they were in, and it
fell in heavy folds around her, appearing to make her light figure
almost more slender from the contrast. She was inexpressively lovely, as
she now bent playfully over the Khan, employed in her novel vocation,
and again desisting, began afresh some other story wherewith to beguile
the time till the hour of repose arrived.
‘Alla bless thee, Ameena!’ said the Khan, after one of her lively
sallies, when her face had brightened, and her eyes sparkled at some
point of her tale,—‘Alla bless thee! thou art truly lovely to-night: the
Prophet (may his name be honoured!) could have seen no brighter Houris
in Paradise (when the will of Alla called him there) than thou art.’ ‘I
am my lord’s slave,’ said the lady, ‘and to please him is my sole
endeavour day and night. Happy is my heart when it tells me I have
succeeded—how much more when I am honoured with such a remark from thine
own lips, O my lord! And as to my beauty’—and here she threw a glance
into the little mirror she wore upon her thumb,—‘my lord surely flatters
me; he must have seen far fairer faces than mine.’
‘Never, never, by the Prophet!’ cried the Khan, with energy; ‘never, I
swear by thine own eyes, never. I have but one regret, Ameena, and that
cannot be mended or altered now.’
Ameena’s heart suddenly failed her, for Kasim came to her remembrance,
and she thought for an instant that he might suspect.
‘Regret! what dost thou regret?’ she asked hesitatingly. ‘Anything that
thy poor slave hath done? anything—’
‘Nothing, fairest, on thy part; it was for myself.’
Her heart was suddenly relieved of a load. ‘For thyself?’ she said
gaily; ‘what dost thou regret, Khan Sahib?’
‘That I am not twenty years younger, for thy sake, Ameena,’ he said with
much feeling. ‘Methinks now, to see these grey hairs and this grey
beard,’ and he touched them as he spoke, ‘so near thy soft and waving
tresses, I seem more like a father to thee than a husband: and yet thou
art mine, Ameena. I would thou wert older, fair one!’
‘And if I were, I should not be so fair,’ she said artlessly.
‘I care not, so that we had grown old together; at least I should have
seen thy beauty, and the remembrance of it would have been with me.’
Ameena sighed; her thoughts wandered to Kasim’s noble figure and
youthful yet expressive countenance; in spite of herself and almost
unconsciously she drew her hand across her eyes, as if to shut something
ideal from her sight.
The Khan heard her sigh; he would rather not have heard it, though his
own remark he knew had provoked it. ‘I have said the truth, Ameena, and
thou wouldst rather I were a younger man,’ he said, looking at her
intently. ‘But what matter? these idle words do but pain thee. It is our
destiny, sweet one, and we must work it out together.’
‘Ay, it is our destiny,’ she said.
‘The will of Alla!’ continued the Khan, looking up devoutly, ‘which hath
joined two beings together so unsuited in age, but not in temper I
think, Ameena. Thou art not as others, wilful and perverse—heavy
burdens—hard to carry—and from which there is no deliverance; but a
sweet and lovely flower, which a monarch might wear in his heart and be
proud of. So thou truly art to Rhyman Khan, and ever wilt be, even
though enemies should come between us.’
‘Enemies! my lord,’ she said with surprise in her tone; ‘I never had an
enemy, even in my own home: and I am here with thee in a strange land,
where I know no one who could be mine enemy!’
‘May Alla put them far from thee, fairest!’ he replied affectionately;
‘and yet sometimes I fear that thou mayst have to encounter enmity.’
‘I have heard it said by my honoured father, Khan, that as the blessed
Prophet had many enemies, and as the martyrs Hassan and Hoosein came to
their sad deaths by them, it is the lot of all to have some one
inimical; but he meant men, whose occupations and cares call them into
the world,—not women, like me, who, knowing no one but my servants,
cannot make enemies of them if I am kind.’
‘But I mean those who would be jealous of thy beauty, and seek thus to
injure thee,—from these I alone fear,’ replied her husband.
‘I fear not, Khan,’ she said, simply and confidently, ‘neither for thee
nor myself. I cannot think that thou couldst ever give thy Ameena cause
for jealousy, or any one else cause of jealousy of her. Alla help me! I
should die if such could be—’
‘Nay, there thou shalt be safe,’ he said, interrupting her; ‘for never,
never shalt thou have cause to say of Rhyman Khan that he was false to
thee. I am a soldier, and one whose honour has known neither stain nor
spot; and yet—’
He had stopped suddenly and appeared to think; and, while he thought,
suddenly an idea flashed into her mind,—could she have already a rival?
She could not bear it to rest there for an instant, ere she threw it off
in words.
‘Speak, O Khan!’ she cried; ‘thou hast none but me who claims thy love?
thou hast not belied thyself to one who has here none to protect her?—no
father—no mother—none but thee! Oh, my lord!—_thou_ canst not have
deceived the child who trusted thee and never asked of thee aught?’ She
was very excited.
‘I have not deceived thee, Ameena; but I have not told thee all my
history,—I have not told thee as yet what sooner or later thou must
know. I have not told thee how that for years I pined for the love of
woman, such pure child-like love as thine, and found nought after a
short intercourse but bitter words and a constant seeking after wealth
which I had not to bestow,—how I have had to bear constant upbraiding
from those out of whose families I chose them, because I would not spend
my substance upon wasteful parents,—upon sons whose very existence was a
disgrace to them. Hadst thou known this, Ameena, thou wouldst not marvel
that I sought one like thee in a distant land,—one who, removed from
every tie, and with no one to sow dissension between us, should learn to
love and trust Rhyman Khan as, Inshalla! he ought to be loved and
trusted.’
She knew not how to reply; on the one hand the concealment of other ties
which the Khan had kept secret so long and now revealed so unexpectedly,
and the undefined dread of the hate of rivals, smote her to the very
heart; on the other, her attention was powerfully arrested by the bold
truthfulness of his disclosure; she was affected by the picture of
desolation he had drawn of his own state, and his disappointments, and
she was soothed to think that all he had sought for years was centred in
her. She was silent,—she could not speak under such conflicting
thoughts.
‘Thou hast not told me all,’ she said at length; ‘thou hast not said how
many—’ she could not finish the sentence.
‘There are two, dearest Ameena,—two, on each of whom I fixed hopes which
have been broken in many ways. I have never had a child to bless me; and
where love should have been, and mildness like thine to compensate for
such a disappointment, rancour has come and ill-temper, and with them
despair to me,—hopelessness of that quiet peace which my mind seeks when
war and its perils and excitements are past. When disappointment came
with the first, I thought a second might perchance be more to me than
she had been: alas! I soon was undeceived, and bitterly too, Ameena.
But, after all, who can say there are no flowers to be pulled in the
rugged pathways of their lives? Had this not happened, I should never
have known thee, my rose,—never have seen that look of pity which thy
beauteous eyes wear now! It is from these I fear thou wilt have to bear
some jealousies, some enmity; and canst thou brave somewhat for the love
of Rhyman Khan? Continue to be to me as thou art now, and my wealth, my
power, nay my life-blood itself, are thine, as freely as thou carest to
use them. Now thou knowest all, and a heavy weight is gone from my
heart, which had long abode there. Speak,—art thou content?’
‘I would I had known this earlier,’ she said sadly, after a while; ‘but
as it is, I am thankful to hear it even now. My lord knows well that I
am but a child, and no match for the intrigues of those who are more
versed in the world’s wisdom. I feel that it has saddened and sobered
me; and where I had hoped in my bright fancy to roam as I listed in the
garden of thy love, unchecked and unheeded by any one but thyself, I
must cover myself with the veil of discretion and deliberation, and take
heed to my steps lest I fall into the snares which jealousy will not
fail to place for me.’
‘Alla forbid!’ cried the Khan fervently; ‘thou hast no cause to fear
them.’
‘I know not,’ she replied; ‘but I can scarcely hope that there may be
friendship between me and those whom you describe; there may be a show
for a while, but the end will be bitterness.’
And the poor girl wept; for she had suddenly been disturbed upon her
height of security, or at all events of unmolested occupation, and even
in a few minutes she could not help expecting some rude collision which
would perhaps cast her down headlong. And her own peaceful home—its
freedom from care, its loving affection, its harmless pleasures—rose so
vividly to her mind, that she could not help for the time regretting
bitterly that she had left it, to endure such a prospect as appeared to
open before her. Nor did the Khan disturb, except by a caress or a
well-timed word of cheerful hope, the thoughts which he knew must be
passing in her heart, but to which he could not respond in a manner to
make her forget them on the instant; they must have their vent, he
thought, and thought wisely. She lay down and wept, till sleep gradually
asserted its mastery over her wearied form and rudely-excited thoughts.
‘She shall never come to harm, so help me Alla and his holy prophet!’
said the Khan mentally, as he bent over her and gently drew some
covering upon her without disturbing her; ‘she shall never know harm or
evil, as long as the arm or power of Rhyman Khan can shield her! She
still sobs,’ he said, as every now and then a sob broke softly from her,
like to that from a child who has cried itself to sleep, and her bosom
heaved under the oppression. ‘I would to Alla I had not caused her this
pain! and yet it was inevitable. Their jealousy and malice will be great
I know, and their power is great, but, Inshalla! there will be no fear
of their machinations, and I will soon teach her to despise them; they
too will cease to use them when they see them of no avail and unheeded.’
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