He felt in his pocket, and held out a _baksheesh_ to Hushmut; but the
latter shook his head, and once more said something rapidly in
Hindustani. It had a note of petition in it, but the request was
apparently not to the hearer's taste. That was to be seen from his
face.
"What does he want?" asked the girl, curiously.
"Nothing he is going to get," replied her lover, moving off; "the
cheek of the man!"
But the pink muslin stood its ground. "What is it?" she persisted; "I
want to know. He doesn't look to me as if he meant to be rude,
and--and"--her face softened--"if it is anything we can do, I'd--I'd
like to do it. Tell me, please."
The young fellow shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Oh! only fooling! He wants you to give him back some of the
rose-leaves he gave you, that he may put them in his new brew, to--to
make it sweeter; says the luck-gift of a bride always does--"
The girl blushed and smiled all over.
"Well, why not? It is a pretty idea, anyhow." She drew out the handful
of rose-leaves as she spoke, then paused with a faint wonder, for the
warmth of their shelter had made their perfume almost bewildering.
"How--how sweet they are!" she murmured. Then, still smiling, but with
the blush faded almost to paleness, she dropped the rose-leaves into
the delicate, long-fingered hand.
"I hope it will be the sweetest essence you ever made," she said with
a laugh, and Hushmut seemed to understand, for he smiled back and
_salaamed_ as he, in his turn, tucked the charm into his bosom for use
when the still should be ready for closing, and as he did so, he said
in his high, suave voice--
"May He who knows the secret of the rose protect the bride." He said
it without the least suspicion of reality; simply as a dignified piece
of courtesy.
A minute afterwards the wheels of that last dogcart, as it drove out
of the garden, disturbed the birds which had already begun to choose
their resting-places for the night; since they too looked for the
usual rest and peace in that fatal Maytime.
And for a space the peace, the rest settled on the garden. Only
Hushmut's voice, as he busied himself in packing the pink petals into
his still, told of any life in it beyond the birds, the flowers, the
bees.
One of these, belated, drifted into the vault through the open door,
and hummed a background to the high, trilling voice.
"Pale, pale are the rose-lips, sweet!
Red is the heart of the rose,
But red are the lips mine meet,
And your heart white as the snows."
Then a faint, almost noiseless patter of bare running feet paused at
the door, and some one looked in to say breathlessly--
"It hath begun, they say. But who knows? I am off to the city to see."
Hushmut looked up startled from his rose-leaves; startled, nothing
more.
"Begun!--so soon--wherefore?"
"God knows!" came the breathless voice. "Mayhap it is a lie. Some
thought it would not come at all. I will return and tell thee the
news."
The faint, almost noiseless patter of bare feet died away, and there
was peace and rest in the garden for another space. Only Hushmut
shuffled to the door, looked out curiously, then shuffled back to his
work, for that must be finished before dark, else the roses would
spoil, squandering their sweetness. There was another pile of
brownish, yellow residuum ready dried for the furnace, and as he
filled a basket with it, his hands among the scentless stuff, a sudden
remembrance of his own impotence, his own deprivation, came to him.
Perhaps he had seen a hint of the simile in the English girl's face.