The English girl, meanwhile, experienced a passionate elation, like new
life. The Pasha’s exhortations were not needed. Rebellion, which had
always lurked beneath her trained subservience, now clothed her in its
flames and made her terrible for any one who dared assail her new-found
pride.
What had she to regret? From childhood she had been repressed,
humiliated, and ordered to be thankful for bare daily bread. In
Christian families her lot had been unenviable. Here, in this Muslim
household, she was somebody. The month spent here had been the
happiest in her life. But, bred up to regard employers as a race
apart,--impressed, moreover, by the grandeur of the house and by the
rank of Pasha,--she had never dreamt of being thought an equal by her
entertainers. When Yûsuf Bey, whom she had noticed for his beauty,
assailed her in the hall, she had imagined his intentions far from
honourable, judging from past experience in English houses. She had
fled to her own rooms, ashamed and angry, while the image of his face
alight with passion remained to trouble her against her will. When the
Pasha came and begged her in most flattering terms to condescend to
marry his unworthy son, she nearly swooned. All her resistance sprang
from incredulity. When once convinced that the demand was earnest, she
gave way with grateful tears. Then her resolve became a living faith.
It was to break the bondage of the past completely, to cast in her lot
for ever with these friends who wanted her.
They were wealthy, of exalted rank, and yet they wanted her. They
thought her lovely, who had always been esteemed entirely plain, with
her squat figure, apple cheeks, and sandy hair. The sleekest youth in
all the world desired her. It was so marvellous that she was forced to
rub her eyes and fix their gaze on homely objects to dispel the sense
of some enchantment. The difference of religion gave her no concern;
indeed, the change was welcome, she had been so cramped by English
pietism. In this mood, she was fire against the Consul. A world of
happiness was opened suddenly, and there were those who would debar her
from it Woe betide them!
The Pasha himself escorted her to where a harîm carriage waited. Sawwâb
the eunuch held the door for her.
“The carriage will be there to bring you back,” the Pasha told her. “I
have ordered the servants by no means to return without you, upon pain
of death.”
The implied suspicion that she might be kidnapped made her laugh.
“Remember, my son’s life is in your hands--such pretty hands! His
earthly happiness is trusted to this carriage, all too vile to hold so
sweet a burden. Day and night he dreams of nothing but your charms. If
your mind changes he will surely die.”
She laughed and kissed her fingers to the dear old man, as she
stepped up into the carriage. The eunuch slammed the door, which
was close-shuttered, leaving her in perfumed shade. A burning blush
suffused her as she thought of Yûsuf--his strained, eager face, his
yearning lips, beheld that once to haunt her consciousness, a naked
shape of love. But pride was uppermost in all her thoughts just
then--pride in the comfortable carriage, the attentive servants--pride
in her new-found value, in her new-found relatives, and in the daring
resolution she had made to break with England. The foreign clamour of
the streets, the curious, heady odours, flattered her with a sense of
strange adventure.
Radiant, she alighted at the gate which bore the royal arms of England,
near which an open carriage also waited, and passed into the Consul’s
office. She expected sternness, but the Consul smiled agreeably, and
after shaking hands with her, took up his hat.
“I have been thinking,” he observed, “that all I have to say could be
much better said by some one else--a woman. I should be hampered by
embarrassment.” He smiled. “So, if you don’t mind, I have sent a note
to Mrs. Cameron, asking leave to bring you out to tea with her this
afternoon. I have a carriage at the door.”
“I also have a carriage,” she replied, with a light laugh, as they went
out together. She could not but admire his strategy, for Mrs. Cameron,
the leader of the English colony, was a gentlewoman of the straightest
Christian outlook, the last person whom a renegade would care to face.
She had, moreover, been all kindness to the stranded girl, hospitably
entertaining her until she found a situation. Since going to Muhammad
Pasha’s house the governess had spent a Sunday with her, and heard
warnings. To brave her now would be an ordeal, but no matter. The
destined bride of Yûsuf scorned all fear.
Out at the gate the Consul eyed her carriage with intense disfavour,
especially Sawwâb the eunuch, who stood ready at the door.
“You will kindly come in mine,” he said peremptorily.
“Then you will kindly tell the Pasha’s man to follow,” she replied,
with eyes that twinkled laughter at his show of temper.
He shouted to the Pasha’s coachman, and got in beside her. For a while
they drove in silence, the Consul stealing glances at her face from
time to time. She knew that he was struck by the new charm of her. His
manner had a dash of gallantry which was amusing.
“I hate to see you in that carriage, with those servants,” he exclaimed
at length impulsively. “You must forgive me. I have lived here years,
and know the country.”
Again she laughed and her eyes quizzed him. The thought that she knew
more than he did, possibly, was made conviction by his next remark:
“Please realize that you are absolutely free. Whatever may have
happened--I mean whatever influences have been brought to bear--those
people cannot hurt you now, or even reach you.” This man who knew the
country suspected the good Pasha of iniquity, and looked upon his
palace as a den of vice. She said:
“There has been nothing of the kind. I have never been so kindly
treated or so happy.”
He hemmed and hawed, remarking:
“Well, remember what I say. And don’t forget that, as a British subject
here, you have great privileges which, whatever happens, you will be
unwise to forfeit. I hope you will confide in Mrs. Cameron. There is no
one in this world more kind and trustworthy.”
She answered, “Thanks!” and turned from him to contemplate the passing
scene. Their carriage flew along a sandy lane between walled gardens
of the suburbs, with here and there a mansion closely shuttered
towards the street. The road was covered with the long procession of
the fellâhîn returning outward to their villages--men straddled over
donkeys between empty paniers; women stalked erect and queen-like in
their graceful drapery; here and there a camel sauntered, led by some
bare-legged boy--the whole, obscured by clouds of dust, illumined
warmly by the rays of the declining sun, or steeped in the deep shadow
of mud walls. Foot-farers, forced aside to let the carriage pass,
stared at its inmates with contemptuous eyes. The garb of Europe was a
blot upon the peaceful scene. Her heart went out to all those people,
plodding, contented, in the sunlit dust. Henceforth she would be
nothing strange to them, she swore it.
“Here we are!” The Consul’s voice disturbed her reverie. He shouted to
the driver and the carriage stopped. The harîm carriage drew up close
behind it. A door in a high wall was opened by a smiling negro. A
minute later she was in a cool verandah, looking on a well-kept garden,
outside a very English drawing-room.
It was a house where all was tidy and precise, a hostile element to one
in love with the untrimmed profusion of the Pasha’s palace. She hated
it as servants hate a nagging mistress.
“Now, having brought you two together, I shall leave you,” said the
Consul pleasantly. “This young lady, Mrs. Cameron, has gone and got
herself into a precious fix. Confess her thoroughly, and then we’ll
find some way to get her out of it.”
“But I have no desire to get out of it,” cried the girl, exasperated.
“The fix, as you are pleased to call it, is my greatest happiness.”
But the Consul was already gone, delighted as it seemed to wash his
hands of her. She found herself alone with Mrs. Cameron.
“We’ll have some tea at once, and you must see the children,” was that
lady’s first remark, so different from the attack anticipated that the
guest, all nerved for battle, felt defrauded. Though ready to resist
with fury, she lacked the energy required to open fight. Tea came,
and with it the three tow-haired children, whose presence made all
talk impossible. The girl sat moody, in abeyance, replying briefly to
remarks addressed to her. The garden perfumes became stronger as the
sun sank. They, or some kindred but more subtle influence, obscured her
brain with fumes in which her purpose loomed unreal and enormous. The
homely scene appealed to her against her will. Almost she had the sense
of hands held out to her, while Mrs. Cameron was talking nonsense with
the children. This playing on her nerves seemed a mean stratagem. Hot
anger grew beneath her careless shell.
At length the youngsters were dismissed. The girl then braced herself
to meet the blow. Again she felt a keen pang of deception when her
hostess said:
“I am going to ask you a great favour. Stay the night with me! My
husband is away at Alexandria. I am really lonely.”
“Thank you very much, but it is really quite impossible,”--there was
poison in the honey of this sweet reply,--“I have a carriage waiting.”
“We can send it with a message.”
“No, really, thank you! I have stayed too long already.” She suddenly
bethought her of the master move, and rose determined.
“No, sit down, my dear!” cried Mrs. Cameron. “I have to talk to you.
And though I would rather have had the night in which to think things
over, I must, since you force me to it, speak quite simply now. I say:
Don’t do it, child! Don’t take the step the Consul tells me that you
contemplate! He thought that you had been seduced by unfair practices;
but that, I see from your behaviour, is not so. It is just the charm
of novelty, the spirit of adventure--is it not?--with just, perhaps,
a little mischief prompting, a little grudge against the dull life
you have led. My love, you must not be allowed to do it--you, an
Englishwoman! It degrades us all. I have lived out here for years, and
I assure you that, if a daughter of mine declared her will to marry
one of them, sooner than it should happen I would kill her with my own
hands. A girl!--It is unheard of! With their view of women!”
“It is plain you know nothing about them,” sneered the other; “at
any rate, about the class of people I have mixed with. They have the
greatest reverence for women. You suppose, because we veil--”
“We!” interjected Mrs. Cameron.
“Yes, we; for I am one of those whom you so grossly slander.” A drum of
battle beat at either temple of the girl thus brought to bay. Her brain
reeled with indignation, and her voice grew husky. “I say, you think
because we veil that we are quite degraded, the same as we do when we
see your faces bare. The difference is one of custom only. Underneath
our veils, in our own houses, we are just as happy and as free as you
are.... It is too droll! You fancy that Mahometan women have their
lives made miserable? Why, I have never known such happy women. From my
rooms, I hear them laughing, playing, singing all day long.”
“Poor things! They know no other life. You do, and would be miserable
in the same conditions. Have you ever thought of what polygamy
involves--for women, anyhow?”
“It seems to me extremely sensible and kind to women. It takes into
consideration facts which we slur over, cruelly. It gives to every girl
a chance of motherhood.”
“My dear!” exclaimed the mentor, greatly shocked.
“I don’t care what you think. It is quite true.”
“You are young and inexperienced. We who live in the country hear
of things of which you cannot possibly know anything--things that I
wish most heartily that you may never know. That is why I beg of you
earnestly to change your mind.”
“Nothing will make me do that.”
“Then you are honestly in love, and we will say no more on that point.”
The forbearance was so unexpected that the governess was startled and
stared at Mrs. Cameron with unbelieving eyes. The elder lady showed
such trembling earnestness that she grieved for the necessity to shock
and wound her. “There remains another question, on an altogether higher
plane--I mean the question of religion.” Mrs. Cameron’s voice turned
awestruck. “The Consul tells me--but oh, no! It is too fearful!”
“I don’t see why!” returned the other doggedly. “They worship God as we
do, and they count Christ as a prophet. They are no more fearful than
the Unitarians in England. And I am sure they think much more about
religion in their daily lives than people do at home.”
“They deny the essence of Christianity--the Redemption. How can you
turn your back upon that marvel of Divine Love? Their ideals are all
much lower, more material.... My dear, I see that you have come here
primed with specious arguments, and I regret that I am not clever
enough to make you see their falseness. I wish I had the tongues of all
the angels at this moment grieving over you, to show you how terrific
is the gulf you view so lightly.”
The girl laughed nervously. “I don’t suppose the angels bother much.
You talk as if God only cared for Christians. I’m sure He thinks the
Moslems just as valuable. If you are so much better, why don’t you mix
with them and try to do them good?”
“Some of us are doing so.”
“In such a way!...”
“We are not discussing missionary methods, dear. Your case is the only
one before us.”
“Well, you say that missionaries mean to do good in their way; but it
never seems to strike you that I may hope to do a little good in mine!”
Her tone grew plaintive; the long contest wearied her. The bloom of
shadow on the garden, underneath the rose of sunset, the voices of the
evening made her wistful; while the sadness which attends all partings
clutched her heart. The whine of doing good had slipped from her at
unawares--an echo from her former life of hired hypocrisy. It had been
the natural tone of conversation with a lady of the class “employer.”
“That rings untrue. You’re simply talking for effect!” cried Mrs.
Cameron, indignant. “It is unkind when I am speaking from my heart of
hearts.... Now, only one word more. If you ever loved any one--father,
or mother, or friend--at home in England, think of that person and just
ask yourself what he or she would think of your denying Christ. The act
is so uncalled-for that it seems like wanton wickedness. You can marry
your Mahometan without renouncing Christianity, and by so doing you
would have more honour in your husband’s eyes. You could retain your
status as a British subject, which means something here; and if you
really have a purpose to do good among those people, you would be in a
better position to do so than by sinking to their level.”
“I won’t hear a word more! Oh, you are brutal!” The girl started up
with hands and teeth clenched, past endurance. “Oh, you are brutal to
bully me like this! I tell you once for all, I love those people, whom
you and all your kind hate and tell lies about. No one was ever really
nice to me before. They are a million times better than any Christians
I have ever known. I tell you I belong to them, and not to you! I mean
to have the same religion as my husband, and if he goes to Hell, well,
I’ll go too! Do you understand?” Her words now came in gusts, for she
was sobbing heavily. “You’ll never see me any more, of course, for
I’m a wicked Moslem and you’re so fanatical! I don’t care; I can do
without you. I have truer friends, who really like me and don’t only
patronize. Oh, how can you make me cry like this, when I was so--so
happy!”
To her surprise, she found herself in her tormentor’s arms.
“You wrong me, dear. I’m not fanatical, nor yet so narrow-minded as
you think. Now, will you promise that, whatever happens, you will look
upon me as a friend and come to see me sometimes? I have said all I can
to dissuade you, because I fear you may repent of your decision when
too late. My hope is, now and always, that you may be happy. You’ll
promise, won’t you, still to make a friend of me?”
The girl nodded, sobbing, speechless with emotion.
“Well, then, God bless you, dear, among the Moslems, and may you always
bear the standard of true Christian womanhood!”
With that two-edged blessing in her ears, the renegade, a bowed and
shrinking figure, traversed the garden in the blue of twilight. She
felt guilty and unnerved, irresolute, until she saw the Pasha’s
carriage waiting in the lane, when pride returned. The tears yet wet
upon her cheeks, she stood erect and sniffed the evening air. There was
still much traffic on the sandy road, running between dark garden-walls
to where, beside a little dome, a single palm-plume stood up black
against the sky. The dust kicked up by donkeys’ hoofs, by people’s
footsteps, rose greenish like wood-smoke. Some wayfarers already
carried lighted lanterns which made coloured circles in the gloaming
like the peacock’s eyes. A life of passionate adventure lay before her,
most curious and rich and warm with human failings, much better worth
than that which she had left behind.
Sawwâb the eunuch held the carriage door for her, and murmured “Praise
to Allah!” as he shut her in. She saw him merely as a well-trained
servant, having as yet no inkling of his grim significance.