She had not been in her own house a day, before she said to Umm
ed-Dahak:
“Wilt thou do me a great service?”
“Wallahi, that will I! Even--saving thy presence--one most sinful!”
“And canst thou keep a secret from the seed of Adam?”
“Not only that, but from the walls and air.”
“I want a letter carried to a great one of the English.”
“I seek refuge in Allah!” gasped the old woman, grinning widely.
“Knowest thou it is a crime unheard of that thou askest of me? Fie upon
thee! Wallahi, if I did my duty I should leave thee straightway!”
But far from flying from her mistress she came nearer. Her wrinkles ran
to smiles; her old eyes twinkled.
“Come, let us reason!” she remarked, as she sat down, and, fingering
her lady’s hand, began the argument.
“If thou desirest recreation of a shameful kind, let me discover some
devout believer. Thus the sin is less. Or better still, approach thy
husband, tell him thou art weary, implore him of his mercy to release
thee, with a portion of thy dowry. No man would refuse the offer after
years of marriage. Then I could find thee a good Muslim, for diversion.
But a Frank--an unbeliever! Ask me not! It is too horrible!”
“By Allah, my desire is not the thing thou thinkest!” Barakah made
answer gaily. “This Englishman is one I knew in childhood. I would
speak with him. The matter is no other than my lord’s advancement,
though if he knew I meddled he would kill me!”
“Swear to that! But swear to that!” cried Umm ed-Dahak, much excited,
“and I can do thy errand without sin. But if thy mind is for a Frank,
I could unearth thee Muslims of that race; though most of them are
idiotic from hashîsh.”
“My errand is to this one only!”
“Good, I go.”
The lady clapped her hands and called for writing things. The letter
taxed her mind for hours; the fitting phrase, the correct tone, eluding
one who for so many years had penned no word of English. At last it
was completed. She implored the great official, of his mercy, his
great kindness, to receive an English lady, long immured in the harîm,
where she had suffered greatly. She wished to make a most important
statement (this she underlined) and begged him to secure the utmost
secrecy. She would not write her name for fear the letter should be
intercepted, but would reveal it to him with the other matter when they
met. The document, enveloped and sealed down, was put into the hands of
Umm ed-Dahak. After two hours, she brought back the answer, “Tomorrow
at the fourth hour,” given her by word of mouth. She had not seen the
Englishman himself.
“Wallahi, we will make thee beautiful,” she chuckled.
Then Barakah reviewed her prison with affection. She went from room to
room, observing for remembrance. In one, the slave-girls crouched round
an old hag who told a story. The light which fell like powder from the
lattice singled out their teeth and eyeballs, and woke a blue sheen
in the copper vessels round the wall. In another, the child Afîfah
stood up on the seat beside the lattice, feeding pigeons; the wife of
Ghandûr, standing by, supported her. A little wicket in the tracery was
open.
“H’m-h’m-h’m-h’m!” Afîfah gave the pigeon-call, and held out crumbs. A
fluttering cloud of white and iridescent down, pink, shell-like claws,
and avid beaks and eyes, beset the lattice from without, its shadow
watering the child’s delighted face.
Barakah retired without disturbing them. She had a hankering to take
the little girl with her. But no, Afîfah was a child of El Islâm. Like
all the rest, she would condemn and curse her mother.
Then visitors arrived--Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr--and Barakah
waxed sentimental in her talk with them, recalling all the pleasant
hours which they had spent together. Both were now grown obese and
double-chinned. Nothing remained of the resplendent beauty which had
marked their girlhood save the eyes, which made them still attractive
when they wore the face-veil. She pitied them, with anguish for
herself; and kissed them fondly when they rose to go.
Then Yûsuf came to spend an hour with her. She thanked him with sincere
emotion for his never-failing kindness to her during all those years.
“It is nothing but thy due,” he answered, greatly touched. “Thou art
alone among us, and my cherished wife.”
That night the very howling of the street-dogs sounded sweet; the
starlight at her lattice seemed a humble friend. Her heart bled for the
parting which was very near. For not a doubt existed in her mind but
that the English, once informed of her desire for Christianity, would
snatch her from the Muslims with a mighty hand. The power was theirs;
they governed Egypt; and she knew from her remembrance that they were
fanatical. They would welcome her conversion, and defend her.
In the morning Umm ed-Dahak bubbled over with excitement. She
accompanied her lady to the bath, and bade the bath attendant take all
measures to enhance her beauty. She assured her mistress in an eager
whisper:
“Trust Umm ed-Dahak, I have managed everything.”
She had given orders in her lady’s name that the harîm carriage and a
eunuch should be ready at a certain hour. She and Barakah were driven
to a shop of good repute, famed for its stock of Frankish boots and
gloves, of which the harîm ladies were enamoured as showing off their
pretty hands and feet.
“Our business here may take some time--an hour, perhaps,” she told
the eunuch, who took position sentry-wise beside the entrance. The
shop possessed two doors. Making a trifling purchase, they went out
unnoticed, and found themselves within a stone’s throw of the public
office which the English ruler had appointed for the interview.
The street in blazing sunlight was flowing with a many-coloured crowd,
which kept up such a jabber that Barakah could not think clearly. The
scene she had rehearsed appeared ridiculous. Seized with panic, she was
anxious to turn back; but Umm ed-Dahak at her elbow whispered courage.
In a minute she had entered a great doorway leading to a wide stone
hall, where soldiers lounged. One of them came forward at a beck from
Umm ed-Dahak. Then the old woman went and squatted on the doorstep, and
Barakah, half dead with terror, was led on alone.