THE PRISON OF LIFE
To old Auntie Khôjee, however, the incident which Lesley had
stigmatised as unreal, and fantastic, was quite natural. Her life, and
the lives of thousands such as she, dreary, dull, squalid, as they seem
to the eyes of Western women, are yet leavened by many wholly
unpractical touches which raise them at times to pure romance. The
secret worship of the Gods, the thousand and one omens to be sought, or
avoided, the endless fanciful ceremonials; all these are, in their
monotonous lives, witnessing to the passion for self-effacement in
something beyond the woman's own individuality--in something that has
to be cajoled and considered, not because it is feared, but because it
is loved and must therefore be kept tied to the apron-string--which is
Eve's legacy to women of all races and all creeds.
So, as the old lady limped through the bazaars, huddled up in a dirty
domino, with Grace Arbuthnot's bangle clutched close to her heart, she
felt no surprise at what had happened. Her only feeling was one of
regret for having so long believed folk's tales of change. If she had
only resorted earlier to ancient methods, little Sa'adut's life might
perhaps have been spared. Though that, of course, was God's will; just
as it was His will also that at the very last gasp she should have been
told by a gossip that the Lord-_sahib_ was coming, as the Kings came in
past times to entertain their friends in the pleasure-garden.
For Khôjee was, literally, at the last gasp. Even Lateefa had not been
near the courtyard for three days, though he had promised to look in
every morning. In truth, this was not the kite-maker's fault, since he
was, once more, kicking his heels in the lock-up. He had not
anticipated this result when--on the impulse of the moment--he had
slipped the ring, instead of a morsel of brick, into one of the tiny
calico bags which he had found the easiest way of attaching ballast to
his kites. It had been but the work of a second to do this, and send
the kite up to hover in the steady west wind--on trial--with its string
attached to one of the wooden pegs driven for that purpose into the
brick wall. So he had had no time for full consideration; but even had
he had this, he would scarcely have imagined that Jehân would at once
take the irrevocable step of calling in the aid of the police; that
being a course which no wise man adopted save as a last resort, when
the choice only lay between two evils.
But Jehân's rage had mastered his caution. The loss of the symbol of
past power had raised such a tempest of desire for that power of
personal coercion, that, seeing no other means of gaining it, he had at
once given not only Lateefa, but Burkut Ali in charge for having,
between them, stolen the ring. And that despite the voluntary
demonstration of innocence afforded by a stripping to stark nakedness
of both the accused! They must, he shrilled, have swallowed it!
Dire suggestion to an executive whose chief method of detecting crime
is by personal discomfort to the fourth and fifth generation of those
presumably implicated in it! Lateefa had felt his liver dissolve, had
for one brief moment thought of confession; but the presence of the
police, he saw, would make _that_ a leaving of the frying-pan for the
fire.
So he and Burkut Ali, the latter vowing vengeance calmly (and knowing
he would get it too, since he had money and Jehân had none), were
hauled away, not to judgment, but to that worse evil, preliminary
inquiry.
Burkut, however, had found bail; and he had been back in his haunts for
two days, making Jehân begin to see his mistake, while Lateefa, very
sick and sorry for himself, still remained in process of observation.
But by this time his philosophy had returned, and, as he kicked his
heels, he composed another mathematical verselet which should equal the
values of 'I, Lateefa, laid on nothingness the burden of all things,
and the burden of all things made nothingness of Lateefa!'
Of all this, however, Auntie Khôjee knew nothing as she made her way
straight to the pawnbroker's where she had pledged Khâdeeja Khânum's
best pink satin trousers. For the recovery of these was the first
necessity. On the morrow ceremonial visits of condolence would begin in
the wide courtyard, and she dare not ask Khâdjee to receive them in her
ordinary attire.
Grace Arbuthnot's bangle would, of course, redeem the trousers over and
over again; but the old lady decided this should only be left, in
exchange, for one night, as it would be easy to return the garment
after the morrow's visits were over; since there would be no more need
for it for at least three days. And that would set the bangle free for
its legitimate purchase of the 'Essence of Happiness.'
It was growing dark as she limped along the narrow bazaar. The
cavernous shops on either side were but half lit with flaring
rushlights. The continuous stream of people passing one way or the
other seemed inevitably to thrust her furtive swathed figure into the
gutter. And so, at one shop, round which a crowd had gathered, it
needed patience before a way could be edged onwards. It was a drug
shop, and it seemed to be driving a roaring trade. As a couple of
white-robed men elbowed past her, she heard one say, with a sinister
satisfaction--
'And our _Somâj_ dispensary hath trebled its attendance these last
days. The people know their friends, know themselves safe! Not that the
tales of poison at the hospitals are true; but what will you? These
poor folks are ignorant, and we have promised----'
What the promise was, Khôjee did not catch; nor did she care to know.
All her thoughts were with Khâdjee's pink satin trousers. Therefore she
felt as if the whole round world had slipped from under her feet when
Mittun, the pawnbroker, from the midst of the miscellaneous collection
of rubbish in which he sat like a tame magpie possessed by the
nest-building instinct, told her calmly that he had just sold them!
Sold them at an incredibly high price to a lady of the bazaar who was
in a hurry for something smart in which to appear at an assignation
that evening. And then, with infinite self-complacency, he drew out
from a bag two rupees and some pice.
'See this, mother!' he said, handing her the money. ''Tis a chance such
as comes but once in a _kobari's_ life, who must needs fill his belly a
many times with other folk's leavings ere he find a grain of corn to
stay his own hunger withal.' Here he looked round distastefully at the
old lamps, keys, pickle-bottles, rags, books--Heaven knows what--that
made up his stock-in-trade, and which, in truth, looked but
indigestible fare. 'Yet I am honest,' he went on; 'this much I made,
over and above what I loaned thee on them. So there 'tis, with but the
due interest held back. Let none say Mittun, _kobari_, is no honest
man, who cares not for his customers----'
'Nay! _meean-jee_,' fluttered Khôjee, helpless. 'None said that of
thee. Yet would I rather the trousers, and I could have given thee
gold.'
Mittun eyed the bangle covetously. 'Give it me now, mother. I could
loan thee ten rupees on that to buy new trousering.'
Khôjee shook her head timidly; for even the pawnbroker, being a man,
had authority.
''Tis for to-morrow, brother; there is not time----'
'Thou couldst buy second-hand,' he persisted; 'there be many in the
bazaar, though I have them not. In truth, _Mussumat_ Khôjee, I would
have sold thine for less than I got, seeing that old clothes are no
safe purchase nowadays, what with police inspection, and no rags here,
no rags there! As if the plague came in aught but God's will!'
Khôjee, fearful of persuasion, assented hastily to the pawnbroker's
piety. Everything was God's will; even her failure to redeem the pink
satin trousers!
'I will give thee fifteen for the bangle,' called Mittun after her, and
she quickened her limp from the temptation. The bangle was for another
purpose. Still fifteen rupees would purchase the 'Essence of Happiness'
and leave a margin for _sagou dam_ (sago) and _salep misri_. Also for
real cardamoms. Yes! surely with fifteen rupees in prospect she might
afford herself some real cardamoms for to-morrow's assemblage, instead
of the cheaper kind she had laid in. It would give style to the
occasion, even if the pink satin trousers were unattainable.
Another crowd, before a shop, delayed her as she limped along in the
gutter. There was a policeman in it this time, and a voice protesting
that it was tyranny. What had the police to do with the selling of a
quilt--a quilt that was no longer wanted, seeing that the grandfather
had found freedom?
'_Ari_, idiot!' said the policeman, 'have a care I do not burn it.'
'Give him his percentage, brother!' advised Govind the editor, who, as
usual, was hunting the bazaars for news. 'That is what he wants. That
is the trick. Yea! I know. Give it him, or he will claim the whole in
the name of the plague. That is what the _Sirkar_ does in Bombay. It
claims all--money, jewels, clothes. And it will do the same here. This
is but the beginning.'
''Twill be the end for thee and thy paper, editor-_jee_, if thou
tellest more lies,' retorted the constable in righteous indignation.
'It is orders, I tell thee! There is suspicion that some one----'
Govind, who, as usual, also had been at the _bhang_ shop, gave a
jeering laugh. '_Bapree bap!_ some one! 'Tis always _some one_ or _some
thing_; but we of Nushapore, my masters, will show them we are not as
those of Bombay. We can fight for our own.'
There was a surge of assent in the crowd, as if it sought to begin at
once, and Khôjee, clutching her gold bangle tighter, fled incontinently
down a by-street. So little might turn her limp into a fall, and then
that fifteen-rupees'-worth might roll into the gutter and be snatched
up by any one. Here, in the tortuous alleys, it was at least quiet,
though it was dark. She slithered in the welter of the day's rubbish
flung from the high houses on either side, and a scamper of pattering
feet told her she had disturbed some rats battening on a bit of choice
garbage.
'_Allah hamid!_' she muttered piously, and went on. The sound of
wailing from one of the scarce-seen houses she was passing reminded her
regretfully of the cardamoms; for she had left shops behind her. Then
she remembered one, not far from the gate of the city, which she must
pass; one of those miscellaneous shops which are always to be found
near city gates, where travellers can buy most things--flour and
vegetables, red peppers, pipe bowls, tobacco. Ay, and opium perhaps;
but on the sly, since there was no licence over the door. It was not
the sort of shop that such as Khôjeeya Khânum patronised as a rule;
still it might have cardamoms.
The low-caste _buniya_, with a wrinkled monkey face and long iron-grey
hair, who crouched behind dingy platters and dusty bags, looked
ghoulish by the one flickering light set in the solitary cavern of a
shop; for on either side of it was blank wall, trending away to narrow
alleys.
Khôjee hesitated. Such men drove many nefarious trades. Still this one
might have cardamoms!
'Cardamoms! he echoed with a leer. 'Yea, yea, princess! True cardamoms
to satisfy the best of royal blood--he! he!' Those tall houses round
his shop held many such as she, and he had recognised the accent.
Khôjee scarce knew whether to be flustered or flattered beneath her
domino.
'And be speedy,' she said haughtily. 'I have no time to spare thee.'
'Lo! _Nawâbin_,' he jeered, 'I have them; such cardamoms as----' He was
rummaging in the heterogeneous mass piled up against the back wall of
his shop. 'Wait but a moment. I have them--I have them. But two days
ago, my princess, I had them.'
Here, by chance, an unwary pull sent a pile of parcels and bundles in
confusion round him, and one rolled nigh to Aunt Khôjee, who--careful
ever--laid a hold of it to save a possible fall into the gutter. The
light fell on something green and sheeny, her fingers recognised the
feel of satin, and, the bundle having unrolled itself somewhat, she
caught sight of the unmistakable cut of a trouser leg! She opened it
out a little curiously.
'Canst not leave things alone?' snapped the shopkeeper angrily. 'Those
be not cardamoms.'
'They be something I may need for all that,' retorted Khôjee with
spirit--the spirit which never fails a woman in the struggle for
_chiffons_. So there she was, testing the satin with her finger,
appraising the make. If they had only been pink!--though that was but a
detail, since they were beyond her purse; the satin better by far than
the much-to-be-regretted pink-the whole newer--
She wrinkled them aside with a sigh. 'Give me the cardamoms, brother. I
have not the money for these.' The man looked at her cunningly.
'If the Daughter of Kings needs trousers, she will find none cheaper.'
'They would yet be too dear for me, brother,' she answered mildly; 'the
cardamoms will do.'--
He edged nearer, his evil face growing confidential. 'Lo! Bhagsu never
drives a hard bargain with the noble,' he cringed. 'It might be that
the virtuous lady's money would purchase these, and save them from the
badness of bazaars; since they come from virtue and should go to
virtue. How much hath the princess to offer?'
Khôjee gave a half-embarrassed laugh. It was impossible, of course, and
yet----
'_That_ is as may be,' she replied; 'what she _will offer_, is
this----' With a flutter of shame and hope she put down the two rupees
and the handful of pice. Then she remembered the cardamoms! 'That,' she
continued, telling herself she might as well be bold to the bitter end,
'for the trousers _and_ the cardamoms.' It was a diplomatic stroke, if
an unconscious one, for Bhagsu instantly recognised that she had,
indeed, ventured her all; that the chance was his to take or leave.
He gave a melancholy groan, then began to roll up the green satin, and
tie it round with some of the triple-coloured cotton hanking used at
weddings, which, for some occult reason, is always sold at these
wayside shops. 'Shiv-_jee_ be my witness,' he whimpered, 'I give them
for naught. But what then? Virtue goes out to virtue, and those who
live amongst the noble must be noble!'
Khôjee could hardly believe her ears.
Half an hour afterwards she could hardly believe her eyes, as--Khâdjee
having retired safely to sleep with a sausage-roll pillow and a
quilt--she sate in the courtyard gloating over her wonderful purchase.
It was simply astounding. Even Khâdjee must forgive her duplicity in
regard to that secret pawning of pink trousers, with such green ones as
these for reparation! all piped, and edged, and faced, with quite a new
braiding of gold thread down the front seam, and a new scent to them
also; the wearer must have been in strange parts, though the cut was of
the North.
She folded the precious garments with loving little pats, brought out
the remaining portions of the state toilet from the almost empty store,
saw that Noormahal's muslin was as pure and white and smooth as her old
hands could make it, arranged the cardamoms in little saucers, and so,
when the city had long since become silent, curled her tired old limbs
on a string bed set across the doorway of the inner court--where the
servant should have slept, had there been one--and slept fitfully.
For she had to be up at dawn, so that everything should be ready
for the visitings, and yet leave her time to get round to the
goldsmith's, sell the bangle by weight, and purchase some 'Essence of
Happiness'--which was, alas! worth its weight in gold.
Yet when it came it had not much effect, greatly to poor Khôjee's
disappointment. Even the quivering, sobbing keene of her neighbours
and relations did not rouse Noormahal to any proper display of grief,
and--as the groups whispered--how could you expect to lose tears unless
you shed them? Was it not a distinct defiance of Providence to deal,
even with sorrow, as if it were your own absolutely? Finally, was
not _khushki_ (dryness) one of the fundamental faults in things
created?--the other being _gurm-ai_ (heat).
Khâdeeja Khânum, however, was quite sufficiently _tur_ and _tunda_
(damp and cool) to satisfy the most rigid standard of etiquette; and
what with the real cardamoms, the new trousers, a pennyworth of
orange-blossom oil which Khôjee had brought with the 'Essence of
Happiness,' and a most encouraging report of prevailing sickness and
death amongst mutual acquaintances brought by the visitors, the old
lady had quite a flush on her withered cheeks by evening, and admitted
to her sister, when the latter helped her to undress, that the whole
thing had really gone off very well.
Nevertheless she was rather fatigued on the next day. The day after
that, Khôjee, returning from the purchasing of some lemon-grass oil,
wherewith to wile away the aching in the back, caused, no doubt, by the
muscular effort of a continual whimper, found her seated on the string
bed in the centre of the lonely courtyard, attired in the green satin
trousers and concomitants, waiting, so she said, for the bridal party
to arrive.
How stupid Khôjee was! Of course, having regard to her deformity, it
was only natural she should take little heed of such things. But all
were not made that way, and it was high time the bridal party did come.
It seemed, indeed, as if an undue interval had elapsed since the
betrothal day, when--if Khôjee would remember--she wore pink, not
green. Anyhow she, _Shâhzâdi_ Khâdeeja Khânum, was not one to stand any
slackness in a bridegroom's ardour, and if he did not appear that day,
she would choose another.
She did. Death claimed her as his before twelve hours were over; almost
before poor Noormahal, roused at last from her absorption in grief, had
realised she was ill. It seemed incredible! The Nawâbin's big eyes,
larger, darker than ever--encircled as they were by great shadows which
seemed to have crept down the oval of her face, making it pointed,
pinched--turned to Aunt Khôjee, even at the moment of death, in
bewildered reproach and regret.
'And thou hast called none in to send her soul forth with prayers? Oh,
Khôjee! that was ill done. Nay? I mean no blame for thee alone, kind
one, but for us both--yet we did not know--we did not dream--did we?'
Khôjee stood for a second, speechless, rigid, her eyes staring,
yearning towards the familiar face over which the awful unfamiliar look
was creeping; then, with a wild cry, she threw up her arms and
grovelled at Noormahal's feet.
'Nay! I knew--I knew from the first. Oh, child! I have killed her--I,
Khôjee--hush! wail not! None must know. And touch her not, Noormahal;
that is for me--for her sister who killed her. Lo! child, sole hope of
the house! stand further--I can do all--I will do all.--O Khâdjee!
Khâdjee! canst thou forgive? And I knew--I knew in my heart all was not
right. I knew none would rightly sell such green satin trousers'--here
she broke into sobbing laughter--'yet wert thou happy, sister, and I
took the blame of theft, if it was theft--and it was--theft of thy
life--O Khâdjee! Khâdjee!'
Noormahal, pressed back by frantic clinging arms into a corner of the
dark room--for Khôjee, declaring the illness to be a chill, had
insisted on keeping the patient inside--caught in her breath fearfully.
'Peace, Khôjee! let me go, auntie!--Lo! thou art not well thyself--the
fever hath thee--thou art distraught with grief, as I was. Come, let us
go into the light, and I myself will call----'
Khôjee rose to her feet, and laid a quick hand on Noormahal's mouth.
'Nay! none must call,' she said sternly, her self-control brought back
by dread. 'Yea! come into the light, and leave her. Come, and I will
tell thee there--in the light.'
'How dost thou know?' asked Noormahal, gone grey to her very lips. 'It
is not that--lo! folk die of other things. I have seen them. Remember
our cousin--it was just so----'
Khôjee's mask of despair showed no wavering. 'Nay, it is the plague.
They talked of it at the wailing. It hath been here and there in the
city this week past. Mittun held it blasphemy that it should be aught
but God's will, and I cried yea! to him; but cannot God send it in the
clothes?' Her face, drawn, haggard, almost awful in its questioning,
settled after a second into decision. 'Yea! it is the plague--the
swellings they speak of are there. It was the trousers. I killed her.
And none must know, or they will come and poison thee in hospital, lest
it spread. That is why I called no one. The courtyard is wide. I can
dig a grave----' Noormahal gave a sharp cry of horrified dissent. 'Yea!
I can--my hands are not as thine, sweetheart, soft and fine. Old
Khôjee's ugliness can do more than thy beauty--the beauty of King's
Daughters which none may see! Remember that, child, remember that'--her
voice rang clear of sobs for those words; she rose from where she had
crouched to tell her tale, and looked round her with dull, yet steady,
eyes. 'There is no hurry. If folk come, none need know she is dead. I
will say she sleeps. And at night I can dig. Yea! I knew it from the
first. But there is no fear, heart's darling! Thou hast scarce been
nigh her. That is why I kept her close. And to-night I will carry her
to the outer courtyard--there is a padlock to the _nanbut khana_
stairs, and room for--room for _her_ beside them. I have thought--yea!
thought while I watched. There is no fear, Noormahal! All will go well.
Thou wilt have patience, as wives should, and Jehân will return to
thee, and little Sa'adut from his paradise will smile on brothers--ay!
and sisters too--sisters whom thou wilt spare to old Aunt Khôjee's
arms. God knows it shall be so. Deny it not, girl--dare not to deny it?
He only knows!'
Her face through its tears was alight with faith and hope and charity,
and Noormahal's, as she looked, lost its hardness; a dreaminess that
was almost tender came to the dry, bright eyes.
'Yea? He knows.'
That night, after the peacocks with their broken plaster tails ceased
to show against the growing dusk, there were faint cautious sounds
below them, where the two women dug at a grave. For in this, at least,
Noormahal had said she could help. It was not finished by dawn; and
after that Khôjee worked alone and only by snatches, while Noormahal
watched from the door of the inner courtyard, ready to give the alarm
should any visitor come--ready also to entertain them.
And the next night Khôjee would have no help at all. How she managed
was a marvel, but she did manage. Even Khâdeeja Khânum herself, had she
been able to make comments, could scarcely have found fault with any
lack of ceremony. And she would certainly have been gratified by her
dead-clothes; for Khôjee, with that terrible remorse at her heart,
spared nothing from the costume of ceremony. The green satin trousers
should deal no more death. And even the silver earrings, the few
trumpery silver bracelets, parting from which would have been worse
than death to the dead woman, she replaced with facsimiles in 'German.'
For silver could be purified by fire, and the living had need of it;
while who knew whether the corpse could tell the difference? Not
likely, since God was good, and therefore there was no need to be on
one's guard against cheating in His Paradise! So, in a way, 'German'
was as good as silver there! For poor Khôjee's white soul arrived at
right conclusions by curious methods; she worked by them also, and,
when that second dawn came, it was a very tired old woman who crept to
the string bed set against the door.
But she rose again early, and telling Noormahal that, since there was
now no one in the house but herself while marketings were going on, she
had better keep the inner door closed, went off to the bazaar. She
limped more than ever because of her tiredness, yet she sped through
the streets quicker than usual, since, for the first time in her life,
she went with her face uncovered. There was a breathlessness in that
old face, and the old hands that held the knotted corner of her veil,
wherein she had tied every available morsel of silver, every scrap of
gold lace or ornament for which even a farthing could be got, were
clasped on each other with almost painful tension.
'Lo, brother!' she said mildly to the goldsmith, 'what matters a
_ruthi_ or two. Weigh it quick, and give what is just. What is just!
that is all I ask.'
It was not much, that bare justice, but it was something; and there was
still a rupee or two over from the 'Essence of Happiness,' from the
unavoidable expenses of that secret burial. So she passed hurriedly to
a grain-merchant's shop.
Here she felt lost for a moment, lost, in the magnitude of what she
needed to one whose purchases for many years had been a bare day's
supply.
'It is for a wedding, likely?' asked the grain-dealer curiously.
'Likely,' she echoed softly. Her very brain felt tired, and it
seemed to her confusedly as if, after all, it might be a wedding. The
Lord-_sahib_ might send help, Noormahal might be saved, Jehân might
come back to her. All things were possible to patience; and she,
Khôjee, was patient enough, surely?
'Thou must send it in an hour's time,' she said to the corn-dealer, her
head being still clear enough for that one single purpose of hers,
'then I shall be back. And, look you! I have paid coolie hire. There
must be no asking for more.'
That was a necessary warning, since, when she reached home, every
farthing would have been spent.
All but one was spent, when she paused beside the public scribe who had
set up his desk at a corner where two bazaars met.
'Is it a letter, mother?' he asked of the old woman who put out a hand
against the wooden pillar of the neighbouring shop as if for support.
'To the house-master, likely.'
She shook her head this time. 'Nay, _meean_! There is no house-master,'
she said softly, as before, 'and it is not even a letter. But a
_pice_-worth of words on a scrap of paper. Listen! "_There is food
enough. Tarry the Lord's coming without fear or noise. I have locked
the door_." Canst do that for a pice, _meean_? And write clear, 'tis
for a woman's eyes.' As she repeated the message, swaying to and fro as
if she were reciting the Koran, the scribe smiled at a bystander and
touched his forehead significantly.
'If beauty lie behind the door, the locking of it is a _pice_-worth in
itself,' he said with a grin, 'and I give the rest!'
'_If beauty lay behind it!_' she thought as she went on, with the paper
folded in her hands. Yes! it was beauty, for the safety of which her
ugliness was responsible. Had she done all? Had she forgotten nothing?
Nothing that would ensure Noormahal from intrusion until she, Khôjee
the plague-stricken, had died in the streets. For that was her plan.
When death came close, as it surely must come soon, as it had done to
Khôjee, she would unbolt the doors and wander away--like a tailor-bird
luring a snake from its nest--into the outskirts of the city, right
away from the old house. And then what stranger was to know that
Khâdjee had died of plague, and was buried by the _naubut khana_
stairs?
When death came close! but not till then. Surely there was no need till
then to face the world--surely she might claim that much!
And when she was dead no one would know the lame old woman was Khôjeeya
Khânum, Daughter of Kings. Not even Lateefa.
The thought of him brought her a sudden fear. He was the only one who,
having the right to claim it, might, by chance, seek entrance to the
courtyard in the next day or two. She might on her way home see him, or
leave a message to reassure him, at the house next Dilarâm's, whither
she had fled with the news of Sobrai's escape.
There was no one in the house, no one in the little yard behind it; but
Lateefa had been there not long ago, for the clippings of his trade
littered one corner, and two draggled kites, their strings still
fastened to wooden pegs in the wall, lay huddled in another.
Dilarâm might know; a message might be left with her.
As Khôjee stumbled up the dark stairs to a balcony for the first time
in her life, she tried to straighten her veil, but her hands trembled;
it would not fold decorously.
There were three or four drowsy women lounging in the room at the door
of which she stood, beset by a sudden shyness, and three of them
tittered at the unusual sight; but the fourth said severely--
'What dost here, sister? This is no place for thy sort.'
'I--I seek Lateefa,' she faltered, and the others tittered louder.
'Peace, fools!' said Dilarâm angrily. 'Dost mean Lateefa the
kitemaker?'
But Khôjee had found her dignity. 'Yea! Lateef of the House of the
Nawâb Jehân Aziz, on whom be peace. Tell him, courtesan, that Khôjeeya
Khânum----' She paused, doubtful of her message, and, in the pause, the
jingles on Dilarâm's feet clashed once more as she rose to do honour to
a different life.
'Let the _Bibi sahiba_ speak,' she said in her most mellifluous tones.
'We in the freedom of vice are slaves to the prisoners of virtue.'
'Tell him,' said Khôjeeya Khânum, 'that it is well with the prison and
the prisoners. That they need no service.'
As she stumbled down the stairs again there was no sound of tittering.
It was nearly an hour after this, and the noonday sun was flooding the
courtyards, when Khôjee, having completed her preparations, closed the
door between them softly, so as not to disturb Noormahal--who had
already retired for the usual midday sleep--and slipped a paper through
the chink of the lintel ere drawing it close and padlocking the hasp.
Noormahal could not fail to see the reassuring message there when she
woke, and began to wonder where Auntie Khôjee had gone.
As she straightened herself from stooping to the padlock, she felt,
giddily, that she had locked herself out of life. She had but a few
hours left of seclusion, and then--the streets.
But those few hours she might surely claim. So she closed and barred
the wicket in the outer door, and dragging a string bed into the scant
shade cast by the _naubut khana_, found rest for her aching limbs. And
there she lay silent, taking no heed of Noormahal's knockings and
appeals which, after a time, rose cautiously. When they ceased the old
woman gave a sigh of relief.
Thus far all had gone well. Now she had only to wait till she felt she
dare wait no more.
So she lay, watching the shadows of the broken-tailed plaster peacocks
of royalty above the gateway creep over the courtyard, up the walls,
and disappear into thin air.