“He told me to win to thee, O my lord—to fight my way through armed hosts if necessary, to seek thee even in the secrecy of the harem, saying that the letter which I bear would be my full excuse.”
It was a poor familiar of the palace, named Ghandûr, one who from early childhood had been Yûsuf’s humble shadow, a youth so simply honest in his judgments that to subtler wits they wore the look of imbecility. But yesterday he had been here as usual, sitting in the entrance on the watch for Yûsuf. Today he had been absent, but without disloyalty: he had been sitting in the entrance of the house where Yûsuf sojourned temporarily.
“He bade me run, and Allah witness I have done his bidding. I am thy slave, give pardon, O my lord the Pasha!”
“Salvation be upon thee, O Ghandûr. What letter, now, is this of which thou speakest? Give!”
Reassured by the kind tone, Ghandûr arose, and smiling with a flash of perfect teeth, produced a letter from his bosom, touched his forehead with it, then reverently laid it in the Pasha’s outstretched hand. It ran:
“My garden of delight is in thy custody. The palpitations of my heart inform me danger shadows it. Alas! the grievous power of jealousy, which can make of a gazelle a tigress, and turn a mother’s love into a sword. This is the third time I have written to thee, yet no answer. Say that thou hast taken measures to preserve my lovely blossom from envious trampling and from poisoned water. …”
The Pasha crumpled up the letter and stood wrapped in thought. Coming so close upon his promise to the English girl that all the women in the house would love and cherish her, the warning had a flavour of fatality. He recalled the lady Fitnah’s frowardness. She had been punished. Who could say that she had changed her mind? And, with the Consul’s evil eye upon the house, the shame of any outbreak would be doubled.
“Run to my son!” he told Ghandûr. “Assure him that a guard is kept, none safer, under Allah. Bid his soul have rest.”
Having watched the youth depart, he called the eunuchs and ordered them to guard the English lady as their life. Then he proceeded to the kitchens and there gave command that every dish and drink prepared for the table of the governess should come first to him that he might taste and judge its quality. And he took good care to let the women know of this precaution.
VI
The women’s quarters were a rambling place, with three small courtyards all on different levels, tunnels, staircases inside and out, and passages which ran in all directions. Besides the ladies Fitnah and Murjânah and their households, a widowed sister of the Pasha, and a former slave who had enjoyed his favour, kept separate state, with children and attendants. Freed slaves and poor relations, recognized go-betweens and sycophants came in and out, and slept there when they chose—a privilege extending to their offspring. Old women with a secret, knowing look edged through the corridors; untidy children sprawled upon the stairs; outside the door of each of the great ladies stood rows of coloured slippers, signifying humble callers. The place seemed always populous and full of noise. In a sense, good order reigned there; but it was the order of a township rather than a private residence, including all degrees of cleanliness, of wealth and squalor. The corps of eunuchs, ten in all, were the police.
This little world of women had its liberties. From the third hour of the day until the sunset call to prayer, the lord of the harem was absent. If he happened to return, it was his duty to announce the fact beforehand, allowing time for visitors to veil and slip away. The inmates had their private interests, their games and jokes. The clash of tambourines, the quick soft beat of darabukkas made a pulse of glee. They all seemed happy and in love with life, although they hardly ever saw the sun or breathed free air; for when they drove abroad it was in shuttered carriages; and the family mausoleum, where they went for picnics, was a second palace with its own haremlik.
But what surprised the Englishwoman more than anything was the charm of majesty—the exquisite prestige—which certain of these Eastern women radiated; making her feel small. They called her “Barakah”; it was her name thenceforward, and meant a Godsend, so the courtly Pasha told her. That name increased her awkwardness at first, sounding sarcastic from the lips of queenly women.
On the morning after she had written her indignant letter to the Consul, she was awakened by soft singing. A beautiful and stately girl sat by her bed, who, seeing her at last awake, sprang up and kissed her. Murjânah Khânum, claiming Yûsuf’s bride as her own guest until the wedding, had sent her slave Gulbeyzah to attend her to the bath, attire her in a robe of honour (which was shown), and then escort her to Murjânah Khânum’s rooms, where Barakah was asked to breakfast and to spend the day. It was useless to resist. Gulbeyzah knew her duties, and performed them scrupulously. By the time they left the bathhouse, Barakah arrayed in gorgeous silk, her fingers hennaed and her eyes enlarged with kohl, they were laughing friends.
Murjânah Khânum took the Englishwoman in her arms and kissed her; then sitting down beside her, subjected her to a prolonged inspection, none the less embarrassing for being tender.
“Mashallah!” she exclaimed, and added some soft words in Turkish, looking to Gulbeyzah, who translated:
“Madame says you are more beautiful than she was told. Your beauty is more excellent than the rose. Your eyes remind her of the Bosphorus. You make her think of her own country. The desire which you inspire is like homesickness.”
Barakah could only blush and hang her head—a posture which drew down fresh compliments upon her
