She moved against the stream of country people returning homeward from their business in the city. They stared at her in passing, and occasionally made remarks which sounded friendly. The dust raised by the trail of robes, and by the donkeys’ hoofs, was some annoyance; but the dust itself became a splendour where the sunset caught it; the shadows were deep blue, enhancing colours of the crowd; and the balm of evening was in every breath she drew. To Barakah, who had not walked for months, the very motion was a comfort. She stepped forward briskly, musing on the scene she had just quitted.
What were those women saying of her now? Mrs. Cameron was no doubt declaiming, and they all agreed with her. Every word that she had said was turned against her. On that perception she was filled with shame. The unkindness, the indecency of holding up her husband’s people to provide amusement for a hostile race appeared unthinkable, the basest treachery. A wave of tenderness for Yûsuf, for Ghandûr, the slave-girls, even the old woman—all the home surroundings—overcame her; while her mind abhorred the frigid, callous English, who had lured her on to make a mock of her. Why should she ever see them more? She hated them. Phrases which had passed her lips ten minutes since were now abominable—a source of shame that could not cease, it seemed, but must flow on forever till the end of time. How had she uttered them? It was their fault for scorning her, for placing her on an unnatural footing, making speech a pitfall. The harem was her natural refuge, her true home. She never wished to quit its shade again.
Thus fiercely musing, she pursued the sandy lane until she reached a point where a road branched off from it at right angles.
Upon the corner stood a whitewashed shrine, pink in the glow of sunset, the crescent flashing on its egg-like dome; beside it a great tree under whose foliage a crowd of men were sitting out on stools, smoking and drinking coffee in the shade. Some of these took notice of her, pointing rudely, attracting the attention of the others and the passersby. Supposing something wrong with her attire, she quickened step. Her road ran through a village. She heard shouts and laughter. A well-dressed man strode past her from behind, and turning searched her eyes. Spurred now by fear, she tried to hurry on; but found herself the centre of a crowd, whose members, moving with her, jabbered, pointed, jeered. One tweaked her habbarah; another seized her arm as if to feel the muscle. Her heart beat loud, her throat was choked with sobs repressed by terror.
The mob grew every moment bolder in its menace. A stalwart peasant-woman barred the way before her, grinning—prepared, it seemed, to pluck away her mouth-veil.
Barakah had paused, cowering, not knowing where to turn for succour, when the shout of a familiar voice relieved the strain and let her tears have vent. Ghandûr came on the scene, leading a saddled ass. His explanations soon dispersed the mob. He lifted her upon the donkey; and in a moment, as things happen in a dream, she was at home again, confronting Yûsuf, who approached the gate as they arrived.
He seemed thunderstruck at her appearance. Hearing Ghandûr’s story, he asked God for help, and raised his arm to strike her. She fell fainting at his feet.
XIII
When Barakah came to herself, she was lying in her bedroom, which was dim and seemed unusually lofty, for her bed was on the floor, and a feeble lamp confined in perforated brass, which gave what light there was, stood down beside it. The pattern of the brass-work, much enlarged, was faintly reproduced on wall and ceiling. She was alone, but from a distance sounds of wailing reached her, and she heard her husband cursing the old woman for neglect of duty.
When she recalled her glee at setting forth that afternoon, the course of subsequent events seemed very cruel. After such misfortunes, consolation was her due; instead of which the house was in commotion, Yûsuf mad. Self-pity overwhelmed her. She was all alone among strange savage beings without sympathy; while those who might have understood and shared her feelings were her enemies. She lay with face down on her pillow, weeping silently.
By and by Yûsuf came into the room. She could tell by his hard breathing he was still enraged. Afraid that he was going to beat her, she lay quiet, as though still unconscious; but in a little while a sob betrayed her. Then his wrath descended. French deserting him, he raved at her in Arabic and Turkish; and her inability to catch his meaning made him angrier. She lay in terror, crying bitterly, replying to such questions as she understood, until his fury sank to lamentation and his French returned.
“My honour!” was his cry. “You have betrayed my honour in thus going forth alone. The servants of the English house who know you will send a whisper and a laugh through all the markets. And those who saw you walking in the dust! … Have you no shame, no delicacy? What will my father say? The news will kill him! You have killed my father!”
“You do not think of me at all,” sobbed Barakah. “Here have I been insulted, scared to death by your vile people, and you scold me! I wish that I had never seen you. I am so unhappy! In England people would be punished for the things you do. Those horrible men and women who attacked me—”
“May Allah burn them, every one!” cried Yûsuf in fierce Arabic. “Gladly would I pluck
