One hot midday, feeling extremely ill, she called for water. There came no answer, though she heard them chattering. She called again and clapped her hands. Still no one came. The cruelty of such neglect incensed her. With fevered strength she rose and went to scold them. She met a slave arriving at her leisure. At the words, “Ready, O my lady!” proffered with an undisguised yawn, she sprang upon the girl and clutched her throat, exclaiming: “Bring water, dost thou hear, O daughter of a dog! Bring water quickly!”
The slave, beholding murder in the lady’s eyes, made haste and ran. Another girl looked in to learn the reason of the noise. Barakah picked up an earthen jar and flung it at her head. The change was magical. In a trice five several vessels full of water were being offered to her by as many servile creatures; while Fatûmah snuggled up to her and kissed her hand, receiving in return a box on the ear, which made her howl the praises of her dear, kind mistress.
When Barakah returned to her own room she fainted, her borrowed strength departing with her wrath. The servants, in a flutter of solicitude, put her to bed, and sent Ghandûr to fetch the master. She, knowing nothing of the flight of time, heard presently, as in a dream, the Pasha saying:
“Call a European doctor! That dog must know that she has had the best attendance!” and Yûsuf weeping uncontrollably. Then the next minute, as it seemed to her, an English voice above her muttered: “Typhoid! Bound to come, with native food.” That was the last she knew.
XIV
Ghandûr, had borne the summons to the Frankish doctor. Having delivered it, he wandered to the Pasha’s house. A creature witless save for love, existing by it, the kindness shown him by the lady Barakah had raised her to the throne of Yûsuf in his mind. Her freak of walking had imparted to his sentiments that touch of pity for one too innocent to face the world which makes of service an angelic trust. He blamed himself for the adventure. When he heard that she was in disgrace and looking wan, he beat his breast. Now that she was like to die through his demerits, his grief was such as caused him actual pains.
Upon arriving at Muhammad Pasha’s house, before he could divulge his woe, he was informed:
“The lady Fitnah has been asking for thee. Go indoors, and wait while they announce thee!”
He was standing in the hall, cocooned in sorrow, when a mob of children burst through the mabeyn, as the great screen which bounds the women’s realm is called, and fell upon him.
“Oh, Ghandûr, where hast thou been?”—“I have a new tarbush.”—“The bitch beneath our windows has five puppies—blind, by Allah’s mercy! Come and see!”—“My doll! Like a daughter of Adam—a bride arrayed—a virgin—almost a sin for thee to look on! Come and see!”
Half weeping as he was, Ghandûr responded; and, unaware of his preoccupation, the children led him towards the women’s doorway.
“Go in as far as to the second screen—no farther!” said the eunuch there on guard.
Ghandûr was careful to obey; but his attendant imps, regarding all authority as ground for sport, banded together suddenly and dragged him on. He shook them off and drew back quickly; the eunuch came and scattered them with swishing cane; and then the children, tumbling over one another, began to fight among themselves with fearful insults.
“By my maidenhood, I swear to kill thee and devour thy liver!” screamed out a girl of eight to a small boy who pushed against her.
“I will ravish thee, abandoned one, and then eject thee on a dunghill!”
The lady Fitnah from behind the screen cried out for order, naming Hamdi, her own son, as probably the cause of tumult. The eunuch fell upon that wayward, dreamy adolescent, whom Ghandûr did his utmost to protect, for he was Yûsuf’s brother; while Fitnah Khânum asked what sin she had committed to be punished with a boy so lazy and so mischievous. She cared for Hamdi, but without indulgence. Her love was made a whiplash for his good. At last came silence, and Ghandûr poured forth his grief.
“O Lord, have mercy! Woe upon us all! O most gracious lady, rare pearl of beauty and refinement, companion of my dearest lord and brother! Behold the glory of our house is in the dust.”
“By Allah, in the dust! Thou sayest truly!” scoffed the lady Fitnah. “It is of that very business that I wish to speak with thee. What is the truth about her walking in the dust, thou who wast with her? Is it true that she had been alone with Frankish men? Was no man following—didst thou look well?—when she walked off alone, rejecting thee? Was not her chin upon her shoulder, and her gaze behind her, ogling? Did I not well to rail against that marriage? Now it is clearly proven that she has no modesty.”
“O my despair! O evil day! The fault is mine!” cried out Ghandûr, beside himself. “Blame not her Grace; she is the noblest lady—as innocent as is a babe; she thinks no evil. O bitter grief! O Allah! O calamity!”
“Now Allah heal thee! It is plain she has bewitched thee too. She is for all men, like the rest of her foul race—for strangers, servants, donkey-drivers, even scavengers! Pray, pray to God till I bestow on thee a charm of power!”
“Hush! Let him speak! Let Ghandûr tell his story!” cried a second voice. Ghandûr became aware of other ladies pressing to the screen. He lifted up his voice and wept.
“O lady, speak no bitterness against her. She lies this moment at the point of death. Our house is as a tomb, a haunt of ominous owls. My lord the Pasha frowns and looks distressful; my lord Yûsuf weeps as if his heart
