“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 harem, 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 Islam. 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 harem 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 harem 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.
XXXIX
“You asked for a private interview. It is a little unusual, I believe, in this country; but I granted your request upon the understanding that you have important secrets to communicate, as stated in your letter. Let me see—ah, here it is!”
The English official—a broad-shouldered, fresh-complexioned man inclined to baldness—having studied her appearance through a monocle, let fall that weapon and, disturbing papers on his desk, produced the letter she had written to him, which looked somehow pitiful.
“I am an English lady. My name is Mary Smith. I did a very wicked thing. I turned Muhammadan, and married a Turkish gentleman, a Pasha, here in Cairo. I want to leave him and return to Christianity. I am an English lady, by name Mary Smith; not what they call me. I am prepared to take my oath that this is true, and Mrs. Cameron can tell you—I must get away!”
“What is all this, and who is Mrs. Cameron? In what way does your private history concern me? I beg you to pass on to the important statement which you have to make.”
“I ask your help to get away from the harem.”
At that the Englishman resumed his eyeglass and surveyed her with a slight gape of amazement.
The scene of conversation was a large room, sparsely furnished with a desk, a table and a few plain
