Veiled Women - Marmaduke William Pickthall

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good in mine!”

      Her tone grew plaintive; the long contest wearied her. The bloom of shadow on the garden, underneath the rose of sunset, the voices of the evening made her wistful; while the sadness which attends all partings clutched her heart. The whine of doing good had slipped from her at unawares—an echo from her former life of hired hypocrisy. It had been the natural tone of conversation with a lady of the class “employer.”

      “That rings untrue. You’re simply talking for effect!” cried Mrs. Cameron, indignant. “It is unkind when I am speaking from my heart of hearts. … Now, only one word more. If you ever loved any one—father, or mother, or friend—at home in England, think of that person and just ask yourself what he or she would think of your denying Christ. The act is so uncalled-for that it seems like wanton wickedness. You can marry your Mahometan without renouncing Christianity, and by so doing you would have more honour in your husband’s eyes. You could retain your status as a British subject, which means something here; and if you really have a purpose to do good among those people, you would be in a better position to do so than by sinking to their level.”

      “I won’t hear a word more! Oh, you are brutal!” The girl started up with hands and teeth clenched, past endurance. “Oh, you are brutal to bully me like this! I tell you once for all, I love those people, whom you and all your kind hate and tell lies about. No one was ever really nice to me before. They are a million times better than any Christians I have ever known. I tell you I belong to them, and not to you! I mean to have the same religion as my husband, and if he goes to Hell, well, I’ll go too! Do you understand?” Her words now came in gusts, for she was sobbing heavily. “You’ll never see me any more, of course, for I’m a wicked Moslem and you’re so fanatical! I don’t care; I can do without you. I have truer friends, who really like me and don’t only patronize. Oh, how can you make me cry like this, when I was so—so happy!”

      To her surprise, she found herself in her tormentor’s arms.

      “You wrong me, dear. I’m not fanatical, nor yet so narrow-minded as you think. Now, will you promise that, whatever happens, you will look upon me as a friend and come to see me sometimes? I have said all I can to dissuade you, because I fear you may repent of your decision when too late. My hope is, now and always, that you may be happy. You’ll promise, won’t you, still to make a friend of me?”

      The girl nodded, sobbing, speechless with emotion.

      “Well, then, God bless you, dear, among the Moslems, and may you always bear the standard of true Christian womanhood!”

      With that two-edged blessing in her ears, the renegade, a bowed and shrinking figure, traversed the garden in the blue of twilight. She felt guilty and unnerved, irresolute, until she saw the Pasha’s carriage waiting in the lane, when pride returned. The tears yet wet upon her cheeks, she stood erect and sniffed the evening air. There was still much traffic on the sandy road, running between dark garden-walls to where, beside a little dome, a single palm-plume stood up black against the sky. The dust kicked up by donkeys’ hoofs, by people’s footsteps, rose greenish like wood-smoke. Some wayfarers already carried lighted lanterns which made coloured circles in the gloaming like the peacock’s eyes. A life of passionate adventure lay before her, most curious and rich and warm with human failings, much better worth than that which she had left behind.

      Sawwâb the eunuch held the carriage door for her, and murmured “Praise to Allah!” as he shut her in. She saw him merely as a well-trained servant, having as yet no inkling of his grim significance.

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      Muhammad Pasha Sâlih went again to see the Consul, this time upon receiving a peremptory summons. He came away with smart sensations of indignity, the unbeliever having warned him to take care of his behaviour to the English governess. The marriage contract, he was told, must be in order, and every detail of her treatment strictly honourable. These admonitions thrown as to a dog, to him, the known embodiment of goodness, made him cry. When he got home it was to find a note from the Grand Câdi, requesting him to call at once upon that dignitary, who besought him, for the honour of the Faith, to be precise in all his dealings with the English convert. And when, that afternoon, he waited in his duty on the lord of Egypt, that prince demanded tidings of the Englishwoman and, jesting, told him to be sure and use her kindly.

      “She must be a rare pearl,” the sovereign chuckled. “The English Representative is maddened by her loss. By God and His Apostle, I have half a mind to snatch her from thee.”

      For one whose house had always been a guarded sanctuary, who never made nor brooked the least allusion to his women, such language from licentious lips, in hearing of the throng of courtiers, was sheer ignominy. He cursed the parents and religion of the English Consul, the cause of this indecent noising of a private matter. The dog appeared to fancy that he had to do with fellâhîn or small officials; for he had spoken of the facility of divorce and the danger of the Englishwoman being cast adrift. Among the vulgar there were men who changed wives constantly, even persecuting her they had till she herself besought the Câdi for release, thus forfeiting the dowry which was justly hers. Such men might be, who thought it clever to defraud poor maidens. But that any one could think that he, Muhammad Pasha, or a child of his, could harbour such iniquity seemed barely credible. The hot tears stung his eyeballs at the thought of it.

      “Just Allah!” he exclaimed within himself. “Does he suppose that we have no morality? Would he, whose native customs are as shameless as the ways of beasts, leaving females unprotected and at large, instruct us how to cherish and to guard a woman? He talks as if I were some pimp or ruffian, when I am dealing with the maid as faithfully as if she were my only child!”

      In truth, before this trouble with the Consul, at the ceremony of betrothal, when he himself had prompted the bride’s proxy, he had assigned to her a dowry of three thousand pounds—a sum sufficient to make Yûsuf hesitate, however angry, before he gave the order for divorce. He had, moreover, spoken to his son most gravely, pointing out the friendless state of the young woman, and informing him that if he took her it must be for life. Yûsuf had made frantic answer in the way of lovers, comparing his fidelity to stars and blossoms. The Pasha bound him by a solemn oath always to show forbearance to his foreign wife. He then drove him forth to spend the time until the wedding in a cousin’s house; where, as he had heard this afternoon from the said cousin, Yûsuf kept raving of his love—in abstract terms, for decency—till the whole selamlik was infected with the trick of sighing. Nothing could have been more honourable than his conduct. The girl was better off than ever in her life before, and knew it. He swore an oath to let the Consul know it too.

      Accordingly, returning to his house that evening, he craved immediate audience of the sometime governess; and shortly entered her apartments, which, providing simply for an upper servant of his house, he had furnished in the Frankish manner to seem homelike. If he had gone to so much trouble for a stranger’s comfort, was it likely he would prove a niggard towards his dear son’s bride? The pig who thus traduced him must be taught.

      The girl was sitting in a chair beside the window, reading an English book. It pleased him to reflect that she was highly educated. In these bad times, when Frankish lore was in demand, her instructions might secure advancement to a man like Yûsuf, who knew French already.

      She laid aside her book and rose to meet him with a charming blush. He took her hand and raised it to his lips; then sank down on a chair and clasped his brow.

      “Ah, mademoiselle!” he moaned, “I am so troubled. God knows my heart is sad, profoundly wounded. You are kind and generous, and you know our hearts. But those others of your nation. … Pouf! How bitter! How fanatical! They treat me and my house as dirt. Here is the case: You honour my poor house; you are alone; you have no parents. I say to myself, ‘She is an orphan; I will be her father.’ I therefore do what parents do according to our customs. I provide the trousseau; I also bargain with the bridegroom’s people to endow you richly.

      “Let

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