But have no care. We will forget it, if”—the Pasha laid great stress on the condition, and for once looked boldly in the other’s eyes—“if, after consultation with you, she should wish to recant.”
“But you say that there are witnesses to her conversion,” cried the Frank, with bitterness. “I fail to see how it can be forgotten. There would be a riot.”
“The witnesses are of my house,” rejoined the Pasha suavely. “My command is guarantee of their discretion.”
“Send her to me!” The final words were uttered from tight lips beneath a formidable frown, as the Consul flung the door wide open for the Turk’s departure.
“Sont-ils fanatiques, ces brutes-là? Peuh!” respired the Pasha, shaking the dust from off his boots as he regained his carriage. “The girl will have a cruel hour, poor floweret! That dog would like to kill her. But, God be praised, the law of El Islâm is still sufficient to protect a convert in a Muslim land!”
His thoughts of the lone foreign girl were full of kindness. She was his daughter. He would care for her true happiness. And then the thought of Fitnah’s rage, recurring, caused him to frown, and swear, and gnaw his underlip.
CHAPTER III
Immediately on his return to his own house, Muhammad Pasha sent a eunuch to announce his coming to the lady Fitnah. He found her lying on a couch in her state-room. Two slaves, who had been busy fanning her, retired before him. Seeing she lay still with eyes closed as if quite exhausted, he drew near and whispered:
“Now, in sh´Allah, O beloved, thou wilt hear my reasons.”
She opened great brown eyes, bloodshot with wrath, and glared at him a moment.
“Well, what news?” she asked, with studied coldness.
The Pasha then embarked upon his story; but, at mention of the Consul, she sprang up with rage renewed, expectorating:
“Curse thy father! ‘She will see the Consul,’ sayest thou? The Consul! May the Consul and his whole race rot with agony! It is simply to evade a duty which is thine and thine alone. Eject her from the house at once, thou paltry coward! She will kill our son. I know thy guile, by Allah! Thou wilt say, ‘The Consul orders her to marry Yûsuf. We must obey the Consul,’—O salvation!—when all the while thyself art father of the mischief. Oh, let her not come here, or, by my fruitfulness! these hands shall cling to her and not leave hold till they have made her so that no man could desire her.”
Expostulation proving vain, her lord retired in great annoyance. He had to fear a scandal in his house, an inquisition by the Consul, ignominy, if Yûsuf’s mother came in contact with the English lady.
In this dilemma, as in every other which concerned the household, he went for counsel to his only love and first of wives. He sent a herald of his coming to Murjânah Khânum, and after a decent interval repaired to her apartments. She received him in a large room, with no other solid furniture than a low desk on which a manuscript of the Corân lay open; but exquisitely clean and sweet, a contrast to those quarters of the house where Fitnah reigned. The windows were constructed of the finest lattice-work, which made the light within seem rare and delicate. Murjânah, old but stately, fondled her lord’s hand.
“Thy face is careworn,” she exclaimed, perusing it. “In sh´Allah, all the news is good.”
“In sh´Allah,” he replied mechanically. “But Allah knows that I am greatly troubled. I know not what to do.” And he proceeded to describe the madness of the lady Fitnah. At the tale’s conclusion, a light laugh surprised him.
“Thou askest what to do,” exclaimed Murjânah, “when there is danger that a foolish woman, mad with jealousy, may harm a guest of ours! Hear the word of Allah: ‘When ye have cause to fear their disobedience, ye shall reprimand them, ye shall banish them to beds apart, and ye shall beat them.’ Is not that plain? Beat her! It is thy sacred duty. No, no, she will not cry against thee to the Câdi. She will hide her fault. All women look to men for government, and if it is withheld, have cause of grief. Trust me, beloved, there is no good woman who would not rather suffer stripes occasionally than grow for lack of them into a shrieking harridan. Fitnah Khânum is my durrah, and I love her truly, as the mother of our darling children, and for many virtues. Still I say to thee on this occasion: beat her soundly. Bestow on her a perfect beating, O my soul!”
The Pasha kissed his old wife’s hand submissively, and went forth from her presence with a face of awe. The high proceeding needed courage, for a man so kindly. He went to the small chamber where the eunuchs sat when not on duty, and called, “Sawwâb! Meymûn! Bring me a big kurbâj. Attend me, both of you!”
The silent, swift obedience of those servants showed the impression made by his unusual sternness. Their help was necessary that the scene to come might wear the aspect of an execution, not a struggle.
Whip in hand, Muhammad Pasha crossed a courtyard and entered a small room remote from others.
“Bring Fitnah Khânum hither secretly!” he told the eunuchs.
Sawwâb, the fat, was seized with trembling; while Meymûn, a tall, gaunt creature, gave a deathlike grin. They sped, however. Three minutes had not passed before the lady Fitnah, deftly bound and gagged, was borne into the lonely chamber and the door was shut.
Half an hour later, Muhammad Pasha Sâlih sat conversing with the English lady, preparing her intelligence to meet the Consul’s arguments, which he forewarned her would be all misstatements born of blind fanaticism. When married to Yûsuf, he assured her, and himself believed it, she would hardly know the difference from an English home.
CHAPTER IV
The English girl, meanwhile, experienced a passionate elation, like new life. The Pasha’s exhortations were not needed. Rebellion, which had always lurked beneath her trained subservience, now clothed her in its flames and made her terrible for any one who dared assail her new-found pride.
What had she to regret? From childhood she had been repressed, humiliated, and ordered to be thankful for bare daily bread. In Christian families her lot had been unenviable. Here, in this Muslim household, she was somebody. The month spent here had been the happiest in her life. But, bred up to regard employers as a race apart—impressed, moreover, by the grandeur of the house and by the rank of Pasha—she had never dreamt of being thought an equal by her entertainers. When Yûsuf Bey, whom she had noticed for his beauty, assailed her in the hall, she had imagined his intentions far from honourable, judging from past experience in English houses. She had fled to her own rooms, ashamed and angry, while the image of his face alight with passion remained to trouble her against her will. When the Pasha came and begged her in most flattering terms to condescend to marry his unworthy son, she nearly swooned. All her resistance sprang from incredulity. When once convinced that the demand was earnest, she gave way with grateful tears. Then her resolve became a living faith. It was to break the bondage of the past completely, to cast in her lot for ever with these friends who wanted her.
They were wealthy, of exalted rank, and yet they wanted her. They thought her lovely, who had always
