Complete works of hall c.., p.455
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 455
The lady looked on the ground and listened. A strange sensation of joy mingled with fear took possession of her, for she saw what Ishmael was going to say.
“If the Prophet did this for her who was so far removed from the slanders of evil tongues, shall not his servant do as much for one who is young and beautiful?”
The lady’s head began to swim, and the ground to sway under her feet as if she were on a rolling ship at sea, but Ishmael saw nothing in her agitation but modesty, and he went on in a soft voice to tell her what he wished to do.
He wished to marry her, that is to say, to betroth himself to her, to make her his wife, his spiritual wife, his wife in name only — never to be claimed of him as a husband, for, besides his consecration to the great task he had undertaken for God, there was a vow he had made to the memory of one who was dead, and both forbade him ever to think again of the joys of the life of a man.
The lady was now totally unable to conceal her agitation, and taking out her handkerchief she kept running her trembling fingers along the hem. She was asking herself what she could do, how she could reply, for she could plainly see that the Oriental in Ishmael had never for one, instant allowed him to think that if he were willing to give her the protection of his name she could have any possible objection.
It was the still hour of noon, and pale with fear she sat silent for a moment looking into the palpitating air that floated over the glistening waters of the Nile. Then assuming, as well as she could, an expression of humility and confusion, she said, while her heart was beating violently:
“Master, it is too much honour — I can hardly think of it.”
He could see by her face how hard she fought with herself, but still taking her agitation for maidenly modesty he dropped his voice and whispered:
“Do not decide at once. Wait a little. Go away now, and think of what I have said.”
He held out his hand to help her to her feet, and she went off with an unsteady step, first stopping, then going quickly, as if she had an impulse to speak again and could not do so, because of the feeling, akin to terror, which seemed to stifle her.
If any one, following the white lady to her lodging in the Greek widow’s house, had been able to look into the depths of her soul, he would have found a tragic struggle going on there. A score of conflicting voices were clamouring to be heard at once. “What am I doing?”
“Where am I?”
“Am I myself, or some one else?”
“Don’t take on this fearful responsibility to such a man.”
“But I must do so, or I can do nothing.”
“I must go on or else go back.”
“But isn’t this going too far?”
“Nonsense, this is no marriage: it is merely a nominal union — a betrothal. I shall only be his wife pro forma. According to an alien faith, too, a faith that does not bind my conscience.”
“It must be done — it shall!”
When the white lady returned to Ishmael’s house on the following day it was with a firm, decided step, as if she were lifted up and sustained by some invisible power. With a strange light in her eyes and an expression in her face that he had never seen there before, she told him that she agreed to his proposal.
He received her consent with a glad cry, and clapping his hands to summon his household he announced the good news to them with a bright look and a happy voice.
The old uncle was overjoyed, and little Ayesha leaped into the lady’s arms and kissed her, but Zenoba, with a face full of confusion, drew Ishmael aside and began to stammer out objections and difficulties. The house was small, there was no separate room for the white lady. Then her black boy — there was not even a corner that could be occupied by him.
“Put the Rani in the room with the child, and let the boy sleep on the mat at her door,” said Ishmael, and without more ado he went on to make arrangements for the wedding.
The arrangements were few, for Ishmael determined that the marriage should be concluded immediately and conducted without any kind of pomp.
But in order that all his world might know what he was doing he invited the Cadi of Khartoum to make the contract, and then, having sent the lady to her lodging, he set out to fetch her back on the milk-white camel he usually rode himself.
It was Sunday, and the sun had gone down in a blaze of red as he walked by the camel’s side through the native quarter of the town with the white lady — the Rani, the Princess — wearing a gold-edged muslin shawl over her head and descending to her shoulders, riding on the crimson saddle fringed with cowries.
By the time they reached old Mahmud’s house it was full of guests in wedding garments, gorgeous in crimson curtains hanging over all the walls, and illuminated by countless lamps both large and small.
But the ceremony was of the simplest.
First, the Fatihah (the first chapter of the Koran), recited by the whole company standing, and then the bride and bridegroom on the ground, face to face, grasping each other’s hands.
Down to this moment the white lady had been sustained by the same invisible power, as if clad in an impenetrable armour of defiance which no other emotion could pierce; but when the Cadi stepped forward and placed a handkerchief over the clasped hands and began to say some words of prayer, she felt faint, and could scarcely breathe.
With a struggle, nevertheless, she recovered herself when the Cadi, leaning over her, told her in a low voice to repeat after him the words that he should speak:
“I betroth myself to thee — to serve thee and to submit to thee—”
“I betroth myself to thee — to serve — to serve thee — and to — to submit to thee—”
With an effort she got the words spoken, feeling numb at her heart and with a sense of darkness coming over her, but being spurred at last by sight of the Arab woman’s glittering eyes watching her intently.
But when the Cadi turned from her to Ishmael, and the bridegroom, in his throbbing voice, said loudly:
“And I accept thy betrothal and take thee under my care, and bind myself to afford thee my protection, as ye who are here bear witness,” she felt as if the tempest of darkness had overwhelmed her and she were falling, falling, falling into a bottomless abyss.
When the lady came to herself again the Arab woman was holding a dish of water to her mouth, and her own black boy, with big tears like beads dropping out of his eyes, was fanning her with a fan of ostrich feathers.
But now the people, who had been saying among themselves, in astonishment at such maimed rites, “Is this a widow or a divorced woman?” being determined riot to he done out of such marriage fetes as they considered only decent, had begun to gather in front of the house, the men in their brown skull caps and blue galabiahs, the married women in their black silk habarahs with silver rings in their noses, and the unmarried girls in their white scarves with coins in their hair and with big silver anklets.
And while the Sheikhs and Notables within, sitting on the dikkahs around the guest-room, listened to a blind man’s chanting of the Koran, the peasant people, squatting on the sand under the stars, employed themselves after their own fashion with the beating of drums, big and little, the playing of pipes, and the singing of love songs. And through and among them as they huddled together, with their faces to the illuminated house of joy, and both the bride and the bridegroom before them, a water-carrier, a Sakka, went about with his water-skin and a brass cup, distributing drinks of water; a girl, with jingling jewels, squirted scent; and Abdullah and Black Zogal, showing their shining white teeth in their happiness and pride, handed round sweetmeats and cups of thick coffee.
Meantime the white lady sat, with her flushed face uncovered and her gold-edged veil thrown hack, where Ishmael had placed her, near to the threshold, in order that, contrary to bad custom, the people might see her; and the child, with its sweet olive-brown face, sat by her side, almost on her lap, amusing herself by holding her hand and drawing off and putting on a beautiful diamond ring which she wore on the third finger of her left hand.
That innocent action of the sweet child seemed to torture the lady at certain moments, and never more than when one of the male singers, sitting close beneath her, sang a camel-boy’s song of love. He was far away on the desert, but the soft eyes of the gazelle recalled the timid looks of his beloved. And when he reached the oasis in the midst of the wilderness, the song of the bird in the date tree brought hack the voice of his darling.
As soon as the singer finished, the women on the ground made their shrill quavering cry of joy, the zaghareet, and then the white lady drew her hand away from the child with an abrupt and almost angry gesture.
After that she sat for a long hour without stirring, merely gazing out on the people in front of the house as if she saw and comprehended nothing. A taste of bitterness was in her mouth, and as often as she was recalled to herself by some question addressed to her she looked as if she wished to disappear from sight altogether.
At length she thought her torture was at an end, for the Cadi rose and said in a loud voice:
“If your friend is sweet do not eat him up,” whereupon the torn-toms were silenced and with a laugh everybody rose, and then, all standing, the whole company chanted the Fatihah:
“Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures, the most merciful, the King of the Day of Judgment. Thee do we worship and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom Thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray.”
The solemn words died away like a receding wave on the outskirts of the crowd, and then the people broke up and went back to their houses and tents, leaving Ishmael and his household together. A little later the household also separated for the night, the child, now very sleepy, being carried to bed by her nurse, and old Mahmud shuffling off to his room after saying to the white lady:
“An old man’s blessing can do you no harm, my daughter; therefore God bless you and bring you joyful increase.”
The white lady was now alone with Ishmael, and her agitation increased tenfold.
“Let us sit again for a while,” he said in a soft voice, and leading her to one of the wooden benches, covered with carpet, which faced the open front of the house, he placed himself beside her.
There the moon was on their faces, and from time to time there was a silvery rain of southern stars. They sat for a while in silence, she with a sense of shame, he with a momentary thrill of passion that came up from the place where he was no longer a prophet but a man.
She felt that he was trying to look into her face with his lustrous black eyes, and she wished to turn away from him. This brought the colour of hot blood into her cheeks and only made her the more beautiful.
A sense of physical fear began to take possession of her, and a storm of thoughts and memories came in rapid succession. She could not express even to her own mind the intricacies of her emotions. This man was an Oriental, and she believed him to be capable of treachery and guilty of violence. Yet she was his wife, according to his own view, and what at this moment, when they were alone, was the worth of the pledge whereby she (for her own purposes) had consented to be his wife in name only, his betrothed!
Her nervousness increased every moment. When he touched her arm, she recoiled slightly and felt her skin creep. He seemed to be conscious of this, for he sat by her side a little longer without speaking.
The silence of night was on the desert and along the moon track across the river as far as to the ruined dome of the Mahdi’s tomb, which seemed so threatening and so near.
At length, in a soft voice, he said, “Come,” and held out his hand to help her to rise.
She rose, trembling all over with fright and a sort of physical humiliation — she who had always been so proud, so strong, so brave.
He led her to the women’s side of the house, without speaking a word until they got there, and then, almost in a whisper, he said:
“You sleep here with little Ayesha. May your night be happy and your morning good!”
She looked up at him as he recommended her to God, and was amazed at the calm, luminous face that now met her own. At the next moment he was gone.
It was an immense relief to find herself in her bedroom, where a little open lamp was burning, and there was no sound but the soft and measured breathing of the child, who was asleep in bed.
At the first moment the sleeping child was like a great protector, but when she became calmer and began to think of this she felt the more ashamed.
“What impossible, terrible thing has happened?” she thought, and then she asked herself again, “Am I really myself, or some one else?”
“Oh, what have I done?” she thought, and a sense of sin took possession of her, which was almost like that which a good woman feels when she has committed adultery.
“It is terrible, but it is inevitable,” she thought, and then she fought against the sentiment of shame which oppressed her by telling herself that Ishmael was a crafty hypocrite, whose soft words were a sham, whose religion was a lie, whose wicked deeds deserved punishment at any price whatever.
“But no, I cannot think of that now,” she thought, and after a while she turned the light bedclothes aside, and, putting out the lamp, got into bed by the side of the child, who was smelling sweet with the soft odours of sleep.
She lay a long time motionless, with her eyes open, and still the horror of what she had done weighed on her like a nightmare. Then she covered her eyes with her hands, and the image of another filled her with emotions that were at once sweet and bitter. With a woman’s sense of injustice she was blaming the absent one for the position of shame in which she found herself.
“Why did he choose this man instead of me?” she thought, and then, at last, in the fiercest fire of jealousy and hatred, weeping bitter tears in the darkness, she reconciled her tormented conscience to everything she had done, everything she intended to do, by saying to herself with quivering lips:
“He killed my father!”
At that moment she was startled by a voice outside that broke sharp and harsh upon the silence of the night:
“There is no god but God! There is no god but God!”
It was Black Zogal, the half-witted Nubian, crying the confession of faith at the door of Ishmael’s house.
The Lady, the White Lady, the Rani, the Princess, was Helena Graves.
V
WHILE Ishmael’s followers had been squatting on the sands to celebrate his betrothal the Sirdar had been having a dinner-party in the palace, composed of the chief officers of his military government and the cream of the British society at Khartoum.
Toward ten o’clock the large after-dinner group of ladies in low-cut corsage, showing white arms and shoulders, and officers in full-dress uniform, had come out on to the terrace with its open arches and its handsome steps sweeping down to the silent garden.
Below were the broad lawns, the mimosa trees filling the night air with perfume, the trembling sycamores and the tall dates, sleeping under the great deep heaven with its stars. Behind was the lamp-lit palace from which native servants in gold-embroidered crimson were carrying silver trays laden with decanters and glasses and small cups and saucers.
It was almost the spot on which “the martyr of the Soudan” fell under the lances of the dervishes, yet one of the Sirdar’s servants, Abdullahi, with three cross-cuts on his cheeks, his tribal mark as a son of the bloodthirsty Baggara, and with the pleasantest of smiles on his walnut-coloured face, was drawing corks, pouring out whisky and soda-water, and striking matches to light the men’s cigarettes.
The company was full of the gaiety and animation which comes after a pleasant dinner, with a little of the excitement which follows when people have partaken of wine. The eyes of the ladies sparkled and the faces of the men smiled, and both talked freely and laughed a good deal.
The conversation was made up of trifles until one of the ladies — it was the wife of the Governor of the city, clad in the lightest of lace chiffon gowns and shod in yellow satin slippers — inquired the meaning of the sounds of rejoicing, the blowing of pipes and the beating of torn-toms, which had come through the wide-open windows of the palace from the direction of the native quarter.
To this question the Inspector-General of the Soudan — an English Pasha, whose gold-laced tunic was half covered with medals — replied that the new prophet, who had lately arrived in Khartoum, had that day taken to himself a wife.
“How interesting!” cried the ladies in chorus, with a note of laughter that was intended to belie the word, and then the lady in the yellow slippers turned to the Inspector-General and said:
“Of course he has as many as the Mahdi already — but who is the new one, I wonder?”
“No, he has only one wife at present — runs ‘em tandem, I hear — and the new bride is the beautiful person in Parsee costume who arrived here about the same time as himself.”
“The Mohammedan Rani, you mean? My husband tells me she is perfectly lovely. But they say she will never let a European get a glimpse of her face — puts down her Parsee veil, I suppose — so goodness knows how he knows, you know.”
“Perhaps your husband is a privileged person, my dear!” said one of the other ladies, whereupon there was a trill of laughter and the little feet in satin slippers were beaten upon the floor.
“But a Rani! Think of that! Who can she be, I wonder?” said another of the ladies, and then the mistress of the palace. Lady Mannering, hinted that she believed the Sirdar knew something about her.
“Oh, tell us! Tell us!” cried a dozen female voices at once; but the Sirdar, a shrewd and kindly autocrat who had been smoking a cigarette in silence, merely answered:
“Time will tell you, perhaps.” Then turning to the Inspector-General he said:
“She has married the man, you say?”
“That’s so, your Excellency.”
“There must be some mistake about that, surely.”
The company broke up late, and the ladies went off in light wraps and the men bare-headed through the soft, reverberant air of the southern night. But the Sirdar had asked certain of his officers to remain for a few moments, and among them were the Inspector-General, the Financial Secretary, and the Governor of the town. To the latter came his Zabit, a police officer, whose duty it was to report to his chief early and late, and as soon as the men had seated themselves the Sirdar said:
