IV

“O my loved one, I tell thee there is no end to her hate of me; and Nûr is as her mouthpiece in this matter. Thou wouldst know the reason? That I cannot tell thee, for I myself have not ascertained it. But one thing is sure: she would fain destroy me and mine. For my life I fear her, and for the life of Suleyman, the hope of thy father’s house. It may be that she cannot bear to see me preferred to her in the secret of thy love, to know that I shall rule a part of this great mansion thou art minded to buy. She would kill me, thinking to make thee all her own once more. Laugh with me, O my soul!⁠—she thinks she yet has charms to tempt and hold thee.⁠ ⁠… She will say all things to turn the favour I have found in thy sight to loathing; and, if speech avail not, she will certainly compass my death and the death of Suleyman, thy darling. This day she has tried one way and failed. It is likely she will next bring Nûr hither, as it were to confirm her report, to tell thee lies of her teaching. Thou wilt not hearken to her, O my lord? Swear to give no heed to the words of her mouth⁠—the words of my enemy, whose creature she is! O Saïd, swear this to me by the spirit of thy religion! For the sake of the son I have borne to thee, set my mind at rest! My heart grows sick for fear I should lose thy favour by which alone I live. Swear that thy understanding shall lend no weight to their calumnies, that I may know I have yet a little grace in thy sight! And ah! swear to put away this wicked woman⁠—to cast her forth as an evildoer from thy house. Does she not daily, hourly, plot my death and the death of thy son? Is she not therefore guilty of blood? O Saïd, O my beloved, O spring of life to me, scorn not my prayer or I shall know that thy desire is clean gone from me!”

Saïd fondled Ferideh’s head as she lay in the crook of his arm upon the couch. He swore eagerly, as a lover swears, that he was deaf thenceforth to all that might be said against her. But with regard to Hasneh, he would ponder the matter at length and decide what was best to be done.

At that she cried out that he loved her not, and made as if to break away; but his strong arm held her fast. Pouting, with reproachful eyes⁠—

“What is this?” she whispered. “Art thou then weary of me and has that foul hag thy favour, that thou shakest so thy head and wilt not vouchsafe me a plain answer? Does she not plot to murder me and my child?⁠—Ay, and it may be thee also, O sun that warms me! My prayer is for thy happiness and the lives of all who love thee. Cast her forth, I beseech thee, as thou carest for me.”

She hung upon him with strained throat and bosom crushed. Her eyes languished into his, striving to cast that spell upon him which made his heart like melted wax for her will’s moulding. For a brief space his purpose wavered. The faintness of strong desire came upon him as a mist confusing his brain, so that he saw things dimly. But he mastered himself; and his face took on a look of tender firmness, such as one uses to chide a well-loved daughter.

“Allah witness, I would do all things to preserve thee, O Ferideh, O garden of my delight! But this one thing I cannot; to cast out a woman who has been mine since first I wore the turban, and who has given proof of faithfulness in many trials and hardships. To do this would be a crime in the sight of Allah, and all my neighbours would cry shame upon me. It may well be that she is jealous, but thou in thy anger dost think too ill of her. Nevertheless jealousy is an evil spirit to possess man or woman. It makes a virtue of foul sin, and is mother to the lust of blood. I will have her watched narrowly, I promise, so that her malice shall not harm thee. Moreover, I swear I will never speak friendly to her from this hour forth, since she is hateful to thee, O full moon of my nights. But cast her forth I cannot, lest all good men should forsake me.”

He thought directly of Selìm, that upright servant, before whose outspoken criticism and advice he had quailed more than once despite his show of assurance. Selìm was a good Muslim, a man pious and devout both in practice and at heart. Had he been born to wealth and eminence he would have been revered of all men for a saint, even as Ismaìl Abbâs, the Sherìf. Saïd, coveting above all things a reputation for sanctity, had come, almost without knowing it, to model his behaviour on that of his bailiff. Whenever a question of conduct confronted him, he would refer it mentally to Selìm, conjuring up a bearded face, with mild eyes looking shrewdly from under a high, turbaned forehead. This time the brow of the vision was knitted in strong disapproval and the eyes were keen of reproach.

Though far from content with his answer, Ferideh understood that it was final. She hung back from him, and, resting her chin in her hand, sulked awhile with downcast eyes and jutting underlip. The change from girlhood had taken nothing from her charm. The full, round lines of bust and limbs, scarcely blurred by her under robe of silk gauze, might coarsen to fatness by-and-by, but showed as yet no more than a pleasing softness. The skin of her face and neck were waxen white, except the cheeks, which were painted. Paint also was responsible for the extreme redness of her lips, which made them like a wound. Her grey eyes, artificially brightened, languished under long black lashes; and her hair was glossy with unguents.

Saïd’s passion for her, instead of abating, had grown with the years. Hasneh had given him her whole heart at one gift, and he had soon wearied of her. But with Ferideh he was haunted by a suspicion of something withheld, of some inner shrine still barred to him. There was a reserve in all her tenderness. Though never felt at the moment, it struck him always in the retrospect. Looking back upon the times when she had been most yielding and full of endearments, he recognised its presence then as ever. And the feeling of something beyond kept his ardour alive, as the fire leaps always to fresh fuel.

The scene of their talk was an upper chamber, lighted discreetly by a deep-bayed lattice projecting over the yard. The vault of the ceiling was shaped like a sea-urchin; and from the height of its dome a curious lamp of bronze hung by a chain of the like metal. In one corner, near the door, stood a bed, decked with a white coverlid cunningly embroidered with gold, and veiled by mosquito curtains of the finest gauze. It was a true Frankish bed⁠—just such another as that Saïd had coveted years ago, in the house of the missionary. Its iron frame was supported on six legs, and above it at each corner stood a brass knob flanking the rail. He had bought it of a Greek merchant for the price first asked, so instant was his desire of it, and the money burning his hand. Two or three large stools inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a great chest or press of the same workmanship, a large divan, wide as the bed, and made as soft with gaily-coloured cushions⁠—these and a number of vessels and trays of earthenware, copper, brass and even silver, set in a row beside the entry, made up the furniture of the room. The walls had once been painted in a chequered pattern, but the paint had worn or peeled off for the most part, and none had cared to renew it. The pair were alone.

“What part has Nûr in this business?” asked Saïd at length, breaking a thoughtful silence. “She has ever been most friendly to me⁠—and to thee likewise, O my soul; since it is by her aid that I am lord of thy fancy. It cannot be that she is turned my enemy.⁠ ⁠… By Allah, no! it is impossible.”

Ferideh slipped from the couch and knelt at his feet. She reached out her arms to draw him down to her, gazing tenderly into his face.

“O my great lord,” she murmured, with a playful fondness, “thou art a man and wise, while I am but a woman and of no understanding. Yet must I be thy seer, it seems, to point out to thee the cause of many things thy wisdom cannot fathom. Know then, O breath of my life, that mightier than jealousy, more misleading than strong drink, more heady than the perfume of a fair woman, is the greed for money. Now Nûr is the very mother of avarice, and, since her lot is not as the lot of other women, she can have her will of what belongs to her. A maid or a wife may hoard money, but she is sure it will never profit her. With this old woman it is otherwise. The thirst for more grows on her with the years. I doubt not but thou didst fully requite her for her service to thee in the year of the great war, when⁠—may Allah preserve thee forever, O father of kindness!⁠—thou didst stoop to rescue me, thy handmaid, from the ruin of my father’s house. I say, I am sure thou didst reward her nobly. Yet, now that she beholds thee rich and high in honour, she remembers it as little and grumbles openly.

“O my beloved, the cause of all this coil is thy distrust of me. I am not jealous of Hasneh⁠—Allah forbid! Yet it grieves me to think that thou hast a secret with her which is concealed from me. I mean the secret of the place where thy store is hidden. Nûr knows well that Hasneh is in thy confidence; it is for this that she courts her favour. I, thy servant, am the main obstacle in her way, wherefore she, as well as Hasneh, schemes to remove me; well knowing that I suspect the Mother of Wind, and keep strict watch on her and all who visit her. I know not what reward she holds out to Hasneh, but it must be a great one; for Sàadeh tells me that the eyes of the childless one brighten strangely when she speaks apart with her, and all her bearing is of one who clinches a rare bargain. Now, my lord, thou knowest all⁠—as much as I have been able to gather of the plot. May Allah preserve thy life to me forever, and may all who hate thee perish utterly!”