Voices in the Night Part 39

and leave a margin for _sagou dam_ (sago) and _salep misri_. Also for real cardamoms. Yes! surely with fifteen rupees in prospect she might afford herself some real cardamoms for to-morrow's a.s.semblage, instead of the cheaper kind she had laid in. It would give style to the occasion, even if the pink satin trousers were unattainable.

Another crowd, before a shop, delayed her as she limped along in the gutter. There was a policeman in it this time, and a voice protesting that it was tyranny. What had the police to do with the selling of a quilt--a quilt that was no longer wanted, seeing that the grandfather had found freedom?

'_Ari_, idiot!' said the policeman, 'have a care I do not burn it.'

'Give him his percentage, brother!' advised Govind the editor, who, as usual, was hunting the bazaars for news. 'That is what he wants. That is the trick. Yea! I know. Give it him, or he will claim the whole in the name of the plague. That is what the _Sirkar_ does in Bombay. It claims all--money, jewels, clothes. And it will do the same here. This is but the beginning.'

''Twill be the end for thee and thy paper, editor-_jee_, if thou tellest more lies,' retorted the constable in righteous indignation.

'It is orders, I tell thee! There is suspicion that some one----'

Govind, who, as usual, also had been at the _bhang_ shop, gave a jeering laugh. '_Bapree bap!_ some one! 'Tis always _some one_ or _some thing_; but we of Nushapore, my masters, will show them we are not as those of Bombay. We can fight for our own.'

There was a surge of a.s.sent in the crowd, as if it sought to begin at once, and Khojee, clutching her gold bangle tighter, fled incontinently down a by-street. So little might turn her limp into a fall, and then that fifteen-rupees'-worth might roll into the gutter and be s.n.a.t.c.hed up by any one. Here, in the tortuous alleys, it was at least quiet, though it was dark. She slithered in the welter of the day's rubbish flung from the high houses on either side, and a scamper of pattering feet told her she had disturbed some rats battening on a bit of choice garbage.

'_Allah hamid!_' she muttered piously, and went on. The sound of wailing from one of the scarce-seen houses she was pa.s.sing reminded her regretfully of the cardamoms; for she had left shops behind her. Then she remembered one, not far from the gate of the city, which she must pa.s.s; one of those miscellaneous shops which are always to be found near city gates, where travellers can buy most things--flour and vegetables, red peppers, pipe bowls, tobacco. Ay, and opium perhaps; but on the sly, since there was no licence over the door. It was not the sort of shop that such as Khojeeya Khanum patronised as a rule; still it might have cardamoms.

The low-caste _buniya_, with a wrinkled monkey face and long iron-grey hair, who crouched behind dingy platters and dusty bags, looked ghoulish by the one flickering light set in the solitary cavern of a shop; for on either side of it was blank wall, trending away to narrow alleys.

Khojee hesitated. Such men drove many nefarious trades. Still this one might have cardamoms!

'Cardamoms! he echoed with a leer. 'Yea, yea, princess! True cardamoms to satisfy the best of royal blood--he! he!' Those tall houses round his shop held many such as she, and he had recognised the accent.

Khojee scarce knew whether to be fl.u.s.tered or flattered beneath her domino.

'And be speedy,' she said haughtily. 'I have no time to spare thee.'

'Lo! _Nawabin_,' he jeered, 'I have them; such cardamoms as----' He was rummaging in the heterogeneous ma.s.s piled up against the back wall of his shop. 'Wait but a moment. I have them--I have them. But two days ago, my princess, I had them.'

Here, by chance, an unwary pull sent a pile of parcels and bundles in confusion round him, and one rolled nigh to Aunt Khojee, who--careful ever--laid a hold of it to save a possible fall into the gutter. The light fell on something green and sheeny, her fingers recognised the feel of satin, and, the bundle having unrolled itself somewhat, she caught sight of the unmistakable cut of a trouser leg! She opened it out a little curiously.

'Canst not leave things alone?' snapped the shopkeeper angrily. 'Those be not cardamoms.'

'They be something I may need for all that,' retorted Khojee with spirit--the spirit which never fails a woman in the struggle for _chiffons_. So there she was, testing the satin with her finger, appraising the make. If they had only been pink!--though that was but a detail, since they were beyond her purse; the satin better by far than the much-to-be-regretted pink-the whole newer--

She wrinkled them aside with a sigh. 'Give me the cardamoms, brother. I have not the money for these.' The man looked at her cunningly.

'If the Daughter of Kings needs trousers, she will find none cheaper.'

'They would yet be too dear for me, brother,' she answered mildly; 'the cardamoms will do.'--

He edged nearer, his evil face growing confidential. 'Lo! Bhagsu never drives a hard bargain with the n.o.ble,' he cringed. 'It might be that the virtuous lady's money would purchase these, and save them from the badness of bazaars; since they come from virtue and should go to virtue. How much hath the princess to offer?'

Khojee gave a half-embarra.s.sed laugh. It was impossible, of course, and yet----

'_That_ is as may be,' she replied; 'what she _will offer_, is this----' With a flutter of shame and hope she put down the two rupees and the handful of pice. Then she remembered the cardamoms! 'That,' she continued, telling herself she might as well be bold to the bitter end, 'for the trousers _and_ the cardamoms.' It was a diplomatic stroke, if an unconscious one, for Bhagsu instantly recognised that she had, indeed, ventured her all; that the chance was his to take or leave.

He gave a melancholy groan, then began to roll up the green satin, and tie it round with some of the triple-coloured cotton hanking used at weddings, which, for some occult reason, is always sold at these wayside shops. 'Shiv-_jee_ be my witness,' he whimpered, 'I give them for naught. But what then? Virtue goes out to virtue, and those who live amongst the n.o.ble must be n.o.ble!'

Khojee could hardly believe her ears.

Half an hour afterwards she could hardly believe her eyes, as--Khadjee having retired safely to sleep with a sausage-roll pillow and a quilt--she sate in the courtyard gloating over her wonderful purchase.

It was simply astounding. Even Khadjee must forgive her duplicity in regard to that secret p.a.w.ning of pink trousers, with such green ones as these for reparation! all piped, and edged, and faced, with quite a new braiding of gold thread down the front seam, and a new scent to them also; the wearer must have been in strange parts, though the cut was of the North.

She folded the precious garments with loving little pats, brought out the remaining portions of the state toilet from the almost empty store, saw that Noormahal's muslin was as pure and white and smooth as her old hands could make it, arranged the cardamoms in little saucers, and so, when the city had long since become silent, curled her tired old limbs on a string bed set across the doorway of the inner court--where the servant should have slept, had there been one--and slept fitfully.

For she had to be up at dawn, so that everything should be ready for the visitings, and yet leave her time to get round to the goldsmith's, sell the bangle by weight, and purchase some 'Essence of Happiness'--which was, alas! worth its weight in gold.

Yet when it came it had not much effect, greatly to poor Khojee's disappointment. Even the quivering, sobbing keene of her neighbours and relations did not rouse Noormahal to any proper display of grief, and--as the groups whispered--how could you expect to lose tears unless you shed them? Was it not a distinct defiance of Providence to deal, even with sorrow, as if it were your own absolutely? Finally, was not _khushki_ (dryness) one of the fundamental faults in things created?--the other being _gurm-ai_ (heat).

Khadeeja Khanum, however, was quite sufficiently _tur_ and _tunda_ (damp and cool) to satisfy the most rigid standard of etiquette; and what with the real cardamoms, the new trousers, a pennyworth of orange-blossom oil which Khojee had brought with the 'Essence of Happiness,' and a most encouraging report of prevailing sickness and death amongst mutual acquaintances brought by the visitors, the old lady had quite a flush on her withered cheeks by evening, and admitted to her sister, when the latter helped her to undress, that the whole thing had really gone off very well.

Nevertheless she was rather fatigued on the next day. The day after that, Khojee, returning from the purchasing of some lemon-gra.s.s oil, wherewith to wile away the aching in the back, caused, no doubt, by the muscular effort of a continual whimper, found her seated on the string bed in the centre of the lonely courtyard, attired in the green satin trousers and concomitants, waiting, so she said, for the bridal party to arrive.

How stupid Khojee was! Of course, having regard to her deformity, it was only natural she should take little heed of such things. But all were not made that way, and it was high time the bridal party did come.

It seemed, indeed, as if an undue interval had elapsed since the betrothal day, when--if Khojee would remember--she wore pink, not green. Anyhow she, _Shahzadi_ Khadeeja Khanum, was not one to stand any slackness in a bridegroom's ardour, and if he did not appear that day, she would choose another.

She did. Death claimed her as his before twelve hours were over; almost before poor Noormahal, roused at last from her absorption in grief, had realised she was ill. It seemed incredible! The Nawabin's big eyes, larger, darker than ever--encircled as they were by great shadows which seemed to have crept down the oval of her face, making it pointed, pinched--turned to Aunt Khojee, even at the moment of death, in bewildered reproach and regret.

'And thou hast called none in to send her soul forth with prayers? Oh, Khojee! that was ill done. Nay? I mean no blame for thee alone, kind one, but for us both--yet we did not know--we did not dream--did we?'

Khojee stood for a second, speechless, rigid, her eyes staring, yearning towards the familiar face over which the awful unfamiliar look was creeping; then, with a wild cry, she threw up her arms and grovelled at Noormahal's feet.

'Nay! I knew--I knew from the first. Oh, child! I have killed her--I, Khojee--hush! wail not! None must know. And touch her not, Noormahal; that is for me--for her sister who killed her. Lo! child, sole hope of the house! stand further--I can do all--I will do all.--O Khadjee!

Khadjee! canst thou forgive? And I knew--I knew in my heart all was not right. I knew none would rightly sell such green satin trousers'--here she broke into sobbing laughter--'yet wert thou happy, sister, and I took the blame of theft, if it was theft--and it was--theft of thy life--O Khadjee! Khadjee!'

Noormahal, pressed back by frantic clinging arms into a corner of the dark room--for Khojee, declaring the illness to be a chill, had insisted on keeping the patient inside--caught in her breath fearfully.

'Peace, Khojee! let me go, auntie!--Lo! thou art not well thyself--the fever hath thee--thou art distraught with grief, as I was. Come, let us go into the light, and I myself will call----'

Khojee rose to her feet, and laid a quick hand on Noormahal's mouth.

'Nay! none must call,' she said sternly, her self-control brought back by dread. 'Yea! come into the light, and leave her. Come, and I will tell thee there--in the light.'

'How dost thou know?' asked Noormahal, gone grey to her very lips. 'It is not that--lo! folk die of other things. I have seen them. Remember our cousin--it was just so----'

Khojee's mask of despair showed no wavering. 'Nay, it is the plague.

They talked of it at the wailing. It hath been here and there in the city this week past. Mittun held it blasphemy that it should be aught but G.o.d's will, and I cried yea! to him; but cannot G.o.d send it in the clothes?' Her face, drawn, haggard, almost awful in its questioning, settled after a second into decision. 'Yea! it is the plague--the swellings they speak of are there. It was the trousers. I killed her.

And none must know, or they will come and poison thee in hospital, lest it spread. That is why I called no one. The courtyard is wide. I can dig a grave----' Noormahal gave a sharp cry of horrified dissent. 'Yea!

I can--my hands are not as thine, sweetheart, soft and fine. Old Khojee's ugliness can do more than thy beauty--the beauty of King's Daughters which none may see! Remember that, child, remember that'--her voice rang clear of sobs for those words; she rose from where she had crouched to tell her tale, and looked round her with dull, yet steady, eyes. 'There is no hurry. If folk come, none need know she is dead. I will say she sleeps. And at night I can dig. Yea! I knew it from the first. But there is no fear, heart's darling! Thou hast scarce been nigh her. That is why I kept her close. And to-night I will carry her to the outer courtyard--there is a padlock to the _nanbut khana_ stairs, and room for--room for _her_ beside them. I have thought--yea!

thought while I watched. There is no fear, Noormahal! All will go well.

Thou wilt have patience, as wives should, and Jehan will return to thee, and little Sa'adut from his paradise will smile on brothers--ay!

and sisters too--sisters whom thou wilt spare to old Aunt Khojee's arms. G.o.d knows it shall be so. Deny it not, girl--dare not to deny it?

He only knows!'

Her face through its tears was alight with faith and hope and charity, and Noormahal's, as she looked, lost its hardness; a dreaminess that was almost tender came to the dry, bright eyes.

'Yea? He knows.'

That night, after the peac.o.c.ks with their broken plaster tails ceased to show against the growing dusk, there were faint cautious sounds below them, where the two women dug at a grave. For in this, at least, Noormahal had said she could help. It was not finished by dawn; and after that Khojee worked alone and only by s.n.a.t.c.hes, while Noormahal watched from the door of the inner courtyard, ready to give the alarm should any visitor come--ready also to entertain them.