"Wait, do wait till the sahib returns," pleaded Kate.
The Mai paused, her hand on the latch. "What have I to do with the sahibs, Huzoor? Mine were not much count. They made my mems cry, or laugh; cry first, then laugh. It is bad for mems. But my mem did not care, she only cared for the babies and so there was always a flower for the grave. Matadeen, the gardener, made it and the big Huzoor--Erlton sahib----"
She ceased suddenly and went mumbling down the stairs leaving Kate to close the door again and drop on her knees beside the sleeping child. Was he sleeping or had the opium----? She gave a sigh of relief as--her hair tickling his cheek as she bent to listen--up came a chubby unconscious hand to brush the tickle away.
Sonny! It seemed incredible. The house would be a home indeed with his sweet "Mifis Erlton" echoing through it. Not what the old Mai had said was true. There would be danger in English prattle. She must not tell him who she was. He must be kept as safe as that other child over across the seas whose empty place this one had partly filled; that other child who in all these storms and stress was, thank Heaven! so safe. She must deny herself that pleasure, and be content with this terribly disguised Sonny. Then she wondered if the dye came off as hers did; so with wet finger began trying the experiment on the child's cheek. A little; but perhaps soap and warm water might--She gathered Sonny in her arms and went over to the cooking-place. And there, to her unreasoning delight, after a space, was a square inch or so of milk and roses. It was trivial, of course; Mr. Greyman would say womanish, but she should like to see the real Sonny just once! She could dye him again. So, with the sleeping child on her lap, she began soft dabbings and wipings on the forehead and cheeks. It was a fascinating task and she forgot everything else; till, as she began work on the nose, what with the tickling and the tepid bathings dispelling the opium drowsiness, Sonny woke, and finding himself in strange arms began to scream horribly. And there she was forgetful of caution among other things, kissing and cuddling the frightened child, asking him if he didn't know her and telling him he was a good little Sonnikins whom nobody in the world would hurt! At which juncture, with brain started in a new-old groove, he said amid lingering sobs:
"Oh, Mifis Erlton! What has a-come of my polly?"
She recognized her slip in a second; but it was too late. And hark! Steps on the stair, and Sonny prattling on in his high, clear lisp! Not one step, but two; and voices. A visitor no doubt. Sometimes, to avoid suspicion, it was necessary to bring them in. She knew the routine. The modest claim for seclusion to her supposed husband in Persian, the leaving of the door on the latch, the swift retreat into the inner roof during the interval decorously allowed for such escape. All this was easy without Sonny. The only chance now was to stop his prattle even by force, give the excuse that other women were within, and trust to a man's quickness outside.
Vain hope! Sonny wriggled like an eel, and, just as the expected knock came, evaded her silencing hand, so that the roof rang with outraged yells:
"Oh! 'oo's hurtin' me! Oo's hurtin' me!"
Without the words even, the sound was unmistakable. No native child was ever so ear-piercing, so wildly indignant. Kate, beside herself, tried soothings and force distractedly, in the midst of which an imperative voice called fiercely:
"Open the door quick, for God's sake! Anything's better than that."