'Poor little chicken,' said the courtesan in contemptuous consolation. 'So thou wouldst have killed me, thy best friend? One who seeks to destroy the mem! 'Twill be the ruin of her, look you, and then he will have none of her. That is their way. She will not get him; so pine no more, child. Lo! I will teach thee how to have lovers and to spare.'
'I want no lovers,' muttered the girl angrily. 'If 'tis to harm her, and thou hast sworn to that, I care not. And thou hast sworn to let me be also. That is enough.'
As she rose, folding her white veil round her, Chândni felt sorely tempted to give the little push which must have overset the weak balance, and sent Azîzan to certain death below. But the thought that, if looks said the truth, fate would do the work for her ere long without scandal, stayed her hand. Besides, the knowledge that the girl was alive and intent on revenge might be of use in dealing with the palace-folk, if they showed themselves traitorous to her claims. So, when she had watched Azîzan go stumbling down the stairs, Chândni rolled over lazily to meet the midnight wind which was springing up, and shortly afterwards fell like a child, into dreamless slumber, long before Azîz, who had sunk down on a step of the silent causeway, hoping to regain strength for the homeward journey, felt equal to the task. A deadly despondency had replaced her excitement; yet beneath this again lay a dull resentment against fate. If she had understood, if she had known, as Chândni seemed to know, the ways and thoughts of these white people, she might have done better. She had meant no harm--no harm in her world at least--for she was not bad. He might, as Chândni said, turn away from the mem for being wicked, but he would never have had cause to turn from her, if she had only known. She never would have done anything to displease him--never have done, or said or looked---- The sting of shameful memory drove her from her resting-place to stumble on recklessly in the direction of a twinkling light upon the mound. That must be the potter's house and he must be watching for her; there she would at least find shelter. But it was not the house; it was the potter himself seeking for her among the ruins. His face, by the light of the cresset he carried, showed haggard, and its anxiety soothed her, even while it sent a new pain to her heart. He was unhappy at losing her, and she? O God! how her own heart ached! Must it always be so when those you loved were lost? Then would he feel so if he had to turn away from the mem? Would it send that pain into his heart?
The question was insistent, imperative, as, scarcely listening to the old man's deprecating delight she followed him back to the darkness of the hut. Even there it haunted her. Through the hot night, through the long hot day as she lay huddled up out of sight. 'Would he care? And if he did care, would she be glad or sorry for his pain?'
The moon and the setting sun were disputing possession of the world again, when George lay on a lounge chair in the verandah of the red-hot bungalow. The air was fresher, if not cooler there, and the factotum within was disturbing the foundations of the round world in attempting to pack his master's things; among them Azîzan's picture, and a parcel which had been sent from the palace addressed to Mrs. Boynton. Something, it was said, she had asked the vakeel at Râjpore to get for her. The lad, though still weak, was joyous to the heart's core in the knowledge that another hour would see him on his way to spend his holiday in the society of the most perfect woman he had ever seen. That was how he viewed his world. Gwen was in full focus; the rest of humanity out of it; even poor Dan, who was at that moment riding his hardest across the desert in order to take over charge of the sub-division at its outermost limit, and so give the boy every possible second of his leave. Not a very just estimate of relative values, but a very usual one when Narcissus is absorbed with the reflection of himself.
'Salaam Aliakoom,' came a breathless voice behind him. He turned to see Azîzan, who had sunk as if exhausted on the verandah steps. He stared at her silent with surprise, in which a certain shamefaced annoyance was mingled. He had no desire to be reminded of her existence at present, and even if, as he had felt inclined to suspect, there was some mystery about her, he could do no good by inquiring now, on the very eve of his departure.
'I have come for the pot, Huzoor,' she began without preamble. 'They took it from me. Lo! I was poor, and the poor have no voice. Justice! Justice!'
'Took it from you?' echoed George, his annoyance increasing at this plunge into the past. 'Do you mean by force?' She nodded. 'But,' he went on, 'you sold it. I gave the money to your mother when she came here--on the night the tents were burnt.'
'My mother died before that, Huzoor. It was not my mother who came, but a bad one from the palace. It is true that I never sold it, never got the money; and now I want the pot back again. It brings luck. I will not sell it.'
'But why didn't you come at once and tell me?' asked George angrily. 'Then I might have done something: now----'