Voices in the Night

by Flora Annie Webster Steel

He passed out resentfully, driving the refuse he had swept up, into the world beyond the six-feet-square yard, with a last flourish of his broom.

Khôjee, left forlorn, sat looking at her râm rucki doubtfully. Could the tale be true? Could the Huzoors have been capable of such a devilish treachery? Even so, he, Rahmân-sahib, had not been so. His bracelet had brought safety. Even after two days, Auntie Khôjee recognised this. The daghdar-sahib had laughed at her fear of plague; they had given her seclusion of the strictest; a Musulman woman, who had called her 'my princess,' had brought her better food than she had had for years, and even Lateef had been allowed to come during the day and talk to her. Last, not least, the daghdar himself had respected her veil, and sent a miss-sahiba instead--a miss in a curious dress, who had let her cry about Noormahal, and comforted her with cardamoms--real cardamoms. It had almost been a visit of condolence! Then she was told that in eight days she might go back--though not to the wide dreary house, since it had already been utilised as a hospital. But Rahmân-sahib had promised to settle that from the rent of this, Jehân should pay for a more suitable lodging, and also allow her a proper pension.

A bracelet-brother indeed! Yet lying tongues traduced him and she, a bracelet-sister, could do nothing but listen to them! She wept softly over her own ingratitude, so that Lateefa, finding her thus engaged, attempted consolation on the old, old lines which belong to all faiths, all people, by saying that it was God's will, that Noormahal was taken from the evil to come, that she was at peace; until, finding his comfort unavailing, and being pressed for time, he told the old lady gently that she must not expect any more of his companionship that day, since, the term of his more rigorous segregation being over he was free to go out, provided he returned by sundown.

Then to his surprise she suddenly ceased her curious whimpering wail, and looked up at him swiftly.

'Thou canst go out! Then thou shalt go to him and tell him of the lies! Yea! and tell him that I, Khôjeeya Khânum, wear his gift, and--and will never forget him, and his beauty, and his kindness!'

'Tell him? echoed the kite-maker, wondering if he stood on his head or his heels when he was asked to take so fervent a message to a man, from so discreet a lady as Aunt Khôjee. It did not take long, however, to make him understand; for the old scavenger had swept out the men's quarters also. But, to the dear old lady's disgust, he was inclined to laugh at, and be sceptical over, both her indignation and that of those who had bought the amulet. The tale was not likely to be true. Why should the Huzoors go such a roundabout way to work when they had soldiers and guns? To be sure, these were few in Nushapore at the present moment, and folk were saying that the talk about Sobrai and Noormahal and Dilarâm--God curse the low-born pryers who know not how to keep silence for decency's sake!--had set the pultan (native regiment), which was a high-class Mohammedan one, by the ears; but there were plenty of rigiments close by. And, if it was true, what good would a message to Rahmân-sahib do? It would only make him angry. And if the tale were a lie, what would he care? Did the Huzoors ever care what folk said? Never! That was why they ruled the land.

But Aunt Khôjee was firm; even when Lateef--who had told her everything--protested that he had no time to lose; that if he was to have any chance of getting at the ring, which, he trusted, was still concealed among the kites, it must be before their selection for the flying match. Since, once they were chosen, none might touch them till the 'Sovereignty of Air' was decided. Even now he might be too late for the courtyard, and have to go to the turret, ready to seize his chance during the trials. And what is more--here he gave a glance at the sky--if he knew aught of kite-flying, those with fair ballast would surely be chosen to-day; and therefore, of course, the one which had the ring hidden in the guise of a bit of brick within a little calico bag!

'Then it is safe so far. It will be guarded till evening, and then thou canst see to it,' asserted Aunt Khôjee autocratically.

'Not till after sundown, mayhap, and I must return then; and who can tell what may happen if it is left longer,' persisted Lateef.

'Let what may happen! The daghdars will not kill thee--they are kind; and what is the ring, now, but empty honour, since there is no heir? But the other is different. Rahmân-sahib is bracelet-brother. He hath been kind--we owe him this. Wouldst thou be even as Jehân, Lateef, willing to steal honour from any?' Never in her long life had Aunt Khôjee been so obstinate.