“All things are pardoned to great grief,” replied Murjânah. “It was not thy fault, O poor one! Would to Allah I could show thee what I see more clearly than I see thee in this room—the power of God, His mercy all around us. Fain would I hear thee give Him praise for thy misfortune. He sees and knows; we fancy; it is weak to strive. Think, O my fawn, my lily, thou hast still one child; thou hadst thy boy for thy delight for fifteen years. More fortunate than I who lost all mine in infancy! What peace can come to woman in thy case who does not offer up her will to God? The men have promise of a certain paradise; we have no certitude of what awaits us. Yet are we not dejected, for we know God’s mercy, and leave the future gladly in His hands. We women are not bargainers, we serve for love; and the mercy of the Highest cannot fail. Thou hast been brought up otherwise to prouder thoughts. Humble thy soul if thou wouldst find relief.”
“I proud?” cried Barakah. “Thou, the proudest woman I have ever known, canst call me so? I am not as thou art—strong and dauntless, cruel in thy resignation. I am feeble and afraid.”
“May Allah strengthen thee and drive out fear!”
Barakah had lost the vision which had come from Tâhir’s singing—a vision which ignored divergences of race and custom. Without her son the harîm life was senseless; she held the Muslim faith in secret dread; and longed for sentimental Christian people. Yûsuf, her husband, proved the soul of kindness, yet she had almost hated him in her revolt from all his race.
One day he told the ladies in her presence:
“The English are not bad. They take wise measures for the land’s redemption. They have asked me to take office, and I have a mind to do so.”
It was the first time she had heard the English mentioned since her reimprisonment. In fact, the Turkish pride had suffered cruelly from this intrusion of a European power, the more so that the natives of the land acclaimed it. Though the English arms restored their party in the State, the Turks in Egypt gnawed their lips and could not speak of them.
A new way of escape appeared to Barakah. She could obtain an audience of the English rulers and announce her longing to return to Christianity. She pined for the ideals of Christian lands, the independent life of women, and their varied interests. Here she had lost her value, having lost her son. She would soon be an old woman, a mere worn-out animal.
Directly she conceived this plan, she grew more cheerful, and even felt some kindness for the harîm walls. While making her endeavour to find out from Yûsuf the names of Englishmen of influence, their character and reputation, she wanted to make certain he would be consoled.
“Light of my eyes,” she whispered, nestling to him, “I have quite outgrown my foolish prejudice. I beg thee now to wed another wife. The son I bore to thee is dead, and I grow old.”