“And if it was,” she said querulously, “what better can his Highness, the son of my sister, do than what he proposes—namely, to restore the stone and take thee into his zenana, thus uniting thy influence with the fortunes of his house?”
Eveleen flushed angrily—the ladies watching as if fascinated the red spreading through the white skin. “We need not speak of that; it is not the custom of my people,” she said, controlling herself with difficulty. “Khanum, look——” she raised the heavy masses of hair from her temples, and showed the streaks of white that were making their appearance there. “I am old—old enough to be the mother of his Highness. Let me go with my own lord, whom I love, and who came to seek me after so many years.”
A little discussion arose. Jamal-ud-din’s mother held to her view of the case, Kamal-ud-din’s wives—not unnaturally—taking the other, though timidly and with due deference to their seniors. One of them thought that as the Farangi woman had a husband already, it was unnecessary to provide her with another; the other was cynically inclined, and said that in a world where such a thing as constancy was hardly to be found, it was a pity to make away with the one man who had proved himself faithful. The Khanum, listening and pondering, made it clear at last that she took a wider view of the matter.
“Is it true that by my son’s command, the Farangi Sahib is in no danger of death for the present?” she asked.
“That was his promise, Khanum.”
“And the gratitude that is his due—hast thou shown that? In return for the boon of life for thy lord, is good fortune once more to smile upon my son’s house?”
Eveleen was taken aback. “I wish him—and have wished him—all possible happiness,” she faltered.
“And success in his war with the English?”
“Nay,” wretchedly; “that I cannot do. Yet have pity, Khanum. Set not the life of my husband in the scale against”—a happy thought—“that of my brother.”
“The son of thy mother?” asked one of the girls with interest.