“There must be some one to interpret between the Miss Sahib and the women,” he explained, and Mabel wondered why Fitz looked so stern and so uncomfortable. Presently the curtain at the end of the room was shaken a little, and Bahram Khan rose and spoke in a low voice through it to the person behind. Then he beckoned to Mabel, the curtain was raised slightly, and she passed through, to find herself in a small dark antechamber. A stout woman in native dress stood there, with a great key in her hand, and unlocking a door, motioned her into a dim passage. It was so gloomy and mysterious that she was conscious of a moment’s hesitation, but as soon as the door was shut the woman began to speak in English, as rapidly as if she was reciting a history she had learnt by heart. She spoke mincingly, and with a peculiar clipping accent which struck Mabel as disagreeable.
“Yes, Miss North, and I don’t wonder you’re surprised, I’m sure, to find me here, and as English as yourself. My poor papa was riding-master in a European regiment—none of your Black Horse—and my mamma was pure-blood Portuguese, and yet here I am.”
Even to the inexperienced eye the woman’s own face, though seen only in the half-light, gave the lie to her claim of pure European descent, but Mabel had not yet acquired the Anglo-Indian’s skill in distinguishing shades of colour, and did not care to dispute the assertion. Having taken breath, Jehanara went on—
“Yes, and I was educated at a real pucca boarding-school in the hills, Miss North—quite genteel, I assure you; one of the young ladies was the daughter of the Collector of Krishnaganj. And everything done so handsome—china-painting and making wax flowers, and all the extras—no expense spared. I wish I could lay my hands on some of the rupees that were poured out like water on my education, I do. I should commence to astonish the people about here, I assure you, Miss North.”
“You must have found this life very trying at first,” murmured Mabel.
“Trying’s no word for it, Miss North; it was just simply slavery. And I, that thought to be a princess, reduced to be treated like a common coolie woman, and thankful for that! Oh, I’ve been deceived shamefully, Miss North, and there is that makes allowances for me, and there is that doesn’t; but submit to be downtrodden I won’t be, not by any old black woman that calls herself a begum, nor yet by any fine gentleman officer that don’t think me good enough to talk to his lady wife.”
Some instinct told Mabel that it would not be well to inquire too minutely into the means by which this waif of “gentility” had been stranded on such an inhospitable shore; and to cut short the complaints, which threatened to become incoherent, she asked whether Jehanara knew her sister-in-law.
“Yes, Miss North, I do, and a real lady she is—no thanks to her high and mighty sahib of a husband. Spoke to me polite, she did, the only time I’ve seen her, and gave me some English books and papers to pass the time away. Not like Mrs Hardy—there’s a sanctimonious old cat for you, Miss North, and no mistake, drawing her dress away from me, and talking at me as if I was the very scum of the earth!”
Mabel began to feel uncomfortable. Mrs Hardy’s judgments had not much weight with her, but it was evident that Dick had directed Georgia to hold no more intercourse with this person than civility required, and she thought it well to hint that her time was limited.
“Oh, well, if you’re in such a hurry, Miss North, I’m sure I’m agreeable. A little talk with any one that’s English like myself is a treat I don’t often get, but I don’t desire to detain anybody to talk to me that doesn’t want to. The Begum will be ready to see you, I dare say.”