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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/35140-8.txt b/35140-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..21d471e --- /dev/null +++ b/35140-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3755 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Blind Mother and The Last Confession, by Hall Caine + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Blind Mother and The Last Confession + +Author: Hall Caine + +Release Date: February 1, 2011 [EBook #35140] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLIND MOTHER *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + The Blind Mother + + And + + The Last Confession + + BY HALL CAINE + + HALL CAINE'S BEST BOOKS + + + IN THREE VOLUMES + VOLUME II + + The Bondman + The Blind Mother + The Last Confession + + ILLUSTRATED + P. F. COLLIER & SON + NEW YORK + + + + + +THE BLIND MOTHER + + + + +I + + +The Vale of Newlands lay green in the morning sunlight; the river that +ran through its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leaves +prattled low in the light breeze that soughed through the rushes and the +long grass; the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake of +the sky, where only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peak +to peak. Out of unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumble +of distant cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters far +away was the thin caroling of birds overhead. + +But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. On the breast of the fell +that lies over against Cat Bell a procession of children walked, and +sang, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. Peter's Day, and they were +rush-bearing; little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen, +just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of four +in the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly in +front. Most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filled +with ferns, and mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at the +schoolhouse, and now, on their way to the church, they were making the +circuit of the dale. + +They passed over the road that crosses the river at the head of +Newlands, and turned down into the path that follows the bed of the +valley. At that angle there stands a little group of cottages +deliciously cool in their whitewash, nestling together under the heavy +purple crag from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep basin that +reaches to their walls. The last of the group is a cottage with its end +to the road, and its open porch facing a garden shaped like a wedge. As +the children passed this house an old man, gray and thin and much bent, +stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. A collie, with the sheep's dog +wooden bar suspended from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. The hum of +voices brought a young woman into the porch. She was bareheaded and wore +a light print gown. Her face was pale and marked with lines. She walked +cautiously, stretching one hand before her with an uncertain motion, and +grasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle that swept downward from the +roof. Her eyes, which were partly inclined upward and partly turned +toward the procession, had a vague light in their bleached pupils. She +was blind. At her side, and tugging at her other hand, was a child of a +year and a half--a chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, blue +eyes, and fair curly hair. Prattling, laughing, singing snatches, and +waving their rushes and ferns above their happy, thoughtless heads, the +children rattled past. When they were gone the air was empty, as it is +when the lark stops in its song. + +After the procession of children had passed the little cottage at the +angle of the roads, the old man who leaned on his staff at the gate +turned about and stepped to the porch. + +"Did the boy see them?--did he see the children?" said the young woman +who held the child by the hand. + +"I mak' na doot," said the old man. + +He stooped to the little one and held out one long withered finger. The +soft baby hand closed on it instantly. + +"Did he laugh? I thought he laughed," said the young woman. + +A bright smile played on her lips. + +"Maybe so, lass." + +"Ralphie has never seen the children before, father. Didn't he look +frightened--just a little bit frightened--at first, you know? I thought +he crept behind my gown." + +"Maybe, maybe." + +The little one had dropped the hand of his young mother, and, still +holding the bony finger of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into +the house. + +Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard +earthen floor. A table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser +that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins, +crossed the opposite wall. + +"Nay, but sista here, laal lad," said the old man, and he dived into a +great pocket at his side. + +"Have you brought it? Is it the kitten? Oh, dear, let the boy see it!" + +A kitten came out of the old man's pocket, and was set down on the rug +at the hearth. The timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself on its +hind legs and mewed. + +"Where's Ralphie? Is he watching it, father? What is he doing?" + +The little one had dropped on hands and knees before the kitten, and was +gazing up into its face. + +The mother leaned over him with a face that would have beamed with +sunshine if the sun of sight had not been missing. + +"Is he looking? Doesn't he want to coddle it?" + +The little chap had pushed his nose close to the nose of the kitten, and +was prattling to it in various inarticulate noises. + +"Boo--loo--lal-la--mama." + +"Isn't he a darling, father?" + +"It's a winsome wee thing," said the old man, still standing, with +drooping head, over the group on the hearth. + +The mother's face saddened, and she turned away. Then from the opposite +side of the kitchen, where she was making pretense to take plates from a +plate-rack, there came the sound of suppressed weeping. The old man's +eyes followed her. + +"Nay, lass; let's have a sup of broth," he said, in a tone that carried +another message. + +The young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table. + +"To think that I can never see my own child, and everybody else can see +him!" she said, and then there was another bout of tears. + +The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. A glistening bead +rolled slowly down his wizened cheek: and the interview on the hearth +went on without interruption: + +"Mew--mew--mew. Boo--loo--lal-la--mama." + +The child made efforts to drag himself to his feet by laying hold of the +old man's trousers. + +"Nay, laddie," said the old man, "mind my claes--they'll dirty thy +bran-new brat for thee." + +"Is he growing, father?" said the girl. + +"Growing?--amain." + +"And his eyes--are they changing color?--going brown? Children's eyes +do, you know." + +"Maybe--I'll not be for saying nay." + +"Is he--is he _very_ like me, father?" + +"Nay--well--nay--I's fancying I see summat of the stranger in the laal +chap at whiles." + +The young mother turned her head aside. + + * * * * * + +The old man's name was Matthew Fisher; but the folks of the countryside +called him Laird Fisher. This dubious dignity came of the circumstance +that he had been the holder of an absolute royalty in a few acres of +land under Hindscarth. The royalty had been many generations in his +family. His grandfather had set store by it. When the Lord of the Manor +had worked the copper pits at the foot of the Eal Crags, he had tried to +possess himself of the royalties of the Fishers. But the present +families resisted the aristocrat. Luke Fisher believed there was a +fortune under his feet, and he meant to try his luck on his holding some +day. That day never came. His son, Mark Fisher, carried on the +tradition, but made no effort to unearth the fortune. They were a cool, +silent, slow, and stubborn race. Matthew Fisher followed his father and +his grandfather, and inherited the family pride. All these years the +tenders of the Lord of the Manor were ignored, and the Fishers enjoyed +their title of courtesy or badinage. Matthew married, and had one +daughter called Mercy. He farmed his few acres with poor results. The +ground was good enough, but Matthew was living under the shadow of the +family tradition. One day--it was Sunday morning, and the sun shone +brightly--he was rambling by the Po Bett that rises on Hindscarth, and +passed through his land, when his eyes glanced over a glittering stone +that lay among the pebbles at the bottom of the stream. It was ore, good +full ore, and on the very surface. Then the Laird sank a shaft, and all +his earnings with it, in an attempt to procure iron or copper. The +dalespeople derided him, but he held silently on his way. + +"How dusta find the cobbles to-day--any softer?" they would say in +passing. + +"As soft as the hearts of most folk," he would answer; and then add in a +murmur, "and maybe a vast harder nor their heads." + +The undeceiving came at length, and then the Laird Fisher was old and +poor. His wife died broken-hearted. After that the Laird never rallied. +The shaft was left unworked, and the holding lay fallow. Laird Fisher +took wage from the Lord of the Manor to burn charcoal in the wood. The +breezy irony of the dalesfolk did not spare the old man's bent head. +There was a rime current in the vale which ran: + + "There's t'auld laird, and t'young laird, and t'laird among t'barns, + If iver there comes another laird, we'll hang him up by t'arms." + +A second man came to Matthew's abandoned workings. He put money into it +and skill and knowledge, struck a vein, and began to realize a fortune. +The only thing he did for the old Laird was to make him his banksman at +a pound a week--the only thing save one thing, and that is the beginning +of this story. + +The man's name was Hugh Ritson. He was the second son of a Cumbrian +statesman in a neighboring valley, was seven-and-twenty, and had been +brought up as a mining engineer, first at Cleaton Moor and afterward at +the College in Jerman Street. When he returned to Cumberland and bought +the old Laird's holding he saw something of the old Laird's daughter. He +remembered Mercy as a pretty prattling thing of ten or eleven. She was +now a girl of eighteen, with a simple face, a timid manner, and an air +that was neither that of a woman nor of a child. Her mother was lately +dead, her father spent most of his days on the fell (some of his nights +also when the charcoal was burning), and she was much alone. Hugh Ritson +liked her sweet face, her gentle replies, and her few simple questions. +It is unnecessary to go further. The girl gave herself up to him with +her whole heart and soul. Then he married another woman. + +The wife was the daughter of the Vicar, Parson Christian. Her name was +Greta: she was beautiful to look upon--a girl of spirit and character. +Greta knew nothing of Hugh Ritson's intercourse with Mercy until after +he had become her husband. Mercy was then in the depth of her trouble, +and Greta had gone to comfort her. Down to that hour, though idle +tongues had wagged, no one had lighted on Mercy's lover, and not even in +her fear had she confessed. Greta told her that it was brave and +beautiful to shield her friend, but he was unworthy of her friendship or +he would stand by her side--who was he? It was a trying moment. Greta +urged and pleaded and coaxed, and Mercy trembled and stammered and was +silent. The truth came out at last, and from that moment the love +between the two women was like the love of David and Jonathan. Hugh +Ritson was compelled to stand apart and witness it. He could not +recognize it; he dared not oppose it; he could only drop his head and +hold his tongue. It was coals of fire on his head from both sides. The +women never afterward mentioned him to each other, and yet somehow--by +some paradox of love--he was the bond between them. + +A month before the birth of the child, Mercy became blind. This happened +suddenly and without much warning. A little cold in the eyes, a little +redness around them and a total eclipse of sight. If such a disaster had +befallen a married wife, looking forward to a happy motherhood, death +itself might have seemed a doom more kind. But Mercy took it with a +sombre quietness. She was even heard to say that it was just as well. +These startling words, repeated to Greta, just told her something of the +mystery and misery of Mercy's state. But their full meaning, the whole +depth of the shame they came from, were only revealed on the morning +after the night on which Mercy's child was born. + +They were in the room upstairs, where Mercy herself had been born less +than nineteen years before: a little chamber with the low eaves and the +open roof rising to the ridge: a peaceful place with its white-washed +walls and the odor of clean linen. On the pillow of the bed lay the +simple face of the girl-mother, with its fair hair hanging loose and its +blind eyes closed. Mercy had just awakened from the first deep sleep +that comes after all is over, and the long fingers of one of her thin +hands were plucking at the white counterpane. In a nervous voice she +began to speak. Where was Mrs. Ritson? Greta answered that she was +there, and the baby was sleeping on her knee. Anybody else? No, nobody +else. Was it morning? Yes, it was eight in the morning, and her father, +who had not been to bed, had eaten his breakfast, and lighted his pipe +and gone to work. Was the day fine? Very fine. And the sun shining? Yes, +shining beautifully. Was the blind down? Yes, the little white blind was +down. Then all the room was full of that soft light? Oh, yes, full of +it. Except in the corner by the washstand? Well, except in the corner. +Was the washstand still there? Why, yes, it was still there. And +mother's picture on the wall above it? Oh, dear, yes. And the chest of +drawers near the door with the bits of sparkling lead ore on top? Of +course. And the texts pinned on to the wall-paper: "Come unto Me"--eh? +Yes, they were all there. Then everything was just the same? Oh, yes, +everything the same. + +"The same," cried Mercy, "everything the same, but, O Lord Jesus, how +different!" + +The child was awakened by the shrill sound of her voice, and it began to +whimper, and Greta to hush it, swaying it on her knee, and calling it by +a score of pretty names. Mercy raised her head a moment and listened, +then fell back to the pillow and said, "How glad I am I'm blind!" + +"Good gracious, Mercy, what are you saying?" said Greta. + +"I'm glad I can't see it." + +"Mercy!" + +"Ah, you're different, Mrs. Ritson. I was thinking of that last night. +When your time comes perhaps you'll be afraid you'll die, but you'll +never be afraid you'll not. And you'll say to yourself, 'It will be over +soon, and then what joy!' That wasn't my case. When I was at the worst I +could only think, 'It's dreadful now, but oh, to-morrow all the world +will be different.'" + +One poor little day changed all this. Toward sunset the child had to be +given the breast for the first time. Ah! that mystery of life, that +mystery of motherhood, what are the accidents of social law, the big +conventions of virtue and vice, of honor and disgrace, before the touch +of the spreading fingers of a babe as they fasten on the mother's +breast! Mercy thought no more of her shame. + +She had her baby for it, at all events. The world was not utterly +desolate. After all, God was very good! + +Then came a great longing for sight. She only wished to see her child. +That was all. Wasn't it hard that a mother had never seen her own baby? +In her darkness she would feel its little nose as it lay asleep beside +her, and let her hand play around its mouth and over its eyes and about +its ears. Her touch passed over the little one like a look. It was +almost as if there were sight in the tips of her fingers. + +The child lived to be six months old, and still Mercy had not seen him; +a year, and yet she had no hope. Then Greta, in pity of the yearning +gaze of the blind girl-face whenever she came and kissed the boy and +said how bonny he was, sent to Liverpool for a doctor, that at least +they might know for a certainty if Mercy's sight was gone forever. The +doctor came. Yes, there was hope. The mischief was cataract on both +eyes. Sight might return, but an operation would be necessary. That +could not, however, be performed immediately. He would come again in a +month, and a colleague with him, and meantime the eyes must be bathed +constantly in a liquid which they would send for the purpose. + +At first Mercy was beside herself with delight. She plucked up the boy +and kissed and kissed him. The whole day long she sang all over the +house like a liberated bird. Her face, though it was blind, was like +sunshine, for the joyous mouth smiled like eyes. Then suddenly there +came a change. She plucked up the boy and kissed him still, but she did +not sing and she did not smile. A heavy thought had come to her. Ah! if +she should die under the doctor's hands! Was it not better to live in +blindness and keep her boy than to try to see him and so lose him +altogether? Thus it was with her on St. Peter's Day, when the children +of the dale went by at their rush-bearing. + + * * * * * + +There was the faint sound of a footstep outside. + +"Hark!" said Mercy, half rising from the sconce. "It's Mrs. Ritson's +foot." + +The man listened. "Nay, lass, there's no foot," said Matthew. + +"Yes, she's on the road," said Mercy. Her face showed that pathetic +tension of the other senses which is peculiar to the blind. A moment +later Greta stepped into the cottage, with a letter in her hand. +"Good-morning, Matthew; I have news for you, Mercy. The doctors are +coming to-day." + +Mercy's face fell perceptibly. The old man's head dropped lower. + +"There, don't be afraid," said Greta, touching her hand caressingly. "It +will soon be over. The doctors didn't hurt you before, did they?" + +"No, but this time it will be the operation," said Mercy. There was a +tremor in her voice. + +Greta had lifted the child from the sconce. The little fellow cooed +close to her ear; and babbled his inarticulate nothings. + +"Only think, when it's all over you will be able to see your darling +Ralphie for the first time!" + +Mercy's sightless face brightened. "Oh, yes," she said, "and watch him +play, and see him spin his tops and chase the butterflies. Oh, that will +be very good!" + +"Dusta say to-day, Mistress Ritson?" asked Matthew, the big drops +standing in his eyes. + +"Yes, Matthew; I will stay to see it over, and mind baby, and help a +little." + +Mercy took the little one from Greta's arms and cried over it, and +laughed over it, and then cried and laughed again. "Mama and Ralphie +shall play together in the garden, darling; and Ralphie shall see the +horses--and the flowers--and the birdies--and mama--yes, mama shall see +Ralphie." + + + + +II + + +Two hours later the doctors arrived. They looked at Mercy's eyes, and +were satisfied that the time was ripe for the operation. At the sound of +their voices, Mercy trembled and turned livid. By a maternal instinct +she picked up the child, who was toddling about the floor, and clasped +it to her bosom. The little one opened wide his blue eyes at sight of +the strangers, and the prattling tongue became quiet. + +"Take her to her room, and let her lie on the bed," said one of the +doctors to Greta. + +A sudden terror seized the young mother. "No, no, no!" she said, in an +indescribable accent, and the child cried a little from the pressure to +her breast. + +"Come, Mercy, dear, be brave for your boy's sake," said Greta. + +"Listen to me," said the doctor, quietly but firmly: "You are now quite +blind, and you have been in total darkness for a year and a half. We may +be able to restore your sight by giving you a few minutes' pain. Will +you not bear it?" + +Mercy sobbed, and kissed the child passionately. + +"Just think, it is quite certain that without an operation you will +never regain your sight," continued the doctor. "You have nothing to +lose, and everything to gain. Are you satisfied? Come, go away to your +room quietly." + +"Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Mercy. + +"Just imagine, only a few minutes' pain, and even of that you will +scarcely be conscious. Before you know what is doing it will be done." + +Mercy clung closer to her child, and kissed it again and yet more +fervently. + +The doctors turned to each other. "Strange vanity!" muttered the one who +had not spoken before. "Her eyes are useless, and yet she is afraid she +may lose them." + +Mercy's quick ears caught the whispered words. "It is not that," she +said, passionately. + +"No, gentlemen," said Greta, "you have mistaken her thought. Tell her +she runs no danger of her life." + +The doctors smiled and laughed a little. "Oh, that's it, eh? Well, we +can tell her that with certainty." + +Then there was another interchange of half-amused glances. + +"Ah, we that be men, sirs, don't know the depth and tenderness of a +mother's heart," said old Matthew. And Mercy turned toward him a face +that was full of gratitude. Greta took the child out of her arms and +hushed it to sleep in another room. Then she brought it back and put it +in its cradle that stood in the ingle. + +"Come, Mercy," she said, "for the sake of your boy." And Mercy permitted +herself to be led from the kitchen. + +"So there will be no danger," she said. "I shall not leave my boy. Who +said that? The doctor? Oh, good gracious, it's nothing. Only think, I +shall live to see him grow to be a great lad." + +Her whole face was now radiant. + +"It will be nothing. Oh, no, it will be nothing. How silly it was to +think that he would live on, and grow up, and be a man, and I lie cold +in the churchyard--and me his mother! That was very childish, wasn't it? +But, then, I have been so childish since Ralphie came." + +"There, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be over," said Greta. + +"Let me kiss him first. Do let me kiss him! Only once. You know it's a +great risk after all. And if he grew up--and I wasn't here--if--if--" + +"There, dear Mercy, you must not cry again. It inflames your eyes, and +that can't be good for the doctors." + +"No, no, I won't cry. You are very good; everybody is very good. Only +let me kiss my little Ralphie--just for the last." + +Greta led her back to the side of the cot, and she spread herself over +it with outstretched arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched +wings over her brood. Then she rose, and her face was peaceful and +resigned. + +The Laird Fisher sat down before the kitchen fire, with one arm on the +cradle head. Parson Christian stood beside him. The old charcoal-burner +wept in silence, and the good Parson's voice was too thick for the words +of comfort that rose to his lips. + +The doctors followed into the bedroom. Mercy was lying tranquilly on her +bed. Her countenance was without expression. She was busy with her own +thoughts. Greta stood by the bedside; anxiety was written in every line +of her beautiful, brave face. + +"We must give her the gas," said one of the doctors, addressing the +other. + +Mercy's features twitched. + +"Who said that?" she asked nervously. + +"My child, you must be quiet," said the doctor in a tone of authority. + +"Yes, I will be quiet, very quiet; only don't make me unconscious," she +said. "Never mind me; I will not cry. No; if you hurt me I will not cry +out. I will not stir. I will do everything you ask. And you shall say +how quiet I have been. Only don't let me be insensible." + +The doctors consulted together aside, and in whispers. + +"Who spoke about the gas? It wasn't you, Mrs. Ritson, was it?" + +"You must do as the doctors wish, dear," said Greta in a caressing +voice. + +"Oh, I will be very good. I will do every little thing. Yes, and I will +be so brave. I am a little childish sometimes, but I _can_ be brave, +can't I?" + +The doctors returned to the bedside. + +"Very well, we will not use the gas," said one. "You are a brave little +woman, after all. There, be still--very still." + +One of the doctors was tearing linen into strips for bandages, while the +other fixed Mercy's head to suit the light. + +There was a faint sound from the kitchen. "Wait," said Mercy. "That is +father--he's crying. Tell him not to cry. Say it's nothing." + +She laughed a weak little laugh. + +"There, he will hear that; go and say it was I who laughed." + +Greta left the room on tiptoe. Old Matthew was still sitting over a +dying fire, gently rocking the sleeping child. + +When Greta returned to the bedroom, Mercy called her, and said, very +softly, "Let me hold your hand, Greta--may I say Greta?--there," and her +fingers closed on Greta's with a convulsive grasp. + +The operation began. Mercy held her breath. She had the stubborn +north-country blood in her. Once only a sigh escaped. There was a dead +silence. + +In two or three minutes the doctor said, "Just another minute, and all +will be over." + +At the next instant Greta felt her hand held with a grasp of iron. + +"Doctor, doctor, I can see you," cried Mercy, and her words came in +gusts. + +"Be quiet," said the doctor in a stern voice. In half a minute more the +linen bandages were being wrapped tightly over Mercy's eyes. + +"Doctor, dear doctor, let me see my boy!" cried Mercy. + +"Be quiet, I say," said the doctor again. + +"Dear doctor, my dear doctor, only one peep--one little peep. I saw your +face--let me see my Ralphie's." + +"Not yet, it is not safe." + +"But only for a moment. Don't put the bandage on for one moment. Just +think, doctor, I have never seen my boy; I've seen other people's +children, but never once my own, own darling. Oh, dear doctor--" + +"You are exciting yourself. Listen to me: if you don't behave yourself +now you may never see your child." + +"Yes, yes, I will behave myself; I will be very good. Only don't shut me +up in darkness again until I see my boy. Greta, bring him to me. Listen, +I hear his breathing. Go for my darling! The kind doctor won't be angry +with you. Tell him that if I see my child it will cure me. I know it +will." + +Greta's eyes were swimming in tears. + +"Rest quiet, Mercy. Everything may be lost if you disturb yourself now, +my dear." + +The doctors were wrapping bandage over bandage, and fixing them firmly +at the back of their patient's head. + +"Now listen again," said one of them: "This bandage must be kept over +your eyes for a week." + +"A week--a whole week? Oh, doctor, you might as well say forever." + +"I say a week. And if you should ever remove it--" + +"Not for an instant? Not raise it a very little?" + +"If you ever remove it for an instant, or raise it ever so little, you +will assuredly lose your sight forever. Remember that." + +"Oh, doctor, it is terrible. Why did you not tell me so before? Oh this +is worse than blindness! Think of the temptation, and I have never seen +my boy!" + +The doctor had fixed the bandage, and his voice was less stern, but no +less resolute. + +"You must obey me," he said; "I will come again this day week, and then +you shall see your child, and your father, and this young lady, and +everybody. But mind, if you don't obey me, you will never see anything. +You will have one glance of your little boy, and then be blind forever, +or perhaps--yes, perhaps _die_." + +Mercy lay quiet for a moment. Then she said, in a low voice: + +"Dear doctor, you must forgive me. I am very wilful, and I promised to +be so good. I will not touch the bandage. No, for the sake of my little +boy, I will never, never touch it. You shall come yourself and take it +off, and then I shall see him." + +The doctors went away. Greta remained all that night in the cottage. + +"You are happy now, Mercy?" said Greta. + +"Oh yes," said Mercy. "Just think, only a week! And he must be so +beautiful by this time." + +When Greta took the child to her at sunset, there was an ineffable joy +in her pale face, and next morning, when Greta awoke, Mercy was singing +softly to herself in the sunrise. + + + + +III + + +Greta stayed with Mercy until noon that day, begging, entreating, and +finally commanding her to lie quiet in bed, while she herself dressed +and fed the child, and cooked and cleaned, in spite of the Laird +Fisher's protestations. When all was done, and the old charcoal-burner +had gone out on the hills, Greta picked up the little fellow in her arms +and went to Mercy's room. Mercy was alert to every sound, and in an +instant was sitting up in bed. Her face beamed, her parted lips smiled, +her delicate fingers plucked nervously at the counterpane. + +"How brightsome it is to-day, Greta," she said. "I'm sure the sun must +be shining." + +The window was open, and a soft breeze floated through the sun's rays +into the room. Mercy inclined her head aside, and added, "Ah, you young +rogue, you; you are there, are you? Give him to me, the rascal!" The +rogue was set down in his mother's arms, and she proceeded to punish his +rascality with a shower of kisses. "How bonny his cheeks must be; they +will be just like two ripe apples," and forthwith there fell another +shower of kisses. Then she babbled over the little one, and lisped, and +stammered, and nodded her head in his face, and blew little puffs of +breath into his hair, and tickled him until he laughed and crowed and +rolled and threw up his legs; and then she kissed his limbs and +extremities in a way that mothers have, and finally imprisoned one of +his feet by putting it ankle-deep into her mouth. "Would you ever think +a foot could be so tiny, Greta?" she said. And the little one plunged +about and clambered laboriously up its mother's breast, and more than +once plucked at the white bandage about her head. "No, no, Ralphie must +not touch," said Mercy with sudden gravity. "Only think, Ralphie pet, +one week--only one--nay, less--only six days now, and then--oh, then--!" +A long hug, and the little fellow's boisterous protest against the +convulsive pressure abridged the mother's prophecy. + +All at once Mercy's manner changed. She turned toward Greta, and said, +"I will not touch the bandage, no, never; but if Ralphie tugged at it, +and it fell--would that be breaking my promise?" + +Greta saw what was in her heart. + +"I'm afraid it would, dear," she said, but there was a tremor in her +voice. + +Mercy sighed audibly. + +"Just think, it would be only Ralphie. The kind doctors could not be +angry with my little child. I would say, 'It was the boy,' and they +would smile and say, 'Ah, that is different.'" + +"Give me the little one," said Greta with emotion. + +Mercy drew the child closer, and there was a pause. + +"I was very wrong, Greta," she said in a low tone. "Oh! you would not +think what a fearful thing came into my mind a minute ago. Take my +Ralphie. Just imagine, my own innocent baby tempted me." + +As Greta reached across the bed to lift the child out of his mother's +lap, the little fellow was struggling to communicate, by help of a +limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence of recent events that +somewhat overshadowed his little existence. "Puss--dat," many times +repeated, was further explained by one chubby forefinger with its +diminutive finger nail pointed to the fat back of the other hand. + +"He means that the little cat has scratched him," said Greta. "But bless +the mite, he is pointing to the wrong hand." + +"Puss--dat," continued the child, and peered up into his mother's +sightless face. Mercy was all tears in an instant. She had borne +yesterday's operation without a groan, but now the scratch on her +child's hand went to her heart like a stab. + +"Lie quiet, Mercy," said Greta; "it will be gone to-morrow." + +"Go-on," echoed the little chap, and pointed out at the window. + +"The darling, how he picks up every word!" said Greta. + +"He means the horse," explained Mercy. + +"Go-on--man--go-on," prattled the little one, with a child's +in-difference to all conversation except his own. + +"Bless the love, he must remember the doctor and his horse," said Greta. + +Mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on the little hand. + +"Oh, Greta, I am very childish; but a mother's heart melts like butter." + +"Batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out of Greta's arms to the +ground, where he forthwith clambered on to the stool, and possessed +himself of a slice of bread which lay on the table at the bedside. Then +the fair curly head disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the +door to the kitchen. + +"What shall I care if other mothers see my child? I shall see him too," +said Mercy, and she sighed. "Yes," she added, softly, "his hands and his +eyes and his feet, and his soft hair." + +"Try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said Greta, "and then perhaps you +may get up this afternoon--only _perhaps_, you know, but we'll see." + +"Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are." + +"You will be kinder to me some day," said Greta very tenderly. + +"How very selfish I am. But then it is so hard not to be selfish when +you are a mother. Only fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy now. No, +never. I'm just Ralphie's mama. When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died +in some way. That's very silly, isn't it? Only it does seem true." + +"Man--go-on--batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the +patter of tiny feet. + +"Listen to him. How tricksome he is! And you should hear him cry 'Oh!' +You would say, 'That child has had an eye knocked out.' And then, in a +minute, behold he is laughing once more. There, I'm selfish again; but I +will make up for it some day, if God is good." + +"Yes, Mercy, He is good," said Greta. + +Her arm rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her eyes +swam. Did it seem at that moment as if God had been very good to these +two women? + +"Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think +Ralphie is like--anybody?" + +"Yes, dear, he is like you." + +There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes +and plucked at Greta's gown. + +"Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father +knows who it is?" + +"I can not say--_we_ have never told him." + +"Nor I--he never asked, never once--only, you know, he gave up his work +at the mine, and went back to the charcoal-pit when Ralphie came. But he +never said a word." + +Greta did not answer. At that moment the bedroom door was pushed open +with a little lordly bang, and the great wee man entered with his piece +of bread insecurely on one prong of a fork. + +"Toas'," he explained complacently, "toas'," and walked up to the empty +grate and stretched his arm over the fender at the cold bars. + +"Why, there's no fire for toast, you darling goose," said Greta, +catching him in her arms, much to his masculine vexation. + +Mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face was full of the yearning of +the blind. Then she lay back. + +"Never mind," she said to herself in a faltering voice, "let me lie +quiet and _think_ of all his pretty ways." + + + + +IV + + +Greta returned home toward noon, laughing and crying a little to herself +as she walked, for she was full of a dear delicious envy. She was +thinking that she could take all the shame and all the pain for all the +joy of Mercy's motherhood. + +God had given Greta no children. + +Hugh Ritson came in to their early dinner and she told him how things +went at the cottage of the old Laird Fisher. Only once before had she +mentioned Mercy or the child, and he looked confused and awkward. After +the meal was over he tried to say something which had been on his mind +for weeks. + +"But if anything should happen after all," he began, "and Mercy should +not recover--or if she should ever want to go anywhere--might we not +take--would you mind, Greta--I mean it might even help her--you see," he +said, breaking down nearly, "there is the child, it's a sort of duty, +you know--and then a good home and upbringing--" + +"Don't tempt me," said Greta. "I've thought of it a hundred times." + +About five o'clock the same evening a knock came to the door, and old +Laird Fisher entered. His manner was more than usually solemn and +constrained. + +"I's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is taken badly," he said, "and +rayder suddent." + +Greta rose from her seat and put on her hat and cloak. She was hastening +down the road while the charcoal-burner was still standing in the middle +of the floor. + +When Greta reached the old charcoal-burner's cottage, the little one was +lying in a drowsy state in Mercy's arms. Its breathing seemed difficult; +sometimes it started in terror; it was feverish and suffered thirst. The +mother's wistful face was bent down on it with an indescribable +expression. There were only the trembling lips to tell of the sharp +struggle that was going on within. But the yearning for a sight of the +little flushed countenance, the tearless appeal for but one glimpse of +the drowsy little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's heart +against the fate that made the child she had suckled at her breast a +stranger, whose very features she might not know--all this was written +in that blind face. + +"Is he pale?" said Mercy. "Is he sleeping? He does not talk now, but +only starts and cries, and sometimes coughs." + +"When did this begin?" asked Greta. + +"Toward four o'clock. He had been playing, and I noticed that he +breathed heavily, and then he came to me to be nursed. Is he awake now? +Listen." + +The little one in its restless drowsiness was muttering faintly, +"Man--go-on--batter--toas'." + +"The darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he?" said Mercy. + +Then there was a ringing, brassy cough. + +"It is croup," thought Greta. + +She closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the +steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and +wrapped them about the child's neck. She stayed all that night at the +cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could not +be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. It had not yet taken +hold of her that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy and a little +feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he +would be better in the morning. Oh, yes, he would soon be well again, +and tearing up the flowers in the garden. + +Toward midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the breathing became quieter, +and the whole nature seemed to sink. Mercy listened with her ear bent +down at the child's mouth, and a smile of ineffable joy spread itself +over her face. + +"Bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she said. + +Greta did not answer. + +"The 'puss' and the 'man' don't darken his little life so much now," +continued Mercy cheerily. + +"No, dear," said Greta, in as strong a voice as she could summon. + +"All will be well with my darling boy soon, will it not?" + +"Yes, dear," said Greta, with a struggle. + +Happily Mercy could not read the other answer in her face. + +Mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the child's nose, and was +touching him lightly about the mouth. + +"Greta," she said in a startled whisper, "does he look pinched?" + +"A little," said Greta quietly. + +"And his skin--is it cold and clammy?" + +"We must give him another hot flannel," said Greta. + +Mercy sat at the bedside, and said nothing for an hour. Then all at +once, and in a strange, harsh voice, she said: + +"I wish God had not made Ralphie so winsome." + +Greta started at the words, but made no answer. + +The daylight came early. As the first gleams of gray light came in at +the window, Greta turned to where Mercy sat in silence. It was a sad +face that she saw in the mingled yellow light of the dying lamp and the +gray of the dawn. + +Mercy spoke again. + +"Greta, do you remember what Mistress Branthet said when her baby died +last back end gone twelvemonth?" + +Greta looked up quickly at the bandaged eyes. + +"What?" she asked. + +"Well, Parson Christian tried to comfort her and said: 'Your baby is now +an angel in Paradise,' and she turned on him with: 'Shaf on your +angels--I want none on 'em--I want my little girl.'" + +Mercy's voice broke into a sob. + +Toward ten o'clock the doctor came. He had been detained. Very sorry to +disoblige Mrs. Ritson, but fact was old Mr. de Broadthwaite had an +attack of lumbago, complicated by a bout of toothache, and everybody +knew he was most exacting. Young person's baby ill? Feverish, restless, +starts in its sleep, and cough? Ah, croupy cough--yes, croup, true +croup, not spasmodic. Let him see, how old? A year and a half? Ah, bad, +very. Most frequent in second year of infancy. Dangerous, highly so. +Forms a membrane that occludes air-passages. Often ends in convulsions, +and child suffocates. Sad, very. Let him see again. How long since the +attack began? Yesterday at four. Ah, far gone, far. The great man soon +vanished, leaving behind him a harmless preparation of aconite and +ipecacuanha. + +Mercy had heard all, and her pent-up grief broke out in sobs. + +"Oh, to think I shall hear my Ralphie no more, and to know his white +cold face is looking up from a coffin, while other children are playing +in the sunshine and chasing the butterflies! No, no, it can not be; God +will not let it come to pass; I will pray to Him and He will save my +child. Why, He can do anything, and He has all the world. What is my +little baby boy to Him? He will not let it be taken from me." + +Greta's heart was too full for speech. But she might weep in silence, +and none there would know. Mercy stretched across the bed, and, tenderly +folding the child in her arms, she lifted him up, and then went down on +her knees. + +"Merciful Father," she said in a childish voice of sweet confidence, +"this is my baby, my Ralphie, and I love him so dearly. You would never +think how much I love him. But he is ill, and doctor says he may die. +Oh, dear Father, only think what it would be to say, 'His little face is +gone.' And then I have never seen him. You will not take him away until +his mother sees him. So soon, too. Only five days more. Why, it is quite +close. Not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next, but the day after +that." + +She put in many another childlike plea, and then rose with a smile on +her pale lips and replaced the little one on his pillow. + +"How patient he is," she said. "He can't say 'Thank you,' but I'm sure +his eyes are speaking. Let me feel." She put her finger lightly on the +child's lids. "No, they are shut; he must be sleeping. Oh, dear, he +sleeps very much. Is he gaining color? How quiet he is. If he would only +say, 'Mama!' How I wish I could see him!" + +She was very quiet for a while, and then plucked at Greta's gown +suddenly. + +"Greta," she said eagerly, "something tells me that if I could only see +Ralphie I should save him." + +Greta started up in terror. "No, no, no; you must not think of it," she +said. + +"But something whispered it. It must have been God himself. You know we +ought to obey God always." + +"Mercy, it was not God who said that. It was your own heart. You must +not heed it." + +"I'm sure it was God," said Mercy. "And I heard it quite plain." + +"Mercy, my darling, think what you are saying. Think what it is you wish +to do. If you do it you will be blind forever." + +"But I shall have saved my Ralphie." + +"No, no; you will not." + +"Will he not be saved, Greta?" + +"Only our heavenly Father knows." + +"Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, as you say, He knows best." + +Greta was almost distraught with fear. The noble soul in her would not +allow her to appeal to Mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal +love. But she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. If Mercy +regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost +it the future must be a blank. + +The day wore slowly on, and the child sank and sank. At evening the old +charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. He stood a moment +and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes +opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its +palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand. + +The old man's lips quivered behind his white beard. + +"It were a winsome wee thing," he said faintly, and then turned away. + +He left his supper untouched, and went into the porch. There he sat on a +bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sinking over the head +of the Eal Crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; only the bald top +of Cat Bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. A gentle +breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its +multitudinous tongues in a field below. The dog lay at the +charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a +buzzing fly. + +The little life within was ebbing away. No longer racked by the ringing +cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. Mercy +lifted the child from the bed, and sat with it before the fire. Greta +saw its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move +slightly, but she heard nothing. + +"He is calling his mama," said Mercy, with her ear bent toward the +child's mouth. + +There was a silence for a long time. Mercy pressed the child to her +breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her. + +Greta stood and looked down; she saw the little lips move once more, but +again she heard no sound. + +"He is calling his mama," repeated Mercy wistfully, "and oh, he seems +such a long way off." + +Once again the little lips moved. + +"He is calling me," said Mercy, listening intently; and she grew +restless and excited. "He is going away. I can hear him. He is far off. +Ralphie, Ralphie!" She had lifted the child up to her face. "Ralphie, +Ralphie!" she cried. + +"Give me the baby, Mercy," said Greta. + +But the mother clung to it with a convulsive grasp. + +"Ralphie, Ralphie, Ralphie...." + +There was a sudden flash of some white thing. In an instant the bandage +had fallen from Mercy's head, and she was peering down into the child's +face with wild eyes. + +"Ralphie, Ralphie!... _Hugh!_" she cried. + +The mother had seen her babe at last, and in that instant she had +recognized the features of its father. + +At the next moment the angel of God passed through that troubled house, +and the child lay dead at the mother's breast. + +Mercy saw it all, and her impassioned mood left her. She rose to her +feet quietly, and laid the little one in the bed. There was never a sigh +more, never a tear. Only her face was ashy pale, and her whitening lips +quivered. + +"Greta," she said, very slowly, "good-by! All is over now." + +She spoke of herself as if her days were already ended and past; as if +her own orb of life had been rounded by the brief span of the little +existence that lay finished on the bed. + +"When they come in the morning early--very early--and find us here, my +boy and me, don't let them take him away from me, Greta. We should go +together--yes, both together; that's only right, with Ralphie at my +bosom." + +The bandage lay at her feet. Her eyes were very red and heavy. Their dim +light seemed to come from far away. + +"Only that," she said, and her voice softened, "My Ralphie is in +heaven." + +Then she hid her face in her hands, and cried out loud, "But I prayed to +God that I might see my child on earth. Oh, how I prayed! And God heard +my prayer and answered it--but see! _I saw him die._" + + +END OF "THE BLIND MOTHER" + + * * * * * + + + + +THE LAST CONFESSION + + + COPYRIGHT, 1892, + UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. + + COPYRIGHT, 1900, + BY STREET & SMITH. + + [_All rights reserved._] + + + + +I + + +Father, do not leave me. Wait! only a little longer. You can not absolve +me? I am not penitent? How _can_ I be penitent? I do not regret it? How +_can_ I regret it? I would do it again? How could I help _but_ do it +again? + +Yes, yes, I know, I know! Who knows it so well as I? It is written in +the tables of God's law: _Thou shalt do no murder!_ But was it murder? +Was it crime? Blood? Yes, it was the spilling of blood. Blood will have +blood, you say. But is there no difference? Hear me out. Let me speak. +It is hard to remember all now--and here--lying here--but listen--only +listen. Then tell me if I did wrong. No, tell me if God Himself will not +justify me--ay, justify me--though I outraged His edict. Blasphemy? Ah, +father, do not go! Father!-- + +_Speak, my son. I will listen. It is my duty. Speak._ + +It is less than a year since my health broke down, but the soul lives +fast, and it seems to me like a lifetime. I had overworked myself +miserably. My life as a physician in London had been a hard one, but it +was not my practise that had wrecked me. How to perform that operation +on the throat was the beginning of my trouble. You know what happened. I +mastered my problem, and they called the operation by my name. It has +brought me fame; it has made me rich; it has saved a thousand lives, and +will save ten thousand more, and yet I--I--for taking one +life--one--under conditions-- + +Father, bear with me. I will tell all. My nerves are burned out. Gloom, +depression, sleeplessness, prostration, sometimes collapse, a consuming +fire within, a paralyzing frost without--you know what it is--we call it +neurasthenia. + +I watched the progress of my disease and gave myself the customary +treatment. Hygiene, diet, drugs, electricity, I tried them all. But +neither dumbbells nor Indian clubs, neither walking nor riding, neither +liberal food nor doses of egg and brandy, neither musk nor ergot nor +antipyrin, neither faradization nor galvanization availed to lift the +black shades that hung over me day and night, and made the gift of life +a mockery. I knew why. My work possessed me like a fever. I could +neither do it to my content nor leave it undone. I was drawing water in +a sieve. + +My wife sent for Gull. Full well I knew what he would advise. It was +rest. I must take six months' absolute holiday, and, in order to cut +myself off entirely from all temptations to mental activity, I must +leave London and go abroad. Change of scene, of life, and of habit, new +peoples, new customs, new faiths, and a new climate--these separately +and together, with total cessation of my usual occupations, were to +banish a long series of functional derangements which had for their +basis the exhaustion of the sympathetic nervous system. + +I was loth to go. Looking back upon my condition, I see that my +reluctance was justified. To launch a creature who was all nerves into +the perpetual, if trifling, vexations of travel was a mistake, a folly, +a madness. But I did not perceive this; I was thinking only of my home +and the dear souls from whom I must be separated. During the seven years +of our married life my wife had grown to be more than the object of my +love. That gentle soothing, that soft healing which the mere presence of +an affectionate woman who is all strength and courage may bring to a man +who is wasted by work or worry, my wife's presence had long brought to +me, and I shrank from the thought of scenes where she could no longer +move about me, meeting my wishes and anticipating my wants. + +This was weakness, and I knew it; but I had another weakness which I did +not know. My boy, a little son of six years of age the day before I set +sail, was all the world to me. Paternal love may eat up all the other +passions. It was so in my case. The tyranny of my affection for my only +child was even more constant and unrelenting than the tyranny of my +work. Nay, the two were one: for out of my instinct as a father came my +strength as a doctor. The boy had suffered from a throat trouble from +his birth. When he was a babe I delivered him from a fierce attack of +it, and when he was four I brought him back from the jaws of death. Thus +twice I had saved his life, and each time that life had become dearer to +me. But too well I knew that the mischief was beaten down, and not +conquered. Some day it would return with awful virulence. To meet that +terror I wrought by day and night. No slave ever toiled so hard. I +denied myself rest, curtailed my sleep, and stole from tranquil +reflection and repose half-hours and quarter-hours spent in the carriage +going from patient to patient. The attack might come suddenly, and I +must be prepared. I was working against time. + +You know what happened. The attack did not come; my boy continued well, +but my name became known and my discovery established. The weakness of +my own child had given the bent to my studies. If I had mastered my +subject it was my absorbing love of my little one that gave me the +impulse and direction. + +But I had paid my penalty. My health was a wreck, and I must leave +everything behind me. If it had been possible to take my wife and boy +along with me, how different the end might have been! Should I be lying +here now--here on this bed--with you, father, you?-- + +We spent our boy's birthday with what cheer we could command. For my +wife it seemed to be a day of quiet happiness, hallowed by precious +memories--the dearest and most delicious that a mother ever knew--of the +babyhood of her boy--his pretty lisp, his foolish prattle, his funny +little ways and sayings--and sweetened by the anticipation of the health +that was to return to me as the result of rest and change. The child +himself was bright and gamesome, and I for my part gave way to some +reckless and noisy jollity. + +Thus the hours passed until bedtime, and then, as I saw the little +fellow tucked up in his crib, it crossed my mind for a moment that he +looked less well than usual. Such fancies were common to me, and I knew +from long experience that it was folly to give way to them. To do so at +that time must have been weakness too pitiful for my manhood. I had +already gone far enough for my own self-respect. To my old colleague and +fellow-student, Granville Wenman, I had given elaborate instructions for +all possible contingencies. + +If _this_ happened he was to do _that_; if _that_ happened he was to do +_this_. In case of serious need he was to communicate with me by the +swiftest means available, for neither the width of the earth nor the +wealth of the world, nor the loss of all chances of health or yet life, +should keep me from hastening home if the one hope of my heart was in +peril. Wenman had smiled a little as in pity of the morbidity that ran +out to meet so many dangers. I did not heed his good-natured compassion +or contempt, whatever it was, for I knew he had no children. I had +reconciled myself in some measure to my absence from home, and before my +little man was awake in the morning I was gone from the house. + +It had been arranged that I should go to Morocco. Wenman had suggested +that country out of regard to the freshness of its life and people. The +East in the West, the costumes of Arabia, the faiths of Mohammed and of +Moses, a primitive form of government, and a social life that might have +been proper to the land of Canaan in the days of Abraham--such had +seemed to him and others to be an atmosphere of novelty that was likely +to bring spring and elasticity to the overstretched mind and nerves of a +victim of the civilization of our tumultuous century. But not in all the +world could fate have ferreted out for me a scene more certain to +develop the fever and fret of my natural temperament. Had the choice +fallen on any other place, any dead or dying country, any corner of +God's earth but that blighted and desolate land-- + +Ah! bear with me, bear with me. + +_I know it, my son. It is near to my own country. My home is in Spain. I +came to your England from Seville. Go on._ + +I sailed to Gibraltar by a P. and O. steamer from Tilbury, and the +tender that took my wife back to the railway pier left little in my new +condition to interest me. You know what it is to leave home in search of +health. If hope is before you, regret is behind. When I stood on the +upper deck that night, alone, and watched the light of the Eddystone +dying down over the dark waters, it seemed to me that success had no +solace, and fame no balm, and riches no safety or content. One +reflection alone sufficed to reconcile me to where I was--the work that +had brought me there was done neither for fame nor for riches, but at +the prompting of the best of all earthly passions--or what seemed to be +the best. + +Three days passed, and beyond casual words I had spoken to no one on the +ship. But on the fourth day, as we sailed within sight of Finisterre in +a calm sea, having crossed the Bay with comfort, the word went round +that a storm-signal was hoisted on the cape. No one who has gone through +an experience such as that is likely to forget it. Everybody on deck, +the blanched faces, the hushed voices, the quick whispers, the eager +glances around, the interrogations of the officers on duty, and their +bantering answers belied by their anxious looks, then the darkening sky, +the freshening breeze, the lowering horizon, the tingling gloomy +atmosphere creeping down from the mastheads, and the air of the whole +ship, above and below, charged, as it were, with sudden electricity. It +is like nothing else in life except the bugle-call in camp, telling +those who lie smoking and drinking about the fires that the enemy is +coming, and is near. + +I was standing on the quarterdeck watching the Lascars stowing sails, +battening down the hatches, clewing the lines, and making everything +snug, when a fellow-passenger whom I had not observed before stepped up +and spoke. His remark was a casual one, and it has gone from my memory. +I think it had reference to the native seamen, and was meant as a jest +upon their lumbering slowness, which suggested pitiful thoughts to him +of what their capacity must be in a storm. But the air of the man much +more than his words aroused and arrested my attention. It was that of +one whose spirits had been quickened by the new sense of danger. He +laughed, his eyes sparkled, his tongue rolled out his light remarks with +a visible relish. I looked at the man and saw that he had the soul of a +war-horse. Tall, slight, dark, handsome, with bushy beard, quivering +nostrils, mobile mouth, and eyes of fire, alive in every fibre, and full +of unconquerable energy. He appeared to be a man of thirty to +thirty-five, but proved to be no more than four-and-twenty. I learned +afterward that he was an American, and was traveling for love of +adventure. + +That night we flew six hours before the storm, but it overtook our ship +at last. What befell us then in the darkness of that rock-bound coast I +did not know until morning. Can you believe it? I took my usual dose of +a drug prescribed to me for insomnia, and lay down to sleep. When I went +up on deck in the late dawn of the following day--the time was +spring--the wind had slackened, and the ship was rolling and swinging +along in a sea that could not be heard above the beat and thud of the +engines. Only the memory of last night's tempest lay around in sullen +wave and sky--only there, and in the quarters down below of the native +seamen of our ship. + +The first face I encountered was that of the American. He had been on +deck all night, and he told me what had happened. Through the dark hours +the storm had been terrible, and when the first dead light of dawn had +crept across from the east the ship had been still tossing in great +white billows. Just then a number of Lascars had been ordered aloft on +some urgent duty--I know not what--and a sudden gust had swept one of +them from a cross-tree into the sea. Efforts had been made to rescue +him, the engines had been reversed, boats put out and life-buoys thrown +into the water, but all in vain. The man had been swept away; he was +gone and the ship had steamed on. + +The disaster saddened me inexpressibly. I could see the Lascar fall from +the rigging, catch the agonizing glance of the white eyes in his black +face as he was swept past on the crest of a wave, and watch his +outstretched arms as he sank to his death down and down and down. It +seemed to me an iniquity that while this had happened I had slept. +Perhaps the oversensitive condition of my nerves was at fault, but +indeed I felt that, in his way, in his degree, within the measure of his +possibilities, that poor fellow of another skin, another tongue, with +whom I had exchanged no word of greeting, had that day given his life +for my life. + +How much of such emotion I expressed at the time it is hard to remember +now, but that the American gathered the bent of my feelings was clear to +me by the pains he was at to show that they were uncalled for, and +unnatural, and false. What was life? I had set too great a store by it. +The modern reverence for life was eating away the finest instincts of +man's nature. Life was not the most sacred of our possessions. Duty, +justice, truth, these were higher things. + +So he talked that day and the next until, from thoughts of the loss of +the Lascar, we had drifted far into wider and more perilous +speculations. The American held to his canon. War was often better than +peace, and open massacre than corrupt tranquillity. We wanted some of +the robust spirit of the Middle Ages in these our piping days. The talk +turned on the persecution of the Jews in Russia. The American defended +it--a stern people was purging itself of an alien element which, like an +interminate tapeworm, had been preying on its vitals. The remedy was +drastic but necessary; life was lost, but also life was saved. + +Then coming to closer quarters we talked of murder. The American held to +the doctrine of Sterne. It was a hard case that the laws of the modern +world should not have made any manner of difference between murdering an +honest man and only executing a scoundrel. These things should always be +rated ad valorem. As for blood spilled in self-defense, it was folly to +talk of it as crime. Even the laws of my own effeminate land justified +the man who struck down the arm that was raised to kill him; and the +mind that reckoned such an act as an offense was morbid and diseased. + +Such opinions were repugnant to me, and I tried to resist them. There +was a sanctity about human life which no man should dare to outrage. God +gave it, and only God should take it away. As for the government of the +world, let it be for better or for worse, it was in God's hands, and God +required the help of no man. + +My resistance was useless. The American held to his doctrine; it was +good to take life in a good cause, and if it was good for the nation, it +was good for the individual man. The end was all. + +I fenced these statements with what force I could command, and I knew +not how strongly my adversary had assailed me. Now, I know too well that +his opinions sank deep into my soul. Only too well I know it now--now +that-- + +We arrived at Gibraltar the following morning, and going up on deck in +the empty void of air that follows on the sudden stopping of a ship's +engines, I found the American, amid a group of swarthy Gibraltarians, +bargaining for a boat to take him to the Mole. It turned out that he was +going to Morocco also, and we hired a boat together. + +The morning was clear and cold; the great broad rock looked whiter and +starker and more like a gigantic oyster-shell than ever against the blue +of the sky. There would be no steamer for Tangier until the following +day, and we were to put up at the Spanish hotel called the Calpe. + +Immediately on landing I made my way to the post-office to despatch a +telegram home announcing my arrival, and there I found two letters, +which, having come overland, arrived in advance of me. One of them was +from Wenman, telling me that he had called at Wimpole Street the morning +after my departure and found all well at my house; and also enclosing a +resolution of thanks and congratulation from my colleagues of the +College of Surgeons in relation to my recent labors, which were said to +be "memorable in the cause of humanity and science." + +The other letter was from my wife, a sweet, affectionate little note, +cheerful yet tender, written on her return from Tilbury, hinting that +the dear old house looked just a trifle empty and as if somehow it +missed something, but that our boy was up and happy with a new toy that +I had left for him as a consolation on his awakening--a great elephant +that worked its trunk and roared. "I have just asked our darling," wrote +my wife, "what message he would like to send you. 'Tell papa,' he +answers, 'I'm all right, and Jumbo's all right, and is he all right, and +will he come werry quick, and see him grunting?'" + +That night at the Calpe I had some further talk with the American. Young +as he was he had been a great Eastern traveler. Egypt, Arabia, Syria, +the Holy Land--he knew them all. For his forthcoming sojourn in Morocco +he had prepared himself with elaborate care. The literature of travel in +Barbary is voluminous, but he had gone through the best of it. With the +faith of Islam he had long been familiar, and of the corrupt and +tyrannical form of government of Mulai el Hassan and his kaids and kadis +he had an intimate knowledge. He had even studied the language of the +Moorish people--the Moroccan Arabic, which is a dialect of the language +of the Koran--and so that he might hold intercourse with the Sephardic +Jews also, who people the Mellahs of Morocco, he had mastered the +Spanish language as well. + +This extensive equipment, sufficient to start a crusade or to make a +revolution, was meant to do more than provide him with adventure. His +intention was to see the country and its customs, to observe the manners +of the people and the ordinances of their religion. "I shall get into +the palaces and the prisons of the Kasbahs," he said; "yes, and the +mosques and the saints' houses, and the harems also." + +Little as I knew then of the Moors and their country, I foresaw the +dangers of such an enterprise, and I warned him against it. "You will +get yourself into awkward corners," I said. + +"Yes," he said, "and I shall get myself out of them." + +I remembered his doctrine propounded on the ship, and I saw that he was +a man of resolution, but I said, "Remember, you are going to the land of +this people for amusement alone. It is not necessity that thrusts you +upon their prejudice, their superstition, their fanaticism." + +"True," he said, "but if I get into trouble among them it will not be my +amusements but my liberty or my life that will be in danger." + +"Then in such a case you will stick at nothing to plow your way out?" + +"Nothing." + +I laughed, for my mind refused to believe him, and we laughed noisily +together, with visions of bloody daggers before the eyes of both. + +Father, my _heart_ believed: silently, secretly, unconsciously, it drank +in the poison of his thought--drank it in--ay-- + +Next day, about noon, we sailed for Tangier. Our ship was the "Jackal," +a little old iron steam-tug, battered by time and tempest, clamped and +stayed at every side, and just holding together as by the grace of God. +The storm which we had outraced from Finisterre had now doubled Cape St. +Vincent, and the sea was rolling heavily in the Straits. We saw nothing +of this until we had left the bay and were standing out from Tarifa; nor +would it be worthy of mention now but that it gave me my first real +understanding of the tremendous hold that the faith or the fanaticism of +the Moorish people--call it what you will--has upon their characters and +lives. + +The channel at that point is less than twenty miles wide, but we were +more than five hours crossing it. Our little crazy craft labored +terribly in the huge breakers that swept inward from the Atlantic. +Pitching until the foredeck was covered, rolling until her boats dipped +in the water, creaking, shuddering, leaping, she had enough to do to +keep afloat. + +With the American I occupied the bridge between the paddle-boxes, which +served as a saloon for first-class passengers; and below us in the open +hold of the after-deck a number of Moors sat huddled together among +cattle and sheep and baskets of fowl. They were Pilgrims, Hadjis, +returning from Mecca by way of Gibraltar, and their behavior during the +passage was marvelous in its callousness to the sense of peril. They +wrangled, quarreled, snarled at each other, embraced, kissed, laughed +together, made futile attempts to smoke their keef-pipes, and quarreled, +barked, and bleated again. + +"Surely," I said, "these people are either wondrously brave or they have +no sense of the solemnity of death." + +"Neither," said the American; "they are merely fatalists by virtue of +their faith. 'If it is not now, it is to come; if it is not to come then +it is now.'" + +"There is a sort of bravery in that," I answered. + +"And cowardice, too," said the American. + +The night had closed in when we dropped anchor by the ruins of the Mole +at Tangier, and I saw no more of the white town than I had seen of it +from the Straits. But if my eyes failed in the darkness my other senses +served me only too well. The shrieking and yelping of the boatloads of +Moors and negroes who clambered aboard to relieve us of our luggage, the +stench of the town sewers that emptied into the bay--these were my first +impressions of the gateway to the home of Islam. + +The American went through the turmoil with composure and an air of +command, and having seen to my belongings as well as his own, passing +them through the open office at the water-gate, where two solemn Moors +in white sat by the light of candles, in the receipt of customs, he +parted from me at the foot of the street that begins with the Grand +Mosque, and is the main artery of the town, for he had written for rooms +to the hotel called the Villa de France, and I, before leaving England, +had done the same to the hotel called the Continental. + +Thither I was led by a barefooted courier in white jellab and red +tarboosh, amid sights and sounds of fascinating strangeness: the low +drone of men's voices singing their evening prayers in the mosques, the +tinkling of the bells of men selling water out of goats' skins, the +"Allah" of blind beggars crouching at the gates, the "Arrah" of the mule +drivers, and the hooded shapes going by in the gloom or squatting in the +red glare of the cafés without windows or doors and open to the streets. + +I met the American in the Sôk--the market-place--the following day, and +he took me up to his hotel to see some native costumes which he had +bought by way of preparations for his enterprise. They were haiks and +soolhams, jellabs, kaftans, slippers, rosaries, korans, sashes, +satchels, turbans, and tarbooshes--blue, white, yellow, and red--all +right and none too new, for he had purchased them not at the bazaars, +but from the son of a learned Moor, a Tàleb, who had been cast into a +prison by a usurer Jew. + +"In these," said he, "I mean to go everywhere, and I'll defy the devil +himself to detect me." + +"Take care," I said, "take care." + +He laughed and asked me what my own plans were. I told him that I would +remain in Tangier until I received letters from home, and then push on +toward Fez. + +"I'll see you there," he said; "but if I do not hail you, please do not +know me. Good-by." + +"Good-by," I said, and so we parted. + +I stayed ten days longer in Tangier, absorbed in many reflections, of +which the strangest were these two: first, the Moors were the most +religious people in the world, and next, that they were the most +wickedly irreligious and basely immoral race on God's earth. I was +prompted to the one by observations of the large part which Allah +appears to play in all affairs of Moorish life, and to the other by +clear proof of the much larger part which the devil enacts in Allah's +garments. On the one side prayers, prayers, prayers, the moodden, the +moodden, the moodden, the mosque, the mosque, the mosque. "Allah" from +the mouths of the beggars, "Allah" from the lips of the merchants, +"Mohammed" on the inscriptions at the gate, the "Koran" on the scarfs +hung out at the bazaars and on the satchels hawked in the streets. And +on the other side shameless lying, cheating, usury, buying and selling +of justice, cruelty and inhumanity; raw sores on the backs of the asses, +blood in the streets, blood, blood, blood everywhere and secret +corruption indescribable. + +Nevertheless I concluded that my nervous malady must have given me the +dark glasses through which everything looked so foul, and I resolved, in +the interests of health, to push on toward Fez as soon as letters +arrived from home assuring me that all were well and happy there. + +But no letters came, and at the arrival of every fresh mail from Cadiz +and from Gibraltar my impatience increased. At length I decided to wait +no longer, and, leaving instructions that my letters should be sent on +after me to the capital, I called on the English Consul for such +official documents as were needful for my journey. + +When these had been produced from the Kasbah, and I was equipped for +travel, the Consul inquired of me how I liked the Moors and their +country. I described my conflicting impressions, and he said both were +right in their several ways. + +"The religion of the Moor," said he, "is genuine of its kind, though it +does not put an end to the vilest Government on earth and the most +loathsome immoralities ever practised by man. Islam is a sacred thing to +him. He is proud of it, jealous of it, and prepared to die for it. Half +his hatred of the unbeliever is fear that the Nazarene or the Jew is +eager to show his faith some dishonor. And that," added the Consul, +"reminds me to offer you one word of warning: avoid the very shadow of +offense to the religion of these people; do not pry into their beliefs; +do not take note of their ordinances; pass their mosques and saints' +houses with down-cast eyes, if need be; in a word, let Islam alone." + +I thanked him for his counsel, and, remembering the American, I inquired +what the penalty would be if a foreign subject offended the religion of +this people. The Consul lifted his eyebrows and shoulders together, with +an eloquence of reply that required no words. + +"But might not a stranger," I asked, "do so unwittingly?" + +"Truly," he answered, "and so much the worse for his ignorance." + +"Is British life, then," I said, "at the mercy of the first ruffian with +a dagger? Is there no power in solemn treaties?" + +"What are treaties," he said, "against fanaticism? Give the one a wide +berth and you'll have small need for the other." + +After that he told me something of certain claims just settled for long +imprisonment inflicted by the Moorish authorities on men trading under +the protection of the British flag. It was an abject story of barbarous +cruelty, broken health, shattered lives, and wrecked homes, atoned for +after weary procrastination, in the manner of all Oriental courts, by a +sorry money payment. The moral of it all was conveyed by the Consul in +the one word with which he parted from me at his gate. "Respect the +fanaticism of these fanatics," he said, "as you would value your liberty +or your life, and keep out of a Moorish prison--remember that, remember +that!" + +I _did_ remember it. Every day of my travels I remembered it. I +remembered it at the most awful moment of my life. If I had not +remembered it then, should I be lying here now with that--with +_that_--behind me! Ah, wait, wait! + +Little did I expect when I left the Consul to light so soon upon a +terrible illustration of his words. With my guide and interpreter, a +Moorish soldier lent to me by the authorities in return for two pesetas +(one shilling and ninepence) a day, I strolled into the greater Sôk, the +market-place outside the walls. It was Friday, the holy day of the +Moslems, somewhere between one and two o'clock in the afternoon, when +the body of the Moors having newly returned from their one-hour +observances in the mosques, had resumed, according to their wont, their +usual occupations. The day was fine and warm, a bright sun was shining, +and the Sôk at the time when we entered it was a various and animated +scene. + +Dense crowds of hooded figures, clad chiefly in white--soiled or dirty +white--men in jellabs, women enshrouded in blankets, barefooted girls, +boys with shaven polls, water-carriers with their tinkling bells, +snake-charmers, story-tellers, jugglers, preachers, and then donkeys, +nosing their way through the throng, mules lifting their necks above the +people's heads, and camels munching oats and fighting--it was a +wilderness of writhing forms and a babel of shrieking noises. + +With my loquacious Moor I pushed my way along past booths and stalls +until I came to a white-washed structure with a white flag floating over +it, that stood near the middle of the market-place. It was a roofless +place, about fifteen feet square, and something like a little sheepfold, +but having higher walls. Through the open doorway I saw an inner +enclosure, out of which a man came forward. He was a wild-eyed creature +in tattered garments, and dirty, disheveled, and malevolent of face. + +"See," said my guide, "see, my lord, a Moorish saint's house. Look at +the flag. So shall my lord know a saint's house. Here rest the bones of +Sidi Gali, and that is the saint that guards them. A holy man, yes, a +holy man. Moslems pay him tribute. Sacred place, yes, sacred. No +Nazarene may enter it. But Moslem, yes, Moslems may fly here for +sanctuary. Life to the Moslem, death to the Nazarene. So it is." + +My soldier was rattling on in this way when I saw coming in the sunlight +down the hillside of which the Sôk is the foot a company of some eight +or ten men, whose dress and complexion were unlike those of the people +gathered there. They were a band of warlike persons, swarthy, tall, +lithe, sinewy, with heads clean shaven save for one long lock that hung +from the crown, each carrying a gun with barrel of prodigious length +upon his shoulder, and also armed with a long naked Reefian knife stuck +in the scarf that served him for a belt. + +They were Berbers, the descendants of the race that peopled Barbary +before the Moors set foot in it, between whom and the Moors there is a +long-continued, suppressed, but ineradicable enmity. From their mountain +homes these men had come to the town that day on their pleasure or their +business, and as they entered it they were at no pains to conceal their +contempt for the townspeople and their doings. + +Swaggering along with long strides, they whooped and laughed and plowed +their way through the crowd over bread and vegetables spread out on the +ground, and the people fell back before them with muttered curses until +they were come near to the saint's house, beside which I myself with my +guide was standing. Then I saw that the keeper of the saint's house, the +half-distraught creature whom I had just observed, was spitting out at +them some bitter and venomous words. + +Clearly they all heard him, and most of them laughed derisively and +pushed on. But one of the number--a young Berber with eyes of fire--drew +up suddenly and made some answer in hot and rapid words. The man of the +saint's house spoke again, showing his teeth as he did so in a horrible +grin; and at the next instant, almost quicker than my eyes could follow +the swift movement of his hands, the Berber had plucked his long knife +from his belt and plunged it into the keeper's breast. + +I saw it all. The man fell at my feet, and was dead in an instant. In +another moment the police of the market had laid hold of the murderer, +and he was being hauled off to his trial. "Come," whispered my guide, +and he led me by short cuts through the narrow lanes to the Kasbah. + +In an open alcove of the castle I found two men in stainless blue +jellabs and spotless white turbans, squatting on rush mats at either +foot of the horse-shoe arch. These were the judges, the Kadi and his +Khalifa, sitting in session in the hall of justice. + +There was a tumult of many voices and of hurrying feet; and presently +the police entered, holding their prisoner between them, and followed by +a vast concourse of townspeople. I held my ground in front of the +alcove; the Berber was brought up near to my side, and I saw and heard +all. + +"This man," said one of the police, "killed so-and-so, of Sidi Gali's +saint's house." + +"When?" said the Kadi. + +"This moment," said the police. + +"How?" said the Kadi. + +"With this knife," said the police. + +The knife, stained, and still wet, was handed to the judge. He shook it, +and asked the prisoner one question: "Why?" + +Then the Berber flung himself on his knees--his shaven head brushed my +hand--and began to plead extenuating circumstances. "It is true, my +lord, I killed him, but he called me dog and infidel, and spat at me--" + +The Kadi gave back the knife and waved his hand. "Take him away," he +said. + +That was all, as my guide interpreted it. "Come," he whispered again, +and he led me by a passage into a sort of closet where a man lay on a +mattress. This was the porch to the prison, and the man on the mattress +was the jailer. In one wall there was a low door, barred and clamped +with iron, and having a round peephole grated across. + +At the next instant the police brought in their prisoner. The jailer +rattled a big key in the lock, the low door swung open, I saw within a +dark den full of ghostly figures dragging chains at their ankles; a foul +stench came out of it, the prisoner bent his head and was pushed in, the +door slammed back--and that was the end. Everything occurred in no more +time than it takes to tell it. + +"Is that all his trial?" I asked. + +"All," said my guide. + +"How long will he lie there?" + +"Until death." + +"But," I said, "I have heard that a Kadi of your country may be bribed +to liberate a murderer." + +"Ah, my lord is right," said my guide, "but not the murderer of a +saint." + +Less than five minutes before I had seen the stalwart young Berber +swaggering down the hillside in the afternoon sunshine. Now he was in +the gloom of the noisome dungeon, with no hope of ever again looking +upon the light of day, doomed to drag out an existence worse than death, +and all for what? For taking life? No, no, no--life in that land is +cheap, cheaper than it ever was in the Middle Ages--but for doing +dishonor to a superstition of the faith of Islam. + +I remembered the American, and shuddered at the sight of this summary +justice. Next morning, as my tentmen and muleteers were making ready to +set out for Fez, my soldier-guide brought me a letter which had come by +the French steamer by way of Malaga. It was from home; a brief note from +my wife, with no explanation of her prolonged silence, merely saying +that all was as usual at Wimpole Street, and not mentioning our boy at +all. The omission troubled me, the brevity and baldness of the message +filled me with vague concern, and I had half a mind to delay my inland +journey. Would that I had done so! Would that I had! Oh, would that I +had! + +_Terrible, my son, terrible! A blighted and desolated land. But even +worse than its own people are the renegades it takes from mine. Ah, I +knew one such long ago. An outcast, a pariah, a shedder of blood, an +apostate. But go on, go on._ + + + + +II + + +Father, what voice was it that rang in my ears and cried, "Stay, do not +travel; all your past from the beginning until to-day, all your future +from to-day until the end, hangs on your action now; go, and your past +is a waste, your fame a mockery, your success a reproach; remain, and +your future is peace and happiness and content!" What voice, father, +what voice? + +I shut my ears to it, and six days afterward I arrived at Fez. My +journey had impressed two facts upon my mind with startling vividness; +first, that the Moor would stick at nothing in his jealousy of the honor +of his faith, and next, that I was myself a changed and coarsened man. I +was reminded of the one when in El Kassar I saw an old Jew beaten in the +open streets because he had not removed his slippers and walked barefoot +as he passed the front of a mosque; and again in Wazzan, when I +witnessed the welcome given to the Grand Shereef on his return from his +home in Tangier to his house in the capital of his province. The Jew was +the chief usurer of the town, and had half the Moorish inhabitants in +his toils; yet his commercial power had counted for nothing against the +honor of Islam. "I," said he to me that night in the Jewish inn, the +Fondak, "I, who could clap every man of them in the Kasbah, and their +masters with them, for moneys they owe me, I to be treated like a dog by +these scurvy sons of Ishmael--God of Jacob!" The Grand Shereef was a +drunkard, a gamester, and worse. There was no ordinance of Mohammed +which he had not openly outraged, yet because he stood to the people as +the descendant of the Prophet, and the father of the faith, they +groveled on the ground before him and kissed his robes, his knees, his +feet, his stirrups, and the big hoofs of the horse that carried him. As +for myself, I realized that the atmosphere of the country had corrupted +me, when I took out from my baggage a curved knife in its silver-mounted +sheath, which I had bought of a hawker at Tangier, and fixed it +prominently in the belt of my Norfolk jacket. + +The morning after my arrival in Fez I encountered my American companion +of the voyage. Our meeting was a strange one. I had rambled aimlessly +with my guide through the new town into the old until I had lighted by +chance upon the slave market in front of the ruins of the ancient Grand +Mosque, and upon a human auction which was then proceeding. No scene so +full of shame had I ever beheld, but the fascination of the spectacle +held me, and I stood and watched and listened. The slave being sold was +a black girl, and she was beautiful according to the standard of her +skin, bareheaded, barefooted, and clad as lightly over her body as +decency allowed, so as to reveal the utmost of her charms. + +"Now, brothers," cried the salesman, "look, see" (pinching the girl's +naked arms and rolling his jeweled fingers from her chin downward over +her bare neck on to her bosom), "sound of wind and limb, and with rosy +lips, fit for the kisses of a king--how much?" + +"A hundred dollars," cried a voice out of the crowd. I thought I had +heard the voice before, and looked up to see who had spoken. It was a +tall man with haik over his turban, and blue selam on top of a yellow +kaftan. + +"A hundred dollars offered," cried the salesman, "only a hundred. +Brothers, now's the chance for all true believers." + +"A hundred and five," cried another voice. + +"A hundred and ten." + +"A hundred and fifteen." + +"A hundred and fifteen for this jewel of a girl," cried the salesman. +"It's giving her away, brothers. By the prophets, if you are not quick +I'll keep her for myself. Come, look at her, Sidi. Isn't she good enough +for a sultan? The Prophet (God rest him) would have leaped at her. He +loved sweet women as much as he loved sweet odors. Now, for the third +and last time--how much? Remember, I guarantee her seventeen years of +age, sound, strong, plump, and sweet." + +"A hundred and twenty," cried the voice I had heard first. I looked up +at the speaker again. It was the American in his Moorish costume. + +I could bear no more of the sickening spectacle, and as I turned aside +with my interpreter, I was conscious that my companion of the voyage was +following me. When we came to some dark arches that divided Old Fez from +New Fez the American spoke, and I sent my interpreter ahead. + +"You see I am giving myself full tether in this execrable land," he +said. + +"Indeed you are," I answered. + +"Well, as the Romans in Rome, you know--it was what I came for," he +said. + +"Take care," I replied. "Take care." + +He drew up shortly and said, "By the way, I ought to be ashamed to meet +you." + +I thought he ought, but for courtesy I asked him why. + +"Because," he said, "I have failed to act up to my principles." + +"In what?" I inquired. + +"In saving the life of a scoundrel at the risk of my own," he answered. + +Then he told me his story. "I left Tangier," he said, "with four men in +my caravan, but it did not suit me to bring them into Fez, so I +dismissed them a day's ride from here, paying in full for the whole +journey and making a present over. My generosity was a blunder. The Moor +can not comprehend an act of disinterested kindness, and I saw the +ruffians lay their heads together to find out what it could mean. Three +of them gave it up and went off home, but the fourth determined to +follow the trace. His name was Larby." + +_Larby! El Arby, my son? Did you say El Arby? Of Tangier, too? A Moor? +Or was he a Spanish renegade turned Muslim? But no matter--no matter._ + +"He was my guide," said the American, "and a most brazen hypocrite, +always cheating me. I let him do so, it amused me--always lying to my +face, and always fumbling his beads--'God forgive me! God forgive +me'--an appropriate penance, you know the way of it. 'Peace, Sidi!' said +the rascal: 'Farewell! Allah send we meet in Paradise.' But the devil +meant that we should meet before that. We have met. It was a hot moment. +Do you know the Hamadshá Mosque? It is a place in a side street sacred +to the preaching of a fanatical follower of one Sidi Ali bin Hamdoosh, +and to certain wild dances executed in a glass and fire eating frenzy. I +thought I should like to hear a Moorish D. L. Moody, and one day I went +there. As I was going in I met a man coming out. It was Larby. 'Beeba!' +he whispered, with a tragic start--that was his own name for me on the +journey. 'Keep your tongue between your teeth,' I whispered back. 'I was +Beeba yesterday, to-day I'm Sidi Mohammed.' Then I entered, I spread my +prayer-mat, chanted my first Sura, listened to a lusty sermon, and came +out. There, as I expected, in the blind lane leading from the Hamadshá +to the town was Larby waiting for me. 'Beeba,' said he, with a grin, +'you play a double hand of cards.' 'Then,' said I, 'take care I don't +trump your trick.' The rascal had thought I might bribe him, and when he +knew that I would not I saw murder in his face. He had conceived the +idea of betraying me at the next opportunity. At that moment he was as +surely aiming at my life as if he had drawn his dagger and stabbed me. +It was then that I disgraced my principles." + +"How? how?" I said, though truly I had little need to ask. + +"We were alone, I tell you, in a blind lane," said the American; "but I +remembered stories the man had told me of his children. 'Little Hoolia,' +he called his daughter, a pretty, black-eyed mite of six, who always +watched for him when he was away." + +I was breaking into perspiration. "Do you mean," I said, "that you +should have--" + +"I mean that I should have killed the scoundrel there and then!" said +the American. + +"God forbid it!" I cried, and my hair rose from my scalp in horror. + +"Why not?" said the American. "It would have been an act of +_self-defense_. The man meant to kill me. He will kill me still if I +give him the chance. What is the difference between murder in a moment +and murder after five, ten, fifteen, twenty days? Only that one is +murder in hot blood and haste and the other is murder in cold blood and +by stealth. Is it life that you think so precious? Then why should I +value _his_ life more than I value _my own_?" + +I shivered, and could say nothing. + +"You think me a monster," said the American, "but remember, since we +left England the atmosphere has changed." + +"Remember, too," I said, "that this man can do you no harm unless you +intrude yourself upon his superstitions again. Leave the country +immediately; depend upon it, he is following you." + +"That's not possible," said the American, "for _I_ am following _him_. +Until I come up with him I can do nothing, and my existence is not worth +a pin's purchase." + +I shuddered, and we parted. My mind told me that he was right, but my +heart clamored above the voice of reason and said, "_You_ could not do +it, no, not to save a hundred lives." + +Ah, father, how little we know ourselves--how little, oh, how little! +When I think that _he_ shrank back--he who held life so cheap--while +_I_--I who held it so dear, so sacred, so god-like--Bear with me; I will +tell all. + +I met the American at intervals during the next six days. We did not +often speak, but as we passed in the streets--he alone, I always with my +loquacious interpreter--I observed with dread the change that the shadow +of death hanging over a man's head can bring to pass in his face and +manner. He grew thin and sallow and wild-eyed. One day he stopped me, +and said: "I know now what your Buckshot Forster died of," and then he +went on without another word. + +But about ten days after our first meeting in the slave market he +stopped me again, and said, quite cheerfully: "He has gone home--I'm +satisfied of that now." + +"Thank God!" I answered involuntarily. + +"Ah," he said, with a twinkle of the eye, "who says that a man must hang +up his humanity on the peg with his hat in the hospital hall when he +goes to be a surgeon? If the poet Keats had got over the first shock to +his sensibilities, he might have been the greatest surgeon of his day." + +"You'll be more careful in future," I said, "not to cross the fanaticism +of these fanatics?" + +He smiled, and asked if I knew the Karueein Mosque. I told him I had +seen it. + +"It is the greatest in Morocco," he said. "The Moors say the inner court +stands on eight hundred pillars. I don't believe them, and I mean to see +for myself." + +I found it useless to protest, and he went his way, laughing at my +blanched and bewildered face. "That man," I thought, "is fit to be the +hero of a tragedy, and he is wasting himself on a farce." + +Meanwhile, I had a shadow over my own life which would not lift. That +letter which I had received from home at the moment of leaving Tangier +had haunted me throughout the journey. Its brevity, its insufficiency, +its delay, and above all its conspicuous omission of all mention of our +boy had given rise to endless speculation. Every dark possibility that +fancy could devise had risen before me by way of explanation. I despised +myself for such weakness, but self-contempt did nothing to allay my +vague fears. The child was ill; I knew it; I felt it; I could swear to +it as certainly as if my ears could hear the labored breathing in his +throat. + +Nevertheless I went on; so much did my philosophy do for me. But when I +got to Fez I walked straightway to the English post-office to see if +there was a letter awaiting me. Of course there was no letter there. I +had not reflected that I had come direct from the port through which the +mails had to pass, and that if the postal courier had gone by me on the +road I must have seen him, which I had not. + +I was ashamed before my own consciousness, but all the same the +post-office saw me every day. Whatever the direction that I took with my +interpreter, it led toward that destination in the end. And whatever the +subject of his ceaseless gabble--a very deluge of words--it was forced +to come round at last to the times and seasons of the mails from +England. These were bi-weekly, with various possibilities of casual +arrivals besides. + +Fez is a noble city, the largest and finest Oriental city I had yet +seen, fit to compare in its own much different way of beauty and of +splendor with the great cities of the West, the great cities of the +earth, and of all time; but for me its attractions were overshadowed by +the gloom of my anxiety. The atmosphere of an older world, the spirit of +the East, the sense of being transported to Bible times, the startling +interpretations which the Biblical stories were receiving by the events +of every day--these brought me no pleasure. As for the constant +reminders of the presence of Islam every hour, at every corner, the +perpetual breath of prayer and praise, which filled this land that was +corrupt to the core, they gave me pain more poignant than disgust. The +call of the mueddin in the early morning was a daily agony. I slept +three streets from the Karueein minarets, but the voice seemed to float +into my room in the darkness, and coil round my head and ring in my +ears. Always I was awakened at the first sound of the stentorian +"Allah-u-Kabar," or, if I awoke in the silence and thought with a +feeling of relief, "It is over, I have slept through it," the howling +wail would suddenly break in upon my thanksgiving. + +There was just one fact of life in Fez that gave me a kind of melancholy +joy. At nearly every turn of a street my ears were arrested by the +multitudinous cackle, the broken, various-voiced sing-song of a +children's school. These Moorish schools interested me. They were the +simplest of all possible institutes, consisting usually of a +rush-covered cellar, two steps down from the street, with the teacher, +the Táleb, often a half-blind old man, squatting in the middle of the +floor, and his pupils seated about him, and all reciting together some +passages of the Koran, the only textbook of education. One such school +was close under my bedroom window; I heard the drone of it as early as +seven o'clock every morning, and as often as I went abroad I stood for a +moment and looked in at the open doorway. A black boy sat there with a +basket for the alms of passers-by. He was a bright-eyed little fellow, +six or seven years of age, and he knew one English phrase only: "Come +on," he would say, and hold up the basket and smile. What pathetic +interest his sunny face had for me, how he would cheer and touch me, +with what strange memories his voice and laugh would startle me, it +would be pitiful to tell. + +Bear with me! I was far from my own darling, I was in a strange land, I +was a weak man for all that I was thought so strong, and my one +besetting infirmity--more consuming than a mother's love--was preyed +upon by my failing health, which in turn was preying upon it. + +And if the sights of the streets brought me pain, or pleasure that was +akin to pain, what of the sights, the visions, the dreams of my own +solitary mind! I could not close my eyes in the darkness but I saw my +boy. His little child-ghost was always with me. He never appeared as I +had oftenest seen him--laughing, romping, and kicking up his legs on the +hearth-rug. Sometimes he came as he would do at home after he committed +some childish trespass and I had whipped him--opening the door of my +room and stepping one pace in, quietly, nervously, half fearfully, to +say good-night and kiss me at his bedtime, and I would lift my eyes and +see, over the shade of my library lamp, his little sober red-and-white +face just dried of its recent tears. Or, again, sometimes I myself would +seem in these dumb dramas of the darkness to go into his room when he +was asleep, that I might indulge my hungry foolish heart with looks of +fondness that the reproving parent could not give, and find him sleeping +with an open book in his hands, which he had made believe to read. And +then for sheer folly of love I would pick up his wee knickerbockers and +turn out its load at either side, to see what a boy's pockets might be +like, and discover a curiosity shop of poor little treasures--a knife +with a broken blade, a nail, two marbles, a bit of brass, some string, a +screw, a crust of bread, a cork, and a leg of a lobster. + +While I was indulging this weakness the conviction was deepening in my +mind that my boy was ill. So strong did this assurance become at length, +that, though I was ashamed to give way to it so far as to set my face +toward home, being yet no better for my holiday, I sat down at length to +write a letter to Wenman--I had written to my wife by every mail--that I +might relieve my pent-up feelings. I said nothing to him of my +misgivings, for I was loth to confess to them, having no positive +reasons whatever, and no negative grounds except the fact that I was +receiving no letters. But I gave him a full history of my boy's case, +described each stage of it in the past, foretold its probable +developments in the future, indicated with elaborate care the treatment +necessary at every point, and foreshadowed the contingencies under which +it might in the end become malignant and even deadly unless stopped by +the operation that I had myself, after years of labor, found the art of +making. + +I spent an afternoon in the writing of this letter, and when it was done +I felt as if a burden that had been on my back for ages had suddenly +been lifted away. Then I went out alone to post it. The time was close +to evening prayers, and as I walked through the streets the Tálebs and +tradesmen, with their prayer-mats under their arms, were trooping into +the various mosques. Going by the Karueein Mosque I observed that the +Good Muslimeen were entering it by hundreds. "Some special celebration," +I thought. My heart was light, my eyes were alert, and my step was +quick. For the first time since my coming to the city, Fez seemed to me +a beautiful place. The witchery of the scenes of the streets took hold +of me. To be thus transported into a world of two thousand years ago +gave me the delight of magic. + +When I reached the English post-office I found it shut up. On its +shutters behind its iron grating a notice-board was hung out, saying +that the office was temporarily closed for the sorting of an incoming +mail and the despatch of an outgoing one. There was a little crowd of +people waiting in front--chiefly Moorish servants of English +visitors--for the window to open again, and near by stood the horses of +the postal couriers pawing the pavement. I dropped my letter into the +slit in the window, and then stood aside to see if the mail had brought +anything for me at last. + +The window was thrown up, and two letters were handed to me through the +grating over the heads of the Moors, who were crushing underneath. I +took them with a sort of fear, and half wished at the first moment that +they might be from strangers. They were from home; one was from my +wife--I knew the envelope before looking at the handwriting--the other +was from Wenman. + +I read Wenman's letter first. Good or bad, the news must be broken to me +gently. Hardly had I torn the sheet open when I saw what it contained. +My little Noel had been ill; he was still so, but not seriously, and I +was not to be alarmed. The silence on their part which I had complained +of so bitterly had merely been due to their fear of giving me +unnecessary anxiety. For his part (Wenman's) he would have written +before, relying on my manliness and good sense, but my wife had +restrained him, saying she knew me better. There was no cause for +apprehension; the boy was going along as well as could be expected, +etc., etc., etc., etc., etc. + +Not a word to indicate the nature and degree of the attack. Such an +insufficient epistle must have disquieted the veriest nincompoop alive. +To send a thing like that to _me_--to me of all men! Was there ever so +gross a mistake of judgment? + +I knew in an instant what the fact must be--my boy was down with that +old congenital infirmity of the throat. Surely my wife had told me more. +She had. Not by design, but unwittingly she had revealed the truth to +me. Granville Wenman had written to me, she said, explaining everything, +and I was not to worry and bother. All that was possible was being done +for our darling, and if I were there I could do no more. The illness had +to have its course, so I must be patient. All this is the usual jargon +of the surgery--I knew that Wenman had dictated it--and then a true line +or two worth all the rest from my dear girl's own bleeding mother's +heart. Our poor Noel was this, and that, he complained of so-and-so, and +first began to look unwell in such and such ways. + +It was clear as noonday. The attack of the throat which I had foreseen +had come. Five years I had looked for it. Through five long years I had +waited and watched to check it. I had labored day and night that when it +should come I might meet it. My own health I had wasted--and for what? +For fame, for wealth, for humanity, for science? No, no, no, but for the +life of my boy. And now when his enemy was upon him at length, where was +I--I who alone in all this world of God could save him? I was thirteen +hundred miles from home. + +Oh, the irony of my fate! My soul rose in rebellion against it. +Staggering back through the darkening streets, the whole city seemed +dead and damned. + +How far I walked in this state of oblivion I do not know, but presently +out of the vague atmosphere wherein all things had been effaced I became +conscious, like one awakening after a drug, of an unusual commotion +going on around. People were running past me and across me in the +direction of the Karueein Mosque. From that place a loud tumult was +rising into the air. The noise was increasing with every moment, and +rising to a Babel of human voices. + +I did not very much heed the commotion. What were the paltry excitements +of life to me now? I was repeating to myself the last words of my poor +wife's letter: "How I miss you, and wish you were with me!" "I will go +back," I was telling myself, "I will go back." + +In the confusion of my mind I heard snatches of words spoken by the +people as they ran by me. "Nazarene!" "Christian!" "Cursed Jew!" These +were hissed out at each other by the Moors as they were scurrying past. +At length I heard a Spaniard shout up to a fellow-countryman who was on +a house-top: "Englishman caught in the mosque." + +At that my disordered senses recovered themselves, and suddenly I became +aware that the tumult was coming in my direction. The noise grew deeper, +louder, and more shrill at every step. In another moment it had burst +upon me in a whirlpool of uproar. + +Round the corner of the narrow lane that led to the Karueein Mosque a +crowd of people came roaring like a torrent. They were Moors, Arabs, and +Berbers, and they were shouting, shrieking, yelling, and uttering every +sound that the human voice can make. At the first instant I realized no +more than this, but at the next I saw that the people were hunting a man +as hounds hunt a wolf. The man was flying before them; he was coming +toward me: in the gathering darkness I could see him; his dress, which +was Moorish, was torn into shreds about his body; his head was bare; his +chest was bleeding; I saw his face--it was the face of the American, my +companion of the voyage. + +He saw me too, and at that instant he turned about and faced full upon +his pursuers. What happened then I dare not tell. + +Father, he was a brave man, and he sold his life dearly. But he fell at +last. He was but one to a hundred. The yelping human dogs trod him down +like vermin. + +I am a coward. I fled and left him. When I got back to my lodgings I +called for my guide, for I was resolved to leave Fez without an hour's +delay. The guide was not to be found, and I had to go in search of him. +When I lighted on him, at length, he was in a dingy coffee-house, +squatting on the ground by the side of another Moor, an evil-looking +scoundrel, who was reciting some brave adventure to a group of admiring +listeners. + +I called my man out and told him of my purpose. He lifted his hands in +consternation. "Leave Fez to-night?" he said. "Impossible, my sultan, +impossible! My lord has not heard the order!" + +"What order?" I asked. I was alarmed. Must I be a prisoner in Morocco +while my child lay dying in England? + +"That the gates be closed and no Christian allowed to leave the city +until the morning. It is the order of the Kaleefa, my sultan, since the +outrage of the Christian in the mosque this morning." + +I suspected the meaning of this move in an instant, and the guide's +answer to my questions ratified my fears. One man, out of madness or +thirst for revenge, had led the attack upon the American, and a crowd of +fanatics had killed him--giving him no chance of retreat with his life, +either by circumcision or the profession of Islam. But cooler heads had +already found time to think of the penalty of shedding Christian blood. +That penalty was twofold: first, the penalty of disgrace which would +come of the idea that the lives of Christians were not safe in Morocco, +and next, the penalty of hard dollars to be paid to the American +Minister at Tangier. + +To escape from the double danger the outrage was to be hushed up. +Circumstances lent themselves to this artifice. True, that passage of +the American across country had been known in every village through +which he had passed; but at the gates of Fez he had himself cut off all +trace of his identity. He had entered the city alone, or in disguise. +His arrival as a stranger had not been notified at any of the "clubs" or +bazaars. Only one man had recognized him: that man was Larby, his guide. + +The body was to be buried secretly, no Christian being allowed to see +it. Then the report was to be given out that the dead man had been a +Moorish subject, that he had been killed in a blood-fued, and that the +rumor that he was a Christian caught in the act of defying the mosque +was an error, without the shadow of truth in it. But until all this had +been done no Christian should be allowed to pass through the gates. As +things stood at present the first impulse of a European would be to fly +to the Consul with the dangerous news. + +I knew something of the Moors and their country by this time, and I left +Fez that night, but it cost me fifty pounds to get out of it. There was +a bribe for the kaid, a bribe for the Kaleefa, and bribes for every +ragged Jack of the underlings down to the porter at the gate. + +With all my horror and the fever of my anxiety, I could have laughed in +the face of the first of these functionaries. Between his greedy desire +of the present I was offering him, his suspicion that I knew something +of the identity of the Christian who had been killed, his misgivings as +to the reasons of my sudden flight, and his dread that I would discover +the circumstances of the American's death, the figure he cut was a +foolish one. But why should I reproach the man's duplicity? I was +practising the like of it myself. Too well I knew that if I betrayed any +knowledge of what had happened it would be impossible that I should be +allowed to leave Fez. + +So I pretended to know nothing. It was a ridiculous interview. + +On my way back from it I crossed a little company of Moors, leading, +surrounding, and following a donkey. The donkey was heavily laden with +what appeared to be two great panniers of rubbish. It was dusk, but my +sight has always been keen, and I could not help seeing that hidden +under the rubbish there was another burden on the donkey's back. It was +the body of a dead man. I had little doubt of who the dead man must be; +but I hastened on and did not look again. The Moors turned into a garden +as I passed them. I guessed what they were about to do there, but my own +danger threatened me, and I wished to see and know no more. + +As I was passing out of the town in the moonlight an hour before +midnight, with my grumbling tentmen and muleteers at my heels, a man +stepped out of the shadow of the gateway arch and leered in my face, and +said in broken English, "So your Christian friend is corrected by +Allah!" + +_Moorish English, my son, or Spanish?_ + +Spanish. + +It was the scoundrel whom I had seen in the coffee-house. I knew he must +be Larby, and that he had betrayed his master at last. Also, I knew that +he was aware that I had seen all. At that moment, looking down from my +horse's back into the man's evil face my whole nature changed. I +remembered the one opportunity which the American had lost out of a +wandering impulse of human tenderness--of saving his own life by taking +the life of him that threatened it, and I said in my heart of hearts, +"Now God in heaven keep me from the like temptation." + +Ah! father, do not shrink from me; think of it, only think of it! I was +fifteen hundred miles from home, and I was going back to my dying boy. + + * * * * * + +_God keep you, indeed, my son. Your feet were set in a slippery place. +El Arby, you say? A man of your own age? Dark? Sallow? It must be the +same. Long ago I knew the man you speak of. It was under another name, +and in another country. Yes, he was all you say. God forgive him, God +forgive him! Poor wrecked and bankrupt soul. His evil angel was always +at his hand, and his good one far away. He brought his father to shame, +and his mother to the grave. There was a crime and conviction, then +banishment, and after that his father fled from the world. But the +Church is peace; he took refuge with her, and all is well. Go on now._ + + + + +III + + +Father, I counted it up. Every mile of the distance I counted it. And I +reckoned every hour since my wife's letter had been written against the +progress and period of my boy's disease. So many days since the date of +the letter, and Noel had been ailing and ill so many days before that. +The gross sum of those days was so much, and in that time the affection, +if it ran the course I looked for, must have reached such and such a +stage. While I toiled along over the broad wastes of that desolate land, +I seemed to know at any moment what the condition must be at the utmost +and best of my boy in his bed at home. + +Then I reckoned the future as well as the past. So many days it would +take me to ride to Tangier, so many hours to cross from Tangier to +Cadiz, so many days and nights by rail from Cadiz to London. The grand +total of time past since my poor Noel first became unwell, and of time +to come before I could reach his side, would be so much. What would his +condition be then? I knew that also. It would be so and so. + +Thus, step by step I counted it all up. The interval would be long, very +long, between the beginning of the attack and my getting home, but not +too long for my hopes. All going well with me, I should still arrive in +time. If the disease had taken an evil turn, my boy might perhaps be in +its last stages. But then _I_ would be there, and I could save him. The +operation which I had spent five years of my life to master would bring +him back from the gates of death itself. + +Father, I had no doubt of that, and I had no doubt of my calculations. +Lying here now it seems as if the fiends themselves must have shrieked +to see me in that far-off land gambling like a fool in the certainty of +the life I loved, and reckoning nothing of the hundred poor chances that +might snuff it out like a candle. Call it frenzy, call it madness, +nevertheless it kept my heart alive, and saved me from despair. + +But, oh! the agony of my impatience! If anything should stop me now! Let +me be one day later--only one--and what might not occur! Then, how many +were the dangers of delay! First, there was the possibility of illness +overtaking me. My health was not better, but worse, than when I left +home. I was riding from sunrise to sunset, and not sleeping at nights. +No matter! I put all fear from that cause away from me. Though my limbs +refused to bear me up, and under the affliction of my nerves my muscles +lost the power to hold the reins, yet if I could be slung on to the back +of my horse I should still go on. + +But then there was the worse danger of coming into collision with the +fanaticism of the people through whose country I had to pass. I did not +fear the fate of the American, for I could not be guilty of his folly. +But I remembered the admission of the English Consul at Tangier that a +stranger might offend the superstitions of the Moslems unwittingly; I +recalled his parting words of counsel, spoken half in jest, "Keep out of +a Moorish prison"; and the noisome dungeon into which the young Berber +had been cast arose before my mind in visions of horror. + +What precautions I took to avoid these dangers of delay would be a long +and foolish story. Also, it would be a mean and abject one, and I should +be ashamed to tell it. How I saluted every scurvy beggar on the way with +the salutation of his faith and country; how I dismounted as I +approached a town or a village, and only returned to the saddle when I +had gone through it: how I uncovered my head--in ignorance of Eastern +custom--as I went by a saint's house, and how at length (remembering the +Jewish banker who was beaten) I took off my shoes and walked barefoot as +I passed in front of a mosque. + +Yes, it was I who paid all this needless homage; I whose pride has +always been my bane; I who could not bend the knee to be made a knight; +I who had felt humility before no man. Even so it was. In my eagerness, +my impatience, my dread of impediment on my journey home to my darling +who waited for me there, I was studying the faces and groveling at the +feet of that race of ignorant fanatics. + +But the worst of my impediments were within my own camp. The American +was right. The Moor can not comprehend a disinterested action. My +foolish homage to their faith awakened the suspicions of my men. When +they had tried in vain to fathom the meaning of it, they agreed to +despise me. I did not heed their contempt, but I was compelled to take +note of its consequences. From being my servants, they became my +masters. When it pleased them to encamp I had to rest, though my +inclination was to go on, and only when it suited them to set out again +could I resume my journey. In vain did I protest, and plead, and +threaten. The Moor is often a brave man, but these men were a gang of +white-livered poltroons, and a blow would have served to subdue them. +With visions of a Moorish prison before my eyes I dared not raise my +hand. One weapon alone could I, in my own cowardice, employ against +them--bribes, bribes, bribes. Such was the sole instrument with which I +combated their laziness, their duplicity, and their deceit. + +Father, I was a pitiful sight in my weakness and my impatience. We had +not gone far out of Fez when I observed that the man Larby was at the +heels of our company. This alarmed me, and I called to my guide. + +"Alee," I said, "who is that evil-looking fellow?" + +Alee threw up both hands in amazement. "Evil-looking fellow!" he cried. +"God be gracious to my father! Who does my lord mean? Not Larby; no, not +Larby. Larby is a good man. He lives in one of the mosque houses at +Tangier. The Nadir leased it to him, and he keeps his shop on the Sôk de +Barra. Allah bless Larby. Should you want musk, should you want +cinnamon, Larby is the man to sell to you. But sometimes he guides +Christians to Fez, and then his brother keeps his shop for him." + +"But why is the man following us?" I asked. + +"My sultan," said Alee, "am I not telling you? Larby is returning home. +The Christian he took to Fez, where is he?" + +"Yes," I said, "where is he?" + +Alee grinned, and answered: "He is gone--southward, my lord." + +"Why should you lie to me like that?" I said. "You know the Christian is +dead, and that this Larby was the means of killing him!" + +"Shoo! What is my lord saying?" cried Alee, lifting his fat hands with a +warning gesture. "What did my lord tell the Basha? My lord must know +nothing--nothing. It would not be safe." + +Then with glances of fear toward Larby, and dropping his voice to a +whisper, Alee added, "It is true the Christian is dead; he died last +sunset. Allah corrected him. So Larby is going back alone, going back to +his shop, to his house, to his wives, to his little daughter Hoolia. +Allah send Larby a safe return. Not following us, Sidi. No, no; Larby is +going back the same way--that is all." + +The answer did not content me, but I could say no more. Nevertheless, my +uneasiness at the man's presence increased hour by hour. I could not +think of him without thinking also of the American and of the scene of +horror near to the Karueein Mosque. I could not look at him but the +blood down my back ran cold. So I called my guide again, and said, "Send +that man away; I will not have him in our company." + +Alee pretended to be deeply wounded. "Sidi," he said, "ask anything else +of me. What will you ask? Will you ask me to die for you? I am ready, I +am willing, I am satisfied. But Larby is my friend. Larby is my brother, +and this thing you ask of me I can not do. Allah has not written it. +Sidi, it can not be." + +With such protestations--the common cant of the country--I had need to +be content. But now the impression fixed itself upon my mind that the +evil-faced scoundrel who had betrayed the American to his death was not +only following _us_ but _me_. Oh! the torment of that idea in the +impatience of my spirit and the racking fever of my nerves! To be dogged +day and night as by a bloodhound, never to raise my eyes without the +dread of encountering the man's watchful eye--the agony of the incubus +was unbearable! + +My first thought was merely that the rascal meant robbery. However far I +might ride ahead of my own people in the daytime he was always close +behind me, and as surely as I wandered away from the camp at nightfall I +was overtaken by him or else I met him face to face. + +"Alee," I said at last, "that man is a thief." + +Of course Alee was horrified. "Ya Allah!" he cried. "What is my lord +saying? The Moor is no thief. The Moor is true, the Moor is honest. None +so true and honest as the Moor. Wherefore should the Moor be a thief? To +be a thief in Barbary is to be a fool. Say I rob a Christian. Good. I +kill him and take all he has and bury him in a lonely place. All right. +What happens? Behold, Sidi, this is what happens. Your Christian Consul +says, 'Where is the Christian you took to Fez?' I can not tell. I lie, I +deceive, I make excuses. No use. Your Christian Consul goes to the +Kasbah, and says to the Basha: 'Cast that Moor into prison, he is a +robber and a murderer!' Then he goes to the Sultan at Marrakesh, in the +name of your Queen, who lives in the country of the Nazarenes, over the +sea. 'Pay me twenty thousand dollars,' he says, 'for the life of my +Christian who is robbed and murdered,' Just so. The Sultan--Allah +preserve our Mulai Hassan!--he pays the dollars. Good, all right, just +so. But is that all, Sidi? No, Sidi, that is not all. The Sultan--God +prolong the life of our merciful lord--he then comes to my people, to my +Basha, to my bashalic, and he says, 'Pay me back my forty thousand +dollars'--do you hear me, Sidi, _forty_ thousand!--'for the Nazarene who +is dead.' All right. But we can not pay. Good. The Sultan--Allah save +him!--he comes, he takes all we have, he puts every man of my people to +the sword. We are gone, we are wiped out. Did I not say, Sidi, to be a +thief in Barbary is to be a fool?" + +It was cold comfort. That the man Larby was following me I was +confident, and that he meant to rob me I was at first convinced. Small +solace, therefore, in the thought that if the worst befell me, and my +boy at home died for want of his father, who lay robbed and murdered in +those desolate wastes, my Government would exact a claim in paltry +dollars. + +My next thought was that the man was merely watching me out of the +country. That he was aware that I knew his secret was only too certain; +that he had betrayed my knowledge to the authorities at the capital +after I had parted from them was more than probable, and it was not +impossible that the very men who had taken bribes of me had in their +turn bribed him that he might follow me and see that I did not inform +the Ministers and Consuls of foreign countries of the murder of the +American in the streets of Fez. + +That theory partly reconciled me to the man's presence: Let him watch. +His constant company was in its tormenting way my best security. I +should go to no Minister, and no Consul should see me. I had too much +reason to think of my own living affairs to busy myself with those of +the dead American. + +But such poor unction as this reflection brought me was dissipated by a +second thought. What security for the man himself, or for the +authorities who might have bribed him--or perhaps menaced him--to watch +me would lie in the fact that I had passed out of the country without +revealing the facts of the crime which I had witnessed? Safely back in +England, I might tell all with safety. Once let me leave Morocco with +their secret in my breast, and both the penalties these people dreaded +might be upon them. Merely to watch me was wasted labor. They meant to +do more, or they would have done nothing. + +Thinking so, another idea took possession of me with a shock of +terror--the man was following me to kill me as the sole Christian +witness of the crime that had been committed. By the light of that +theory everything became plain. When I visited the Kasbah nothing was +known of my acquaintance with the murdered man. My bribes were taken, +and I was allowed to leave Fez in spite of public orders. But then came +Larby with alarming intelligence. I had been a friend of the American, +and had been seen to speak with him in the public streets. Perhaps Larby +himself had seen me, or perhaps my own guide, Alee, had betrayed me to +his friend and "brother." At that the Kaid or his Kaleefa had raised +their eyebrows and sworn at each other for simpletons and fools. To +think that the very man who had intended to betray them had come with an +innocent face and a tale of a sick child in England! To think that they +had suffered him to slip through their fingers and leave them some +paltry bribes of fifty pounds! Fifty pounds taken by stealth against +twenty thousand dollars to be plumped down after the Christian had told +his story! These Nazarenes were so subtle, and the sons of Ishmael were +so simple. But diamond cut diamond. Everything was not lost. One hundred +and twenty-five miles this Christian had still to travel before he could +sail from Barbary, and not another Christian could he encounter on that +journey. Then up, Larby, and after him! God make your way easy! +Remember, Larby, remember, good fellow, it is not only the pockets of +the people of Fez that are in danger if that Christian should escape. +Let him leave the Gharb alive, and your own neck is in peril. You were +the spy, you were the informer, you were the hotheaded madman who led +the attack that ended in the spilling of Christian blood. If the Sultan +should have to pay twenty thousand dollars to the Minister for America +at Tangier for the life of this dead dog whom we have grubbed into the +earth in a garden, if the Basha of Fez should have to pay forty thousand +dollars to the Sultan, if the people should have to pay eighty thousand +dollars to the Basha, then you, Larby, you in your turn will have to pay +with your _life_ to the people. It is _your_ life against the life of +the Christian. So follow him, watch him, silence him, he knows your +secret--away! + +Such was my notion of what happened at the Kasbah of Fez after I had +passed the gates of the city. It was a wild vision, but to my +distempered imagination it seemed to be a plausible theory. And now +Larby, the spy upon the American, Larby, my assassin-elect, Larby, who +to save his own life must take mine, Larby was with me, was beside me, +was behind me constantly! + +_God help you, my son, God help you! Larby! O Larby! Again, again!_ + +What was I to do? Open my heart to Larby; to tell him it was a blunder; +that I meant no man mischief; that I was merely hastening back to my +sick boy, who was dying for want of me? That was impossible; Larby would +laugh in my face, and still follow me. Bribe him? That was useless; +Larby would take my money and make the surer of his victim. It was a +difficult problem; but at length I hit on a solution. Father, you will +pity me for a fool when you hear it. I would bargain with Larby as Faust +bargained with the devil. He should give me two weeks of life, and come +with me to England. I should do my work here, and Larby should never +leave my side. My boy's life should be saved by that operation, which I +alone knew how to perform. After that Larby and I should square accounts +together. He should have all the money I had in the world, and the +passport of my name and influence for his return to his own country. I +should write a confession of suicide, and then--and then--only then--at +home--here in my own room--Larby should kill me in order to satisfy +himself that his own secret and the secret of his people must be safe +forever. + +It was a mad dream, but what dream of dear life is not mad that comes to +the man whom death dogs like a bloodhound? And mad as it was I tried to +make it come true. The man was constantly near me, and on the third +morning of our journey I drew up sharply, and said: + +"Larby!" + +"Sidi," he answered. + +"Would you not like to go on with me to England?" + +He looked at me with his glittering eyes, and I gave an involuntary +shiver. I had awakened the man's suspicions in an instant. He thought I +meant to entrap him. But he only smiled knowingly, shrugged his +shoulders, and answered civilly: "I have my shop in the Sôk de Barra, +Sidi. And then there are my wives and my sons and my little Hoolia--God +be praised for all his blessings." + +"Hoolia?" I asked. + +"My little daughter, Sidi." + +"How old is she?" + +"Six, Sidi, only six, but as fair as an angel." + +"I dare say she misses you when you are away, Larby," I said. + +"You have truth, Sidi. She sits in the Sôk by the tents of the +brassworkers and plaits rushes all the day long, and looks over to where +the camels come by the saints' houses on the hill, and waits and +watches." + +"Larby," I said, "I, too, have a child at home who is waiting and +watching. A boy, my little Noel, six years of age, just as old as your +own little Hoolia. And so bright, so winsome. But he is ill, he is +dying, and he is all the world to me. Larby, I am a surgeon, I am a +doctor, if I could but reach England--" + +It was worse than useless. I stopped, for I could go no farther. The +cold glitter of the man's eyes passed over me like frost over flame, and +I knew his thought as well as if he had spoken it. "I have heard that +story before," he was telling himself, "I have heard it at the Kasbah, +and it is a lie and a trick." + +My plan was folly, and I abandoned it; but I was more than ever +convinced of my theory. This man was following me to kill me. He was +waiting an opportunity to do his work safely, secretly, and effectually. +His rulers would shield him in his crime, for by that crime they would +themselves be shielded. + +Father, my theory, like my plan, was foolishness. Only a madman would +have dreamt of concealing a crime whereof there was but one witness, by +a second crime, whereof the witnesses must have been five hundred. The +American had traveled in disguise and cut off the trace of his identity +to all men save myself. When he died at the hands of the fanatics whose +faith he had outraged, I alone of all Christians knew that it was +Christian blood that had stained the streets of Fez. But how different +my own death must have been. I had traveled openly as a Christian and an +Englishman. At the consulate of Tangier I was known by name and repute, +and at that of Fez I had registered myself. My presence had been +notified at every town I had passed through, and the men of my caravan +would not have dared to return to their homes without me. In the case of +the murder of the American the chances to the Moorish authorities of +claim for indemnity were as one to five hundred. In the case of the like +catastrophe to myself they must have been as five hundred to one. Thus, +in spite of fanaticism and the ineradicable hatred of the Moslem for the +Nazarene, Morocco to me, as to all Christian travelers, traveling openly +and behaving themselves properly, was as safe a place as England itself. + +But how can a man be hot and cold and wise and foolish in a moment? I +was in no humor to put the matter to myself temperately, and, though I +had been so cool as to persuade myself that the authorities whom I had +bribed could not have been madmen enough to think that they could +conceal the murder of the American by murdering me, yet I must have +remained convinced that Larby himself was such a madman. + +As a surgeon, I had some knowledge of madness, and the cold, clear, +steely glitter of the man's eyes when he looked at me was a thing that I +could not mistake. I had seen it before in religious monomaniacs. It was +an infallible and fatal sign. With that light in the eyes, like the +glance of a dagger, men will kill the wives they love, and women will +slaughter the children of their bosom. When I saw it in Larby I shivered +with a chilly presentiment. It seemed to say that I should see my home +no more. I have seen my home once more; I am back in England, I am here, +but-- + +_No, no, not_ THAT! _Larby! Don't tell_ ME _you did_ THAT. + +Father, is my crime so dark? That hour comes back and back. How long +will it haunt me? How long? For ever and ever. When time for me is +swallowed up in eternity, eternity will be swallowed up in the memory of +that hour. Peace! Do you say peace? Ah! yes, yes; God is merciful! + +Before I had spoken to Larby his presence in our company had been only +as a dark and fateful shadow. Now it was a foul and hateful incubus. +Never in all my life until then had I felt hatred for any human +creature. But I hated that man with all the sinews of my soul. What was +it to me that he was a madman? He intended to keep me from my dying boy. +Why should I feel tenderness toward him because he was the father of his +little Hoolia? By killing me he would kill my little Noel. + +I began to recall the doctrines of the American as he propounded them on +the ship. It was the life of an honest man against the life of a +scoundrel. These things should be rated _ad valorem_. If the worst came +to the worst, why should I have more respect for this madman's life than +for my own? + +I looked at the man and measured his strength against mine. He was a +brawny fellow with broad shoulders, and I was no better than a weakling. +I was afraid of him, but I was yet more afraid of myself. Sometimes I +surprised my half-conscious mind in the act of taking out of its +silver-mounted sheath the large curved knife which I had bought of the +hawker at Tangier, and now wore in the belt of my Norfolk jacket. In my +cowardice and my weakness this terrified me. Not all my borrowed +philosophy served to support me against the fear of my own impulses. +Meantime, I was in an agony of suspense and dread. The nights brought me +no rest and the mornings no freshness. + +On the fourth day out of Fez we arrived at Wazzan, and there, though the +hour was still early, my men decided to encamp for the night. I +protested, and they retorted; I threatened, and they excused themselves. +The mules wanted shoeing. I offered to pay double that they might be +shod immediately. The tents were torn by a heavy wind the previous +night. I offered to buy new ones. When their trumpery excuses failed +them, the men rebelled openly, and declared their determination not to +stir out of Wazzan that night. + +But they had reckoned without their host this time. I found that there +was an English Consul at Wazzan, and I went in search of him. His name +was Smith, and he was a typical Englishman--ample, expansive, firm, +resolute, domineering, and not troubled with too much sentiment. I told +him of the revolt of my people and of the tyranny of the subterfuges +whereby they had repeatedly extorted bribes. The good fellow came to my +relief. He was a man of purpose, and he had no dying child twelve +hundred miles away to make him a fool and a coward. + +"Men," he said, "you've got to start away with this gentleman at +sundown, and ride night and day--do you hear me, night and day--until +you come to Tangier. A servant of my own shall go with you, and if you +stop or delay or halt or go slowly he shall see that every man of you is +clapped into the Kasbah as a blackmailer and a thief." + +There was no more talk of rebellion. The men protested that they had +always been willing to travel. Sidi had been good to them, and they +would be good to Sidi. At sundown they would be ready. + +"You will have no more trouble, sir," said the Consul; "but I will come +back to see you start." + +I thanked him and we parted. It was still an hour before sunset, and I +turned aside to look at the town. I had barely walked a dozen paces when +I came face to face with Larby. In the turmoil of my conflict with the +men I had actually forgotten him for one long hour. He looked at me with +his glittering eyes, and then his cold, clear gaze followed the Consul +as he passed down the street. That double glance was like a shadowy +warning. It gave me a shock of terror. + +How had I forgotten my resolve to baffle suspicion by exchanging no word +or look with any European Minister or Consul as long as I remained in +Morocco? The expression in the man's face was not to be mistaken. It +seemed to say, "So you have told all; very well, Sidi, we shall see." + +With a sense as of creeping and cringing I passed on. The shadow of +death seemed to have fallen upon me at last. I felt myself to be a +doomed man. That madman would surely kill me. He would watch his chance; +I should never escape him; my home would see me no more; my boy would +die for want of me. + +A tingling noise, as of the jangling of bells, was in my ears. Perhaps +it was the tinkling of the bells of the water-carriers, prolonged and +unbroken. A gauzy mist danced before my eyes. Perhaps it was the +palpitating haze which the sun cast back from the gilded domes and +minarets. + +Domes and minarets were everywhere in this town of Wazzan. It seemed to +be a place of mosques and saints' houses. Where the wide arch and the +trough of the mosque were not, there was the open door in the low +white-washed wall of the saint's house, surmounted by its white flag. In +my dazed condition, I was sometimes in danger of stumbling into such +places unawares. At the instant of recovered consciousness I always +remembered the warnings of my guide as I stood by the house of Sidi Gali +at Tangier: "Sacred place? Yes, sacred. No Nazarene may enter it. But +Moslems, yes, Moslems may fly here for sanctuary. Life to the Moslem, +death to the Nazarene. So it is." + +Oh, it is an awful thing to feel that death is waiting for you +constantly, that at any moment, at any turn, at any corner it may be +upon you! Such was my state as I walked on that evening, waiting for the +sunset, through the streets of Wazzan. At one moment I was conscious of +a sound in my ears above the din of traffic--the _Arrah_ of the +ass-drivers, the _Bálak_ of the men riding mules, and the general clamor +of tongues. It was the steady beat of a footstep close behind me. I knew +whose footstep it was. I turned about quickly, and Larby was again face +to face with me. He met my gaze with the same cold, glittering look. My +impulse was to fly at his throat, but that I dare not do. I knew myself +to be a coward, and I remembered the Moorish prison. + +"Larby," I said, "what do you want?" + +"Nothing, Sidi, nothing," he answered. + +"Then why are you following me like this?" + +"Following you, Sidi?" The fellow raised his eyebrows and lifted both +hands in astonishment. + +"Yes, following me, dogging me, watching me, tracking me down. What does +it mean? Speak out plainly." + +"Sidi is jesting," he said, with a mischievous smile. "Is not this +Wazzan--the holy city of Wazzan? Sidi is looking at the streets, at the +mosques, at the saints' houses. So is Larby. That is all." + +One glance at the man's evil eyes would have told you that he lied. + +"Which way are you going?" I asked. + +"This way." With a motion of the head he indicated the street before +him. + +"Then I am going to this," I said, and I walked away in the opposite +direction. + +I resolved to return to the English Consul, to tell him everything, and +claim his protection. Though all the Moorish authorities in Morocco were +in league with this religious monomaniac, yet surely there was life and +safety under English power for one whose only offense was that of being +witness to a crime which might lead to a claim for indemnity. + +_That it should come to this, and I of all men should hear it! God help +me! God lead me! God give me light! Light, light, O God; give me light!_ + + + + +IV + + +Full of this new purpose and of the vague hope inspired by it, I was +making my way back to the house of the Consul, when I came upon two +postal couriers newly arrived from Tangier on their way to Fez. They +were drawn up, amid a throng of the townspeople, before the palace of +the Grand Shereef, and with the Moorish passion for "powder-play" they +were firing their matchlocks into the air as salute and signal. Sight of +the mail-bags slung at their sides, and of the Shereef's satchel, which +they had come some miles out of their course to deliver, suggested the +thought that they might be carrying letters for me, which could never +come to my hands unless they were given to me now. The couriers spoke +some little English. I explained my case to them, and begged them to +open their bags and see if anything had been sent forward in my name +from Tangier to Fez. True to the phlegmatic character of the Moor in all +affairs of common life, they protested that they dare not do so; the +bags were tied and sealed, and none dare open them. If there were +letters of mine inside they must go on to Fez, and then return to +Tangier. But with the usual results I had recourse to my old expedient; +a bribe broke the seals, the bags were searched and two letters were +found for me. + +The letters, like those that came to Fez, were one from my wife and one +from Wenman. I could not wait till I was alone, but broke open the +envelopes and read my letters where I stood. A little crowd of Moors had +gathered about me--men, youths, boys, and children--the ragged +inhabitants of the streets of the holy city. They seemed to be chaffing +and laughing at my expense, but I paid no heed to them. + +Just as before, so now, and for the same reason I read Wenman's letter +first. I remember every word of it, for every word seemed to burn into +my brain like flame. + +"My dear fellow," wrote Wenman, "I think it my duty to tell you that +your little son is seriously ill." + +I knew it--I knew it; who knew it so well as I, though I was more than a +thousand miles away? + +"It is a strange fact that he is down with the very disease of the +throat which you have for so long a time made your especial study. Such, +at least, is our diagnosis, assisted by your own discoveries. The case +has now reached that stage where we must contemplate the possibility of +the operation which you have performed with such amazing results. Our +only uneasiness arises from the circumstance that this operation has +hitherto been done by no one except yourself. We have, however, your +explanations and your diagrams, and on these we must rely. And, even if +you were here, his is not a case in which your own hand should be +engaged. Therefore, rest assured, my dear fellow," etc., etc. + +Blockheads! If they had not done it already they must not do it at all. +I would telegraph from Tangier that I was coming. Not a case for my +hand! Fools, fools! It was a case for my hand only. + +I did not stop to read the friendly part of Wenman's letter, the good +soul's expression of sympathy and solicitude, but in the fever of my +impatience, sweating at every pore and breaking into loud exclamations, +I tore open the letter from my wife. My eyes swam over the sheet, and I +missed much at that first reading, but the essential part of the message +stood out before me as if written in red: + +"We ... so delighted ... your letters.... Glad you are having warm, +beautiful weather.... Trust ... make you strong and well.... We are +having blizzards here ... snowing to-day.... I am sorry to tell you, +dearest, that our darling is very ill. It is his throat again. This is +Friday, and he has grown worse every day since I wrote on Monday. When +he can speak he is always calling for you. He thinks if you were here he +would soon be well. He is very weak, for he can take no nourishment, and +he has grown so thin, poor little fellow. But he looks very lovely, and +every night he says in his prayers, 'God bless papa, and bring him +safely home'...." + +I could bear no more, the page in my hands was blotted out, and for the +first time since I became a man I broke into a flood of tears. + +O Omnipotent Lord of Heaven and earth, to think that this child is as +life of my life and soul of my soul, that he is dying, that I alone of +all men living can save him, and that we are twelve hundred miles apart! +Wipe them out, O Lord--wipe out this accursed space dividing us; +annihilate it. Thou canst do all, thou canst remove mountains, and this +is but a little thing to Thee. Give me my darling under my hands, and I +will snatch him out of the arms of death itself. + +Did I utter such words aloud out of the great tempest of my trouble? I +can not say; I do not know. Only when I had lifted my eyes from my +wife's letter did I become conscious of where I was and what was going +on around me. I was still in the midst of the crowd of idlers, and they +were grinning, and laughing, and jeering, and mocking at the sight of +tears--weak, womanish, stupid tears--on the face of a strong man. + +I was ashamed, but I was yet more angry, and to escape from the danger +of an outbreak of my wrath I turned quickly aside, and walked rapidly +down a narrow alley. + +As I did so a second paper dropped to the ground from the sheet of my +wife's letter. Before I had picked it up I saw what it was. It was a +message from my boy himself, in the handwriting of his nurse. + +"He is brighter to-night," the good creature herself wrote at the top of +the page, "and he would insist on dictating this letter." + +"My dear, dear papa--" + +When I had read thus far I was conscious again that the yelling, +barking, bleating mob behind were looking after me. To avoid the torment +of their gaze I hurried on, passed down a second alley, and then turned +into a narrow opening which seemed to be the mouth of a third. But I +paid small heed to my footsteps, for all my mind was with the paper +which I wished to read. + +Finding myself in a quiet place at length, I read it. The words were my +little darling's own, and I could hear his voice as if he were speaking +them: + + * * * * * + +"My dear, dear papa, I am ill with my throat, and sometimes I can't +speak. Last night the ceiling was falling down on me, and the fire was +coming up to the bed. But I'm werry nearly all right now. We are going +to have a Thanksgiving party soon--me, and Jumbo, and Scotty, the puppy. +When are you coming home? Do you live in a tent in Morocco? I have a +fire in my bedroom: do you? Write and send me some foreign stamps from +Tangier. Are the little boys black in Morocco? Nurse showed me a picture +of a lady who lives there, and she's all black except her lips, and her +mouth stands out. Have you got a black servant? Have you got a horse to +ride on? Is he black? I am tired now. Good-night. Mama says I must not +tell you to come home quick. Jumbo's all right. He grunts when you shove +him along. So good-night, papa. x x x x. These kisses are all for you. I +am so thin. + +"From your little boy, + +"NOEL." + + * * * * * + +Come home! Yes, my darling, I will come home. Nothing shall stop me +now--nothing, nothing! The sun is almost set. Everything is ready. The +men must be saddling the horses again. In less than half an hour I shall +have started afresh. I will ride all night to-night and all day +to-morrow, and in a week I shall be standing by your side. A week! How +long! how long! Lord of life and death, keep my boy alive until then! + +I became conscious that I was speaking hot words such as these aloud. +Even agony like mine has its lucidities of that kind. At the same moment +I heard footsteps somewhere behind me. They were slow and steady +footsteps, but I knew them too well. The blood rushed to my head and +back to my heart. I looked up and around. Where was I? Where? Where? + +I was in a little court, surrounded by low, white-washed walls. Before +me there was an inner compartment roofed by a rude dome. From the apex +of this dome there floated a tiny white flag. I was in a saint's house. +In the confusion of my mind, and the agonizing disarray of all my +senses, I had stumbled into the sacred place unawares. + +The footsteps came nearer. They seemed to be sounding on the back of my +neck. I struggled forward a few paces. By a last mechanical resource of +despair I tried to conceal myself in the inner chamber. I was too late. +A face appeared in the opening at which I had entered. It was Larby's +face, contracted into a grimacing expression. + +I read the thought of the man's face as by a flash of light. "Good, +Sidi, good! You have done my work as well as my master's. You are a dead +man; no one will know, and I need never to lift my hand to you." + +At the next instant the face was gone. In the moment following I lived a +lifetime. My brain did not think; it lightened. I remembered the death +of the American in the streets of Fez. I recalled the jeering crowd at +the top of the alley. I reflected that Larby was gone to tell the mob +that I had dishonored one of their sanctuaries. I saw myself dragged +out, trampled under foot, torn to pieces, and then smuggled away in the +dusk on a donkey's back under panniers of filth. My horses ready, my men +waiting, my boy dying for want of me, and myself dead in a dunghill. + +"Great Jehovah, lend me Thy strength!" I cried, as I rushed out into the +alley. Larby was stealing away with rapid steps. I overtook him; I laid +hold of him by the hood of his jellab. He turned upon me. All my soul +was roused to uncontrollable fury. I took the man in both my arms, I +threw him off his feet, I lifted him by one mighty effort high above my +shoulders and flung him to the ground. + +He began to cry out, and I sprang upon him again and laid hold of his +throat. I knew where to grip, and not a sound could he utter. We were +still in the alley, and I put my left hand into the neck of his kaftan +and dragged him back into the saint's house. He drew his dagger and +lunged at me. I parried the thrust with my foot and broke his arm with +my heel. Then there was a moment of horrible bedazzlement. Red flames +flashed before me. My head grew dizzy. The whole universe seemed to reel +beneath my feet. The man was doubled backward across my knee. I had +drawn my knife--I knew where to strike--and "For my boy, my boy!" I +cried in my heart. + +It was done. The man died without a groan. His body collapsed in my +hands, rolled from my knee, and fell at my feet--doubled up, the head +under the neck, the broken arm under the trunk in a heap, a heap. + +_Oh! oh! Larby! Larby!_ + +Then came an awful revulsion of feeling. For a moment I stood looking +down, overwhelmed with the horror of my act. In a sort of drunken stupor +I gazed at the wide-open eyes, and the grimacing face fixed in its +hideousness by the convulsion of death. O God! O God! what had I done! +what had I done! + +But I did not cry out. In that awful moment an instinct of +self-preservation saved me. The fatal weapon dropped from my hand, and I +crept out of the place. My great strength was all gone now. I staggered +along, and at every step my limbs grew more numb and stiff. + +But in the alley I looked around. I knew no way back to my people except +that way by which I came. Down the other alley and through the crowd of +idlers I must go. Would they be there still? If so, would they see in my +face what I had done? + +I was no criminal to mask my crime. In a dull, stupid, drowsy, comatose +state I tottered down the alley and through the crowd. They saw me; they +recognized me; I knew that they were jeering at me, but I knew no more. + +"Skaïrî!" shouted one, and "Shaïrî!" shouted another, and as I staggered +away they all shouted "Skaïrî!" together. + +Father, they called me a drunkard. I was a drunkard indeed, but I was +drunk with blood. + +The sun had set by this time. Its last rays were rising off the gilded +top of the highest minaret in a golden mist that looked like flame +leaping out of a kiln. I saw that, as I saw everything, through a +palpitating haze. + +When at length I reached the place where I had left my people I found +the horses saddled, the mules with their burdens packed on their +panniers, the men waiting, and everything ready. Full well I knew that I +ought to leap to my seat instantly and be gone without delay; but I +seemed to have lost all power of prompt action. I was thinking of what I +wanted to do, but I could not do it. The men spoke to me, and I know +that I looked vacantly into their faces and did not answer. One said to +another, "Sidi is growing deaf." + +The other touched his forehead and grinned. + +I was fumbling with the stirrup of my saddle when the English Consul +came up and hailed me with cheerful spirits. By an effort that was like +a spasm I replied. + +"Allow me, doctor," he said, and he offered his knee that I might mount. + +"Ah, no, no," I stammered, and I scrambled to my seat. + +While I was fumbling with my double rein I saw that he was looking at my +hand. + +"You've cut your fingers, doctor," he said. + +There was blood on them. The blood was not mine, but a sort of +mechanical cunning came to my relief. I took out my handkerchief and +made a pretense to bind it about my hand. + +Alee, the guide, was at my right side settling my lumbering foot in my +stirrup. I felt him touch the sheath of my knife, and then I remembered +that it must be empty. + +"Sidi has lost his dagger," he said. "Look!" + +The Consul, who had been on my left, wheeled round by the horse's head, +glanced at the useless sheath that was stuck in the belt of my jacket, +and then looked back into my stupid face. + +"Sidi is ill," he said quietly; "ride quickly, my men, lose no time, get +him out of the country without delay!" + +I heard Alee answer, "Right--all right!" + +Then the Consul's servant rode up--he was a Berber--and took his place +at the head of our caravan. + +"All ready?" asked the Consul, in Arabic. + +"Ready," the men answered. + +"Then away, as if you were flying for your lives!" + +The men put spurs to their mules, Alee gave the lash to my horse, and we +started. + +"Good-by, doctor," cried the Consul; "may you find your little son +better when you reach home!" + +I shouted some incoherent answers in a thick, loud voice, and in a few +minutes more we were galloping across the plain outside the town. + +The next two hours are a blank in my memory. In a kind of drunken stupor +I rode on and on. The gray light deepened into the darkness of night, +and the stars came out. Still we rode and rode. The moon appeared in the +southern sky and rose into the broad whiteness of the stars overhead. +Then consciousness came back to me, and with it came the first pangs of +remorse. Through the long hours of that night ride one awful sight stood +up constantly before my eyes. It was the sight of that dead body, stark +and cold, lying within that little sanctuary behind me, white now with +the moonlight, and silent with the night. + +_O Larby, Larby! You shamed me. You drove me from the world. You brought +down your mother to the grave. And yet, and yet--must I absolve your +murderer?_ + +Father, I reached my home at last. At Gibraltar I telegraphed that I was +coming, and at Dover I received a telegram in reply. Four days had +intervened between the despatch of my message and the receipt of my +wife's. Anything might have happened in that time, and my anxiety was +feverish. Stepping on to the Admiralty Pier, I saw a telegraph boy +bustling about among the passengers from the packet with a telegram in +his hand. + +"What name?" I asked. + +He gave one that was not my own and yet sounded like it. + +I looked at the envelope. Clearly the name was intended for mine. I +snatched the telegram out of the boy's hand. It ran: "Welcome home; boy +very weak, but not beyond hope." + +I think I read the words aloud, amid all the people, so tremendous was +my relief, and so overwhelming my joy. The messenger got a gold coin for +himself and I leaped into the train. + +At Charing Cross I did not wait for my luggage, but gave a foolish tip +to a porter and told him to send my things after me. Within half a +minute of my arrival I was driving out of the station. + +What I suffered during those last moments of waiting before I reached my +house no tongue of man could tell. I read my wife's telegram again, and +observed for the first time that it was now six hours old. Six hours! +They were like six days to my tortured mind. + +From the moment when we turned out of Oxford Street until we drew up at +my own door in Wimpole Street I did not once draw breath. And being here +I dared hardly lift my eyes to the window lest the blinds should be +down. + +I had my latch-key with me, and I let myself in without ringing. A +moment afterward I was in my darling's room. My beloved wife was with +our boy, and he was unconscious. That did not trouble me at all, for I +saw at a glance that I was not too late. + +Throwing off my coat, I sent to the surgery for my case, dismissed my +dear girl with scant embraces, drew my darling's cot up to the window, +and tore down the curtains that kept out the light, for the spring day +was far spent. + +Then, being alone with my darling, I did my work. I had trembled like an +aspen leaf until I entered his room, but when the time came my hand was +as firm as a rock and my pulse beat like a child's. + +I knew I could do it, and I did it. God had spared me to come home, and +I had kept my vow. I had traveled ten days and nights to tackle the +work, but it was a short task when once begun. + +After I had finished I opened the door to call my wife back to the room. +The poor soul was crouching with the boy's nurse on the threshold, and +they were doing their utmost to choke their sobs. + +"There!" I cried, "there's your boy! He'll be all right now." + +The mischief was removed, and I had never a doubt of the child's +recovery. + +My wife flung herself on my breast, and then I realized the price I had +paid for so much nervous tension. All the nerves of organic life seemed +to collapse in an instant. + +"I'm dizzy; lead me to my room," I said. + +My wife brought me brandy, but my hand could not lift the tumbler to my +mouth, and when my dear girl's arms had raised my own, the glass rattled +against my teeth. They put me to bed; I was done--done. + +_God will forgive him. Why should not I?_ + +Father, that was a month ago, and I am lying here still. It is not +neurasthenia of the body that is killing me, but neurasthenia of the +soul. No doctor's drug will ever purge me of that. It is here like fire +in my brain, and here like ice in my heart. Was my awful act justifiable +before God? Was it right in the eyes of Him who has written in the +tables of His law, _Thou shalt do no murder_? Was it murder? Was it +crime? If I outraged the letter of the holy edict, did I also wrong its +spirit? + +Speak, speak, for pity's sake, speak. Have mercy upon me, as you hope +for mercy. Think where I was and what fate was before me. Would I do it +again in spite of all? Yes, yes, a thousand, thousand times, yes. I will +go to God with that word on my lips, and He shall judge me. + +And yet I suffer these agonies of doubt. Life was always a sacred thing +to me. God gave it, and only God should take it away. He who spilt the +blood of his fellow-man took the government of the world out of God's +hands. And then--and then--father, have I not told you all? + +_Yes, yes, the Father of all fathers will pardon him._ + +On the day when I arrived at Tangier from Fez I had some two hours to +wait for the French steamer from Malaga that was to take me to Cadiz. In +order to beguile my mind of its impatience, I walked through the town as +far as the outer Sôk--the Sôk de Barra. + +It was market day, Thursday, and the place was the same animated and +varied scene as I had looked upon before. Crushing my way through the +throng, I came upon the saint's house near the middle of the market. The +sight of the little white structure with its white flag brought back the +tragedy I saw enacted there, and the thought of that horror was now made +hellish to my conscience by the memory of another tragedy at another +saint's house. + +I turned quickly aside, and stepping up to the elevated causeway that +runs in front of the tents of the brassworkers, I stood awhile and +watched the Jewish workmen hammering the designs on their trays. + +Presently I became aware of a little girl who was sitting on a bundle of +rushes and plaiting them into a chain. She was a tiny thing, six years +of age at the utmost, but with the sober look of a matron. Her sweet +face was the color of copper, and her quiet eyes were deep blue. A +yellow gown of some light fabric covered her body, but her feet were +bare. She worked at her plaiting with steady industry, and as often as +she stopped to draw a rush from the bundle beneath her she lifted her +eyes and looked with a wistful gaze over the feeding-ground of the +camels, and down the lane to the bridge, and up by the big house on the +hillside to where the sandy road goes off to Fez. + +The little demure figure, amid so many romping children, interested and +touched me. This was noticed by a Jewish brassworker before whose open +booth I stood and he smiled and nodded his head in the direction of the +little woman. + +"Dear little Sobersides," I said; "does she never play with other +children?" + +"No," said the Jew, "she sits here every day, and all day long--that is, +when her father is away." + +"Whose child is she?" I asked. An awful thought had struck me. + +"A great rascal's," the Jew answered, "though the little one is such an +angel. He keeps a spice shop over yonder, but he is a guide as well as a +merchant, and when he is out on a journey the child sits here and waits +and watches for his coming home again. She can catch the first sight of +travelers from this place and she knows her father at any distance. +See!--do you know where she's looking now? Over the road by El +Minzah--that's the way from Fez. Her father has gone there with a +Christian." + +The sweat was bursting from my forehead. + +"What's his name?" I asked. + +"The Moors call him Larby," said the Jew, "and the Christians nickname +him Ananias. They say he is a Spanish renegade, escaped from Ceuta, who +witnessed to the Prophet and married a Moorish wife. But he's everything +to the little one--bless her innocent face! Look! do you see the tiny +brown dish at her side? That's for her drinking water. She brings it +full every day, and also a little cake of bread for her dinner. + +"She's never tired of waiting, and if Larby does not come home to-night +she'll be here in the morning. I do believe that if anything happened to +Larby she would wait until doomsday." + +My throat was choking me, and I could not speak. The Jew saw my emotion, +but he showed no surprise. I stepped up to the little one and stroked +her glossy black hair. + +"Hoolia?" I said. + +She smiled back into my face and answered, "Iyyeh"--yes. + +I could say no more; I dare not look into her trustful eyes and think +that he whom she waited for would never come again. I stooped and kissed +the child, and then fled away. + +_God show me my duty. The Priest or the Man--which?_ + +Listen! do you hear him? That's the footstep of my boy overhead. My +darling! He is well again now. My little sunny laddie! He came into my +bedroom this morning with a hop, skip, and a jump--a gleam of sunshine. +Poor innocent, thoughtless boy. They will take him into the country +soon, and he will romp in the lanes and tear up the flowers in the +garden. + +My son, my son! He has drained my life away; he has taken all my +strength. Do I wish that I had it back? Yes, but only--yes, only that I +might give it him again. Hark! That's his voice, that's his laughter. +How happy he is! When I think how soon--how very soon--when I think that +I-- + +God sees all. He is looking down on little Hoolia waiting, waiting, +waiting where the camels come over the hills, and on my little Noel +laughing and prancing in the room above us. + +Father, I have told you all at last. There are tears in your eyes, +father. You are crying. Tell me, then, what hope is left? You know my +sin, and you know my suffering. Did I do wrong? Did I do right? + +_My son, God's law was made for man, not man for His law. If the spirit +has been broken where the letter has been kept, the spirit may be kept +where the letter has been broken. Your earthly father dare not judge +you. To your Heavenly Father he must leave both the deed and the +circumstance. It is for Him to justify or forgive. If you are innocent, +He will place your hand in the hand of him who slew the Egyptian and yet +looked on the burning bush. And if you are guilty, He will not shut His +ears to the cry of your despair._ + + * * * * * + +_He has gone. I could not tell him. It would have embittered his parting +hour; it would have poisoned the wine of the sacrament. O, Larby! Larby! +flesh of my flesh, my sorrow, my shame, my prodigal--my son._ + + +END OF "THE LAST CONFESSION" + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Blind Mother and The Last +Confession, by Hall Caine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLIND MOTHER *** + +***** This file should be named 35140-8.txt or 35140-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/1/4/35140/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Blind Mother and The Last Confession + +Author: Hall Caine + +Release Date: February 1, 2011 [EBook #35140] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLIND MOTHER *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> + + + + +<h1>The Blind Mother</h1> + +<h3>And</h3> + +<h1>The Last Confession</h1> + +<h2>BY HALL CAINE</h2> + + +<h3>HALL CAINE'S BEST BOOKS<br /> +IN THREE VOLUMES<br /> +VOLUME II</h3> + +<h3>The Bondman<br /> +The Blind Mother<br /> +The Last Confession</h3> + +<h3>ILLUSTRATED<br /> +P. F. COLLIER & SON<br /> +NEW YORK</h3> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<p> +<a href="#THE_BLIND_MOTHER">THE BLIND MOTHER</a><br /> +<a href="#I">I</a><br /> +<a href="#II">II</a><br /> +<a href="#III">III</a><br /> +<a href="#IV">IV</a><br /><br /> +<a href="#THE_LAST_CONFESSION">THE LAST CONFESSION</a><br /> +<a href="#IA">I</a><br /> +<a href="#IIA">II</a><br /> +<a href="#IIIA">III</a><br /> +<a href="#IVA">IV</a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_BLIND_MOTHER" id="THE_BLIND_MOTHER"></a>THE BLIND MOTHER</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2> + + +<p>The Vale of Newlands lay green in the morning sunlight; the river that +ran through its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leaves +prattled low in the light breeze that soughed through the rushes and the +long grass; the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake of +the sky, where only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peak +to peak. Out of unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumble +of distant cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters far +away was the thin caroling of birds overhead.</p> + +<p>But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. On the breast of the fell +that lies over against Cat Bell a procession of children walked, and +sang, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. Peter's Day, and they were +rush-bearing; little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen, +just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of four +in the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly in +front. Most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filled +with ferns, and mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at the +schoolhouse, and now, on their way to the church, they were making the +circuit of the dale.</p> + +<p>They passed over the road that crosses the river at the head of +Newlands, and turned down into the path that follows the bed of the +valley. At that angle there stands a little group of cottages +deliciously cool in their whitewash, nestling together under the heavy +purple crag from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep basin that +reaches to their walls. The last of the group is a cottage with its end +to the road, and its open porch facing a garden shaped like a wedge. As +the children passed this house an old man, gray and thin and much bent, +stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. A collie, with the sheep's dog +wooden bar suspended from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. The hum of +voices brought a young woman into the porch. She was bareheaded and wore +a light print gown. Her face was pale and marked with lines. She walked +cautiously, stretching one hand before her with an uncertain motion, and +grasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle that swept downward from the +roof. Her eyes, which were partly inclined upward and partly turned +toward the procession, had a vague light in their bleached pupils. She +was blind. At her side, and tugging at her other hand, was a child of a +year and a half—a chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, blue +eyes, and fair curly hair. Prattling, laughing, singing snatches, and +waving their rushes and ferns above their happy, thoughtless heads, the +children rattled past. When they were gone the air was empty, as it is +when the lark stops in its song.</p> + +<p>After the procession of children had passed the little cottage at the +angle of the roads, the old man who leaned on his staff at the gate +turned about and stepped to the porch.</p> + +<p>"Did the boy see them?—did he see the children?" said the young woman +who held the child by the hand.</p> + +<p>"I mak' na doot," said the old man.</p> + +<p>He stooped to the little one and held out one long withered finger. The +soft baby hand closed on it instantly.</p> + +<p>"Did he laugh? I thought he laughed," said the young woman.</p> + +<p>A bright smile played on her lips.</p> + +<p>"Maybe so, lass."</p> + +<p>"Ralphie has never seen the children before, father. Didn't he look +frightened—just a little bit frightened—at first, you know? I thought +he crept behind my gown."</p> + +<p>"Maybe, maybe."</p> + +<p>The little one had dropped the hand of his young mother, and, still +holding the bony finger of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into +the house.</p> + +<p>Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard +earthen floor. A table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser +that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins, +crossed the opposite wall.</p> + +<p>"Nay, but sista here, laal lad," said the old man, and he dived into a +great pocket at his side.</p> + +<p>"Have you brought it? Is it the kitten? Oh, dear, let the boy see it!"</p> + +<p>A kitten came out of the old man's pocket, and was set down on the rug +at the hearth. The timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself on its +hind legs and mewed.</p> + +<p>"Where's Ralphie? Is he watching it, father? What is he doing?"</p> + +<p>The little one had dropped on hands and knees before the kitten, and was +gazing up into its face.</p> + +<p>The mother leaned over him with a face that would have beamed with +sunshine if the sun of sight had not been missing.</p> + +<p>"Is he looking? Doesn't he want to coddle it?"</p> + +<p>The little chap had pushed his nose close to the nose of the kitten, and +was prattling to it in various inarticulate noises.</p> + +<p>"Boo—loo—lal-la—mama."</p> + +<p>"Isn't he a darling, father?"</p> + +<p>"It's a winsome wee thing," said the old man, still standing, with +drooping head, over the group on the hearth.</p> + +<p>The mother's face saddened, and she turned away. Then from the opposite +side of the kitchen, where she was making pretense to take plates from a +plate-rack, there came the sound of suppressed weeping. The old man's +eyes followed her.</p> + +<p>"Nay, lass; let's have a sup of broth," he said, in a tone that carried +another message.</p> + +<p>The young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table.</p> + +<p>"To think that I can never see my own child, and everybody else can see +him!" she said, and then there was another bout of tears.</p> + +<p>The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. A glistening bead +rolled slowly down his wizened cheek: and the interview on the hearth +went on without interruption:</p> + +<p>"Mew—mew—mew. Boo—loo—lal-la—mama."</p> + +<p>The child made efforts to drag himself to his feet by laying hold of the +old man's trousers.</p> + +<p>"Nay, laddie," said the old man, "mind my claes—they'll dirty thy +bran-new brat for thee."</p> + +<p>"Is he growing, father?" said the girl.</p> + +<p>"Growing?—amain."</p> + +<p>"And his eyes—are they changing color?—going brown? Children's eyes +do, you know."</p> + +<p>"Maybe—I'll not be for saying nay."</p> + +<p>"Is he—is he <i>very</i> like me, father?"</p> + +<p>"Nay—well—nay—I's fancying I see summat of the stranger in the laal +chap at whiles."</p> + +<p>The young mother turned her head aside.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The old man's name was Matthew Fisher; but the folks of the countryside +called him Laird Fisher. This dubious dignity came of the circumstance +that he had been the holder of an absolute royalty in a few acres of +land under Hindscarth. The royalty had been many generations in his +family. His grandfather had set store by it. When the Lord of the Manor +had worked the copper pits at the foot of the Eal Crags, he had tried to +possess himself of the royalties of the Fishers. But the present +families resisted the aristocrat. Luke Fisher believed there was a +fortune under his feet, and he meant to try his luck on his holding some +day. That day never came. His son, Mark Fisher, carried on the +tradition, but made no effort to unearth the fortune. They were a cool, +silent, slow, and stubborn race. Matthew Fisher followed his father and +his grandfather, and inherited the family pride. All these years the +tenders of the Lord of the Manor were ignored, and the Fishers enjoyed +their title of courtesy or badinage. Matthew married, and had one +daughter called Mercy. He farmed his few acres with poor results. The +ground was good enough, but Matthew was living under the shadow of the +family tradition. One day—it was Sunday morning, and the sun shone +brightly—he was rambling by the Po Bett that rises on Hindscarth, and +passed through his land, when his eyes glanced over a glittering stone +that lay among the pebbles at the bottom of the stream. It was ore, good +full ore, and on the very surface. Then the Laird sank a shaft, and all +his earnings with it, in an attempt to procure iron or copper. The +dalespeople derided him, but he held silently on his way.</p> + +<p>"How dusta find the cobbles to-day—any softer?" they would say in +passing.</p> + +<p>"As soft as the hearts of most folk," he would answer; and then add in a +murmur, "and maybe a vast harder nor their heads."</p> + +<p>The undeceiving came at length, and then the Laird Fisher was old and +poor. His wife died broken-hearted. After that the Laird never rallied. +The shaft was left unworked, and the holding lay fallow. Laird Fisher +took wage from the Lord of the Manor to burn charcoal in the wood. The +breezy irony of the dalesfolk did not spare the old man's bent head. +There was a rime current in the vale which ran:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There's t'auld laird, and t'young laird, and t'laird among t'barns,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If iver there comes another laird, we'll hang him up by t'arms."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>A second man came to Matthew's abandoned workings. He put money into it +and skill and knowledge, struck a vein, and began to realize a fortune. +The only thing he did for the old Laird was to make him his banksman at +a pound a week—the only thing save one thing, and that is the beginning +of this story.</p> + +<p>The man's name was Hugh Ritson. He was the second son of a Cumbrian +statesman in a neighboring valley, was seven-and-twenty, and had been +brought up as a mining engineer, first at Cleaton Moor and afterward at +the College in Jerman Street. When he returned to Cumberland and bought +the old Laird's holding he saw something of the old Laird's daughter. He +remembered Mercy as a pretty prattling thing of ten or eleven. She was +now a girl of eighteen, with a simple face, a timid manner, and an air +that was neither that of a woman nor of a child. Her mother was lately +dead, her father spent most of his days on the fell (some of his nights +also when the charcoal was burning), and she was much alone. Hugh Ritson +liked her sweet face, her gentle replies, and her few simple questions. +It is unnecessary to go further. The girl gave herself up to him with +her whole heart and soul. Then he married another woman.</p> + +<p>The wife was the daughter of the Vicar, Parson Christian. Her name was +Greta: she was beautiful to look upon—a girl of spirit and character. +Greta knew nothing of Hugh Ritson's intercourse with Mercy until after +he had become her husband. Mercy was then in the depth of her trouble, +and Greta had gone to comfort her. Down to that hour, though idle +tongues had wagged, no one had lighted on Mercy's lover, and not even in +her fear had she confessed. Greta told her that it was brave and +beautiful to shield her friend, but he was unworthy of her friendship or +he would stand by her side—who was he? It was a trying moment. Greta +urged and pleaded and coaxed, and Mercy trembled and stammered and was +silent. The truth came out at last, and from that moment the love +between the two women was like the love of David and Jonathan. Hugh +Ritson was compelled to stand apart and witness it. He could not +recognize it; he dared not oppose it; he could only drop his head and +hold his tongue. It was coals of fire on his head from both sides. The +women never afterward mentioned him to each other, and yet somehow—by +some paradox of love—he was the bond between them.</p> + +<p>A month before the birth of the child, Mercy became blind. This happened +suddenly and without much warning. A little cold in the eyes, a little +redness around them and a total eclipse of sight. If such a disaster had +befallen a married wife, looking forward to a happy motherhood, death +itself might have seemed a doom more kind. But Mercy took it with a +sombre quietness. She was even heard to say that it was just as well. +These startling words, repeated to Greta, just told her something of the +mystery and misery of Mercy's state. But their full meaning, the whole +depth of the shame they came from, were only revealed on the morning +after the night on which Mercy's child was born.</p> + +<p>They were in the room upstairs, where Mercy herself had been born less +than nineteen years before: a little chamber with the low eaves and the +open roof rising to the ridge: a peaceful place with its white-washed +walls and the odor of clean linen. On the pillow of the bed lay the +simple face of the girl-mother, with its fair hair hanging loose and its +blind eyes closed. Mercy had just awakened from the first deep sleep +that comes after all is over, and the long fingers of one of her thin +hands were plucking at the white counterpane. In a nervous voice she +began to speak. Where was Mrs. Ritson? Greta answered that she was +there, and the baby was sleeping on her knee. Anybody else? No, nobody +else. Was it morning? Yes, it was eight in the morning, and her father, +who had not been to bed, had eaten his breakfast, and lighted his pipe +and gone to work. Was the day fine? Very fine. And the sun shining? Yes, +shining beautifully. Was the blind down? Yes, the little white blind was +down. Then all the room was full of that soft light? Oh, yes, full of +it. Except in the corner by the washstand? Well, except in the corner. +Was the washstand still there? Why, yes, it was still there. And +mother's picture on the wall above it? Oh, dear, yes. And the chest of +drawers near the door with the bits of sparkling lead ore on top? Of +course. And the texts pinned on to the wall-paper: "Come unto Me"—eh? +Yes, they were all there. Then everything was just the same? Oh, yes, +everything the same.</p> + +<p>"The same," cried Mercy, "everything the same, but, O Lord Jesus, how +different!"</p> + +<p>The child was awakened by the shrill sound of her voice, and it began to +whimper, and Greta to hush it, swaying it on her knee, and calling it by +a score of pretty names. Mercy raised her head a moment and listened, +then fell back to the pillow and said, "How glad I am I'm blind!"</p> + +<p>"Good gracious, Mercy, what are you saying?" said Greta.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad I can't see it."</p> + +<p>"Mercy!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, you're different, Mrs. Ritson. I was thinking of that last night. +When your time comes perhaps you'll be afraid you'll die, but you'll +never be afraid you'll not. And you'll say to yourself, 'It will be over +soon, and then what joy!' That wasn't my case. When I was at the worst I +could only think, 'It's dreadful now, but oh, to-morrow all the world +will be different.'"</p> + +<p>One poor little day changed all this. Toward sunset the child had to be +given the breast for the first time. Ah! that mystery of life, that +mystery of motherhood, what are the accidents of social law, the big +conventions of virtue and vice, of honor and disgrace, before the touch +of the spreading fingers of a babe as they fasten on the mother's +breast! Mercy thought no more of her shame.</p> + +<p>She had her baby for it, at all events. The world was not utterly +desolate. After all, God was very good!</p> + +<p>Then came a great longing for sight. She only wished to see her child. +That was all. Wasn't it hard that a mother had never seen her own baby? +In her darkness she would feel its little nose as it lay asleep beside +her, and let her hand play around its mouth and over its eyes and about +its ears. Her touch passed over the little one like a look. It was +almost as if there were sight in the tips of her fingers.</p> + +<p>The child lived to be six months old, and still Mercy had not seen him; +a year, and yet she had no hope. Then Greta, in pity of the yearning +gaze of the blind girl-face whenever she came and kissed the boy and +said how bonny he was, sent to Liverpool for a doctor, that at least +they might know for a certainty if Mercy's sight was gone forever. The +doctor came. Yes, there was hope. The mischief was cataract on both +eyes. Sight might return, but an operation would be necessary. That +could not, however, be performed immediately. He would come again in a +month, and a colleague with him, and meantime the eyes must be bathed +constantly in a liquid which they would send for the purpose.</p> + +<p>At first Mercy was beside herself with delight. She plucked up the boy +and kissed and kissed him. The whole day long she sang all over the +house like a liberated bird. Her face, though it was blind, was like +sunshine, for the joyous mouth smiled like eyes. Then suddenly there +came a change. She plucked up the boy and kissed him still, but she did +not sing and she did not smile. A heavy thought had come to her. Ah! if +she should die under the doctor's hands! Was it not better to live in +blindness and keep her boy than to try to see him and so lose him +altogether? Thus it was with her on St. Peter's Day, when the children +of the dale went by at their rush-bearing.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>There was the faint sound of a footstep outside.</p> + +<p>"Hark!" said Mercy, half rising from the sconce. "It's Mrs. Ritson's +foot."</p> + +<p>The man listened. "Nay, lass, there's no foot," said Matthew.</p> + +<p>"Yes, she's on the road," said Mercy. Her face showed that pathetic +tension of the other senses which is peculiar to the blind. A moment +later Greta stepped into the cottage, with a letter in her hand. +"Good-morning, Matthew; I have news for you, Mercy. The doctors are +coming to-day."</p> + +<p>Mercy's face fell perceptibly. The old man's head dropped lower.</p> + +<p>"There, don't be afraid," said Greta, touching her hand caressingly. "It +will soon be over. The doctors didn't hurt you before, did they?"</p> + +<p>"No, but this time it will be the operation," said Mercy. There was a +tremor in her voice.</p> + +<p>Greta had lifted the child from the sconce. The little fellow cooed +close to her ear; and babbled his inarticulate nothings.</p> + +<p>"Only think, when it's all over you will be able to see your darling +Ralphie for the first time!"</p> + +<p>Mercy's sightless face brightened. "Oh, yes," she said, "and watch him +play, and see him spin his tops and chase the butterflies. Oh, that will +be very good!"</p> + +<p>"Dusta say to-day, Mistress Ritson?" asked Matthew, the big drops +standing in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Matthew; I will stay to see it over, and mind baby, and help a +little."</p> + +<p>Mercy took the little one from Greta's arms and cried over it, and +laughed over it, and then cried and laughed again. "Mama and Ralphie +shall play together in the garden, darling; and Ralphie shall see the +horses—and the flowers—and the birdies—and mama—yes, mama shall see +Ralphie."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> + + +<p>Two hours later the doctors arrived. They looked at Mercy's eyes, and +were satisfied that the time was ripe for the operation. At the sound of +their voices, Mercy trembled and turned livid. By a maternal instinct +she picked up the child, who was toddling about the floor, and clasped +it to her bosom. The little one opened wide his blue eyes at sight of +the strangers, and the prattling tongue became quiet.</p> + +<p>"Take her to her room, and let her lie on the bed," said one of the +doctors to Greta.</p> + +<p>A sudden terror seized the young mother. "No, no, no!" she said, in an +indescribable accent, and the child cried a little from the pressure to +her breast.</p> + +<p>"Come, Mercy, dear, be brave for your boy's sake," said Greta.</p> + +<p>"Listen to me," said the doctor, quietly but firmly: "You are now quite +blind, and you have been in total darkness for a year and a half. We may +be able to restore your sight by giving you a few minutes' pain. Will +you not bear it?"</p> + +<p>Mercy sobbed, and kissed the child passionately.</p> + +<p>"Just think, it is quite certain that without an operation you will +never regain your sight," continued the doctor. "You have nothing to +lose, and everything to gain. Are you satisfied? Come, go away to your +room quietly."</p> + +<p>"Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Mercy.</p> + +<p>"Just imagine, only a few minutes' pain, and even of that you will +scarcely be conscious. Before you know what is doing it will be done."</p> + +<p>Mercy clung closer to her child, and kissed it again and yet more +fervently.</p> + +<p>The doctors turned to each other. "Strange vanity!" muttered the one who +had not spoken before. "Her eyes are useless, and yet she is afraid she +may lose them."</p> + +<p>Mercy's quick ears caught the whispered words. "It is not that," she +said, passionately.</p> + +<p>"No, gentlemen," said Greta, "you have mistaken her thought. Tell her +she runs no danger of her life."</p> + +<p>The doctors smiled and laughed a little. "Oh, that's it, eh? Well, we +can tell her that with certainty."</p> + +<p>Then there was another interchange of half-amused glances.</p> + +<p>"Ah, we that be men, sirs, don't know the depth and tenderness of a +mother's heart," said old Matthew. And Mercy turned toward him a face +that was full of gratitude. Greta took the child out of her arms and +hushed it to sleep in another room. Then she brought it back and put it +in its cradle that stood in the ingle.</p> + +<p>"Come, Mercy," she said, "for the sake of your boy." And Mercy permitted +herself to be led from the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"So there will be no danger," she said. "I shall not leave my boy. Who +said that? The doctor? Oh, good gracious, it's nothing. Only think, I +shall live to see him grow to be a great lad."</p> + +<p>Her whole face was now radiant.</p> + +<p>"It will be nothing. Oh, no, it will be nothing. How silly it was to +think that he would live on, and grow up, and be a man, and I lie cold +in the churchyard—and me his mother! That was very childish, wasn't it? +But, then, I have been so childish since Ralphie came."</p> + +<p>"There, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be over," said Greta.</p> + +<p>"Let me kiss him first. Do let me kiss him! Only once. You know it's a +great risk after all. And if he grew up—and I wasn't here—if—if—"</p> + +<p>"There, dear Mercy, you must not cry again. It inflames your eyes, and +that can't be good for the doctors."</p> + +<p>"No, no, I won't cry. You are very good; everybody is very good. Only +let me kiss my little Ralphie—just for the last."</p> + +<p>Greta led her back to the side of the cot, and she spread herself over +it with outstretched arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched +wings over her brood. Then she rose, and her face was peaceful and +resigned.</p> + +<p>The Laird Fisher sat down before the kitchen fire, with one arm on the +cradle head. Parson Christian stood beside him. The old charcoal-burner +wept in silence, and the good Parson's voice was too thick for the words +of comfort that rose to his lips.</p> + +<p>The doctors followed into the bedroom. Mercy was lying tranquilly on her +bed. Her countenance was without expression. She was busy with her own +thoughts. Greta stood by the bedside; anxiety was written in every line +of her beautiful, brave face.</p> + +<p>"We must give her the gas," said one of the doctors, addressing the +other.</p> + +<p>Mercy's features twitched.</p> + +<p>"Who said that?" she asked nervously.</p> + +<p>"My child, you must be quiet," said the doctor in a tone of authority.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will be quiet, very quiet; only don't make me unconscious," she +said. "Never mind me; I will not cry. No; if you hurt me I will not cry +out. I will not stir. I will do everything you ask. And you shall say +how quiet I have been. Only don't let me be insensible."</p> + +<p>The doctors consulted together aside, and in whispers.</p> + +<p>"Who spoke about the gas? It wasn't you, Mrs. Ritson, was it?"</p> + +<p>"You must do as the doctors wish, dear," said Greta in a caressing +voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I will be very good. I will do every little thing. Yes, and I will +be so brave. I am a little childish sometimes, but I <i>can</i> be brave, +can't I?"</p> + +<p>The doctors returned to the bedside.</p> + +<p>"Very well, we will not use the gas," said one. "You are a brave little +woman, after all. There, be still—very still."</p> + +<p>One of the doctors was tearing linen into strips for bandages, while the +other fixed Mercy's head to suit the light.</p> + +<p>There was a faint sound from the kitchen. "Wait," said Mercy. "That is +father—he's crying. Tell him not to cry. Say it's nothing."</p> + +<p>She laughed a weak little laugh.</p> + +<p>"There, he will hear that; go and say it was I who laughed."</p> + +<p>Greta left the room on tiptoe. Old Matthew was still sitting over a +dying fire, gently rocking the sleeping child.</p> + +<p>When Greta returned to the bedroom, Mercy called her, and said, very +softly, "Let me hold your hand, Greta—may I say Greta?—there," and her +fingers closed on Greta's with a convulsive grasp.</p> + +<p>The operation began. Mercy held her breath. She had the stubborn +north-country blood in her. Once only a sigh escaped. There was a dead +silence.</p> + +<p>In two or three minutes the doctor said, "Just another minute, and all +will be over."</p> + +<p>At the next instant Greta felt her hand held with a grasp of iron.</p> + +<p>"Doctor, doctor, I can see you," cried Mercy, and her words came in +gusts.</p> + +<p>"Be quiet," said the doctor in a stern voice. In half a minute more the +linen bandages were being wrapped tightly over Mercy's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Doctor, dear doctor, let me see my boy!" cried Mercy.</p> + +<p>"Be quiet, I say," said the doctor again.</p> + +<p>"Dear doctor, my dear doctor, only one peep—one little peep. I saw your +face—let me see my Ralphie's."</p> + +<p>"Not yet, it is not safe."</p> + +<p>"But only for a moment. Don't put the bandage on for one moment. Just +think, doctor, I have never seen my boy; I've seen other people's +children, but never once my own, own darling. Oh, dear doctor—"</p> + +<p>"You are exciting yourself. Listen to me: if you don't behave yourself +now you may never see your child."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I will behave myself; I will be very good. Only don't shut me +up in darkness again until I see my boy. Greta, bring him to me. Listen, +I hear his breathing. Go for my darling! The kind doctor won't be angry +with you. Tell him that if I see my child it will cure me. I know it +will."</p> + +<p>Greta's eyes were swimming in tears.</p> + +<p>"Rest quiet, Mercy. Everything may be lost if you disturb yourself now, +my dear."</p> + +<p>The doctors were wrapping bandage over bandage, and fixing them firmly +at the back of their patient's head.</p> + +<p>"Now listen again," said one of them: "This bandage must be kept over +your eyes for a week."</p> + +<p>"A week—a whole week? Oh, doctor, you might as well say forever."</p> + +<p>"I say a week. And if you should ever remove it—"</p> + +<p>"Not for an instant? Not raise it a very little?"</p> + +<p>"If you ever remove it for an instant, or raise it ever so little, you +will assuredly lose your sight forever. Remember that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, doctor, it is terrible. Why did you not tell me so before? Oh this +is worse than blindness! Think of the temptation, and I have never seen +my boy!"</p> + +<p>The doctor had fixed the bandage, and his voice was less stern, but no +less resolute.</p> + +<p>"You must obey me," he said; "I will come again this day week, and then +you shall see your child, and your father, and this young lady, and +everybody. But mind, if you don't obey me, you will never see anything. +You will have one glance of your little boy, and then be blind forever, +or perhaps—yes, perhaps <i>die</i>."</p> + +<p>Mercy lay quiet for a moment. Then she said, in a low voice:</p> + +<p>"Dear doctor, you must forgive me. I am very wilful, and I promised to +be so good. I will not touch the bandage. No, for the sake of my little +boy, I will never, never touch it. You shall come yourself and take it +off, and then I shall see him."</p> + +<p>The doctors went away. Greta remained all that night in the cottage.</p> + +<p>"You are happy now, Mercy?" said Greta.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," said Mercy. "Just think, only a week! And he must be so +beautiful by this time."</p> + +<p>When Greta took the child to her at sunset, there was an ineffable joy +in her pale face, and next morning, when Greta awoke, Mercy was singing +softly to herself in the sunrise.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> + + +<p>Greta stayed with Mercy until noon that day, begging, entreating, and +finally commanding her to lie quiet in bed, while she herself dressed +and fed the child, and cooked and cleaned, in spite of the Laird +Fisher's protestations. When all was done, and the old charcoal-burner +had gone out on the hills, Greta picked up the little fellow in her arms +and went to Mercy's room. Mercy was alert to every sound, and in an +instant was sitting up in bed. Her face beamed, her parted lips smiled, +her delicate fingers plucked nervously at the counterpane.</p> + +<p>"How brightsome it is to-day, Greta," she said. "I'm sure the sun must +be shining."</p> + +<p>The window was open, and a soft breeze floated through the sun's rays +into the room. Mercy inclined her head aside, and added, "Ah, you young +rogue, you; you are there, are you? Give him to me, the rascal!" The +rogue was set down in his mother's arms, and she proceeded to punish his +rascality with a shower of kisses. "How bonny his cheeks must be; they +will be just like two ripe apples," and forthwith there fell another +shower of kisses. Then she babbled over the little one, and lisped, and +stammered, and nodded her head in his face, and blew little puffs of +breath into his hair, and tickled him until he laughed and crowed and +rolled and threw up his legs; and then she kissed his limbs and +extremities in a way that mothers have, and finally imprisoned one of +his feet by putting it ankle-deep into her mouth. "Would you ever think +a foot could be so tiny, Greta?" she said. And the little one plunged +about and clambered laboriously up its mother's breast, and more than +once plucked at the white bandage about her head. "No, no, Ralphie must +not touch," said Mercy with sudden gravity. "Only think, Ralphie pet, +one week—only one—nay, less—only six days now, and then—oh, then—!" +A long hug, and the little fellow's boisterous protest against the +convulsive pressure abridged the mother's prophecy.</p> + +<p>All at once Mercy's manner changed. She turned toward Greta, and said, +"I will not touch the bandage, no, never; but if Ralphie tugged at it, +and it fell—would that be breaking my promise?"</p> + +<p>Greta saw what was in her heart.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid it would, dear," she said, but there was a tremor in her +voice.</p> + +<p>Mercy sighed audibly.</p> + +<p>"Just think, it would be only Ralphie. The kind doctors could not be +angry with my little child. I would say, 'It was the boy,' and they +would smile and say, 'Ah, that is different.'"</p> + +<p>"Give me the little one," said Greta with emotion.</p> + +<p>Mercy drew the child closer, and there was a pause.</p> + +<p>"I was very wrong, Greta," she said in a low tone. "Oh! you would not +think what a fearful thing came into my mind a minute ago. Take my +Ralphie. Just imagine, my own innocent baby tempted me."</p> + +<p>As Greta reached across the bed to lift the child out of his mother's +lap, the little fellow was struggling to communicate, by help of a +limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence of recent events that +somewhat overshadowed his little existence. "Puss—dat," many times +repeated, was further explained by one chubby forefinger with its +diminutive finger nail pointed to the fat back of the other hand.</p> + +<p>"He means that the little cat has scratched him," said Greta. "But bless +the mite, he is pointing to the wrong hand."</p> + +<p>"Puss—dat," continued the child, and peered up into his mother's +sightless face. Mercy was all tears in an instant. She had borne +yesterday's operation without a groan, but now the scratch on her +child's hand went to her heart like a stab.</p> + +<p>"Lie quiet, Mercy," said Greta; "it will be gone to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Go-on," echoed the little chap, and pointed out at the window.</p> + +<p>"The darling, how he picks up every word!" said Greta.</p> + +<p>"He means the horse," explained Mercy.</p> + +<p>"Go-on—man—go-on," prattled the little one, with a child's +in-difference to all conversation except his own.</p> + +<p>"Bless the love, he must remember the doctor and his horse," said Greta.</p> + +<p>Mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on the little hand.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Greta, I am very childish; but a mother's heart melts like butter."</p> + +<p>"Batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out of Greta's arms to the +ground, where he forthwith clambered on to the stool, and possessed +himself of a slice of bread which lay on the table at the bedside. Then +the fair curly head disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the +door to the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"What shall I care if other mothers see my child? I shall see him too," +said Mercy, and she sighed. "Yes," she added, softly, "his hands and his +eyes and his feet, and his soft hair."</p> + +<p>"Try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said Greta, "and then perhaps you +may get up this afternoon—only <i>perhaps</i>, you know, but we'll see."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are."</p> + +<p>"You will be kinder to me some day," said Greta very tenderly.</p> + +<p>"How very selfish I am. But then it is so hard not to be selfish when +you are a mother. Only fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy now. No, +never. I'm just Ralphie's mama. When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died +in some way. That's very silly, isn't it? Only it does seem true."</p> + +<p>"Man—go-on—batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the +patter of tiny feet.</p> + +<p>"Listen to him. How tricksome he is! And you should hear him cry 'Oh!' +You would say, 'That child has had an eye knocked out.' And then, in a +minute, behold he is laughing once more. There, I'm selfish again; but I +will make up for it some day, if God is good."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mercy, He is good," said Greta.</p> + +<p>Her arm rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her eyes +swam. Did it seem at that moment as if God had been very good to these +two women?</p> + +<p>"Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think +Ralphie is like—anybody?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear, he is like you."</p> + +<p>There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes +and plucked at Greta's gown.</p> + +<p>"Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father +knows who it is?"</p> + +<p>"I can not say—<i>we</i> have never told him."</p> + +<p>"Nor I—he never asked, never once—only, you know, he gave up his work +at the mine, and went back to the charcoal-pit when Ralphie came. But he +never said a word."</p> + +<p>Greta did not answer. At that moment the bedroom door was pushed open +with a little lordly bang, and the great wee man entered with his piece +of bread insecurely on one prong of a fork.</p> + +<p>"Toas'," he explained complacently, "toas'," and walked up to the empty +grate and stretched his arm over the fender at the cold bars.</p> + +<p>"Why, there's no fire for toast, you darling goose," said Greta, +catching him in her arms, much to his masculine vexation.</p> + +<p>Mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face was full of the yearning of +the blind. Then she lay back.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," she said to herself in a faltering voice, "let me lie +quiet and <i>think</i> of all his pretty ways."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2> + + +<p>Greta returned home toward noon, laughing and crying a little to herself +as she walked, for she was full of a dear delicious envy. She was +thinking that she could take all the shame and all the pain for all the +joy of Mercy's motherhood.</p> + +<p>God had given Greta no children.</p> + +<p>Hugh Ritson came in to their early dinner and she told him how things +went at the cottage of the old Laird Fisher. Only once before had she +mentioned Mercy or the child, and he looked confused and awkward. After +the meal was over he tried to say something which had been on his mind +for weeks.</p> + +<p>"But if anything should happen after all," he began, "and Mercy should +not recover—or if she should ever want to go anywhere—might we not +take—would you mind, Greta—I mean it might even help her—you see," he +said, breaking down nearly, "there is the child, it's a sort of duty, +you know—and then a good home and upbringing—"</p> + +<p>"Don't tempt me," said Greta. "I've thought of it a hundred times."</p> + +<p>About five o'clock the same evening a knock came to the door, and old +Laird Fisher entered. His manner was more than usually solemn and +constrained.</p> + +<p>"I's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is taken badly," he said, "and +rayder suddent."</p> + +<p>Greta rose from her seat and put on her hat and cloak. She was hastening +down the road while the charcoal-burner was still standing in the middle +of the floor.</p> + +<p>When Greta reached the old charcoal-burner's cottage, the little one was +lying in a drowsy state in Mercy's arms. Its breathing seemed difficult; +sometimes it started in terror; it was feverish and suffered thirst. The +mother's wistful face was bent down on it with an indescribable +expression. There were only the trembling lips to tell of the sharp +struggle that was going on within. But the yearning for a sight of the +little flushed countenance, the tearless appeal for but one glimpse of +the drowsy little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's heart +against the fate that made the child she had suckled at her breast a +stranger, whose very features she might not know—all this was written +in that blind face.</p> + +<p>"Is he pale?" said Mercy. "Is he sleeping? He does not talk now, but +only starts and cries, and sometimes coughs."</p> + +<p>"When did this begin?" asked Greta.</p> + +<p>"Toward four o'clock. He had been playing, and I noticed that he +breathed heavily, and then he came to me to be nursed. Is he awake now? +Listen."</p> + +<p>The little one in its restless drowsiness was muttering faintly, +"Man—go-on—batter—toas'."</p> + +<p>"The darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he?" said Mercy.</p> + +<p>Then there was a ringing, brassy cough.</p> + +<p>"It is croup," thought Greta.</p> + +<p>She closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the +steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and +wrapped them about the child's neck. She stayed all that night at the +cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could not +be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. It had not yet taken +hold of her that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy and a little +feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he +would be better in the morning. Oh, yes, he would soon be well again, +and tearing up the flowers in the garden.</p> + +<p>Toward midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the breathing became quieter, +and the whole nature seemed to sink. Mercy listened with her ear bent +down at the child's mouth, and a smile of ineffable joy spread itself +over her face.</p> + +<p>"Bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she said.</p> + +<p>Greta did not answer.</p> + +<p>"The 'puss' and the 'man' don't darken his little life so much now," +continued Mercy cheerily.</p> + +<p>"No, dear," said Greta, in as strong a voice as she could summon.</p> + +<p>"All will be well with my darling boy soon, will it not?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear," said Greta, with a struggle.</p> + +<p>Happily Mercy could not read the other answer in her face.</p> + +<p>Mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the child's nose, and was +touching him lightly about the mouth.</p> + +<p>"Greta," she said in a startled whisper, "does he look pinched?"</p> + +<p>"A little," said Greta quietly.</p> + +<p>"And his skin—is it cold and clammy?"</p> + +<p>"We must give him another hot flannel," said Greta.</p> + +<p>Mercy sat at the bedside, and said nothing for an hour. Then all at +once, and in a strange, harsh voice, she said:</p> + +<p>"I wish God had not made Ralphie so winsome."</p> + +<p>Greta started at the words, but made no answer.</p> + +<p>The daylight came early. As the first gleams of gray light came in at +the window, Greta turned to where Mercy sat in silence. It was a sad +face that she saw in the mingled yellow light of the dying lamp and the +gray of the dawn.</p> + +<p>Mercy spoke again.</p> + +<p>"Greta, do you remember what Mistress Branthet said when her baby died +last back end gone twelvemonth?"</p> + +<p>Greta looked up quickly at the bandaged eyes.</p> + +<p>"What?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Well, Parson Christian tried to comfort her and said: 'Your baby is now +an angel in Paradise,' and she turned on him with: 'Shaf on your +angels—I want none on 'em—I want my little girl.'"</p> + +<p>Mercy's voice broke into a sob.</p> + +<p>Toward ten o'clock the doctor came. He had been detained. Very sorry to +disoblige Mrs. Ritson, but fact was old Mr. de Broadthwaite had an +attack of lumbago, complicated by a bout of toothache, and everybody +knew he was most exacting. Young person's baby ill? Feverish, restless, +starts in its sleep, and cough? Ah, croupy cough—yes, croup, true +croup, not spasmodic. Let him see, how old? A year and a half? Ah, bad, +very. Most frequent in second year of infancy. Dangerous, highly so. +Forms a membrane that occludes air-passages. Often ends in convulsions, +and child suffocates. Sad, very. Let him see again. How long since the +attack began? Yesterday at four. Ah, far gone, far. The great man soon +vanished, leaving behind him a harmless preparation of aconite and +ipecacuanha.</p> + +<p>Mercy had heard all, and her pent-up grief broke out in sobs.</p> + +<p>"Oh, to think I shall hear my Ralphie no more, and to know his white +cold face is looking up from a coffin, while other children are playing +in the sunshine and chasing the butterflies! No, no, it can not be; God +will not let it come to pass; I will pray to Him and He will save my +child. Why, He can do anything, and He has all the world. What is my +little baby boy to Him? He will not let it be taken from me."</p> + +<p>Greta's heart was too full for speech. But she might weep in silence, +and none there would know. Mercy stretched across the bed, and, tenderly +folding the child in her arms, she lifted him up, and then went down on +her knees.</p> + +<p>"Merciful Father," she said in a childish voice of sweet confidence, +"this is my baby, my Ralphie, and I love him so dearly. You would never +think how much I love him. But he is ill, and doctor says he may die. +Oh, dear Father, only think what it would be to say, 'His little face is +gone.' And then I have never seen him. You will not take him away until +his mother sees him. So soon, too. Only five days more. Why, it is quite +close. Not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next, but the day after +that."</p> + +<p>She put in many another childlike plea, and then rose with a smile on +her pale lips and replaced the little one on his pillow.</p> + +<p>"How patient he is," she said. "He can't say 'Thank you,' but I'm sure +his eyes are speaking. Let me feel." She put her finger lightly on the +child's lids. "No, they are shut; he must be sleeping. Oh, dear, he +sleeps very much. Is he gaining color? How quiet he is. If he would only +say, 'Mama!' How I wish I could see him!"</p> + +<p>She was very quiet for a while, and then plucked at Greta's gown +suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Greta," she said eagerly, "something tells me that if I could only see +Ralphie I should save him."</p> + +<p>Greta started up in terror. "No, no, no; you must not think of it," she +said.</p> + +<p>"But something whispered it. It must have been God himself. You know we +ought to obey God always."</p> + +<p>"Mercy, it was not God who said that. It was your own heart. You must +not heed it."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure it was God," said Mercy. "And I heard it quite plain."</p> + +<p>"Mercy, my darling, think what you are saying. Think what it is you wish +to do. If you do it you will be blind forever."</p> + +<p>"But I shall have saved my Ralphie."</p> + +<p>"No, no; you will not."</p> + +<p>"Will he not be saved, Greta?"</p> + +<p>"Only our heavenly Father knows."</p> + +<p>"Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, as you say, He knows best."</p> + +<p>Greta was almost distraught with fear. The noble soul in her would not +allow her to appeal to Mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal +love. But she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. If Mercy +regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost +it the future must be a blank.</p> + +<p>The day wore slowly on, and the child sank and sank. At evening the old +charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. He stood a moment +and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes +opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its +palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand.</p> + +<p>The old man's lips quivered behind his white beard.</p> + +<p>"It were a winsome wee thing," he said faintly, and then turned away.</p> + +<p>He left his supper untouched, and went into the porch. There he sat on a +bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sinking over the head +of the Eal Crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; only the bald top +of Cat Bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. A gentle +breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its +multitudinous tongues in a field below. The dog lay at the +charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a +buzzing fly.</p> + +<p>The little life within was ebbing away. No longer racked by the ringing +cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. Mercy +lifted the child from the bed, and sat with it before the fire. Greta +saw its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move +slightly, but she heard nothing.</p> + +<p>"He is calling his mama," said Mercy, with her ear bent toward the +child's mouth.</p> + +<p>There was a silence for a long time. Mercy pressed the child to her +breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her.</p> + +<p>Greta stood and looked down; she saw the little lips move once more, but +again she heard no sound.</p> + +<p>"He is calling his mama," repeated Mercy wistfully, "and oh, he seems +such a long way off."</p> + +<p>Once again the little lips moved.</p> + +<p>"He is calling me," said Mercy, listening intently; and she grew +restless and excited. "He is going away. I can hear him. He is far off. +Ralphie, Ralphie!" She had lifted the child up to her face. "Ralphie, +Ralphie!" she cried.</p> + +<p>"Give me the baby, Mercy," said Greta.</p> + +<p>But the mother clung to it with a convulsive grasp.</p> + +<p>"Ralphie, Ralphie, Ralphie...."</p> + +<p>There was a sudden flash of some white thing. In an instant the bandage +had fallen from Mercy's head, and she was peering down into the child's +face with wild eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ralphie, Ralphie!... <i>Hugh!</i>" she cried.</p> + +<p>The mother had seen her babe at last, and in that instant she had +recognized the features of its father.</p> + +<p>At the next moment the angel of God passed through that troubled house, +and the child lay dead at the mother's breast.</p> + +<p>Mercy saw it all, and her impassioned mood left her. She rose to her +feet quietly, and laid the little one in the bed. There was never a sigh +more, never a tear. Only her face was ashy pale, and her whitening lips +quivered.</p> + +<p>"Greta," she said, very slowly, "good-by! All is over now."</p> + +<p>She spoke of herself as if her days were already ended and past; as if +her own orb of life had been rounded by the brief span of the little +existence that lay finished on the bed.</p> + +<p>"When they come in the morning early—very early—and find us here, my +boy and me, don't let them take him away from me, Greta. We should go +together—yes, both together; that's only right, with Ralphie at my +bosom."</p> + +<p>The bandage lay at her feet. Her eyes were very red and heavy. Their dim +light seemed to come from far away.</p> + +<p>"Only that," she said, and her voice softened, "My Ralphie is in +heaven."</p> + +<p>Then she hid her face in her hands, and cried out loud, "But I prayed to +God that I might see my child on earth. Oh, how I prayed! And God heard +my prayer and answered it—but see! <i>I saw him die.</i>"</p> + + +<h3>END OF "THE BLIND MOTHER"</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_LAST_CONFESSION" id="THE_LAST_CONFESSION"></a>THE LAST CONFESSION</h2> + + +<h3><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1892</span>,<br /> +UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY.</h3> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1900</span>,<br /> +<span class="smcap">By</span> STREET & SMITH.</h3> + +<h3>[<i>All rights reserved.</i>]</h3> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IA" id="IA"></a>I</h2> + + +<p>Father, do not leave me. Wait! only a little longer. You can not absolve +me? I am not penitent? How <i>can</i> I be penitent? I do not regret it? How +<i>can</i> I regret it? I would do it again? How could I help <i>but</i> do it +again?</p> + +<p>Yes, yes, I know, I know! Who knows it so well as I? It is written in +the tables of God's law: <i>Thou shalt do no murder!</i> But was it murder? +Was it crime? Blood? Yes, it was the spilling of blood. Blood will have +blood, you say. But is there no difference? Hear me out. Let me speak. +It is hard to remember all now—and here—lying here—but listen—only +listen. Then tell me if I did wrong. No, tell me if God Himself will not +justify me—ay, justify me—though I outraged His edict. Blasphemy? Ah, +father, do not go! Father!—</p> + +<p><i>Speak, my son. I will listen. It is my duty. Speak.</i></p> + +<p>It is less than a year since my health broke down, but the soul lives +fast, and it seems to me like a lifetime. I had overworked myself +miserably. My life as a physician in London had been a hard one, but it +was not my practise that had wrecked me. How to perform that operation +on the throat was the beginning of my trouble. You know what happened. I +mastered my problem, and they called the operation by my name. It has +brought me fame; it has made me rich; it has saved a thousand lives, and +will save ten thousand more, and yet I—I—for taking one +life—one—under conditions—</p> + +<p>Father, bear with me. I will tell all. My nerves are burned out. Gloom, +depression, sleeplessness, prostration, sometimes collapse, a consuming +fire within, a paralyzing frost without—you know what it is—we call it +neurasthenia.</p> + +<p>I watched the progress of my disease and gave myself the customary +treatment. Hygiene, diet, drugs, electricity, I tried them all. But +neither dumbbells nor Indian clubs, neither walking nor riding, neither +liberal food nor doses of egg and brandy, neither musk nor ergot nor +antipyrin, neither faradization nor galvanization availed to lift the +black shades that hung over me day and night, and made the gift of life +a mockery. I knew why. My work possessed me like a fever. I could +neither do it to my content nor leave it undone. I was drawing water in +a sieve.</p> + +<p>My wife sent for Gull. Full well I knew what he would advise. It was +rest. I must take six months' absolute holiday, and, in order to cut +myself off entirely from all temptations to mental activity, I must +leave London and go abroad. Change of scene, of life, and of habit, new +peoples, new customs, new faiths, and a new climate—these separately +and together, with total cessation of my usual occupations, were to +banish a long series of functional derangements which had for their +basis the exhaustion of the sympathetic nervous system.</p> + +<p>I was loth to go. Looking back upon my condition, I see that my +reluctance was justified. To launch a creature who was all nerves into +the perpetual, if trifling, vexations of travel was a mistake, a folly, +a madness. But I did not perceive this; I was thinking only of my home +and the dear souls from whom I must be separated. During the seven years +of our married life my wife had grown to be more than the object of my +love. That gentle soothing, that soft healing which the mere presence of +an affectionate woman who is all strength and courage may bring to a man +who is wasted by work or worry, my wife's presence had long brought to +me, and I shrank from the thought of scenes where she could no longer +move about me, meeting my wishes and anticipating my wants.</p> + +<p>This was weakness, and I knew it; but I had another weakness which I did +not know. My boy, a little son of six years of age the day before I set +sail, was all the world to me. Paternal love may eat up all the other +passions. It was so in my case. The tyranny of my affection for my only +child was even more constant and unrelenting than the tyranny of my +work. Nay, the two were one: for out of my instinct as a father came my +strength as a doctor. The boy had suffered from a throat trouble from +his birth. When he was a babe I delivered him from a fierce attack of +it, and when he was four I brought him back from the jaws of death. Thus +twice I had saved his life, and each time that life had become dearer to +me. But too well I knew that the mischief was beaten down, and not +conquered. Some day it would return with awful virulence. To meet that +terror I wrought by day and night. No slave ever toiled so hard. I +denied myself rest, curtailed my sleep, and stole from tranquil +reflection and repose half-hours and quarter-hours spent in the carriage +going from patient to patient. The attack might come suddenly, and I +must be prepared. I was working against time.</p> + +<p>You know what happened. The attack did not come; my boy continued well, +but my name became known and my discovery established. The weakness of +my own child had given the bent to my studies. If I had mastered my +subject it was my absorbing love of my little one that gave me the +impulse and direction.</p> + +<p>But I had paid my penalty. My health was a wreck, and I must leave +everything behind me. If it had been possible to take my wife and boy +along with me, how different the end might have been! Should I be lying +here now—here on this bed—with you, father, you?—</p> + +<p>We spent our boy's birthday with what cheer we could command. For my +wife it seemed to be a day of quiet happiness, hallowed by precious +memories—the dearest and most delicious that a mother ever knew—of the +babyhood of her boy—his pretty lisp, his foolish prattle, his funny +little ways and sayings—and sweetened by the anticipation of the health +that was to return to me as the result of rest and change. The child +himself was bright and gamesome, and I for my part gave way to some +reckless and noisy jollity.</p> + +<p>Thus the hours passed until bedtime, and then, as I saw the little +fellow tucked up in his crib, it crossed my mind for a moment that he +looked less well than usual. Such fancies were common to me, and I knew +from long experience that it was folly to give way to them. To do so at +that time must have been weakness too pitiful for my manhood. I had +already gone far enough for my own self-respect. To my old colleague and +fellow-student, Granville Wenman, I had given elaborate instructions for +all possible contingencies.</p> + +<p>If <i>this</i> happened he was to do <i>that</i>; if <i>that</i> happened he was to do +<i>this</i>. In case of serious need he was to communicate with me by the +swiftest means available, for neither the width of the earth nor the +wealth of the world, nor the loss of all chances of health or yet life, +should keep me from hastening home if the one hope of my heart was in +peril. Wenman had smiled a little as in pity of the morbidity that ran +out to meet so many dangers. I did not heed his good-natured compassion +or contempt, whatever it was, for I knew he had no children. I had +reconciled myself in some measure to my absence from home, and before my +little man was awake in the morning I was gone from the house.</p> + +<p>It had been arranged that I should go to Morocco. Wenman had suggested +that country out of regard to the freshness of its life and people. The +East in the West, the costumes of Arabia, the faiths of Mohammed and of +Moses, a primitive form of government, and a social life that might have +been proper to the land of Canaan in the days of Abraham—such had +seemed to him and others to be an atmosphere of novelty that was likely +to bring spring and elasticity to the overstretched mind and nerves of a +victim of the civilization of our tumultuous century. But not in all the +world could fate have ferreted out for me a scene more certain to +develop the fever and fret of my natural temperament. Had the choice +fallen on any other place, any dead or dying country, any corner of +God's earth but that blighted and desolate land—</p> + +<p>Ah! bear with me, bear with me.</p> + +<p><i>I know it, my son. It is near to my own country. My home is in Spain. I +came to your England from Seville. Go on.</i></p> + +<p>I sailed to Gibraltar by a P. and O. steamer from Tilbury, and the +tender that took my wife back to the railway pier left little in my new +condition to interest me. You know what it is to leave home in search of +health. If hope is before you, regret is behind. When I stood on the +upper deck that night, alone, and watched the light of the Eddystone +dying down over the dark waters, it seemed to me that success had no +solace, and fame no balm, and riches no safety or content. One +reflection alone sufficed to reconcile me to where I was—the work that +had brought me there was done neither for fame nor for riches, but at +the prompting of the best of all earthly passions—or what seemed to be +the best.</p> + +<p>Three days passed, and beyond casual words I had spoken to no one on the +ship. But on the fourth day, as we sailed within sight of Finisterre in +a calm sea, having crossed the Bay with comfort, the word went round +that a storm-signal was hoisted on the cape. No one who has gone through +an experience such as that is likely to forget it. Everybody on deck, +the blanched faces, the hushed voices, the quick whispers, the eager +glances around, the interrogations of the officers on duty, and their +bantering answers belied by their anxious looks, then the darkening sky, +the freshening breeze, the lowering horizon, the tingling gloomy +atmosphere creeping down from the mastheads, and the air of the whole +ship, above and below, charged, as it were, with sudden electricity. It +is like nothing else in life except the bugle-call in camp, telling +those who lie smoking and drinking about the fires that the enemy is +coming, and is near.</p> + +<p>I was standing on the quarterdeck watching the Lascars stowing sails, +battening down the hatches, clewing the lines, and making everything +snug, when a fellow-passenger whom I had not observed before stepped up +and spoke. His remark was a casual one, and it has gone from my memory. +I think it had reference to the native seamen, and was meant as a jest +upon their lumbering slowness, which suggested pitiful thoughts to him +of what their capacity must be in a storm. But the air of the man much +more than his words aroused and arrested my attention. It was that of +one whose spirits had been quickened by the new sense of danger. He +laughed, his eyes sparkled, his tongue rolled out his light remarks with +a visible relish. I looked at the man and saw that he had the soul of a +war-horse. Tall, slight, dark, handsome, with bushy beard, quivering +nostrils, mobile mouth, and eyes of fire, alive in every fibre, and full +of unconquerable energy. He appeared to be a man of thirty to +thirty-five, but proved to be no more than four-and-twenty. I learned +afterward that he was an American, and was traveling for love of +adventure.</p> + +<p>That night we flew six hours before the storm, but it overtook our ship +at last. What befell us then in the darkness of that rock-bound coast I +did not know until morning. Can you believe it? I took my usual dose of +a drug prescribed to me for insomnia, and lay down to sleep. When I went +up on deck in the late dawn of the following day—the time was +spring—the wind had slackened, and the ship was rolling and swinging +along in a sea that could not be heard above the beat and thud of the +engines. Only the memory of last night's tempest lay around in sullen +wave and sky—only there, and in the quarters down below of the native +seamen of our ship.</p> + +<p>The first face I encountered was that of the American. He had been on +deck all night, and he told me what had happened. Through the dark hours +the storm had been terrible, and when the first dead light of dawn had +crept across from the east the ship had been still tossing in great +white billows. Just then a number of Lascars had been ordered aloft on +some urgent duty—I know not what—and a sudden gust had swept one of +them from a cross-tree into the sea. Efforts had been made to rescue +him, the engines had been reversed, boats put out and life-buoys thrown +into the water, but all in vain. The man had been swept away; he was +gone and the ship had steamed on.</p> + +<p>The disaster saddened me inexpressibly. I could see the Lascar fall from +the rigging, catch the agonizing glance of the white eyes in his black +face as he was swept past on the crest of a wave, and watch his +outstretched arms as he sank to his death down and down and down. It +seemed to me an iniquity that while this had happened I had slept. +Perhaps the oversensitive condition of my nerves was at fault, but +indeed I felt that, in his way, in his degree, within the measure of his +possibilities, that poor fellow of another skin, another tongue, with +whom I had exchanged no word of greeting, had that day given his life +for my life.</p> + +<p>How much of such emotion I expressed at the time it is hard to remember +now, but that the American gathered the bent of my feelings was clear to +me by the pains he was at to show that they were uncalled for, and +unnatural, and false. What was life? I had set too great a store by it. +The modern reverence for life was eating away the finest instincts of +man's nature. Life was not the most sacred of our possessions. Duty, +justice, truth, these were higher things.</p> + +<p>So he talked that day and the next until, from thoughts of the loss of +the Lascar, we had drifted far into wider and more perilous +speculations. The American held to his canon. War was often better than +peace, and open massacre than corrupt tranquillity. We wanted some of +the robust spirit of the Middle Ages in these our piping days. The talk +turned on the persecution of the Jews in Russia. The American defended +it—a stern people was purging itself of an alien element which, like an +interminate tapeworm, had been preying on its vitals. The remedy was +drastic but necessary; life was lost, but also life was saved.</p> + +<p>Then coming to closer quarters we talked of murder. The American held to +the doctrine of Sterne. It was a hard case that the laws of the modern +world should not have made any manner of difference between murdering an +honest man and only executing a scoundrel. These things should always be +rated ad valorem. As for blood spilled in self-defense, it was folly to +talk of it as crime. Even the laws of my own effeminate land justified +the man who struck down the arm that was raised to kill him; and the +mind that reckoned such an act as an offense was morbid and diseased.</p> + +<p>Such opinions were repugnant to me, and I tried to resist them. There +was a sanctity about human life which no man should dare to outrage. God +gave it, and only God should take it away. As for the government of the +world, let it be for better or for worse, it was in God's hands, and God +required the help of no man.</p> + +<p>My resistance was useless. The American held to his doctrine; it was +good to take life in a good cause, and if it was good for the nation, it +was good for the individual man. The end was all.</p> + +<p>I fenced these statements with what force I could command, and I knew +not how strongly my adversary had assailed me. Now, I know too well that +his opinions sank deep into my soul. Only too well I know it now—now +that—</p> + +<p>We arrived at Gibraltar the following morning, and going up on deck in +the empty void of air that follows on the sudden stopping of a ship's +engines, I found the American, amid a group of swarthy Gibraltarians, +bargaining for a boat to take him to the Mole. It turned out that he was +going to Morocco also, and we hired a boat together.</p> + +<p>The morning was clear and cold; the great broad rock looked whiter and +starker and more like a gigantic oyster-shell than ever against the blue +of the sky. There would be no steamer for Tangier until the following +day, and we were to put up at the Spanish hotel called the Calpe.</p> + +<p>Immediately on landing I made my way to the post-office to despatch a +telegram home announcing my arrival, and there I found two letters, +which, having come overland, arrived in advance of me. One of them was +from Wenman, telling me that he had called at Wimpole Street the morning +after my departure and found all well at my house; and also enclosing a +resolution of thanks and congratulation from my colleagues of the +College of Surgeons in relation to my recent labors, which were said to +be "memorable in the cause of humanity and science."</p> + +<p>The other letter was from my wife, a sweet, affectionate little note, +cheerful yet tender, written on her return from Tilbury, hinting that +the dear old house looked just a trifle empty and as if somehow it +missed something, but that our boy was up and happy with a new toy that +I had left for him as a consolation on his awakening—a great elephant +that worked its trunk and roared. "I have just asked our darling," wrote +my wife, "what message he would like to send you. 'Tell papa,' he +answers, 'I'm all right, and Jumbo's all right, and is he all right, and +will he come werry quick, and see him grunting?'"</p> + +<p>That night at the Calpe I had some further talk with the American. Young +as he was he had been a great Eastern traveler. Egypt, Arabia, Syria, +the Holy Land—he knew them all. For his forthcoming sojourn in Morocco +he had prepared himself with elaborate care. The literature of travel in +Barbary is voluminous, but he had gone through the best of it. With the +faith of Islam he had long been familiar, and of the corrupt and +tyrannical form of government of Mulai el Hassan and his kaids and kadis +he had an intimate knowledge. He had even studied the language of the +Moorish people—the Moroccan Arabic, which is a dialect of the language +of the Koran—and so that he might hold intercourse with the Sephardic +Jews also, who people the Mellahs of Morocco, he had mastered the +Spanish language as well.</p> + +<p>This extensive equipment, sufficient to start a crusade or to make a +revolution, was meant to do more than provide him with adventure. His +intention was to see the country and its customs, to observe the manners +of the people and the ordinances of their religion. "I shall get into +the palaces and the prisons of the Kasbahs," he said; "yes, and the +mosques and the saints' houses, and the harems also."</p> + +<p>Little as I knew then of the Moors and their country, I foresaw the +dangers of such an enterprise, and I warned him against it. "You will +get yourself into awkward corners," I said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "and I shall get myself out of them."</p> + +<p>I remembered his doctrine propounded on the ship, and I saw that he was +a man of resolution, but I said, "Remember, you are going to the land of +this people for amusement alone. It is not necessity that thrusts you +upon their prejudice, their superstition, their fanaticism."</p> + +<p>"True," he said, "but if I get into trouble among them it will not be my +amusements but my liberty or my life that will be in danger."</p> + +<p>"Then in such a case you will stick at nothing to plow your way out?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing."</p> + +<p>I laughed, for my mind refused to believe him, and we laughed noisily +together, with visions of bloody daggers before the eyes of both.</p> + +<p>Father, my <i>heart</i> believed: silently, secretly, unconsciously, it drank +in the poison of his thought—drank it in—ay—</p> + +<p>Next day, about noon, we sailed for Tangier. Our ship was the "Jackal," +a little old iron steam-tug, battered by time and tempest, clamped and +stayed at every side, and just holding together as by the grace of God. +The storm which we had outraced from Finisterre had now doubled Cape St. +Vincent, and the sea was rolling heavily in the Straits. We saw nothing +of this until we had left the bay and were standing out from Tarifa; nor +would it be worthy of mention now but that it gave me my first real +understanding of the tremendous hold that the faith or the fanaticism of +the Moorish people—call it what you will—has upon their characters and +lives.</p> + +<p>The channel at that point is less than twenty miles wide, but we were +more than five hours crossing it. Our little crazy craft labored +terribly in the huge breakers that swept inward from the Atlantic. +Pitching until the foredeck was covered, rolling until her boats dipped +in the water, creaking, shuddering, leaping, she had enough to do to +keep afloat.</p> + +<p>With the American I occupied the bridge between the paddle-boxes, which +served as a saloon for first-class passengers; and below us in the open +hold of the after-deck a number of Moors sat huddled together among +cattle and sheep and baskets of fowl. They were Pilgrims, Hadjis, +returning from Mecca by way of Gibraltar, and their behavior during the +passage was marvelous in its callousness to the sense of peril. They +wrangled, quarreled, snarled at each other, embraced, kissed, laughed +together, made futile attempts to smoke their keef-pipes, and quarreled, +barked, and bleated again.</p> + +<p>"Surely," I said, "these people are either wondrously brave or they have +no sense of the solemnity of death."</p> + +<p>"Neither," said the American; "they are merely fatalists by virtue of +their faith. 'If it is not now, it is to come; if it is not to come then +it is now.'"</p> + +<p>"There is a sort of bravery in that," I answered.</p> + +<p>"And cowardice, too," said the American.</p> + +<p>The night had closed in when we dropped anchor by the ruins of the Mole +at Tangier, and I saw no more of the white town than I had seen of it +from the Straits. But if my eyes failed in the darkness my other senses +served me only too well. The shrieking and yelping of the boatloads of +Moors and negroes who clambered aboard to relieve us of our luggage, the +stench of the town sewers that emptied into the bay—these were my first +impressions of the gateway to the home of Islam.</p> + +<p>The American went through the turmoil with composure and an air of +command, and having seen to my belongings as well as his own, passing +them through the open office at the water-gate, where two solemn Moors +in white sat by the light of candles, in the receipt of customs, he +parted from me at the foot of the street that begins with the Grand +Mosque, and is the main artery of the town, for he had written for rooms +to the hotel called the Villa de France, and I, before leaving England, +had done the same to the hotel called the Continental.</p> + +<p>Thither I was led by a barefooted courier in white jellab and red +tarboosh, amid sights and sounds of fascinating strangeness: the low +drone of men's voices singing their evening prayers in the mosques, the +tinkling of the bells of men selling water out of goats' skins, the +"Allah" of blind beggars crouching at the gates, the "Arrah" of the mule +drivers, and the hooded shapes going by in the gloom or squatting in the +red glare of the cafés without windows or doors and open to the streets.</p> + +<p>I met the American in the Sôk—the market-place—the following day, and +he took me up to his hotel to see some native costumes which he had +bought by way of preparations for his enterprise. They were haiks and +soolhams, jellabs, kaftans, slippers, rosaries, korans, sashes, +satchels, turbans, and tarbooshes—blue, white, yellow, and red—all +right and none too new, for he had purchased them not at the bazaars, +but from the son of a learned Moor, a Tàleb, who had been cast into a +prison by a usurer Jew.</p> + +<p>"In these," said he, "I mean to go everywhere, and I'll defy the devil +himself to detect me."</p> + +<p>"Take care," I said, "take care."</p> + +<p>He laughed and asked me what my own plans were. I told him that I would +remain in Tangier until I received letters from home, and then push on +toward Fez.</p> + +<p>"I'll see you there," he said; "but if I do not hail you, please do not +know me. Good-by."</p> + +<p>"Good-by," I said, and so we parted.</p> + +<p>I stayed ten days longer in Tangier, absorbed in many reflections, of +which the strangest were these two: first, the Moors were the most +religious people in the world, and next, that they were the most +wickedly irreligious and basely immoral race on God's earth. I was +prompted to the one by observations of the large part which Allah +appears to play in all affairs of Moorish life, and to the other by +clear proof of the much larger part which the devil enacts in Allah's +garments. On the one side prayers, prayers, prayers, the moodden, the +moodden, the moodden, the mosque, the mosque, the mosque. "Allah" from +the mouths of the beggars, "Allah" from the lips of the merchants, +"Mohammed" on the inscriptions at the gate, the "Koran" on the scarfs +hung out at the bazaars and on the satchels hawked in the streets. And +on the other side shameless lying, cheating, usury, buying and selling +of justice, cruelty and inhumanity; raw sores on the backs of the asses, +blood in the streets, blood, blood, blood everywhere and secret +corruption indescribable.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless I concluded that my nervous malady must have given me the +dark glasses through which everything looked so foul, and I resolved, in +the interests of health, to push on toward Fez as soon as letters +arrived from home assuring me that all were well and happy there.</p> + +<p>But no letters came, and at the arrival of every fresh mail from Cadiz +and from Gibraltar my impatience increased. At length I decided to wait +no longer, and, leaving instructions that my letters should be sent on +after me to the capital, I called on the English Consul for such +official documents as were needful for my journey.</p> + +<p>When these had been produced from the Kasbah, and I was equipped for +travel, the Consul inquired of me how I liked the Moors and their +country. I described my conflicting impressions, and he said both were +right in their several ways.</p> + +<p>"The religion of the Moor," said he, "is genuine of its kind, though it +does not put an end to the vilest Government on earth and the most +loathsome immoralities ever practised by man. Islam is a sacred thing to +him. He is proud of it, jealous of it, and prepared to die for it. Half +his hatred of the unbeliever is fear that the Nazarene or the Jew is +eager to show his faith some dishonor. And that," added the Consul, +"reminds me to offer you one word of warning: avoid the very shadow of +offense to the religion of these people; do not pry into their beliefs; +do not take note of their ordinances; pass their mosques and saints' +houses with down-cast eyes, if need be; in a word, let Islam alone."</p> + +<p>I thanked him for his counsel, and, remembering the American, I inquired +what the penalty would be if a foreign subject offended the religion of +this people. The Consul lifted his eyebrows and shoulders together, with +an eloquence of reply that required no words.</p> + +<p>"But might not a stranger," I asked, "do so unwittingly?"</p> + +<p>"Truly," he answered, "and so much the worse for his ignorance."</p> + +<p>"Is British life, then," I said, "at the mercy of the first ruffian with +a dagger? Is there no power in solemn treaties?"</p> + +<p>"What are treaties," he said, "against fanaticism? Give the one a wide +berth and you'll have small need for the other."</p> + +<p>After that he told me something of certain claims just settled for long +imprisonment inflicted by the Moorish authorities on men trading under +the protection of the British flag. It was an abject story of barbarous +cruelty, broken health, shattered lives, and wrecked homes, atoned for +after weary procrastination, in the manner of all Oriental courts, by a +sorry money payment. The moral of it all was conveyed by the Consul in +the one word with which he parted from me at his gate. "Respect the +fanaticism of these fanatics," he said, "as you would value your liberty +or your life, and keep out of a Moorish prison—remember that, remember +that!"</p> + +<p>I <i>did</i> remember it. Every day of my travels I remembered it. I +remembered it at the most awful moment of my life. If I had not +remembered it then, should I be lying here now with that—with +<i>that</i>—behind me! Ah, wait, wait!</p> + +<p>Little did I expect when I left the Consul to light so soon upon a +terrible illustration of his words. With my guide and interpreter, a +Moorish soldier lent to me by the authorities in return for two pesetas +(one shilling and ninepence) a day, I strolled into the greater Sôk, the +market-place outside the walls. It was Friday, the holy day of the +Moslems, somewhere between one and two o'clock in the afternoon, when +the body of the Moors having newly returned from their one-hour +observances in the mosques, had resumed, according to their wont, their +usual occupations. The day was fine and warm, a bright sun was shining, +and the Sôk at the time when we entered it was a various and animated +scene.</p> + +<p>Dense crowds of hooded figures, clad chiefly in white—soiled or dirty +white—men in jellabs, women enshrouded in blankets, barefooted girls, +boys with shaven polls, water-carriers with their tinkling bells, +snake-charmers, story-tellers, jugglers, preachers, and then donkeys, +nosing their way through the throng, mules lifting their necks above the +people's heads, and camels munching oats and fighting—it was a +wilderness of writhing forms and a babel of shrieking noises.</p> + +<p>With my loquacious Moor I pushed my way along past booths and stalls +until I came to a white-washed structure with a white flag floating over +it, that stood near the middle of the market-place. It was a roofless +place, about fifteen feet square, and something like a little sheepfold, +but having higher walls. Through the open doorway I saw an inner +enclosure, out of which a man came forward. He was a wild-eyed creature +in tattered garments, and dirty, disheveled, and malevolent of face.</p> + +<p>"See," said my guide, "see, my lord, a Moorish saint's house. Look at +the flag. So shall my lord know a saint's house. Here rest the bones of +Sidi Gali, and that is the saint that guards them. A holy man, yes, a +holy man. Moslems pay him tribute. Sacred place, yes, sacred. No +Nazarene may enter it. But Moslem, yes, Moslems may fly here for +sanctuary. Life to the Moslem, death to the Nazarene. So it is."</p> + +<p>My soldier was rattling on in this way when I saw coming in the sunlight +down the hillside of which the Sôk is the foot a company of some eight +or ten men, whose dress and complexion were unlike those of the people +gathered there. They were a band of warlike persons, swarthy, tall, +lithe, sinewy, with heads clean shaven save for one long lock that hung +from the crown, each carrying a gun with barrel of prodigious length +upon his shoulder, and also armed with a long naked Reefian knife stuck +in the scarf that served him for a belt.</p> + +<p>They were Berbers, the descendants of the race that peopled Barbary +before the Moors set foot in it, between whom and the Moors there is a +long-continued, suppressed, but ineradicable enmity. From their mountain +homes these men had come to the town that day on their pleasure or their +business, and as they entered it they were at no pains to conceal their +contempt for the townspeople and their doings.</p> + +<p>Swaggering along with long strides, they whooped and laughed and plowed +their way through the crowd over bread and vegetables spread out on the +ground, and the people fell back before them with muttered curses until +they were come near to the saint's house, beside which I myself with my +guide was standing. Then I saw that the keeper of the saint's house, the +half-distraught creature whom I had just observed, was spitting out at +them some bitter and venomous words.</p> + +<p>Clearly they all heard him, and most of them laughed derisively and +pushed on. But one of the number—a young Berber with eyes of fire—drew +up suddenly and made some answer in hot and rapid words. The man of the +saint's house spoke again, showing his teeth as he did so in a horrible +grin; and at the next instant, almost quicker than my eyes could follow +the swift movement of his hands, the Berber had plucked his long knife +from his belt and plunged it into the keeper's breast.</p> + +<p>I saw it all. The man fell at my feet, and was dead in an instant. In +another moment the police of the market had laid hold of the murderer, +and he was being hauled off to his trial. "Come," whispered my guide, +and he led me by short cuts through the narrow lanes to the Kasbah.</p> + +<p>In an open alcove of the castle I found two men in stainless blue +jellabs and spotless white turbans, squatting on rush mats at either +foot of the horse-shoe arch. These were the judges, the Kadi and his +Khalifa, sitting in session in the hall of justice.</p> + +<p>There was a tumult of many voices and of hurrying feet; and presently +the police entered, holding their prisoner between them, and followed by +a vast concourse of townspeople. I held my ground in front of the +alcove; the Berber was brought up near to my side, and I saw and heard +all.</p> + +<p>"This man," said one of the police, "killed so-and-so, of Sidi Gali's +saint's house."</p> + +<p>"When?" said the Kadi.</p> + +<p>"This moment," said the police.</p> + +<p>"How?" said the Kadi.</p> + +<p>"With this knife," said the police.</p> + +<p>The knife, stained, and still wet, was handed to the judge. He shook it, +and asked the prisoner one question: "Why?"</p> + +<p>Then the Berber flung himself on his knees—his shaven head brushed my +hand—and began to plead extenuating circumstances. "It is true, my +lord, I killed him, but he called me dog and infidel, and spat at me—"</p> + +<p>The Kadi gave back the knife and waved his hand. "Take him away," he +said.</p> + +<p>That was all, as my guide interpreted it. "Come," he whispered again, +and he led me by a passage into a sort of closet where a man lay on a +mattress. This was the porch to the prison, and the man on the mattress +was the jailer. In one wall there was a low door, barred and clamped +with iron, and having a round peephole grated across.</p> + +<p>At the next instant the police brought in their prisoner. The jailer +rattled a big key in the lock, the low door swung open, I saw within a +dark den full of ghostly figures dragging chains at their ankles; a foul +stench came out of it, the prisoner bent his head and was pushed in, the +door slammed back—and that was the end. Everything occurred in no more +time than it takes to tell it.</p> + +<p>"Is that all his trial?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"All," said my guide.</p> + +<p>"How long will he lie there?"</p> + +<p>"Until death."</p> + +<p>"But," I said, "I have heard that a Kadi of your country may be bribed +to liberate a murderer."</p> + +<p>"Ah, my lord is right," said my guide, "but not the murderer of a +saint."</p> + +<p>Less than five minutes before I had seen the stalwart young Berber +swaggering down the hillside in the afternoon sunshine. Now he was in +the gloom of the noisome dungeon, with no hope of ever again looking +upon the light of day, doomed to drag out an existence worse than death, +and all for what? For taking life? No, no, no—life in that land is +cheap, cheaper than it ever was in the Middle Ages—but for doing +dishonor to a superstition of the faith of Islam.</p> + +<p>I remembered the American, and shuddered at the sight of this summary +justice. Next morning, as my tentmen and muleteers were making ready to +set out for Fez, my soldier-guide brought me a letter which had come by +the French steamer by way of Malaga. It was from home; a brief note from +my wife, with no explanation of her prolonged silence, merely saying +that all was as usual at Wimpole Street, and not mentioning our boy at +all. The omission troubled me, the brevity and baldness of the message +filled me with vague concern, and I had half a mind to delay my inland +journey. Would that I had done so! Would that I had! Oh, would that I +had!</p> + +<p><i>Terrible, my son, terrible! A blighted and desolated land. But even +worse than its own people are the renegades it takes from mine. Ah, I +knew one such long ago. An outcast, a pariah, a shedder of blood, an +apostate. But go on, go on.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IIA" id="IIA"></a>II</h2> + + +<p>Father, what voice was it that rang in my ears and cried, "Stay, do not +travel; all your past from the beginning until to-day, all your future +from to-day until the end, hangs on your action now; go, and your past +is a waste, your fame a mockery, your success a reproach; remain, and +your future is peace and happiness and content!" What voice, father, +what voice?</p> + +<p>I shut my ears to it, and six days afterward I arrived at Fez. My +journey had impressed two facts upon my mind with startling vividness; +first, that the Moor would stick at nothing in his jealousy of the honor +of his faith, and next, that I was myself a changed and coarsened man. I +was reminded of the one when in El Kassar I saw an old Jew beaten in the +open streets because he had not removed his slippers and walked barefoot +as he passed the front of a mosque; and again in Wazzan, when I +witnessed the welcome given to the Grand Shereef on his return from his +home in Tangier to his house in the capital of his province. The Jew was +the chief usurer of the town, and had half the Moorish inhabitants in +his toils; yet his commercial power had counted for nothing against the +honor of Islam. "I," said he to me that night in the Jewish inn, the +Fondak, "I, who could clap every man of them in the Kasbah, and their +masters with them, for moneys they owe me, I to be treated like a dog by +these scurvy sons of Ishmael—God of Jacob!" The Grand Shereef was a +drunkard, a gamester, and worse. There was no ordinance of Mohammed +which he had not openly outraged, yet because he stood to the people as +the descendant of the Prophet, and the father of the faith, they +groveled on the ground before him and kissed his robes, his knees, his +feet, his stirrups, and the big hoofs of the horse that carried him. As +for myself, I realized that the atmosphere of the country had corrupted +me, when I took out from my baggage a curved knife in its silver-mounted +sheath, which I had bought of a hawker at Tangier, and fixed it +prominently in the belt of my Norfolk jacket.</p> + +<p>The morning after my arrival in Fez I encountered my American companion +of the voyage. Our meeting was a strange one. I had rambled aimlessly +with my guide through the new town into the old until I had lighted by +chance upon the slave market in front of the ruins of the ancient Grand +Mosque, and upon a human auction which was then proceeding. No scene so +full of shame had I ever beheld, but the fascination of the spectacle +held me, and I stood and watched and listened. The slave being sold was +a black girl, and she was beautiful according to the standard of her +skin, bareheaded, barefooted, and clad as lightly over her body as +decency allowed, so as to reveal the utmost of her charms.</p> + +<p>"Now, brothers," cried the salesman, "look, see" (pinching the girl's +naked arms and rolling his jeweled fingers from her chin downward over +her bare neck on to her bosom), "sound of wind and limb, and with rosy +lips, fit for the kisses of a king—how much?"</p> + +<p>"A hundred dollars," cried a voice out of the crowd. I thought I had +heard the voice before, and looked up to see who had spoken. It was a +tall man with haik over his turban, and blue selam on top of a yellow +kaftan.</p> + +<p>"A hundred dollars offered," cried the salesman, "only a hundred. +Brothers, now's the chance for all true believers."</p> + +<p>"A hundred and five," cried another voice.</p> + +<p>"A hundred and ten."</p> + +<p>"A hundred and fifteen."</p> + +<p>"A hundred and fifteen for this jewel of a girl," cried the salesman. +"It's giving her away, brothers. By the prophets, if you are not quick +I'll keep her for myself. Come, look at her, Sidi. Isn't she good enough +for a sultan? The Prophet (God rest him) would have leaped at her. He +loved sweet women as much as he loved sweet odors. Now, for the third +and last time—how much? Remember, I guarantee her seventeen years of +age, sound, strong, plump, and sweet."</p> + +<p>"A hundred and twenty," cried the voice I had heard first. I looked up +at the speaker again. It was the American in his Moorish costume.</p> + +<p>I could bear no more of the sickening spectacle, and as I turned aside +with my interpreter, I was conscious that my companion of the voyage was +following me. When we came to some dark arches that divided Old Fez from +New Fez the American spoke, and I sent my interpreter ahead.</p> + +<p>"You see I am giving myself full tether in this execrable land," he +said.</p> + +<p>"Indeed you are," I answered.</p> + +<p>"Well, as the Romans in Rome, you know—it was what I came for," he +said.</p> + +<p>"Take care," I replied. "Take care."</p> + +<p>He drew up shortly and said, "By the way, I ought to be ashamed to meet +you."</p> + +<p>I thought he ought, but for courtesy I asked him why.</p> + +<p>"Because," he said, "I have failed to act up to my principles."</p> + +<p>"In what?" I inquired.</p> + +<p>"In saving the life of a scoundrel at the risk of my own," he answered.</p> + +<p>Then he told me his story. "I left Tangier," he said, "with four men in +my caravan, but it did not suit me to bring them into Fez, so I +dismissed them a day's ride from here, paying in full for the whole +journey and making a present over. My generosity was a blunder. The Moor +can not comprehend an act of disinterested kindness, and I saw the +ruffians lay their heads together to find out what it could mean. Three +of them gave it up and went off home, but the fourth determined to +follow the trace. His name was Larby."</p> + +<p><i>Larby! El Arby, my son? Did you say El Arby? Of Tangier, too? A Moor? +Or was he a Spanish renegade turned Muslim? But no matter—no matter.</i></p> + +<p>"He was my guide," said the American, "and a most brazen hypocrite, +always cheating me. I let him do so, it amused me—always lying to my +face, and always fumbling his beads—'God forgive me! God forgive +me'—an appropriate penance, you know the way of it. 'Peace, Sidi!' said +the rascal: 'Farewell! Allah send we meet in Paradise.' But the devil +meant that we should meet before that. We have met. It was a hot moment. +Do you know the Hamadshá Mosque? It is a place in a side street sacred +to the preaching of a fanatical follower of one Sidi Ali bin Hamdoosh, +and to certain wild dances executed in a glass and fire eating frenzy. I +thought I should like to hear a Moorish D. L. Moody, and one day I went +there. As I was going in I met a man coming out. It was Larby. 'Beeba!' +he whispered, with a tragic start—that was his own name for me on the +journey. 'Keep your tongue between your teeth,' I whispered back. 'I was +Beeba yesterday, to-day I'm Sidi Mohammed.' Then I entered, I spread my +prayer-mat, chanted my first Sura, listened to a lusty sermon, and came +out. There, as I expected, in the blind lane leading from the Hamadshá +to the town was Larby waiting for me. 'Beeba,' said he, with a grin, +'you play a double hand of cards.' 'Then,' said I, 'take care I don't +trump your trick.' The rascal had thought I might bribe him, and when he +knew that I would not I saw murder in his face. He had conceived the +idea of betraying me at the next opportunity. At that moment he was as +surely aiming at my life as if he had drawn his dagger and stabbed me. +It was then that I disgraced my principles."</p> + +<p>"How? how?" I said, though truly I had little need to ask.</p> + +<p>"We were alone, I tell you, in a blind lane," said the American; "but I +remembered stories the man had told me of his children. 'Little Hoolia,' +he called his daughter, a pretty, black-eyed mite of six, who always +watched for him when he was away."</p> + +<p>I was breaking into perspiration. "Do you mean," I said, "that you +should have—"</p> + +<p>"I mean that I should have killed the scoundrel there and then!" said +the American.</p> + +<p>"God forbid it!" I cried, and my hair rose from my scalp in horror.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" said the American. "It would have been an act of +<i>self-defense</i>. The man meant to kill me. He will kill me still if I +give him the chance. What is the difference between murder in a moment +and murder after five, ten, fifteen, twenty days? Only that one is +murder in hot blood and haste and the other is murder in cold blood and +by stealth. Is it life that you think so precious? Then why should I +value <i>his</i> life more than I value <i>my own</i>?"</p> + +<p>I shivered, and could say nothing.</p> + +<p>"You think me a monster," said the American, "but remember, since we +left England the atmosphere has changed."</p> + +<p>"Remember, too," I said, "that this man can do you no harm unless you +intrude yourself upon his superstitions again. Leave the country +immediately; depend upon it, he is following you."</p> + +<p>"That's not possible," said the American, "for <i>I</i> am following <i>him</i>. +Until I come up with him I can do nothing, and my existence is not worth +a pin's purchase."</p> + +<p>I shuddered, and we parted. My mind told me that he was right, but my +heart clamored above the voice of reason and said, "<i>You</i> could not do +it, no, not to save a hundred lives."</p> + +<p>Ah, father, how little we know ourselves—how little, oh, how little! +When I think that <i>he</i> shrank back—he who held life so cheap—while +<i>I</i>—I who held it so dear, so sacred, so god-like—Bear with me; I will +tell all.</p> + +<p>I met the American at intervals during the next six days. We did not +often speak, but as we passed in the streets—he alone, I always with my +loquacious interpreter—I observed with dread the change that the shadow +of death hanging over a man's head can bring to pass in his face and +manner. He grew thin and sallow and wild-eyed. One day he stopped me, +and said: "I know now what your Buckshot Forster died of," and then he +went on without another word.</p> + +<p>But about ten days after our first meeting in the slave market he +stopped me again, and said, quite cheerfully: "He has gone home—I'm +satisfied of that now."</p> + +<p>"Thank God!" I answered involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Ah," he said, with a twinkle of the eye, "who says that a man must hang +up his humanity on the peg with his hat in the hospital hall when he +goes to be a surgeon? If the poet Keats had got over the first shock to +his sensibilities, he might have been the greatest surgeon of his day."</p> + +<p>"You'll be more careful in future," I said, "not to cross the fanaticism +of these fanatics?"</p> + +<p>He smiled, and asked if I knew the Karueein Mosque. I told him I had +seen it.</p> + +<p>"It is the greatest in Morocco," he said. "The Moors say the inner court +stands on eight hundred pillars. I don't believe them, and I mean to see +for myself."</p> + +<p>I found it useless to protest, and he went his way, laughing at my +blanched and bewildered face. "That man," I thought, "is fit to be the +hero of a tragedy, and he is wasting himself on a farce."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, I had a shadow over my own life which would not lift. That +letter which I had received from home at the moment of leaving Tangier +had haunted me throughout the journey. Its brevity, its insufficiency, +its delay, and above all its conspicuous omission of all mention of our +boy had given rise to endless speculation. Every dark possibility that +fancy could devise had risen before me by way of explanation. I despised +myself for such weakness, but self-contempt did nothing to allay my +vague fears. The child was ill; I knew it; I felt it; I could swear to +it as certainly as if my ears could hear the labored breathing in his +throat.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless I went on; so much did my philosophy do for me. But when I +got to Fez I walked straightway to the English post-office to see if +there was a letter awaiting me. Of course there was no letter there. I +had not reflected that I had come direct from the port through which the +mails had to pass, and that if the postal courier had gone by me on the +road I must have seen him, which I had not.</p> + +<p>I was ashamed before my own consciousness, but all the same the +post-office saw me every day. Whatever the direction that I took with my +interpreter, it led toward that destination in the end. And whatever the +subject of his ceaseless gabble—a very deluge of words—it was forced +to come round at last to the times and seasons of the mails from +England. These were bi-weekly, with various possibilities of casual +arrivals besides.</p> + +<p>Fez is a noble city, the largest and finest Oriental city I had yet +seen, fit to compare in its own much different way of beauty and of +splendor with the great cities of the West, the great cities of the +earth, and of all time; but for me its attractions were overshadowed by +the gloom of my anxiety. The atmosphere of an older world, the spirit of +the East, the sense of being transported to Bible times, the startling +interpretations which the Biblical stories were receiving by the events +of every day—these brought me no pleasure. As for the constant +reminders of the presence of Islam every hour, at every corner, the +perpetual breath of prayer and praise, which filled this land that was +corrupt to the core, they gave me pain more poignant than disgust. The +call of the mueddin in the early morning was a daily agony. I slept +three streets from the Karueein minarets, but the voice seemed to float +into my room in the darkness, and coil round my head and ring in my +ears. Always I was awakened at the first sound of the stentorian +"Allah-u-Kabar," or, if I awoke in the silence and thought with a +feeling of relief, "It is over, I have slept through it," the howling +wail would suddenly break in upon my thanksgiving.</p> + +<p>There was just one fact of life in Fez that gave me a kind of melancholy +joy. At nearly every turn of a street my ears were arrested by the +multitudinous cackle, the broken, various-voiced sing-song of a +children's school. These Moorish schools interested me. They were the +simplest of all possible institutes, consisting usually of a +rush-covered cellar, two steps down from the street, with the teacher, +the Táleb, often a half-blind old man, squatting in the middle of the +floor, and his pupils seated about him, and all reciting together some +passages of the Koran, the only textbook of education. One such school +was close under my bedroom window; I heard the drone of it as early as +seven o'clock every morning, and as often as I went abroad I stood for a +moment and looked in at the open doorway. A black boy sat there with a +basket for the alms of passers-by. He was a bright-eyed little fellow, +six or seven years of age, and he knew one English phrase only: "Come +on," he would say, and hold up the basket and smile. What pathetic +interest his sunny face had for me, how he would cheer and touch me, +with what strange memories his voice and laugh would startle me, it +would be pitiful to tell.</p> + +<p>Bear with me! I was far from my own darling, I was in a strange land, I +was a weak man for all that I was thought so strong, and my one +besetting infirmity—more consuming than a mother's love—was preyed +upon by my failing health, which in turn was preying upon it.</p> + +<p>And if the sights of the streets brought me pain, or pleasure that was +akin to pain, what of the sights, the visions, the dreams of my own +solitary mind! I could not close my eyes in the darkness but I saw my +boy. His little child-ghost was always with me. He never appeared as I +had oftenest seen him—laughing, romping, and kicking up his legs on the +hearth-rug. Sometimes he came as he would do at home after he committed +some childish trespass and I had whipped him—opening the door of my +room and stepping one pace in, quietly, nervously, half fearfully, to +say good-night and kiss me at his bedtime, and I would lift my eyes and +see, over the shade of my library lamp, his little sober red-and-white +face just dried of its recent tears. Or, again, sometimes I myself would +seem in these dumb dramas of the darkness to go into his room when he +was asleep, that I might indulge my hungry foolish heart with looks of +fondness that the reproving parent could not give, and find him sleeping +with an open book in his hands, which he had made believe to read. And +then for sheer folly of love I would pick up his wee knickerbockers and +turn out its load at either side, to see what a boy's pockets might be +like, and discover a curiosity shop of poor little treasures—a knife +with a broken blade, a nail, two marbles, a bit of brass, some string, a +screw, a crust of bread, a cork, and a leg of a lobster.</p> + +<p>While I was indulging this weakness the conviction was deepening in my +mind that my boy was ill. So strong did this assurance become at length, +that, though I was ashamed to give way to it so far as to set my face +toward home, being yet no better for my holiday, I sat down at length to +write a letter to Wenman—I had written to my wife by every mail—that I +might relieve my pent-up feelings. I said nothing to him of my +misgivings, for I was loth to confess to them, having no positive +reasons whatever, and no negative grounds except the fact that I was +receiving no letters. But I gave him a full history of my boy's case, +described each stage of it in the past, foretold its probable +developments in the future, indicated with elaborate care the treatment +necessary at every point, and foreshadowed the contingencies under which +it might in the end become malignant and even deadly unless stopped by +the operation that I had myself, after years of labor, found the art of +making.</p> + +<p>I spent an afternoon in the writing of this letter, and when it was done +I felt as if a burden that had been on my back for ages had suddenly +been lifted away. Then I went out alone to post it. The time was close +to evening prayers, and as I walked through the streets the Tálebs and +tradesmen, with their prayer-mats under their arms, were trooping into +the various mosques. Going by the Karueein Mosque I observed that the +Good Muslimeen were entering it by hundreds. "Some special celebration," +I thought. My heart was light, my eyes were alert, and my step was +quick. For the first time since my coming to the city, Fez seemed to me +a beautiful place. The witchery of the scenes of the streets took hold +of me. To be thus transported into a world of two thousand years ago +gave me the delight of magic.</p> + +<p>When I reached the English post-office I found it shut up. On its +shutters behind its iron grating a notice-board was hung out, saying +that the office was temporarily closed for the sorting of an incoming +mail and the despatch of an outgoing one. There was a little crowd of +people waiting in front—chiefly Moorish servants of English +visitors—for the window to open again, and near by stood the horses of +the postal couriers pawing the pavement. I dropped my letter into the +slit in the window, and then stood aside to see if the mail had brought +anything for me at last.</p> + +<p>The window was thrown up, and two letters were handed to me through the +grating over the heads of the Moors, who were crushing underneath. I +took them with a sort of fear, and half wished at the first moment that +they might be from strangers. They were from home; one was from my +wife—I knew the envelope before looking at the handwriting—the other +was from Wenman.</p> + +<p>I read Wenman's letter first. Good or bad, the news must be broken to me +gently. Hardly had I torn the sheet open when I saw what it contained. +My little Noel had been ill; he was still so, but not seriously, and I +was not to be alarmed. The silence on their part which I had complained +of so bitterly had merely been due to their fear of giving me +unnecessary anxiety. For his part (Wenman's) he would have written +before, relying on my manliness and good sense, but my wife had +restrained him, saying she knew me better. There was no cause for +apprehension; the boy was going along as well as could be expected, +etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Not a word to indicate the nature and degree of the attack. Such an +insufficient epistle must have disquieted the veriest nincompoop alive. +To send a thing like that to <i>me</i>—to me of all men! Was there ever so +gross a mistake of judgment?</p> + +<p>I knew in an instant what the fact must be—my boy was down with that +old congenital infirmity of the throat. Surely my wife had told me more. +She had. Not by design, but unwittingly she had revealed the truth to +me. Granville Wenman had written to me, she said, explaining everything, +and I was not to worry and bother. All that was possible was being done +for our darling, and if I were there I could do no more. The illness had +to have its course, so I must be patient. All this is the usual jargon +of the surgery—I knew that Wenman had dictated it—and then a true line +or two worth all the rest from my dear girl's own bleeding mother's +heart. Our poor Noel was this, and that, he complained of so-and-so, and +first began to look unwell in such and such ways.</p> + +<p>It was clear as noonday. The attack of the throat which I had foreseen +had come. Five years I had looked for it. Through five long years I had +waited and watched to check it. I had labored day and night that when it +should come I might meet it. My own health I had wasted—and for what? +For fame, for wealth, for humanity, for science? No, no, no, but for the +life of my boy. And now when his enemy was upon him at length, where was +I—I who alone in all this world of God could save him? I was thirteen +hundred miles from home.</p> + +<p>Oh, the irony of my fate! My soul rose in rebellion against it. +Staggering back through the darkening streets, the whole city seemed +dead and damned.</p> + +<p>How far I walked in this state of oblivion I do not know, but presently +out of the vague atmosphere wherein all things had been effaced I became +conscious, like one awakening after a drug, of an unusual commotion +going on around. People were running past me and across me in the +direction of the Karueein Mosque. From that place a loud tumult was +rising into the air. The noise was increasing with every moment, and +rising to a Babel of human voices.</p> + +<p>I did not very much heed the commotion. What were the paltry excitements +of life to me now? I was repeating to myself the last words of my poor +wife's letter: "How I miss you, and wish you were with me!" "I will go +back," I was telling myself, "I will go back."</p> + +<p>In the confusion of my mind I heard snatches of words spoken by the +people as they ran by me. "Nazarene!" "Christian!" "Cursed Jew!" These +were hissed out at each other by the Moors as they were scurrying past. +At length I heard a Spaniard shout up to a fellow-countryman who was on +a house-top: "Englishman caught in the mosque."</p> + +<p>At that my disordered senses recovered themselves, and suddenly I became +aware that the tumult was coming in my direction. The noise grew deeper, +louder, and more shrill at every step. In another moment it had burst +upon me in a whirlpool of uproar.</p> + +<p>Round the corner of the narrow lane that led to the Karueein Mosque a +crowd of people came roaring like a torrent. They were Moors, Arabs, and +Berbers, and they were shouting, shrieking, yelling, and uttering every +sound that the human voice can make. At the first instant I realized no +more than this, but at the next I saw that the people were hunting a man +as hounds hunt a wolf. The man was flying before them; he was coming +toward me: in the gathering darkness I could see him; his dress, which +was Moorish, was torn into shreds about his body; his head was bare; his +chest was bleeding; I saw his face—it was the face of the American, my +companion of the voyage.</p> + +<p>He saw me too, and at that instant he turned about and faced full upon +his pursuers. What happened then I dare not tell.</p> + +<p>Father, he was a brave man, and he sold his life dearly. But he fell at +last. He was but one to a hundred. The yelping human dogs trod him down +like vermin.</p> + +<p>I am a coward. I fled and left him. When I got back to my lodgings I +called for my guide, for I was resolved to leave Fez without an hour's +delay. The guide was not to be found, and I had to go in search of him. +When I lighted on him, at length, he was in a dingy coffee-house, +squatting on the ground by the side of another Moor, an evil-looking +scoundrel, who was reciting some brave adventure to a group of admiring +listeners.</p> + +<p>I called my man out and told him of my purpose. He lifted his hands in +consternation. "Leave Fez to-night?" he said. "Impossible, my sultan, +impossible! My lord has not heard the order!"</p> + +<p>"What order?" I asked. I was alarmed. Must I be a prisoner in Morocco +while my child lay dying in England?</p> + +<p>"That the gates be closed and no Christian allowed to leave the city +until the morning. It is the order of the Kaleefa, my sultan, since the +outrage of the Christian in the mosque this morning."</p> + +<p>I suspected the meaning of this move in an instant, and the guide's +answer to my questions ratified my fears. One man, out of madness or +thirst for revenge, had led the attack upon the American, and a crowd of +fanatics had killed him—giving him no chance of retreat with his life, +either by circumcision or the profession of Islam. But cooler heads had +already found time to think of the penalty of shedding Christian blood. +That penalty was twofold: first, the penalty of disgrace which would +come of the idea that the lives of Christians were not safe in Morocco, +and next, the penalty of hard dollars to be paid to the American +Minister at Tangier.</p> + +<p>To escape from the double danger the outrage was to be hushed up. +Circumstances lent themselves to this artifice. True, that passage of +the American across country had been known in every village through +which he had passed; but at the gates of Fez he had himself cut off all +trace of his identity. He had entered the city alone, or in disguise. +His arrival as a stranger had not been notified at any of the "clubs" or +bazaars. Only one man had recognized him: that man was Larby, his guide.</p> + +<p>The body was to be buried secretly, no Christian being allowed to see +it. Then the report was to be given out that the dead man had been a +Moorish subject, that he had been killed in a blood-fued, and that the +rumor that he was a Christian caught in the act of defying the mosque +was an error, without the shadow of truth in it. But until all this had +been done no Christian should be allowed to pass through the gates. As +things stood at present the first impulse of a European would be to fly +to the Consul with the dangerous news.</p> + +<p>I knew something of the Moors and their country by this time, and I left +Fez that night, but it cost me fifty pounds to get out of it. There was +a bribe for the kaid, a bribe for the Kaleefa, and bribes for every +ragged Jack of the underlings down to the porter at the gate.</p> + +<p>With all my horror and the fever of my anxiety, I could have laughed in +the face of the first of these functionaries. Between his greedy desire +of the present I was offering him, his suspicion that I knew something +of the identity of the Christian who had been killed, his misgivings as +to the reasons of my sudden flight, and his dread that I would discover +the circumstances of the American's death, the figure he cut was a +foolish one. But why should I reproach the man's duplicity? I was +practising the like of it myself. Too well I knew that if I betrayed any +knowledge of what had happened it would be impossible that I should be +allowed to leave Fez.</p> + +<p>So I pretended to know nothing. It was a ridiculous interview.</p> + +<p>On my way back from it I crossed a little company of Moors, leading, +surrounding, and following a donkey. The donkey was heavily laden with +what appeared to be two great panniers of rubbish. It was dusk, but my +sight has always been keen, and I could not help seeing that hidden +under the rubbish there was another burden on the donkey's back. It was +the body of a dead man. I had little doubt of who the dead man must be; +but I hastened on and did not look again. The Moors turned into a garden +as I passed them. I guessed what they were about to do there, but my own +danger threatened me, and I wished to see and know no more.</p> + +<p>As I was passing out of the town in the moonlight an hour before +midnight, with my grumbling tentmen and muleteers at my heels, a man +stepped out of the shadow of the gateway arch and leered in my face, and +said in broken English, "So your Christian friend is corrected by +Allah!"</p> + +<p><i>Moorish English, my son, or Spanish?</i></p> + +<p>Spanish.</p> + +<p>It was the scoundrel whom I had seen in the coffee-house. I knew he must +be Larby, and that he had betrayed his master at last. Also, I knew that +he was aware that I had seen all. At that moment, looking down from my +horse's back into the man's evil face my whole nature changed. I +remembered the one opportunity which the American had lost out of a +wandering impulse of human tenderness—of saving his own life by taking +the life of him that threatened it, and I said in my heart of hearts, +"Now God in heaven keep me from the like temptation."</p> + +<p>Ah! father, do not shrink from me; think of it, only think of it! I was +fifteen hundred miles from home, and I was going back to my dying boy.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><i>God keep you, indeed, my son. Your feet were set in a slippery place. +El Arby, you say? A man of your own age? Dark? Sallow? It must be the +same. Long ago I knew the man you speak of. It was under another name, +and in another country. Yes, he was all you say. God forgive him, God +forgive him! Poor wrecked and bankrupt soul. His evil angel was always +at his hand, and his good one far away. He brought his father to shame, +and his mother to the grave. There was a crime and conviction, then +banishment, and after that his father fled from the world. But the +Church is peace; he took refuge with her, and all is well. Go on now.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IIIA" id="IIIA"></a>III</h2> + + +<p>Father, I counted it up. Every mile of the distance I counted it. And I +reckoned every hour since my wife's letter had been written against the +progress and period of my boy's disease. So many days since the date of +the letter, and Noel had been ailing and ill so many days before that. +The gross sum of those days was so much, and in that time the affection, +if it ran the course I looked for, must have reached such and such a +stage. While I toiled along over the broad wastes of that desolate land, +I seemed to know at any moment what the condition must be at the utmost +and best of my boy in his bed at home.</p> + +<p>Then I reckoned the future as well as the past. So many days it would +take me to ride to Tangier, so many hours to cross from Tangier to +Cadiz, so many days and nights by rail from Cadiz to London. The grand +total of time past since my poor Noel first became unwell, and of time +to come before I could reach his side, would be so much. What would his +condition be then? I knew that also. It would be so and so.</p> + +<p>Thus, step by step I counted it all up. The interval would be long, very +long, between the beginning of the attack and my getting home, but not +too long for my hopes. All going well with me, I should still arrive in +time. If the disease had taken an evil turn, my boy might perhaps be in +its last stages. But then <i>I</i> would be there, and I could save him. The +operation which I had spent five years of my life to master would bring +him back from the gates of death itself.</p> + +<p>Father, I had no doubt of that, and I had no doubt of my calculations. +Lying here now it seems as if the fiends themselves must have shrieked +to see me in that far-off land gambling like a fool in the certainty of +the life I loved, and reckoning nothing of the hundred poor chances that +might snuff it out like a candle. Call it frenzy, call it madness, +nevertheless it kept my heart alive, and saved me from despair.</p> + +<p>But, oh! the agony of my impatience! If anything should stop me now! Let +me be one day later—only one—and what might not occur! Then, how many +were the dangers of delay! First, there was the possibility of illness +overtaking me. My health was not better, but worse, than when I left +home. I was riding from sunrise to sunset, and not sleeping at nights. +No matter! I put all fear from that cause away from me. Though my limbs +refused to bear me up, and under the affliction of my nerves my muscles +lost the power to hold the reins, yet if I could be slung on to the back +of my horse I should still go on.</p> + +<p>But then there was the worse danger of coming into collision with the +fanaticism of the people through whose country I had to pass. I did not +fear the fate of the American, for I could not be guilty of his folly. +But I remembered the admission of the English Consul at Tangier that a +stranger might offend the superstitions of the Moslems unwittingly; I +recalled his parting words of counsel, spoken half in jest, "Keep out of +a Moorish prison"; and the noisome dungeon into which the young Berber +had been cast arose before my mind in visions of horror.</p> + +<p>What precautions I took to avoid these dangers of delay would be a long +and foolish story. Also, it would be a mean and abject one, and I should +be ashamed to tell it. How I saluted every scurvy beggar on the way with +the salutation of his faith and country; how I dismounted as I +approached a town or a village, and only returned to the saddle when I +had gone through it: how I uncovered my head—in ignorance of Eastern +custom—as I went by a saint's house, and how at length (remembering the +Jewish banker who was beaten) I took off my shoes and walked barefoot as +I passed in front of a mosque.</p> + +<p>Yes, it was I who paid all this needless homage; I whose pride has +always been my bane; I who could not bend the knee to be made a knight; +I who had felt humility before no man. Even so it was. In my eagerness, +my impatience, my dread of impediment on my journey home to my darling +who waited for me there, I was studying the faces and groveling at the +feet of that race of ignorant fanatics.</p> + +<p>But the worst of my impediments were within my own camp. The American +was right. The Moor can not comprehend a disinterested action. My +foolish homage to their faith awakened the suspicions of my men. When +they had tried in vain to fathom the meaning of it, they agreed to +despise me. I did not heed their contempt, but I was compelled to take +note of its consequences. From being my servants, they became my +masters. When it pleased them to encamp I had to rest, though my +inclination was to go on, and only when it suited them to set out again +could I resume my journey. In vain did I protest, and plead, and +threaten. The Moor is often a brave man, but these men were a gang of +white-livered poltroons, and a blow would have served to subdue them. +With visions of a Moorish prison before my eyes I dared not raise my +hand. One weapon alone could I, in my own cowardice, employ against +them—bribes, bribes, bribes. Such was the sole instrument with which I +combated their laziness, their duplicity, and their deceit.</p> + +<p>Father, I was a pitiful sight in my weakness and my impatience. We had +not gone far out of Fez when I observed that the man Larby was at the +heels of our company. This alarmed me, and I called to my guide.</p> + +<p>"Alee," I said, "who is that evil-looking fellow?"</p> + +<p>Alee threw up both hands in amazement. "Evil-looking fellow!" he cried. +"God be gracious to my father! Who does my lord mean? Not Larby; no, not +Larby. Larby is a good man. He lives in one of the mosque houses at +Tangier. The Nadir leased it to him, and he keeps his shop on the Sôk de +Barra. Allah bless Larby. Should you want musk, should you want +cinnamon, Larby is the man to sell to you. But sometimes he guides +Christians to Fez, and then his brother keeps his shop for him."</p> + +<p>"But why is the man following us?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"My sultan," said Alee, "am I not telling you? Larby is returning home. +The Christian he took to Fez, where is he?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," I said, "where is he?"</p> + +<p>Alee grinned, and answered: "He is gone—southward, my lord."</p> + +<p>"Why should you lie to me like that?" I said. "You know the Christian is +dead, and that this Larby was the means of killing him!"</p> + +<p>"Shoo! What is my lord saying?" cried Alee, lifting his fat hands with a +warning gesture. "What did my lord tell the Basha? My lord must know +nothing—nothing. It would not be safe."</p> + +<p>Then with glances of fear toward Larby, and dropping his voice to a +whisper, Alee added, "It is true the Christian is dead; he died last +sunset. Allah corrected him. So Larby is going back alone, going back to +his shop, to his house, to his wives, to his little daughter Hoolia. +Allah send Larby a safe return. Not following us, Sidi. No, no; Larby is +going back the same way—that is all."</p> + +<p>The answer did not content me, but I could say no more. Nevertheless, my +uneasiness at the man's presence increased hour by hour. I could not +think of him without thinking also of the American and of the scene of +horror near to the Karueein Mosque. I could not look at him but the +blood down my back ran cold. So I called my guide again, and said, "Send +that man away; I will not have him in our company."</p> + +<p>Alee pretended to be deeply wounded. "Sidi," he said, "ask anything else +of me. What will you ask? Will you ask me to die for you? I am ready, I +am willing, I am satisfied. But Larby is my friend. Larby is my brother, +and this thing you ask of me I can not do. Allah has not written it. +Sidi, it can not be."</p> + +<p>With such protestations—the common cant of the country—I had need to +be content. But now the impression fixed itself upon my mind that the +evil-faced scoundrel who had betrayed the American to his death was not +only following <i>us</i> but <i>me</i>. Oh! the torment of that idea in the +impatience of my spirit and the racking fever of my nerves! To be dogged +day and night as by a bloodhound, never to raise my eyes without the +dread of encountering the man's watchful eye—the agony of the incubus +was unbearable!</p> + +<p>My first thought was merely that the rascal meant robbery. However far I +might ride ahead of my own people in the daytime he was always close +behind me, and as surely as I wandered away from the camp at nightfall I +was overtaken by him or else I met him face to face.</p> + +<p>"Alee," I said at last, "that man is a thief."</p> + +<p>Of course Alee was horrified. "Ya Allah!" he cried. "What is my lord +saying? The Moor is no thief. The Moor is true, the Moor is honest. None +so true and honest as the Moor. Wherefore should the Moor be a thief? To +be a thief in Barbary is to be a fool. Say I rob a Christian. Good. I +kill him and take all he has and bury him in a lonely place. All right. +What happens? Behold, Sidi, this is what happens. Your Christian Consul +says, 'Where is the Christian you took to Fez?' I can not tell. I lie, I +deceive, I make excuses. No use. Your Christian Consul goes to the +Kasbah, and says to the Basha: 'Cast that Moor into prison, he is a +robber and a murderer!' Then he goes to the Sultan at Marrakesh, in the +name of your Queen, who lives in the country of the Nazarenes, over the +sea. 'Pay me twenty thousand dollars,' he says, 'for the life of my +Christian who is robbed and murdered,' Just so. The Sultan—Allah +preserve our Mulai Hassan!—he pays the dollars. Good, all right, just +so. But is that all, Sidi? No, Sidi, that is not all. The Sultan—God +prolong the life of our merciful lord—he then comes to my people, to my +Basha, to my bashalic, and he says, 'Pay me back my forty thousand +dollars'—do you hear me, Sidi, <i>forty</i> thousand!—'for the Nazarene who +is dead.' All right. But we can not pay. Good. The Sultan—Allah save +him!—he comes, he takes all we have, he puts every man of my people to +the sword. We are gone, we are wiped out. Did I not say, Sidi, to be a +thief in Barbary is to be a fool?"</p> + +<p>It was cold comfort. That the man Larby was following me I was +confident, and that he meant to rob me I was at first convinced. Small +solace, therefore, in the thought that if the worst befell me, and my +boy at home died for want of his father, who lay robbed and murdered in +those desolate wastes, my Government would exact a claim in paltry +dollars.</p> + +<p>My next thought was that the man was merely watching me out of the +country. That he was aware that I knew his secret was only too certain; +that he had betrayed my knowledge to the authorities at the capital +after I had parted from them was more than probable, and it was not +impossible that the very men who had taken bribes of me had in their +turn bribed him that he might follow me and see that I did not inform +the Ministers and Consuls of foreign countries of the murder of the +American in the streets of Fez.</p> + +<p>That theory partly reconciled me to the man's presence: Let him watch. +His constant company was in its tormenting way my best security. I +should go to no Minister, and no Consul should see me. I had too much +reason to think of my own living affairs to busy myself with those of +the dead American.</p> + +<p>But such poor unction as this reflection brought me was dissipated by a +second thought. What security for the man himself, or for the +authorities who might have bribed him—or perhaps menaced him—to watch +me would lie in the fact that I had passed out of the country without +revealing the facts of the crime which I had witnessed? Safely back in +England, I might tell all with safety. Once let me leave Morocco with +their secret in my breast, and both the penalties these people dreaded +might be upon them. Merely to watch me was wasted labor. They meant to +do more, or they would have done nothing.</p> + +<p>Thinking so, another idea took possession of me with a shock of +terror—the man was following me to kill me as the sole Christian +witness of the crime that had been committed. By the light of that +theory everything became plain. When I visited the Kasbah nothing was +known of my acquaintance with the murdered man. My bribes were taken, +and I was allowed to leave Fez in spite of public orders. But then came +Larby with alarming intelligence. I had been a friend of the American, +and had been seen to speak with him in the public streets. Perhaps Larby +himself had seen me, or perhaps my own guide, Alee, had betrayed me to +his friend and "brother." At that the Kaid or his Kaleefa had raised +their eyebrows and sworn at each other for simpletons and fools. To +think that the very man who had intended to betray them had come with an +innocent face and a tale of a sick child in England! To think that they +had suffered him to slip through their fingers and leave them some +paltry bribes of fifty pounds! Fifty pounds taken by stealth against +twenty thousand dollars to be plumped down after the Christian had told +his story! These Nazarenes were so subtle, and the sons of Ishmael were +so simple. But diamond cut diamond. Everything was not lost. One hundred +and twenty-five miles this Christian had still to travel before he could +sail from Barbary, and not another Christian could he encounter on that +journey. Then up, Larby, and after him! God make your way easy! +Remember, Larby, remember, good fellow, it is not only the pockets of +the people of Fez that are in danger if that Christian should escape. +Let him leave the Gharb alive, and your own neck is in peril. You were +the spy, you were the informer, you were the hotheaded madman who led +the attack that ended in the spilling of Christian blood. If the Sultan +should have to pay twenty thousand dollars to the Minister for America +at Tangier for the life of this dead dog whom we have grubbed into the +earth in a garden, if the Basha of Fez should have to pay forty thousand +dollars to the Sultan, if the people should have to pay eighty thousand +dollars to the Basha, then you, Larby, you in your turn will have to pay +with your <i>life</i> to the people. It is <i>your</i> life against the life of +the Christian. So follow him, watch him, silence him, he knows your +secret—away!</p> + +<p>Such was my notion of what happened at the Kasbah of Fez after I had +passed the gates of the city. It was a wild vision, but to my +distempered imagination it seemed to be a plausible theory. And now +Larby, the spy upon the American, Larby, my assassin-elect, Larby, who +to save his own life must take mine, Larby was with me, was beside me, +was behind me constantly!</p> + +<p><i>God help you, my son, God help you! Larby! O Larby! Again, again!</i></p> + +<p>What was I to do? Open my heart to Larby; to tell him it was a blunder; +that I meant no man mischief; that I was merely hastening back to my +sick boy, who was dying for want of me? That was impossible; Larby would +laugh in my face, and still follow me. Bribe him? That was useless; +Larby would take my money and make the surer of his victim. It was a +difficult problem; but at length I hit on a solution. Father, you will +pity me for a fool when you hear it. I would bargain with Larby as Faust +bargained with the devil. He should give me two weeks of life, and come +with me to England. I should do my work here, and Larby should never +leave my side. My boy's life should be saved by that operation, which I +alone knew how to perform. After that Larby and I should square accounts +together. He should have all the money I had in the world, and the +passport of my name and influence for his return to his own country. I +should write a confession of suicide, and then—and then—only then—at +home—here in my own room—Larby should kill me in order to satisfy +himself that his own secret and the secret of his people must be safe +forever.</p> + +<p>It was a mad dream, but what dream of dear life is not mad that comes to +the man whom death dogs like a bloodhound? And mad as it was I tried to +make it come true. The man was constantly near me, and on the third +morning of our journey I drew up sharply, and said:</p> + +<p>"Larby!"</p> + +<p>"Sidi," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Would you not like to go on with me to England?"</p> + +<p>He looked at me with his glittering eyes, and I gave an involuntary +shiver. I had awakened the man's suspicions in an instant. He thought I +meant to entrap him. But he only smiled knowingly, shrugged his +shoulders, and answered civilly: "I have my shop in the Sôk de Barra, +Sidi. And then there are my wives and my sons and my little Hoolia—God +be praised for all his blessings."</p> + +<p>"Hoolia?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"My little daughter, Sidi."</p> + +<p>"How old is she?"</p> + +<p>"Six, Sidi, only six, but as fair as an angel."</p> + +<p>"I dare say she misses you when you are away, Larby," I said.</p> + +<p>"You have truth, Sidi. She sits in the Sôk by the tents of the +brassworkers and plaits rushes all the day long, and looks over to where +the camels come by the saints' houses on the hill, and waits and +watches."</p> + +<p>"Larby," I said, "I, too, have a child at home who is waiting and +watching. A boy, my little Noel, six years of age, just as old as your +own little Hoolia. And so bright, so winsome. But he is ill, he is +dying, and he is all the world to me. Larby, I am a surgeon, I am a +doctor, if I could but reach England—"</p> + +<p>It was worse than useless. I stopped, for I could go no farther. The +cold glitter of the man's eyes passed over me like frost over flame, and +I knew his thought as well as if he had spoken it. "I have heard that +story before," he was telling himself, "I have heard it at the Kasbah, +and it is a lie and a trick."</p> + +<p>My plan was folly, and I abandoned it; but I was more than ever +convinced of my theory. This man was following me to kill me. He was +waiting an opportunity to do his work safely, secretly, and effectually. +His rulers would shield him in his crime, for by that crime they would +themselves be shielded.</p> + +<p>Father, my theory, like my plan, was foolishness. Only a madman would +have dreamt of concealing a crime whereof there was but one witness, by +a second crime, whereof the witnesses must have been five hundred. The +American had traveled in disguise and cut off the trace of his identity +to all men save myself. When he died at the hands of the fanatics whose +faith he had outraged, I alone of all Christians knew that it was +Christian blood that had stained the streets of Fez. But how different +my own death must have been. I had traveled openly as a Christian and an +Englishman. At the consulate of Tangier I was known by name and repute, +and at that of Fez I had registered myself. My presence had been +notified at every town I had passed through, and the men of my caravan +would not have dared to return to their homes without me. In the case of +the murder of the American the chances to the Moorish authorities of +claim for indemnity were as one to five hundred. In the case of the like +catastrophe to myself they must have been as five hundred to one. Thus, +in spite of fanaticism and the ineradicable hatred of the Moslem for the +Nazarene, Morocco to me, as to all Christian travelers, traveling openly +and behaving themselves properly, was as safe a place as England itself.</p> + +<p>But how can a man be hot and cold and wise and foolish in a moment? I +was in no humor to put the matter to myself temperately, and, though I +had been so cool as to persuade myself that the authorities whom I had +bribed could not have been madmen enough to think that they could +conceal the murder of the American by murdering me, yet I must have +remained convinced that Larby himself was such a madman.</p> + +<p>As a surgeon, I had some knowledge of madness, and the cold, clear, +steely glitter of the man's eyes when he looked at me was a thing that I +could not mistake. I had seen it before in religious monomaniacs. It was +an infallible and fatal sign. With that light in the eyes, like the +glance of a dagger, men will kill the wives they love, and women will +slaughter the children of their bosom. When I saw it in Larby I shivered +with a chilly presentiment. It seemed to say that I should see my home +no more. I have seen my home once more; I am back in England, I am here, +but—</p> + +<p><i>No, no, not</i> <span class="smcap">THAT</span>! <i>Larby! Don't tell</i> <span class="smcap">ME</span> <i>you did</i> <span class="smcap">THAT</span>.</p> + +<p>Father, is my crime so dark? That hour comes back and back. How long +will it haunt me? How long? For ever and ever. When time for me is +swallowed up in eternity, eternity will be swallowed up in the memory of +that hour. Peace! Do you say peace? Ah! yes, yes; God is merciful!</p> + +<p>Before I had spoken to Larby his presence in our company had been only +as a dark and fateful shadow. Now it was a foul and hateful incubus. +Never in all my life until then had I felt hatred for any human +creature. But I hated that man with all the sinews of my soul. What was +it to me that he was a madman? He intended to keep me from my dying boy. +Why should I feel tenderness toward him because he was the father of his +little Hoolia? By killing me he would kill my little Noel.</p> + +<p>I began to recall the doctrines of the American as he propounded them on +the ship. It was the life of an honest man against the life of a +scoundrel. These things should be rated <i>ad valorem</i>. If the worst came +to the worst, why should I have more respect for this madman's life than +for my own?</p> + +<p>I looked at the man and measured his strength against mine. He was a +brawny fellow with broad shoulders, and I was no better than a weakling. +I was afraid of him, but I was yet more afraid of myself. Sometimes I +surprised my half-conscious mind in the act of taking out of its +silver-mounted sheath the large curved knife which I had bought of the +hawker at Tangier, and now wore in the belt of my Norfolk jacket. In my +cowardice and my weakness this terrified me. Not all my borrowed +philosophy served to support me against the fear of my own impulses. +Meantime, I was in an agony of suspense and dread. The nights brought me +no rest and the mornings no freshness.</p> + +<p>On the fourth day out of Fez we arrived at Wazzan, and there, though the +hour was still early, my men decided to encamp for the night. I +protested, and they retorted; I threatened, and they excused themselves. +The mules wanted shoeing. I offered to pay double that they might be +shod immediately. The tents were torn by a heavy wind the previous +night. I offered to buy new ones. When their trumpery excuses failed +them, the men rebelled openly, and declared their determination not to +stir out of Wazzan that night.</p> + +<p>But they had reckoned without their host this time. I found that there +was an English Consul at Wazzan, and I went in search of him. His name +was Smith, and he was a typical Englishman—ample, expansive, firm, +resolute, domineering, and not troubled with too much sentiment. I told +him of the revolt of my people and of the tyranny of the subterfuges +whereby they had repeatedly extorted bribes. The good fellow came to my +relief. He was a man of purpose, and he had no dying child twelve +hundred miles away to make him a fool and a coward.</p> + +<p>"Men," he said, "you've got to start away with this gentleman at +sundown, and ride night and day—do you hear me, night and day—until +you come to Tangier. A servant of my own shall go with you, and if you +stop or delay or halt or go slowly he shall see that every man of you is +clapped into the Kasbah as a blackmailer and a thief."</p> + +<p>There was no more talk of rebellion. The men protested that they had +always been willing to travel. Sidi had been good to them, and they +would be good to Sidi. At sundown they would be ready.</p> + +<p>"You will have no more trouble, sir," said the Consul; "but I will come +back to see you start."</p> + +<p>I thanked him and we parted. It was still an hour before sunset, and I +turned aside to look at the town. I had barely walked a dozen paces when +I came face to face with Larby. In the turmoil of my conflict with the +men I had actually forgotten him for one long hour. He looked at me with +his glittering eyes, and then his cold, clear gaze followed the Consul +as he passed down the street. That double glance was like a shadowy +warning. It gave me a shock of terror.</p> + +<p>How had I forgotten my resolve to baffle suspicion by exchanging no word +or look with any European Minister or Consul as long as I remained in +Morocco? The expression in the man's face was not to be mistaken. It +seemed to say, "So you have told all; very well, Sidi, we shall see."</p> + +<p>With a sense as of creeping and cringing I passed on. The shadow of +death seemed to have fallen upon me at last. I felt myself to be a +doomed man. That madman would surely kill me. He would watch his chance; +I should never escape him; my home would see me no more; my boy would +die for want of me.</p> + +<p>A tingling noise, as of the jangling of bells, was in my ears. Perhaps +it was the tinkling of the bells of the water-carriers, prolonged and +unbroken. A gauzy mist danced before my eyes. Perhaps it was the +palpitating haze which the sun cast back from the gilded domes and +minarets.</p> + +<p>Domes and minarets were everywhere in this town of Wazzan. It seemed to +be a place of mosques and saints' houses. Where the wide arch and the +trough of the mosque were not, there was the open door in the low +white-washed wall of the saint's house, surmounted by its white flag. In +my dazed condition, I was sometimes in danger of stumbling into such +places unawares. At the instant of recovered consciousness I always +remembered the warnings of my guide as I stood by the house of Sidi Gali +at Tangier: "Sacred place? Yes, sacred. No Nazarene may enter it. But +Moslems, yes, Moslems may fly here for sanctuary. Life to the Moslem, +death to the Nazarene. So it is."</p> + +<p>Oh, it is an awful thing to feel that death is waiting for you +constantly, that at any moment, at any turn, at any corner it may be +upon you! Such was my state as I walked on that evening, waiting for the +sunset, through the streets of Wazzan. At one moment I was conscious of +a sound in my ears above the din of traffic—the <i>Arrah</i> of the +ass-drivers, the <i>Bálak</i> of the men riding mules, and the general clamor +of tongues. It was the steady beat of a footstep close behind me. I knew +whose footstep it was. I turned about quickly, and Larby was again face +to face with me. He met my gaze with the same cold, glittering look. My +impulse was to fly at his throat, but that I dare not do. I knew myself +to be a coward, and I remembered the Moorish prison.</p> + +<p>"Larby," I said, "what do you want?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, Sidi, nothing," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Then why are you following me like this?"</p> + +<p>"Following you, Sidi?" The fellow raised his eyebrows and lifted both +hands in astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Yes, following me, dogging me, watching me, tracking me down. What does +it mean? Speak out plainly."</p> + +<p>"Sidi is jesting," he said, with a mischievous smile. "Is not this +Wazzan—the holy city of Wazzan? Sidi is looking at the streets, at the +mosques, at the saints' houses. So is Larby. That is all."</p> + +<p>One glance at the man's evil eyes would have told you that he lied.</p> + +<p>"Which way are you going?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"This way." With a motion of the head he indicated the street before +him.</p> + +<p>"Then I am going to this," I said, and I walked away in the opposite +direction.</p> + +<p>I resolved to return to the English Consul, to tell him everything, and +claim his protection. Though all the Moorish authorities in Morocco were +in league with this religious monomaniac, yet surely there was life and +safety under English power for one whose only offense was that of being +witness to a crime which might lead to a claim for indemnity.</p> + +<p><i>That it should come to this, and I of all men should hear it! God help +me! God lead me! God give me light! Light, light, O God; give me light!</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IVA" id="IVA"></a>IV</h2> + + +<p>Full of this new purpose and of the vague hope inspired by it, I was +making my way back to the house of the Consul, when I came upon two +postal couriers newly arrived from Tangier on their way to Fez. They +were drawn up, amid a throng of the townspeople, before the palace of +the Grand Shereef, and with the Moorish passion for "powder-play" they +were firing their matchlocks into the air as salute and signal. Sight of +the mail-bags slung at their sides, and of the Shereef's satchel, which +they had come some miles out of their course to deliver, suggested the +thought that they might be carrying letters for me, which could never +come to my hands unless they were given to me now. The couriers spoke +some little English. I explained my case to them, and begged them to +open their bags and see if anything had been sent forward in my name +from Tangier to Fez. True to the phlegmatic character of the Moor in all +affairs of common life, they protested that they dare not do so; the +bags were tied and sealed, and none dare open them. If there were +letters of mine inside they must go on to Fez, and then return to +Tangier. But with the usual results I had recourse to my old expedient; +a bribe broke the seals, the bags were searched and two letters were +found for me.</p> + +<p>The letters, like those that came to Fez, were one from my wife and one +from Wenman. I could not wait till I was alone, but broke open the +envelopes and read my letters where I stood. A little crowd of Moors had +gathered about me—men, youths, boys, and children—the ragged +inhabitants of the streets of the holy city. They seemed to be chaffing +and laughing at my expense, but I paid no heed to them.</p> + +<p>Just as before, so now, and for the same reason I read Wenman's letter +first. I remember every word of it, for every word seemed to burn into +my brain like flame.</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow," wrote Wenman, "I think it my duty to tell you that +your little son is seriously ill."</p> + +<p>I knew it—I knew it; who knew it so well as I, though I was more than a +thousand miles away?</p> + +<p>"It is a strange fact that he is down with the very disease of the +throat which you have for so long a time made your especial study. Such, +at least, is our diagnosis, assisted by your own discoveries. The case +has now reached that stage where we must contemplate the possibility of +the operation which you have performed with such amazing results. Our +only uneasiness arises from the circumstance that this operation has +hitherto been done by no one except yourself. We have, however, your +explanations and your diagrams, and on these we must rely. And, even if +you were here, his is not a case in which your own hand should be +engaged. Therefore, rest assured, my dear fellow," etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Blockheads! If they had not done it already they must not do it at all. +I would telegraph from Tangier that I was coming. Not a case for my +hand! Fools, fools! It was a case for my hand only.</p> + +<p>I did not stop to read the friendly part of Wenman's letter, the good +soul's expression of sympathy and solicitude, but in the fever of my +impatience, sweating at every pore and breaking into loud exclamations, +I tore open the letter from my wife. My eyes swam over the sheet, and I +missed much at that first reading, but the essential part of the message +stood out before me as if written in red:</p> + +<p>"We ... so delighted ... your letters.... Glad you are having warm, +beautiful weather.... Trust ... make you strong and well.... We are +having blizzards here ... snowing to-day.... I am sorry to tell you, +dearest, that our darling is very ill. It is his throat again. This is +Friday, and he has grown worse every day since I wrote on Monday. When +he can speak he is always calling for you. He thinks if you were here he +would soon be well. He is very weak, for he can take no nourishment, and +he has grown so thin, poor little fellow. But he looks very lovely, and +every night he says in his prayers, 'God bless papa, and bring him +safely home'...."</p> + +<p>I could bear no more, the page in my hands was blotted out, and for the +first time since I became a man I broke into a flood of tears.</p> + +<p>O Omnipotent Lord of Heaven and earth, to think that this child is as +life of my life and soul of my soul, that he is dying, that I alone of +all men living can save him, and that we are twelve hundred miles apart! +Wipe them out, O Lord—wipe out this accursed space dividing us; +annihilate it. Thou canst do all, thou canst remove mountains, and this +is but a little thing to Thee. Give me my darling under my hands, and I +will snatch him out of the arms of death itself.</p> + +<p>Did I utter such words aloud out of the great tempest of my trouble? I +can not say; I do not know. Only when I had lifted my eyes from my +wife's letter did I become conscious of where I was and what was going +on around me. I was still in the midst of the crowd of idlers, and they +were grinning, and laughing, and jeering, and mocking at the sight of +tears—weak, womanish, stupid tears—on the face of a strong man.</p> + +<p>I was ashamed, but I was yet more angry, and to escape from the danger +of an outbreak of my wrath I turned quickly aside, and walked rapidly +down a narrow alley.</p> + +<p>As I did so a second paper dropped to the ground from the sheet of my +wife's letter. Before I had picked it up I saw what it was. It was a +message from my boy himself, in the handwriting of his nurse.</p> + +<p>"He is brighter to-night," the good creature herself wrote at the top of +the page, "and he would insist on dictating this letter."</p> + +<p>"My dear, dear papa—"</p> + +<p>When I had read thus far I was conscious again that the yelling, +barking, bleating mob behind were looking after me. To avoid the torment +of their gaze I hurried on, passed down a second alley, and then turned +into a narrow opening which seemed to be the mouth of a third. But I +paid small heed to my footsteps, for all my mind was with the paper +which I wished to read.</p> + +<p>Finding myself in a quiet place at length, I read it. The words were my +little darling's own, and I could hear his voice as if he were speaking +them:</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"My dear, dear papa, I am ill with my throat, and sometimes I can't +speak. Last night the ceiling was falling down on me, and the fire was +coming up to the bed. But I'm werry nearly all right now. We are going +to have a Thanksgiving party soon—me, and Jumbo, and Scotty, the puppy. +When are you coming home? Do you live in a tent in Morocco? I have a +fire in my bedroom: do you? Write and send me some foreign stamps from +Tangier. Are the little boys black in Morocco? Nurse showed me a picture +of a lady who lives there, and she's all black except her lips, and her +mouth stands out. Have you got a black servant? Have you got a horse to +ride on? Is he black? I am tired now. Good-night. Mama says I must not +tell you to come home quick. Jumbo's all right. He grunts when you shove +him along. So good-night, papa. x x x x. These kisses are all for you. I +am so thin.</p> + +<p>"From your little boy,</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Noel.</span>"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Come home! Yes, my darling, I will come home. Nothing shall stop me +now—nothing, nothing! The sun is almost set. Everything is ready. The +men must be saddling the horses again. In less than half an hour I shall +have started afresh. I will ride all night to-night and all day +to-morrow, and in a week I shall be standing by your side. A week! How +long! how long! Lord of life and death, keep my boy alive until then!</p> + +<p>I became conscious that I was speaking hot words such as these aloud. +Even agony like mine has its lucidities of that kind. At the same moment +I heard footsteps somewhere behind me. They were slow and steady +footsteps, but I knew them too well. The blood rushed to my head and +back to my heart. I looked up and around. Where was I? Where? Where?</p> + +<p>I was in a little court, surrounded by low, white-washed walls. Before +me there was an inner compartment roofed by a rude dome. From the apex +of this dome there floated a tiny white flag. I was in a saint's house. +In the confusion of my mind, and the agonizing disarray of all my +senses, I had stumbled into the sacred place unawares.</p> + +<p>The footsteps came nearer. They seemed to be sounding on the back of my +neck. I struggled forward a few paces. By a last mechanical resource of +despair I tried to conceal myself in the inner chamber. I was too late. +A face appeared in the opening at which I had entered. It was Larby's +face, contracted into a grimacing expression.</p> + +<p>I read the thought of the man's face as by a flash of light. "Good, +Sidi, good! You have done my work as well as my master's. You are a dead +man; no one will know, and I need never to lift my hand to you."</p> + +<p>At the next instant the face was gone. In the moment following I lived a +lifetime. My brain did not think; it lightened. I remembered the death +of the American in the streets of Fez. I recalled the jeering crowd at +the top of the alley. I reflected that Larby was gone to tell the mob +that I had dishonored one of their sanctuaries. I saw myself dragged +out, trampled under foot, torn to pieces, and then smuggled away in the +dusk on a donkey's back under panniers of filth. My horses ready, my men +waiting, my boy dying for want of me, and myself dead in a dunghill.</p> + +<p>"Great Jehovah, lend me Thy strength!" I cried, as I rushed out into the +alley. Larby was stealing away with rapid steps. I overtook him; I laid +hold of him by the hood of his jellab. He turned upon me. All my soul +was roused to uncontrollable fury. I took the man in both my arms, I +threw him off his feet, I lifted him by one mighty effort high above my +shoulders and flung him to the ground.</p> + +<p>He began to cry out, and I sprang upon him again and laid hold of his +throat. I knew where to grip, and not a sound could he utter. We were +still in the alley, and I put my left hand into the neck of his kaftan +and dragged him back into the saint's house. He drew his dagger and +lunged at me. I parried the thrust with my foot and broke his arm with +my heel. Then there was a moment of horrible bedazzlement. Red flames +flashed before me. My head grew dizzy. The whole universe seemed to reel +beneath my feet. The man was doubled backward across my knee. I had +drawn my knife—I knew where to strike—and "For my boy, my boy!" I +cried in my heart.</p> + +<p>It was done. The man died without a groan. His body collapsed in my +hands, rolled from my knee, and fell at my feet—doubled up, the head +under the neck, the broken arm under the trunk in a heap, a heap.</p> + +<p><i>Oh! oh! Larby! Larby!</i></p> + +<p>Then came an awful revulsion of feeling. For a moment I stood looking +down, overwhelmed with the horror of my act. In a sort of drunken stupor +I gazed at the wide-open eyes, and the grimacing face fixed in its +hideousness by the convulsion of death. O God! O God! what had I done! +what had I done!</p> + +<p>But I did not cry out. In that awful moment an instinct of +self-preservation saved me. The fatal weapon dropped from my hand, and I +crept out of the place. My great strength was all gone now. I staggered +along, and at every step my limbs grew more numb and stiff.</p> + +<p>But in the alley I looked around. I knew no way back to my people except +that way by which I came. Down the other alley and through the crowd of +idlers I must go. Would they be there still? If so, would they see in my +face what I had done?</p> + +<p>I was no criminal to mask my crime. In a dull, stupid, drowsy, comatose +state I tottered down the alley and through the crowd. They saw me; they +recognized me; I knew that they were jeering at me, but I knew no more.</p> + +<p>"Skaïrî!" shouted one, and "Shaïrî!" shouted another, and as I staggered +away they all shouted "Skaïrî!" together.</p> + +<p>Father, they called me a drunkard. I was a drunkard indeed, but I was +drunk with blood.</p> + +<p>The sun had set by this time. Its last rays were rising off the gilded +top of the highest minaret in a golden mist that looked like flame +leaping out of a kiln. I saw that, as I saw everything, through a +palpitating haze.</p> + +<p>When at length I reached the place where I had left my people I found +the horses saddled, the mules with their burdens packed on their +panniers, the men waiting, and everything ready. Full well I knew that I +ought to leap to my seat instantly and be gone without delay; but I +seemed to have lost all power of prompt action. I was thinking of what I +wanted to do, but I could not do it. The men spoke to me, and I know +that I looked vacantly into their faces and did not answer. One said to +another, "Sidi is growing deaf."</p> + +<p>The other touched his forehead and grinned.</p> + +<p>I was fumbling with the stirrup of my saddle when the English Consul +came up and hailed me with cheerful spirits. By an effort that was like +a spasm I replied.</p> + +<p>"Allow me, doctor," he said, and he offered his knee that I might mount.</p> + +<p>"Ah, no, no," I stammered, and I scrambled to my seat.</p> + +<p>While I was fumbling with my double rein I saw that he was looking at my +hand.</p> + +<p>"You've cut your fingers, doctor," he said.</p> + +<p>There was blood on them. The blood was not mine, but a sort of +mechanical cunning came to my relief. I took out my handkerchief and +made a pretense to bind it about my hand.</p> + +<p>Alee, the guide, was at my right side settling my lumbering foot in my +stirrup. I felt him touch the sheath of my knife, and then I remembered +that it must be empty.</p> + +<p>"Sidi has lost his dagger," he said. "Look!"</p> + +<p>The Consul, who had been on my left, wheeled round by the horse's head, +glanced at the useless sheath that was stuck in the belt of my jacket, +and then looked back into my stupid face.</p> + +<p>"Sidi is ill," he said quietly; "ride quickly, my men, lose no time, get +him out of the country without delay!"</p> + +<p>I heard Alee answer, "Right—all right!"</p> + +<p>Then the Consul's servant rode up—he was a Berber—and took his place +at the head of our caravan.</p> + +<p>"All ready?" asked the Consul, in Arabic.</p> + +<p>"Ready," the men answered.</p> + +<p>"Then away, as if you were flying for your lives!"</p> + +<p>The men put spurs to their mules, Alee gave the lash to my horse, and we +started.</p> + +<p>"Good-by, doctor," cried the Consul; "may you find your little son +better when you reach home!"</p> + +<p>I shouted some incoherent answers in a thick, loud voice, and in a few +minutes more we were galloping across the plain outside the town.</p> + +<p>The next two hours are a blank in my memory. In a kind of drunken stupor +I rode on and on. The gray light deepened into the darkness of night, +and the stars came out. Still we rode and rode. The moon appeared in the +southern sky and rose into the broad whiteness of the stars overhead. +Then consciousness came back to me, and with it came the first pangs of +remorse. Through the long hours of that night ride one awful sight stood +up constantly before my eyes. It was the sight of that dead body, stark +and cold, lying within that little sanctuary behind me, white now with +the moonlight, and silent with the night.</p> + +<p><i>O Larby, Larby! You shamed me. You drove me from the world. You brought +down your mother to the grave. And yet, and yet—must I absolve your +murderer?</i></p> + +<p>Father, I reached my home at last. At Gibraltar I telegraphed that I was +coming, and at Dover I received a telegram in reply. Four days had +intervened between the despatch of my message and the receipt of my +wife's. Anything might have happened in that time, and my anxiety was +feverish. Stepping on to the Admiralty Pier, I saw a telegraph boy +bustling about among the passengers from the packet with a telegram in +his hand.</p> + +<p>"What name?" I asked.</p> + +<p>He gave one that was not my own and yet sounded like it.</p> + +<p>I looked at the envelope. Clearly the name was intended for mine. I +snatched the telegram out of the boy's hand. It ran: "Welcome home; boy +very weak, but not beyond hope."</p> + +<p>I think I read the words aloud, amid all the people, so tremendous was +my relief, and so overwhelming my joy. The messenger got a gold coin for +himself and I leaped into the train.</p> + +<p>At Charing Cross I did not wait for my luggage, but gave a foolish tip +to a porter and told him to send my things after me. Within half a +minute of my arrival I was driving out of the station.</p> + +<p>What I suffered during those last moments of waiting before I reached my +house no tongue of man could tell. I read my wife's telegram again, and +observed for the first time that it was now six hours old. Six hours! +They were like six days to my tortured mind.</p> + +<p>From the moment when we turned out of Oxford Street until we drew up at +my own door in Wimpole Street I did not once draw breath. And being here +I dared hardly lift my eyes to the window lest the blinds should be +down.</p> + +<p>I had my latch-key with me, and I let myself in without ringing. A +moment afterward I was in my darling's room. My beloved wife was with +our boy, and he was unconscious. That did not trouble me at all, for I +saw at a glance that I was not too late.</p> + +<p>Throwing off my coat, I sent to the surgery for my case, dismissed my +dear girl with scant embraces, drew my darling's cot up to the window, +and tore down the curtains that kept out the light, for the spring day +was far spent.</p> + +<p>Then, being alone with my darling, I did my work. I had trembled like an +aspen leaf until I entered his room, but when the time came my hand was +as firm as a rock and my pulse beat like a child's.</p> + +<p>I knew I could do it, and I did it. God had spared me to come home, and +I had kept my vow. I had traveled ten days and nights to tackle the +work, but it was a short task when once begun.</p> + +<p>After I had finished I opened the door to call my wife back to the room. +The poor soul was crouching with the boy's nurse on the threshold, and +they were doing their utmost to choke their sobs.</p> + +<p>"There!" I cried, "there's your boy! He'll be all right now."</p> + +<p>The mischief was removed, and I had never a doubt of the child's +recovery.</p> + +<p>My wife flung herself on my breast, and then I realized the price I had +paid for so much nervous tension. All the nerves of organic life seemed +to collapse in an instant.</p> + +<p>"I'm dizzy; lead me to my room," I said.</p> + +<p>My wife brought me brandy, but my hand could not lift the tumbler to my +mouth, and when my dear girl's arms had raised my own, the glass rattled +against my teeth. They put me to bed; I was done—done.</p> + +<p><i>God will forgive him. Why should not I?</i></p> + +<p>Father, that was a month ago, and I am lying here still. It is not +neurasthenia of the body that is killing me, but neurasthenia of the +soul. No doctor's drug will ever purge me of that. It is here like fire +in my brain, and here like ice in my heart. Was my awful act justifiable +before God? Was it right in the eyes of Him who has written in the +tables of His law, <i>Thou shalt do no murder</i>? Was it murder? Was it +crime? If I outraged the letter of the holy edict, did I also wrong its +spirit?</p> + +<p>Speak, speak, for pity's sake, speak. Have mercy upon me, as you hope +for mercy. Think where I was and what fate was before me. Would I do it +again in spite of all? Yes, yes, a thousand, thousand times, yes. I will +go to God with that word on my lips, and He shall judge me.</p> + +<p>And yet I suffer these agonies of doubt. Life was always a sacred thing +to me. God gave it, and only God should take it away. He who spilt the +blood of his fellow-man took the government of the world out of God's +hands. And then—and then—father, have I not told you all?</p> + +<p><i>Yes, yes, the Father of all fathers will pardon him.</i></p> + +<p>On the day when I arrived at Tangier from Fez I had some two hours to +wait for the French steamer from Malaga that was to take me to Cadiz. In +order to beguile my mind of its impatience, I walked through the town as +far as the outer Sôk—the Sôk de Barra.</p> + +<p>It was market day, Thursday, and the place was the same animated and +varied scene as I had looked upon before. Crushing my way through the +throng, I came upon the saint's house near the middle of the market. The +sight of the little white structure with its white flag brought back the +tragedy I saw enacted there, and the thought of that horror was now made +hellish to my conscience by the memory of another tragedy at another +saint's house.</p> + +<p>I turned quickly aside, and stepping up to the elevated causeway that +runs in front of the tents of the brassworkers, I stood awhile and +watched the Jewish workmen hammering the designs on their trays.</p> + +<p>Presently I became aware of a little girl who was sitting on a bundle of +rushes and plaiting them into a chain. She was a tiny thing, six years +of age at the utmost, but with the sober look of a matron. Her sweet +face was the color of copper, and her quiet eyes were deep blue. A +yellow gown of some light fabric covered her body, but her feet were +bare. She worked at her plaiting with steady industry, and as often as +she stopped to draw a rush from the bundle beneath her she lifted her +eyes and looked with a wistful gaze over the feeding-ground of the +camels, and down the lane to the bridge, and up by the big house on the +hillside to where the sandy road goes off to Fez.</p> + +<p>The little demure figure, amid so many romping children, interested and +touched me. This was noticed by a Jewish brassworker before whose open +booth I stood and he smiled and nodded his head in the direction of the +little woman.</p> + +<p>"Dear little Sobersides," I said; "does she never play with other +children?"</p> + +<p>"No," said the Jew, "she sits here every day, and all day long—that is, +when her father is away."</p> + +<p>"Whose child is she?" I asked. An awful thought had struck me.</p> + +<p>"A great rascal's," the Jew answered, "though the little one is such an +angel. He keeps a spice shop over yonder, but he is a guide as well as a +merchant, and when he is out on a journey the child sits here and waits +and watches for his coming home again. She can catch the first sight of +travelers from this place and she knows her father at any distance. +See!—do you know where she's looking now? Over the road by El +Minzah—that's the way from Fez. Her father has gone there with a +Christian."</p> + +<p>The sweat was bursting from my forehead.</p> + +<p>"What's his name?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"The Moors call him Larby," said the Jew, "and the Christians nickname +him Ananias. They say he is a Spanish renegade, escaped from Ceuta, who +witnessed to the Prophet and married a Moorish wife. But he's everything +to the little one—bless her innocent face! Look! do you see the tiny +brown dish at her side? That's for her drinking water. She brings it +full every day, and also a little cake of bread for her dinner.</p> + +<p>"She's never tired of waiting, and if Larby does not come home to-night +she'll be here in the morning. I do believe that if anything happened to +Larby she would wait until doomsday."</p> + +<p>My throat was choking me, and I could not speak. The Jew saw my emotion, +but he showed no surprise. I stepped up to the little one and stroked +her glossy black hair.</p> + +<p>"Hoolia?" I said.</p> + +<p>She smiled back into my face and answered, "Iyyeh"—yes.</p> + +<p>I could say no more; I dare not look into her trustful eyes and think +that he whom she waited for would never come again. I stooped and kissed +the child, and then fled away.</p> + +<p><i>God show me my duty. The Priest or the Man—which?</i></p> + +<p>Listen! do you hear him? That's the footstep of my boy overhead. My +darling! He is well again now. My little sunny laddie! He came into my +bedroom this morning with a hop, skip, and a jump—a gleam of sunshine. +Poor innocent, thoughtless boy. They will take him into the country +soon, and he will romp in the lanes and tear up the flowers in the +garden.</p> + +<p>My son, my son! He has drained my life away; he has taken all my +strength. Do I wish that I had it back? Yes, but only—yes, only that I +might give it him again. Hark! That's his voice, that's his laughter. +How happy he is! When I think how soon—how very soon—when I think that +I—</p> + +<p>God sees all. He is looking down on little Hoolia waiting, waiting, +waiting where the camels come over the hills, and on my little Noel +laughing and prancing in the room above us.</p> + +<p>Father, I have told you all at last. There are tears in your eyes, +father. You are crying. Tell me, then, what hope is left? You know my +sin, and you know my suffering. Did I do wrong? Did I do right?</p> + +<p><i>My son, God's law was made for man, not man for His law. If the spirit +has been broken where the letter has been kept, the spirit may be kept +where the letter has been broken. Your earthly father dare not judge +you. To your Heavenly Father he must leave both the deed and the +circumstance. It is for Him to justify or forgive. If you are innocent, +He will place your hand in the hand of him who slew the Egyptian and yet +looked on the burning bush. And if you are guilty, He will not shut His +ears to the cry of your despair.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><i>He has gone. I could not tell him. It would have embittered his parting +hour; it would have poisoned the wine of the sacrament. O, Larby! Larby! +flesh of my flesh, my sorrow, my shame, my prodigal—my son.</i></p> + + +<h3>END OF "THE LAST CONFESSION"</h3> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Blind Mother and The Last +Confession, by Hall Caine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLIND MOTHER *** + +***** This file should be named 35140-h.htm or 35140-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/1/4/35140/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Blind Mother and The Last Confession + +Author: Hall Caine + +Release Date: February 1, 2011 [EBook #35140] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLIND MOTHER *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + The Blind Mother + + And + + The Last Confession + + BY HALL CAINE + + HALL CAINE'S BEST BOOKS + + + IN THREE VOLUMES + VOLUME II + + The Bondman + The Blind Mother + The Last Confession + + ILLUSTRATED + P. F. COLLIER & SON + NEW YORK + + + + + +THE BLIND MOTHER + + + + +I + + +The Vale of Newlands lay green in the morning sunlight; the river that +ran through its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leaves +prattled low in the light breeze that soughed through the rushes and the +long grass; the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake of +the sky, where only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peak +to peak. Out of unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumble +of distant cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters far +away was the thin caroling of birds overhead. + +But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. On the breast of the fell +that lies over against Cat Bell a procession of children walked, and +sang, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. Peter's Day, and they were +rush-bearing; little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen, +just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of four +in the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly in +front. Most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filled +with ferns, and mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at the +schoolhouse, and now, on their way to the church, they were making the +circuit of the dale. + +They passed over the road that crosses the river at the head of +Newlands, and turned down into the path that follows the bed of the +valley. At that angle there stands a little group of cottages +deliciously cool in their whitewash, nestling together under the heavy +purple crag from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep basin that +reaches to their walls. The last of the group is a cottage with its end +to the road, and its open porch facing a garden shaped like a wedge. As +the children passed this house an old man, gray and thin and much bent, +stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. A collie, with the sheep's dog +wooden bar suspended from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. The hum of +voices brought a young woman into the porch. She was bareheaded and wore +a light print gown. Her face was pale and marked with lines. She walked +cautiously, stretching one hand before her with an uncertain motion, and +grasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle that swept downward from the +roof. Her eyes, which were partly inclined upward and partly turned +toward the procession, had a vague light in their bleached pupils. She +was blind. At her side, and tugging at her other hand, was a child of a +year and a half--a chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, blue +eyes, and fair curly hair. Prattling, laughing, singing snatches, and +waving their rushes and ferns above their happy, thoughtless heads, the +children rattled past. When they were gone the air was empty, as it is +when the lark stops in its song. + +After the procession of children had passed the little cottage at the +angle of the roads, the old man who leaned on his staff at the gate +turned about and stepped to the porch. + +"Did the boy see them?--did he see the children?" said the young woman +who held the child by the hand. + +"I mak' na doot," said the old man. + +He stooped to the little one and held out one long withered finger. The +soft baby hand closed on it instantly. + +"Did he laugh? I thought he laughed," said the young woman. + +A bright smile played on her lips. + +"Maybe so, lass." + +"Ralphie has never seen the children before, father. Didn't he look +frightened--just a little bit frightened--at first, you know? I thought +he crept behind my gown." + +"Maybe, maybe." + +The little one had dropped the hand of his young mother, and, still +holding the bony finger of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into +the house. + +Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard +earthen floor. A table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser +that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins, +crossed the opposite wall. + +"Nay, but sista here, laal lad," said the old man, and he dived into a +great pocket at his side. + +"Have you brought it? Is it the kitten? Oh, dear, let the boy see it!" + +A kitten came out of the old man's pocket, and was set down on the rug +at the hearth. The timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself on its +hind legs and mewed. + +"Where's Ralphie? Is he watching it, father? What is he doing?" + +The little one had dropped on hands and knees before the kitten, and was +gazing up into its face. + +The mother leaned over him with a face that would have beamed with +sunshine if the sun of sight had not been missing. + +"Is he looking? Doesn't he want to coddle it?" + +The little chap had pushed his nose close to the nose of the kitten, and +was prattling to it in various inarticulate noises. + +"Boo--loo--lal-la--mama." + +"Isn't he a darling, father?" + +"It's a winsome wee thing," said the old man, still standing, with +drooping head, over the group on the hearth. + +The mother's face saddened, and she turned away. Then from the opposite +side of the kitchen, where she was making pretense to take plates from a +plate-rack, there came the sound of suppressed weeping. The old man's +eyes followed her. + +"Nay, lass; let's have a sup of broth," he said, in a tone that carried +another message. + +The young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table. + +"To think that I can never see my own child, and everybody else can see +him!" she said, and then there was another bout of tears. + +The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. A glistening bead +rolled slowly down his wizened cheek: and the interview on the hearth +went on without interruption: + +"Mew--mew--mew. Boo--loo--lal-la--mama." + +The child made efforts to drag himself to his feet by laying hold of the +old man's trousers. + +"Nay, laddie," said the old man, "mind my claes--they'll dirty thy +bran-new brat for thee." + +"Is he growing, father?" said the girl. + +"Growing?--amain." + +"And his eyes--are they changing color?--going brown? Children's eyes +do, you know." + +"Maybe--I'll not be for saying nay." + +"Is he--is he _very_ like me, father?" + +"Nay--well--nay--I's fancying I see summat of the stranger in the laal +chap at whiles." + +The young mother turned her head aside. + + * * * * * + +The old man's name was Matthew Fisher; but the folks of the countryside +called him Laird Fisher. This dubious dignity came of the circumstance +that he had been the holder of an absolute royalty in a few acres of +land under Hindscarth. The royalty had been many generations in his +family. His grandfather had set store by it. When the Lord of the Manor +had worked the copper pits at the foot of the Eal Crags, he had tried to +possess himself of the royalties of the Fishers. But the present +families resisted the aristocrat. Luke Fisher believed there was a +fortune under his feet, and he meant to try his luck on his holding some +day. That day never came. His son, Mark Fisher, carried on the +tradition, but made no effort to unearth the fortune. They were a cool, +silent, slow, and stubborn race. Matthew Fisher followed his father and +his grandfather, and inherited the family pride. All these years the +tenders of the Lord of the Manor were ignored, and the Fishers enjoyed +their title of courtesy or badinage. Matthew married, and had one +daughter called Mercy. He farmed his few acres with poor results. The +ground was good enough, but Matthew was living under the shadow of the +family tradition. One day--it was Sunday morning, and the sun shone +brightly--he was rambling by the Po Bett that rises on Hindscarth, and +passed through his land, when his eyes glanced over a glittering stone +that lay among the pebbles at the bottom of the stream. It was ore, good +full ore, and on the very surface. Then the Laird sank a shaft, and all +his earnings with it, in an attempt to procure iron or copper. The +dalespeople derided him, but he held silently on his way. + +"How dusta find the cobbles to-day--any softer?" they would say in +passing. + +"As soft as the hearts of most folk," he would answer; and then add in a +murmur, "and maybe a vast harder nor their heads." + +The undeceiving came at length, and then the Laird Fisher was old and +poor. His wife died broken-hearted. After that the Laird never rallied. +The shaft was left unworked, and the holding lay fallow. Laird Fisher +took wage from the Lord of the Manor to burn charcoal in the wood. The +breezy irony of the dalesfolk did not spare the old man's bent head. +There was a rime current in the vale which ran: + + "There's t'auld laird, and t'young laird, and t'laird among t'barns, + If iver there comes another laird, we'll hang him up by t'arms." + +A second man came to Matthew's abandoned workings. He put money into it +and skill and knowledge, struck a vein, and began to realize a fortune. +The only thing he did for the old Laird was to make him his banksman at +a pound a week--the only thing save one thing, and that is the beginning +of this story. + +The man's name was Hugh Ritson. He was the second son of a Cumbrian +statesman in a neighboring valley, was seven-and-twenty, and had been +brought up as a mining engineer, first at Cleaton Moor and afterward at +the College in Jerman Street. When he returned to Cumberland and bought +the old Laird's holding he saw something of the old Laird's daughter. He +remembered Mercy as a pretty prattling thing of ten or eleven. She was +now a girl of eighteen, with a simple face, a timid manner, and an air +that was neither that of a woman nor of a child. Her mother was lately +dead, her father spent most of his days on the fell (some of his nights +also when the charcoal was burning), and she was much alone. Hugh Ritson +liked her sweet face, her gentle replies, and her few simple questions. +It is unnecessary to go further. The girl gave herself up to him with +her whole heart and soul. Then he married another woman. + +The wife was the daughter of the Vicar, Parson Christian. Her name was +Greta: she was beautiful to look upon--a girl of spirit and character. +Greta knew nothing of Hugh Ritson's intercourse with Mercy until after +he had become her husband. Mercy was then in the depth of her trouble, +and Greta had gone to comfort her. Down to that hour, though idle +tongues had wagged, no one had lighted on Mercy's lover, and not even in +her fear had she confessed. Greta told her that it was brave and +beautiful to shield her friend, but he was unworthy of her friendship or +he would stand by her side--who was he? It was a trying moment. Greta +urged and pleaded and coaxed, and Mercy trembled and stammered and was +silent. The truth came out at last, and from that moment the love +between the two women was like the love of David and Jonathan. Hugh +Ritson was compelled to stand apart and witness it. He could not +recognize it; he dared not oppose it; he could only drop his head and +hold his tongue. It was coals of fire on his head from both sides. The +women never afterward mentioned him to each other, and yet somehow--by +some paradox of love--he was the bond between them. + +A month before the birth of the child, Mercy became blind. This happened +suddenly and without much warning. A little cold in the eyes, a little +redness around them and a total eclipse of sight. If such a disaster had +befallen a married wife, looking forward to a happy motherhood, death +itself might have seemed a doom more kind. But Mercy took it with a +sombre quietness. She was even heard to say that it was just as well. +These startling words, repeated to Greta, just told her something of the +mystery and misery of Mercy's state. But their full meaning, the whole +depth of the shame they came from, were only revealed on the morning +after the night on which Mercy's child was born. + +They were in the room upstairs, where Mercy herself had been born less +than nineteen years before: a little chamber with the low eaves and the +open roof rising to the ridge: a peaceful place with its white-washed +walls and the odor of clean linen. On the pillow of the bed lay the +simple face of the girl-mother, with its fair hair hanging loose and its +blind eyes closed. Mercy had just awakened from the first deep sleep +that comes after all is over, and the long fingers of one of her thin +hands were plucking at the white counterpane. In a nervous voice she +began to speak. Where was Mrs. Ritson? Greta answered that she was +there, and the baby was sleeping on her knee. Anybody else? No, nobody +else. Was it morning? Yes, it was eight in the morning, and her father, +who had not been to bed, had eaten his breakfast, and lighted his pipe +and gone to work. Was the day fine? Very fine. And the sun shining? Yes, +shining beautifully. Was the blind down? Yes, the little white blind was +down. Then all the room was full of that soft light? Oh, yes, full of +it. Except in the corner by the washstand? Well, except in the corner. +Was the washstand still there? Why, yes, it was still there. And +mother's picture on the wall above it? Oh, dear, yes. And the chest of +drawers near the door with the bits of sparkling lead ore on top? Of +course. And the texts pinned on to the wall-paper: "Come unto Me"--eh? +Yes, they were all there. Then everything was just the same? Oh, yes, +everything the same. + +"The same," cried Mercy, "everything the same, but, O Lord Jesus, how +different!" + +The child was awakened by the shrill sound of her voice, and it began to +whimper, and Greta to hush it, swaying it on her knee, and calling it by +a score of pretty names. Mercy raised her head a moment and listened, +then fell back to the pillow and said, "How glad I am I'm blind!" + +"Good gracious, Mercy, what are you saying?" said Greta. + +"I'm glad I can't see it." + +"Mercy!" + +"Ah, you're different, Mrs. Ritson. I was thinking of that last night. +When your time comes perhaps you'll be afraid you'll die, but you'll +never be afraid you'll not. And you'll say to yourself, 'It will be over +soon, and then what joy!' That wasn't my case. When I was at the worst I +could only think, 'It's dreadful now, but oh, to-morrow all the world +will be different.'" + +One poor little day changed all this. Toward sunset the child had to be +given the breast for the first time. Ah! that mystery of life, that +mystery of motherhood, what are the accidents of social law, the big +conventions of virtue and vice, of honor and disgrace, before the touch +of the spreading fingers of a babe as they fasten on the mother's +breast! Mercy thought no more of her shame. + +She had her baby for it, at all events. The world was not utterly +desolate. After all, God was very good! + +Then came a great longing for sight. She only wished to see her child. +That was all. Wasn't it hard that a mother had never seen her own baby? +In her darkness she would feel its little nose as it lay asleep beside +her, and let her hand play around its mouth and over its eyes and about +its ears. Her touch passed over the little one like a look. It was +almost as if there were sight in the tips of her fingers. + +The child lived to be six months old, and still Mercy had not seen him; +a year, and yet she had no hope. Then Greta, in pity of the yearning +gaze of the blind girl-face whenever she came and kissed the boy and +said how bonny he was, sent to Liverpool for a doctor, that at least +they might know for a certainty if Mercy's sight was gone forever. The +doctor came. Yes, there was hope. The mischief was cataract on both +eyes. Sight might return, but an operation would be necessary. That +could not, however, be performed immediately. He would come again in a +month, and a colleague with him, and meantime the eyes must be bathed +constantly in a liquid which they would send for the purpose. + +At first Mercy was beside herself with delight. She plucked up the boy +and kissed and kissed him. The whole day long she sang all over the +house like a liberated bird. Her face, though it was blind, was like +sunshine, for the joyous mouth smiled like eyes. Then suddenly there +came a change. She plucked up the boy and kissed him still, but she did +not sing and she did not smile. A heavy thought had come to her. Ah! if +she should die under the doctor's hands! Was it not better to live in +blindness and keep her boy than to try to see him and so lose him +altogether? Thus it was with her on St. Peter's Day, when the children +of the dale went by at their rush-bearing. + + * * * * * + +There was the faint sound of a footstep outside. + +"Hark!" said Mercy, half rising from the sconce. "It's Mrs. Ritson's +foot." + +The man listened. "Nay, lass, there's no foot," said Matthew. + +"Yes, she's on the road," said Mercy. Her face showed that pathetic +tension of the other senses which is peculiar to the blind. A moment +later Greta stepped into the cottage, with a letter in her hand. +"Good-morning, Matthew; I have news for you, Mercy. The doctors are +coming to-day." + +Mercy's face fell perceptibly. The old man's head dropped lower. + +"There, don't be afraid," said Greta, touching her hand caressingly. "It +will soon be over. The doctors didn't hurt you before, did they?" + +"No, but this time it will be the operation," said Mercy. There was a +tremor in her voice. + +Greta had lifted the child from the sconce. The little fellow cooed +close to her ear; and babbled his inarticulate nothings. + +"Only think, when it's all over you will be able to see your darling +Ralphie for the first time!" + +Mercy's sightless face brightened. "Oh, yes," she said, "and watch him +play, and see him spin his tops and chase the butterflies. Oh, that will +be very good!" + +"Dusta say to-day, Mistress Ritson?" asked Matthew, the big drops +standing in his eyes. + +"Yes, Matthew; I will stay to see it over, and mind baby, and help a +little." + +Mercy took the little one from Greta's arms and cried over it, and +laughed over it, and then cried and laughed again. "Mama and Ralphie +shall play together in the garden, darling; and Ralphie shall see the +horses--and the flowers--and the birdies--and mama--yes, mama shall see +Ralphie." + + + + +II + + +Two hours later the doctors arrived. They looked at Mercy's eyes, and +were satisfied that the time was ripe for the operation. At the sound of +their voices, Mercy trembled and turned livid. By a maternal instinct +she picked up the child, who was toddling about the floor, and clasped +it to her bosom. The little one opened wide his blue eyes at sight of +the strangers, and the prattling tongue became quiet. + +"Take her to her room, and let her lie on the bed," said one of the +doctors to Greta. + +A sudden terror seized the young mother. "No, no, no!" she said, in an +indescribable accent, and the child cried a little from the pressure to +her breast. + +"Come, Mercy, dear, be brave for your boy's sake," said Greta. + +"Listen to me," said the doctor, quietly but firmly: "You are now quite +blind, and you have been in total darkness for a year and a half. We may +be able to restore your sight by giving you a few minutes' pain. Will +you not bear it?" + +Mercy sobbed, and kissed the child passionately. + +"Just think, it is quite certain that without an operation you will +never regain your sight," continued the doctor. "You have nothing to +lose, and everything to gain. Are you satisfied? Come, go away to your +room quietly." + +"Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Mercy. + +"Just imagine, only a few minutes' pain, and even of that you will +scarcely be conscious. Before you know what is doing it will be done." + +Mercy clung closer to her child, and kissed it again and yet more +fervently. + +The doctors turned to each other. "Strange vanity!" muttered the one who +had not spoken before. "Her eyes are useless, and yet she is afraid she +may lose them." + +Mercy's quick ears caught the whispered words. "It is not that," she +said, passionately. + +"No, gentlemen," said Greta, "you have mistaken her thought. Tell her +she runs no danger of her life." + +The doctors smiled and laughed a little. "Oh, that's it, eh? Well, we +can tell her that with certainty." + +Then there was another interchange of half-amused glances. + +"Ah, we that be men, sirs, don't know the depth and tenderness of a +mother's heart," said old Matthew. And Mercy turned toward him a face +that was full of gratitude. Greta took the child out of her arms and +hushed it to sleep in another room. Then she brought it back and put it +in its cradle that stood in the ingle. + +"Come, Mercy," she said, "for the sake of your boy." And Mercy permitted +herself to be led from the kitchen. + +"So there will be no danger," she said. "I shall not leave my boy. Who +said that? The doctor? Oh, good gracious, it's nothing. Only think, I +shall live to see him grow to be a great lad." + +Her whole face was now radiant. + +"It will be nothing. Oh, no, it will be nothing. How silly it was to +think that he would live on, and grow up, and be a man, and I lie cold +in the churchyard--and me his mother! That was very childish, wasn't it? +But, then, I have been so childish since Ralphie came." + +"There, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be over," said Greta. + +"Let me kiss him first. Do let me kiss him! Only once. You know it's a +great risk after all. And if he grew up--and I wasn't here--if--if--" + +"There, dear Mercy, you must not cry again. It inflames your eyes, and +that can't be good for the doctors." + +"No, no, I won't cry. You are very good; everybody is very good. Only +let me kiss my little Ralphie--just for the last." + +Greta led her back to the side of the cot, and she spread herself over +it with outstretched arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched +wings over her brood. Then she rose, and her face was peaceful and +resigned. + +The Laird Fisher sat down before the kitchen fire, with one arm on the +cradle head. Parson Christian stood beside him. The old charcoal-burner +wept in silence, and the good Parson's voice was too thick for the words +of comfort that rose to his lips. + +The doctors followed into the bedroom. Mercy was lying tranquilly on her +bed. Her countenance was without expression. She was busy with her own +thoughts. Greta stood by the bedside; anxiety was written in every line +of her beautiful, brave face. + +"We must give her the gas," said one of the doctors, addressing the +other. + +Mercy's features twitched. + +"Who said that?" she asked nervously. + +"My child, you must be quiet," said the doctor in a tone of authority. + +"Yes, I will be quiet, very quiet; only don't make me unconscious," she +said. "Never mind me; I will not cry. No; if you hurt me I will not cry +out. I will not stir. I will do everything you ask. And you shall say +how quiet I have been. Only don't let me be insensible." + +The doctors consulted together aside, and in whispers. + +"Who spoke about the gas? It wasn't you, Mrs. Ritson, was it?" + +"You must do as the doctors wish, dear," said Greta in a caressing +voice. + +"Oh, I will be very good. I will do every little thing. Yes, and I will +be so brave. I am a little childish sometimes, but I _can_ be brave, +can't I?" + +The doctors returned to the bedside. + +"Very well, we will not use the gas," said one. "You are a brave little +woman, after all. There, be still--very still." + +One of the doctors was tearing linen into strips for bandages, while the +other fixed Mercy's head to suit the light. + +There was a faint sound from the kitchen. "Wait," said Mercy. "That is +father--he's crying. Tell him not to cry. Say it's nothing." + +She laughed a weak little laugh. + +"There, he will hear that; go and say it was I who laughed." + +Greta left the room on tiptoe. Old Matthew was still sitting over a +dying fire, gently rocking the sleeping child. + +When Greta returned to the bedroom, Mercy called her, and said, very +softly, "Let me hold your hand, Greta--may I say Greta?--there," and her +fingers closed on Greta's with a convulsive grasp. + +The operation began. Mercy held her breath. She had the stubborn +north-country blood in her. Once only a sigh escaped. There was a dead +silence. + +In two or three minutes the doctor said, "Just another minute, and all +will be over." + +At the next instant Greta felt her hand held with a grasp of iron. + +"Doctor, doctor, I can see you," cried Mercy, and her words came in +gusts. + +"Be quiet," said the doctor in a stern voice. In half a minute more the +linen bandages were being wrapped tightly over Mercy's eyes. + +"Doctor, dear doctor, let me see my boy!" cried Mercy. + +"Be quiet, I say," said the doctor again. + +"Dear doctor, my dear doctor, only one peep--one little peep. I saw your +face--let me see my Ralphie's." + +"Not yet, it is not safe." + +"But only for a moment. Don't put the bandage on for one moment. Just +think, doctor, I have never seen my boy; I've seen other people's +children, but never once my own, own darling. Oh, dear doctor--" + +"You are exciting yourself. Listen to me: if you don't behave yourself +now you may never see your child." + +"Yes, yes, I will behave myself; I will be very good. Only don't shut me +up in darkness again until I see my boy. Greta, bring him to me. Listen, +I hear his breathing. Go for my darling! The kind doctor won't be angry +with you. Tell him that if I see my child it will cure me. I know it +will." + +Greta's eyes were swimming in tears. + +"Rest quiet, Mercy. Everything may be lost if you disturb yourself now, +my dear." + +The doctors were wrapping bandage over bandage, and fixing them firmly +at the back of their patient's head. + +"Now listen again," said one of them: "This bandage must be kept over +your eyes for a week." + +"A week--a whole week? Oh, doctor, you might as well say forever." + +"I say a week. And if you should ever remove it--" + +"Not for an instant? Not raise it a very little?" + +"If you ever remove it for an instant, or raise it ever so little, you +will assuredly lose your sight forever. Remember that." + +"Oh, doctor, it is terrible. Why did you not tell me so before? Oh this +is worse than blindness! Think of the temptation, and I have never seen +my boy!" + +The doctor had fixed the bandage, and his voice was less stern, but no +less resolute. + +"You must obey me," he said; "I will come again this day week, and then +you shall see your child, and your father, and this young lady, and +everybody. But mind, if you don't obey me, you will never see anything. +You will have one glance of your little boy, and then be blind forever, +or perhaps--yes, perhaps _die_." + +Mercy lay quiet for a moment. Then she said, in a low voice: + +"Dear doctor, you must forgive me. I am very wilful, and I promised to +be so good. I will not touch the bandage. No, for the sake of my little +boy, I will never, never touch it. You shall come yourself and take it +off, and then I shall see him." + +The doctors went away. Greta remained all that night in the cottage. + +"You are happy now, Mercy?" said Greta. + +"Oh yes," said Mercy. "Just think, only a week! And he must be so +beautiful by this time." + +When Greta took the child to her at sunset, there was an ineffable joy +in her pale face, and next morning, when Greta awoke, Mercy was singing +softly to herself in the sunrise. + + + + +III + + +Greta stayed with Mercy until noon that day, begging, entreating, and +finally commanding her to lie quiet in bed, while she herself dressed +and fed the child, and cooked and cleaned, in spite of the Laird +Fisher's protestations. When all was done, and the old charcoal-burner +had gone out on the hills, Greta picked up the little fellow in her arms +and went to Mercy's room. Mercy was alert to every sound, and in an +instant was sitting up in bed. Her face beamed, her parted lips smiled, +her delicate fingers plucked nervously at the counterpane. + +"How brightsome it is to-day, Greta," she said. "I'm sure the sun must +be shining." + +The window was open, and a soft breeze floated through the sun's rays +into the room. Mercy inclined her head aside, and added, "Ah, you young +rogue, you; you are there, are you? Give him to me, the rascal!" The +rogue was set down in his mother's arms, and she proceeded to punish his +rascality with a shower of kisses. "How bonny his cheeks must be; they +will be just like two ripe apples," and forthwith there fell another +shower of kisses. Then she babbled over the little one, and lisped, and +stammered, and nodded her head in his face, and blew little puffs of +breath into his hair, and tickled him until he laughed and crowed and +rolled and threw up his legs; and then she kissed his limbs and +extremities in a way that mothers have, and finally imprisoned one of +his feet by putting it ankle-deep into her mouth. "Would you ever think +a foot could be so tiny, Greta?" she said. And the little one plunged +about and clambered laboriously up its mother's breast, and more than +once plucked at the white bandage about her head. "No, no, Ralphie must +not touch," said Mercy with sudden gravity. "Only think, Ralphie pet, +one week--only one--nay, less--only six days now, and then--oh, then--!" +A long hug, and the little fellow's boisterous protest against the +convulsive pressure abridged the mother's prophecy. + +All at once Mercy's manner changed. She turned toward Greta, and said, +"I will not touch the bandage, no, never; but if Ralphie tugged at it, +and it fell--would that be breaking my promise?" + +Greta saw what was in her heart. + +"I'm afraid it would, dear," she said, but there was a tremor in her +voice. + +Mercy sighed audibly. + +"Just think, it would be only Ralphie. The kind doctors could not be +angry with my little child. I would say, 'It was the boy,' and they +would smile and say, 'Ah, that is different.'" + +"Give me the little one," said Greta with emotion. + +Mercy drew the child closer, and there was a pause. + +"I was very wrong, Greta," she said in a low tone. "Oh! you would not +think what a fearful thing came into my mind a minute ago. Take my +Ralphie. Just imagine, my own innocent baby tempted me." + +As Greta reached across the bed to lift the child out of his mother's +lap, the little fellow was struggling to communicate, by help of a +limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence of recent events that +somewhat overshadowed his little existence. "Puss--dat," many times +repeated, was further explained by one chubby forefinger with its +diminutive finger nail pointed to the fat back of the other hand. + +"He means that the little cat has scratched him," said Greta. "But bless +the mite, he is pointing to the wrong hand." + +"Puss--dat," continued the child, and peered up into his mother's +sightless face. Mercy was all tears in an instant. She had borne +yesterday's operation without a groan, but now the scratch on her +child's hand went to her heart like a stab. + +"Lie quiet, Mercy," said Greta; "it will be gone to-morrow." + +"Go-on," echoed the little chap, and pointed out at the window. + +"The darling, how he picks up every word!" said Greta. + +"He means the horse," explained Mercy. + +"Go-on--man--go-on," prattled the little one, with a child's +in-difference to all conversation except his own. + +"Bless the love, he must remember the doctor and his horse," said Greta. + +Mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on the little hand. + +"Oh, Greta, I am very childish; but a mother's heart melts like butter." + +"Batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out of Greta's arms to the +ground, where he forthwith clambered on to the stool, and possessed +himself of a slice of bread which lay on the table at the bedside. Then +the fair curly head disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the +door to the kitchen. + +"What shall I care if other mothers see my child? I shall see him too," +said Mercy, and she sighed. "Yes," she added, softly, "his hands and his +eyes and his feet, and his soft hair." + +"Try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said Greta, "and then perhaps you +may get up this afternoon--only _perhaps_, you know, but we'll see." + +"Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are." + +"You will be kinder to me some day," said Greta very tenderly. + +"How very selfish I am. But then it is so hard not to be selfish when +you are a mother. Only fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy now. No, +never. I'm just Ralphie's mama. When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died +in some way. That's very silly, isn't it? Only it does seem true." + +"Man--go-on--batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the +patter of tiny feet. + +"Listen to him. How tricksome he is! And you should hear him cry 'Oh!' +You would say, 'That child has had an eye knocked out.' And then, in a +minute, behold he is laughing once more. There, I'm selfish again; but I +will make up for it some day, if God is good." + +"Yes, Mercy, He is good," said Greta. + +Her arm rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her eyes +swam. Did it seem at that moment as if God had been very good to these +two women? + +"Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think +Ralphie is like--anybody?" + +"Yes, dear, he is like you." + +There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes +and plucked at Greta's gown. + +"Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father +knows who it is?" + +"I can not say--_we_ have never told him." + +"Nor I--he never asked, never once--only, you know, he gave up his work +at the mine, and went back to the charcoal-pit when Ralphie came. But he +never said a word." + +Greta did not answer. At that moment the bedroom door was pushed open +with a little lordly bang, and the great wee man entered with his piece +of bread insecurely on one prong of a fork. + +"Toas'," he explained complacently, "toas'," and walked up to the empty +grate and stretched his arm over the fender at the cold bars. + +"Why, there's no fire for toast, you darling goose," said Greta, +catching him in her arms, much to his masculine vexation. + +Mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face was full of the yearning of +the blind. Then she lay back. + +"Never mind," she said to herself in a faltering voice, "let me lie +quiet and _think_ of all his pretty ways." + + + + +IV + + +Greta returned home toward noon, laughing and crying a little to herself +as she walked, for she was full of a dear delicious envy. She was +thinking that she could take all the shame and all the pain for all the +joy of Mercy's motherhood. + +God had given Greta no children. + +Hugh Ritson came in to their early dinner and she told him how things +went at the cottage of the old Laird Fisher. Only once before had she +mentioned Mercy or the child, and he looked confused and awkward. After +the meal was over he tried to say something which had been on his mind +for weeks. + +"But if anything should happen after all," he began, "and Mercy should +not recover--or if she should ever want to go anywhere--might we not +take--would you mind, Greta--I mean it might even help her--you see," he +said, breaking down nearly, "there is the child, it's a sort of duty, +you know--and then a good home and upbringing--" + +"Don't tempt me," said Greta. "I've thought of it a hundred times." + +About five o'clock the same evening a knock came to the door, and old +Laird Fisher entered. His manner was more than usually solemn and +constrained. + +"I's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is taken badly," he said, "and +rayder suddent." + +Greta rose from her seat and put on her hat and cloak. She was hastening +down the road while the charcoal-burner was still standing in the middle +of the floor. + +When Greta reached the old charcoal-burner's cottage, the little one was +lying in a drowsy state in Mercy's arms. Its breathing seemed difficult; +sometimes it started in terror; it was feverish and suffered thirst. The +mother's wistful face was bent down on it with an indescribable +expression. There were only the trembling lips to tell of the sharp +struggle that was going on within. But the yearning for a sight of the +little flushed countenance, the tearless appeal for but one glimpse of +the drowsy little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's heart +against the fate that made the child she had suckled at her breast a +stranger, whose very features she might not know--all this was written +in that blind face. + +"Is he pale?" said Mercy. "Is he sleeping? He does not talk now, but +only starts and cries, and sometimes coughs." + +"When did this begin?" asked Greta. + +"Toward four o'clock. He had been playing, and I noticed that he +breathed heavily, and then he came to me to be nursed. Is he awake now? +Listen." + +The little one in its restless drowsiness was muttering faintly, +"Man--go-on--batter--toas'." + +"The darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he?" said Mercy. + +Then there was a ringing, brassy cough. + +"It is croup," thought Greta. + +She closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the +steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and +wrapped them about the child's neck. She stayed all that night at the +cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could not +be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. It had not yet taken +hold of her that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy and a little +feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he +would be better in the morning. Oh, yes, he would soon be well again, +and tearing up the flowers in the garden. + +Toward midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the breathing became quieter, +and the whole nature seemed to sink. Mercy listened with her ear bent +down at the child's mouth, and a smile of ineffable joy spread itself +over her face. + +"Bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she said. + +Greta did not answer. + +"The 'puss' and the 'man' don't darken his little life so much now," +continued Mercy cheerily. + +"No, dear," said Greta, in as strong a voice as she could summon. + +"All will be well with my darling boy soon, will it not?" + +"Yes, dear," said Greta, with a struggle. + +Happily Mercy could not read the other answer in her face. + +Mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the child's nose, and was +touching him lightly about the mouth. + +"Greta," she said in a startled whisper, "does he look pinched?" + +"A little," said Greta quietly. + +"And his skin--is it cold and clammy?" + +"We must give him another hot flannel," said Greta. + +Mercy sat at the bedside, and said nothing for an hour. Then all at +once, and in a strange, harsh voice, she said: + +"I wish God had not made Ralphie so winsome." + +Greta started at the words, but made no answer. + +The daylight came early. As the first gleams of gray light came in at +the window, Greta turned to where Mercy sat in silence. It was a sad +face that she saw in the mingled yellow light of the dying lamp and the +gray of the dawn. + +Mercy spoke again. + +"Greta, do you remember what Mistress Branthet said when her baby died +last back end gone twelvemonth?" + +Greta looked up quickly at the bandaged eyes. + +"What?" she asked. + +"Well, Parson Christian tried to comfort her and said: 'Your baby is now +an angel in Paradise,' and she turned on him with: 'Shaf on your +angels--I want none on 'em--I want my little girl.'" + +Mercy's voice broke into a sob. + +Toward ten o'clock the doctor came. He had been detained. Very sorry to +disoblige Mrs. Ritson, but fact was old Mr. de Broadthwaite had an +attack of lumbago, complicated by a bout of toothache, and everybody +knew he was most exacting. Young person's baby ill? Feverish, restless, +starts in its sleep, and cough? Ah, croupy cough--yes, croup, true +croup, not spasmodic. Let him see, how old? A year and a half? Ah, bad, +very. Most frequent in second year of infancy. Dangerous, highly so. +Forms a membrane that occludes air-passages. Often ends in convulsions, +and child suffocates. Sad, very. Let him see again. How long since the +attack began? Yesterday at four. Ah, far gone, far. The great man soon +vanished, leaving behind him a harmless preparation of aconite and +ipecacuanha. + +Mercy had heard all, and her pent-up grief broke out in sobs. + +"Oh, to think I shall hear my Ralphie no more, and to know his white +cold face is looking up from a coffin, while other children are playing +in the sunshine and chasing the butterflies! No, no, it can not be; God +will not let it come to pass; I will pray to Him and He will save my +child. Why, He can do anything, and He has all the world. What is my +little baby boy to Him? He will not let it be taken from me." + +Greta's heart was too full for speech. But she might weep in silence, +and none there would know. Mercy stretched across the bed, and, tenderly +folding the child in her arms, she lifted him up, and then went down on +her knees. + +"Merciful Father," she said in a childish voice of sweet confidence, +"this is my baby, my Ralphie, and I love him so dearly. You would never +think how much I love him. But he is ill, and doctor says he may die. +Oh, dear Father, only think what it would be to say, 'His little face is +gone.' And then I have never seen him. You will not take him away until +his mother sees him. So soon, too. Only five days more. Why, it is quite +close. Not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next, but the day after +that." + +She put in many another childlike plea, and then rose with a smile on +her pale lips and replaced the little one on his pillow. + +"How patient he is," she said. "He can't say 'Thank you,' but I'm sure +his eyes are speaking. Let me feel." She put her finger lightly on the +child's lids. "No, they are shut; he must be sleeping. Oh, dear, he +sleeps very much. Is he gaining color? How quiet he is. If he would only +say, 'Mama!' How I wish I could see him!" + +She was very quiet for a while, and then plucked at Greta's gown +suddenly. + +"Greta," she said eagerly, "something tells me that if I could only see +Ralphie I should save him." + +Greta started up in terror. "No, no, no; you must not think of it," she +said. + +"But something whispered it. It must have been God himself. You know we +ought to obey God always." + +"Mercy, it was not God who said that. It was your own heart. You must +not heed it." + +"I'm sure it was God," said Mercy. "And I heard it quite plain." + +"Mercy, my darling, think what you are saying. Think what it is you wish +to do. If you do it you will be blind forever." + +"But I shall have saved my Ralphie." + +"No, no; you will not." + +"Will he not be saved, Greta?" + +"Only our heavenly Father knows." + +"Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, as you say, He knows best." + +Greta was almost distraught with fear. The noble soul in her would not +allow her to appeal to Mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal +love. But she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. If Mercy +regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost +it the future must be a blank. + +The day wore slowly on, and the child sank and sank. At evening the old +charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. He stood a moment +and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes +opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its +palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand. + +The old man's lips quivered behind his white beard. + +"It were a winsome wee thing," he said faintly, and then turned away. + +He left his supper untouched, and went into the porch. There he sat on a +bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sinking over the head +of the Eal Crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; only the bald top +of Cat Bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. A gentle +breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its +multitudinous tongues in a field below. The dog lay at the +charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a +buzzing fly. + +The little life within was ebbing away. No longer racked by the ringing +cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. Mercy +lifted the child from the bed, and sat with it before the fire. Greta +saw its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move +slightly, but she heard nothing. + +"He is calling his mama," said Mercy, with her ear bent toward the +child's mouth. + +There was a silence for a long time. Mercy pressed the child to her +breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her. + +Greta stood and looked down; she saw the little lips move once more, but +again she heard no sound. + +"He is calling his mama," repeated Mercy wistfully, "and oh, he seems +such a long way off." + +Once again the little lips moved. + +"He is calling me," said Mercy, listening intently; and she grew +restless and excited. "He is going away. I can hear him. He is far off. +Ralphie, Ralphie!" She had lifted the child up to her face. "Ralphie, +Ralphie!" she cried. + +"Give me the baby, Mercy," said Greta. + +But the mother clung to it with a convulsive grasp. + +"Ralphie, Ralphie, Ralphie...." + +There was a sudden flash of some white thing. In an instant the bandage +had fallen from Mercy's head, and she was peering down into the child's +face with wild eyes. + +"Ralphie, Ralphie!... _Hugh!_" she cried. + +The mother had seen her babe at last, and in that instant she had +recognized the features of its father. + +At the next moment the angel of God passed through that troubled house, +and the child lay dead at the mother's breast. + +Mercy saw it all, and her impassioned mood left her. She rose to her +feet quietly, and laid the little one in the bed. There was never a sigh +more, never a tear. Only her face was ashy pale, and her whitening lips +quivered. + +"Greta," she said, very slowly, "good-by! All is over now." + +She spoke of herself as if her days were already ended and past; as if +her own orb of life had been rounded by the brief span of the little +existence that lay finished on the bed. + +"When they come in the morning early--very early--and find us here, my +boy and me, don't let them take him away from me, Greta. We should go +together--yes, both together; that's only right, with Ralphie at my +bosom." + +The bandage lay at her feet. Her eyes were very red and heavy. Their dim +light seemed to come from far away. + +"Only that," she said, and her voice softened, "My Ralphie is in +heaven." + +Then she hid her face in her hands, and cried out loud, "But I prayed to +God that I might see my child on earth. Oh, how I prayed! And God heard +my prayer and answered it--but see! _I saw him die._" + + +END OF "THE BLIND MOTHER" + + * * * * * + + + + +THE LAST CONFESSION + + + COPYRIGHT, 1892, + UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. + + COPYRIGHT, 1900, + BY STREET & SMITH. + + [_All rights reserved._] + + + + +I + + +Father, do not leave me. Wait! only a little longer. You can not absolve +me? I am not penitent? How _can_ I be penitent? I do not regret it? How +_can_ I regret it? I would do it again? How could I help _but_ do it +again? + +Yes, yes, I know, I know! Who knows it so well as I? It is written in +the tables of God's law: _Thou shalt do no murder!_ But was it murder? +Was it crime? Blood? Yes, it was the spilling of blood. Blood will have +blood, you say. But is there no difference? Hear me out. Let me speak. +It is hard to remember all now--and here--lying here--but listen--only +listen. Then tell me if I did wrong. No, tell me if God Himself will not +justify me--ay, justify me--though I outraged His edict. Blasphemy? Ah, +father, do not go! Father!-- + +_Speak, my son. I will listen. It is my duty. Speak._ + +It is less than a year since my health broke down, but the soul lives +fast, and it seems to me like a lifetime. I had overworked myself +miserably. My life as a physician in London had been a hard one, but it +was not my practise that had wrecked me. How to perform that operation +on the throat was the beginning of my trouble. You know what happened. I +mastered my problem, and they called the operation by my name. It has +brought me fame; it has made me rich; it has saved a thousand lives, and +will save ten thousand more, and yet I--I--for taking one +life--one--under conditions-- + +Father, bear with me. I will tell all. My nerves are burned out. Gloom, +depression, sleeplessness, prostration, sometimes collapse, a consuming +fire within, a paralyzing frost without--you know what it is--we call it +neurasthenia. + +I watched the progress of my disease and gave myself the customary +treatment. Hygiene, diet, drugs, electricity, I tried them all. But +neither dumbbells nor Indian clubs, neither walking nor riding, neither +liberal food nor doses of egg and brandy, neither musk nor ergot nor +antipyrin, neither faradization nor galvanization availed to lift the +black shades that hung over me day and night, and made the gift of life +a mockery. I knew why. My work possessed me like a fever. I could +neither do it to my content nor leave it undone. I was drawing water in +a sieve. + +My wife sent for Gull. Full well I knew what he would advise. It was +rest. I must take six months' absolute holiday, and, in order to cut +myself off entirely from all temptations to mental activity, I must +leave London and go abroad. Change of scene, of life, and of habit, new +peoples, new customs, new faiths, and a new climate--these separately +and together, with total cessation of my usual occupations, were to +banish a long series of functional derangements which had for their +basis the exhaustion of the sympathetic nervous system. + +I was loth to go. Looking back upon my condition, I see that my +reluctance was justified. To launch a creature who was all nerves into +the perpetual, if trifling, vexations of travel was a mistake, a folly, +a madness. But I did not perceive this; I was thinking only of my home +and the dear souls from whom I must be separated. During the seven years +of our married life my wife had grown to be more than the object of my +love. That gentle soothing, that soft healing which the mere presence of +an affectionate woman who is all strength and courage may bring to a man +who is wasted by work or worry, my wife's presence had long brought to +me, and I shrank from the thought of scenes where she could no longer +move about me, meeting my wishes and anticipating my wants. + +This was weakness, and I knew it; but I had another weakness which I did +not know. My boy, a little son of six years of age the day before I set +sail, was all the world to me. Paternal love may eat up all the other +passions. It was so in my case. The tyranny of my affection for my only +child was even more constant and unrelenting than the tyranny of my +work. Nay, the two were one: for out of my instinct as a father came my +strength as a doctor. The boy had suffered from a throat trouble from +his birth. When he was a babe I delivered him from a fierce attack of +it, and when he was four I brought him back from the jaws of death. Thus +twice I had saved his life, and each time that life had become dearer to +me. But too well I knew that the mischief was beaten down, and not +conquered. Some day it would return with awful virulence. To meet that +terror I wrought by day and night. No slave ever toiled so hard. I +denied myself rest, curtailed my sleep, and stole from tranquil +reflection and repose half-hours and quarter-hours spent in the carriage +going from patient to patient. The attack might come suddenly, and I +must be prepared. I was working against time. + +You know what happened. The attack did not come; my boy continued well, +but my name became known and my discovery established. The weakness of +my own child had given the bent to my studies. If I had mastered my +subject it was my absorbing love of my little one that gave me the +impulse and direction. + +But I had paid my penalty. My health was a wreck, and I must leave +everything behind me. If it had been possible to take my wife and boy +along with me, how different the end might have been! Should I be lying +here now--here on this bed--with you, father, you?-- + +We spent our boy's birthday with what cheer we could command. For my +wife it seemed to be a day of quiet happiness, hallowed by precious +memories--the dearest and most delicious that a mother ever knew--of the +babyhood of her boy--his pretty lisp, his foolish prattle, his funny +little ways and sayings--and sweetened by the anticipation of the health +that was to return to me as the result of rest and change. The child +himself was bright and gamesome, and I for my part gave way to some +reckless and noisy jollity. + +Thus the hours passed until bedtime, and then, as I saw the little +fellow tucked up in his crib, it crossed my mind for a moment that he +looked less well than usual. Such fancies were common to me, and I knew +from long experience that it was folly to give way to them. To do so at +that time must have been weakness too pitiful for my manhood. I had +already gone far enough for my own self-respect. To my old colleague and +fellow-student, Granville Wenman, I had given elaborate instructions for +all possible contingencies. + +If _this_ happened he was to do _that_; if _that_ happened he was to do +_this_. In case of serious need he was to communicate with me by the +swiftest means available, for neither the width of the earth nor the +wealth of the world, nor the loss of all chances of health or yet life, +should keep me from hastening home if the one hope of my heart was in +peril. Wenman had smiled a little as in pity of the morbidity that ran +out to meet so many dangers. I did not heed his good-natured compassion +or contempt, whatever it was, for I knew he had no children. I had +reconciled myself in some measure to my absence from home, and before my +little man was awake in the morning I was gone from the house. + +It had been arranged that I should go to Morocco. Wenman had suggested +that country out of regard to the freshness of its life and people. The +East in the West, the costumes of Arabia, the faiths of Mohammed and of +Moses, a primitive form of government, and a social life that might have +been proper to the land of Canaan in the days of Abraham--such had +seemed to him and others to be an atmosphere of novelty that was likely +to bring spring and elasticity to the overstretched mind and nerves of a +victim of the civilization of our tumultuous century. But not in all the +world could fate have ferreted out for me a scene more certain to +develop the fever and fret of my natural temperament. Had the choice +fallen on any other place, any dead or dying country, any corner of +God's earth but that blighted and desolate land-- + +Ah! bear with me, bear with me. + +_I know it, my son. It is near to my own country. My home is in Spain. I +came to your England from Seville. Go on._ + +I sailed to Gibraltar by a P. and O. steamer from Tilbury, and the +tender that took my wife back to the railway pier left little in my new +condition to interest me. You know what it is to leave home in search of +health. If hope is before you, regret is behind. When I stood on the +upper deck that night, alone, and watched the light of the Eddystone +dying down over the dark waters, it seemed to me that success had no +solace, and fame no balm, and riches no safety or content. One +reflection alone sufficed to reconcile me to where I was--the work that +had brought me there was done neither for fame nor for riches, but at +the prompting of the best of all earthly passions--or what seemed to be +the best. + +Three days passed, and beyond casual words I had spoken to no one on the +ship. But on the fourth day, as we sailed within sight of Finisterre in +a calm sea, having crossed the Bay with comfort, the word went round +that a storm-signal was hoisted on the cape. No one who has gone through +an experience such as that is likely to forget it. Everybody on deck, +the blanched faces, the hushed voices, the quick whispers, the eager +glances around, the interrogations of the officers on duty, and their +bantering answers belied by their anxious looks, then the darkening sky, +the freshening breeze, the lowering horizon, the tingling gloomy +atmosphere creeping down from the mastheads, and the air of the whole +ship, above and below, charged, as it were, with sudden electricity. It +is like nothing else in life except the bugle-call in camp, telling +those who lie smoking and drinking about the fires that the enemy is +coming, and is near. + +I was standing on the quarterdeck watching the Lascars stowing sails, +battening down the hatches, clewing the lines, and making everything +snug, when a fellow-passenger whom I had not observed before stepped up +and spoke. His remark was a casual one, and it has gone from my memory. +I think it had reference to the native seamen, and was meant as a jest +upon their lumbering slowness, which suggested pitiful thoughts to him +of what their capacity must be in a storm. But the air of the man much +more than his words aroused and arrested my attention. It was that of +one whose spirits had been quickened by the new sense of danger. He +laughed, his eyes sparkled, his tongue rolled out his light remarks with +a visible relish. I looked at the man and saw that he had the soul of a +war-horse. Tall, slight, dark, handsome, with bushy beard, quivering +nostrils, mobile mouth, and eyes of fire, alive in every fibre, and full +of unconquerable energy. He appeared to be a man of thirty to +thirty-five, but proved to be no more than four-and-twenty. I learned +afterward that he was an American, and was traveling for love of +adventure. + +That night we flew six hours before the storm, but it overtook our ship +at last. What befell us then in the darkness of that rock-bound coast I +did not know until morning. Can you believe it? I took my usual dose of +a drug prescribed to me for insomnia, and lay down to sleep. When I went +up on deck in the late dawn of the following day--the time was +spring--the wind had slackened, and the ship was rolling and swinging +along in a sea that could not be heard above the beat and thud of the +engines. Only the memory of last night's tempest lay around in sullen +wave and sky--only there, and in the quarters down below of the native +seamen of our ship. + +The first face I encountered was that of the American. He had been on +deck all night, and he told me what had happened. Through the dark hours +the storm had been terrible, and when the first dead light of dawn had +crept across from the east the ship had been still tossing in great +white billows. Just then a number of Lascars had been ordered aloft on +some urgent duty--I know not what--and a sudden gust had swept one of +them from a cross-tree into the sea. Efforts had been made to rescue +him, the engines had been reversed, boats put out and life-buoys thrown +into the water, but all in vain. The man had been swept away; he was +gone and the ship had steamed on. + +The disaster saddened me inexpressibly. I could see the Lascar fall from +the rigging, catch the agonizing glance of the white eyes in his black +face as he was swept past on the crest of a wave, and watch his +outstretched arms as he sank to his death down and down and down. It +seemed to me an iniquity that while this had happened I had slept. +Perhaps the oversensitive condition of my nerves was at fault, but +indeed I felt that, in his way, in his degree, within the measure of his +possibilities, that poor fellow of another skin, another tongue, with +whom I had exchanged no word of greeting, had that day given his life +for my life. + +How much of such emotion I expressed at the time it is hard to remember +now, but that the American gathered the bent of my feelings was clear to +me by the pains he was at to show that they were uncalled for, and +unnatural, and false. What was life? I had set too great a store by it. +The modern reverence for life was eating away the finest instincts of +man's nature. Life was not the most sacred of our possessions. Duty, +justice, truth, these were higher things. + +So he talked that day and the next until, from thoughts of the loss of +the Lascar, we had drifted far into wider and more perilous +speculations. The American held to his canon. War was often better than +peace, and open massacre than corrupt tranquillity. We wanted some of +the robust spirit of the Middle Ages in these our piping days. The talk +turned on the persecution of the Jews in Russia. The American defended +it--a stern people was purging itself of an alien element which, like an +interminate tapeworm, had been preying on its vitals. The remedy was +drastic but necessary; life was lost, but also life was saved. + +Then coming to closer quarters we talked of murder. The American held to +the doctrine of Sterne. It was a hard case that the laws of the modern +world should not have made any manner of difference between murdering an +honest man and only executing a scoundrel. These things should always be +rated ad valorem. As for blood spilled in self-defense, it was folly to +talk of it as crime. Even the laws of my own effeminate land justified +the man who struck down the arm that was raised to kill him; and the +mind that reckoned such an act as an offense was morbid and diseased. + +Such opinions were repugnant to me, and I tried to resist them. There +was a sanctity about human life which no man should dare to outrage. God +gave it, and only God should take it away. As for the government of the +world, let it be for better or for worse, it was in God's hands, and God +required the help of no man. + +My resistance was useless. The American held to his doctrine; it was +good to take life in a good cause, and if it was good for the nation, it +was good for the individual man. The end was all. + +I fenced these statements with what force I could command, and I knew +not how strongly my adversary had assailed me. Now, I know too well that +his opinions sank deep into my soul. Only too well I know it now--now +that-- + +We arrived at Gibraltar the following morning, and going up on deck in +the empty void of air that follows on the sudden stopping of a ship's +engines, I found the American, amid a group of swarthy Gibraltarians, +bargaining for a boat to take him to the Mole. It turned out that he was +going to Morocco also, and we hired a boat together. + +The morning was clear and cold; the great broad rock looked whiter and +starker and more like a gigantic oyster-shell than ever against the blue +of the sky. There would be no steamer for Tangier until the following +day, and we were to put up at the Spanish hotel called the Calpe. + +Immediately on landing I made my way to the post-office to despatch a +telegram home announcing my arrival, and there I found two letters, +which, having come overland, arrived in advance of me. One of them was +from Wenman, telling me that he had called at Wimpole Street the morning +after my departure and found all well at my house; and also enclosing a +resolution of thanks and congratulation from my colleagues of the +College of Surgeons in relation to my recent labors, which were said to +be "memorable in the cause of humanity and science." + +The other letter was from my wife, a sweet, affectionate little note, +cheerful yet tender, written on her return from Tilbury, hinting that +the dear old house looked just a trifle empty and as if somehow it +missed something, but that our boy was up and happy with a new toy that +I had left for him as a consolation on his awakening--a great elephant +that worked its trunk and roared. "I have just asked our darling," wrote +my wife, "what message he would like to send you. 'Tell papa,' he +answers, 'I'm all right, and Jumbo's all right, and is he all right, and +will he come werry quick, and see him grunting?'" + +That night at the Calpe I had some further talk with the American. Young +as he was he had been a great Eastern traveler. Egypt, Arabia, Syria, +the Holy Land--he knew them all. For his forthcoming sojourn in Morocco +he had prepared himself with elaborate care. The literature of travel in +Barbary is voluminous, but he had gone through the best of it. With the +faith of Islam he had long been familiar, and of the corrupt and +tyrannical form of government of Mulai el Hassan and his kaids and kadis +he had an intimate knowledge. He had even studied the language of the +Moorish people--the Moroccan Arabic, which is a dialect of the language +of the Koran--and so that he might hold intercourse with the Sephardic +Jews also, who people the Mellahs of Morocco, he had mastered the +Spanish language as well. + +This extensive equipment, sufficient to start a crusade or to make a +revolution, was meant to do more than provide him with adventure. His +intention was to see the country and its customs, to observe the manners +of the people and the ordinances of their religion. "I shall get into +the palaces and the prisons of the Kasbahs," he said; "yes, and the +mosques and the saints' houses, and the harems also." + +Little as I knew then of the Moors and their country, I foresaw the +dangers of such an enterprise, and I warned him against it. "You will +get yourself into awkward corners," I said. + +"Yes," he said, "and I shall get myself out of them." + +I remembered his doctrine propounded on the ship, and I saw that he was +a man of resolution, but I said, "Remember, you are going to the land of +this people for amusement alone. It is not necessity that thrusts you +upon their prejudice, their superstition, their fanaticism." + +"True," he said, "but if I get into trouble among them it will not be my +amusements but my liberty or my life that will be in danger." + +"Then in such a case you will stick at nothing to plow your way out?" + +"Nothing." + +I laughed, for my mind refused to believe him, and we laughed noisily +together, with visions of bloody daggers before the eyes of both. + +Father, my _heart_ believed: silently, secretly, unconsciously, it drank +in the poison of his thought--drank it in--ay-- + +Next day, about noon, we sailed for Tangier. Our ship was the "Jackal," +a little old iron steam-tug, battered by time and tempest, clamped and +stayed at every side, and just holding together as by the grace of God. +The storm which we had outraced from Finisterre had now doubled Cape St. +Vincent, and the sea was rolling heavily in the Straits. We saw nothing +of this until we had left the bay and were standing out from Tarifa; nor +would it be worthy of mention now but that it gave me my first real +understanding of the tremendous hold that the faith or the fanaticism of +the Moorish people--call it what you will--has upon their characters and +lives. + +The channel at that point is less than twenty miles wide, but we were +more than five hours crossing it. Our little crazy craft labored +terribly in the huge breakers that swept inward from the Atlantic. +Pitching until the foredeck was covered, rolling until her boats dipped +in the water, creaking, shuddering, leaping, she had enough to do to +keep afloat. + +With the American I occupied the bridge between the paddle-boxes, which +served as a saloon for first-class passengers; and below us in the open +hold of the after-deck a number of Moors sat huddled together among +cattle and sheep and baskets of fowl. They were Pilgrims, Hadjis, +returning from Mecca by way of Gibraltar, and their behavior during the +passage was marvelous in its callousness to the sense of peril. They +wrangled, quarreled, snarled at each other, embraced, kissed, laughed +together, made futile attempts to smoke their keef-pipes, and quarreled, +barked, and bleated again. + +"Surely," I said, "these people are either wondrously brave or they have +no sense of the solemnity of death." + +"Neither," said the American; "they are merely fatalists by virtue of +their faith. 'If it is not now, it is to come; if it is not to come then +it is now.'" + +"There is a sort of bravery in that," I answered. + +"And cowardice, too," said the American. + +The night had closed in when we dropped anchor by the ruins of the Mole +at Tangier, and I saw no more of the white town than I had seen of it +from the Straits. But if my eyes failed in the darkness my other senses +served me only too well. The shrieking and yelping of the boatloads of +Moors and negroes who clambered aboard to relieve us of our luggage, the +stench of the town sewers that emptied into the bay--these were my first +impressions of the gateway to the home of Islam. + +The American went through the turmoil with composure and an air of +command, and having seen to my belongings as well as his own, passing +them through the open office at the water-gate, where two solemn Moors +in white sat by the light of candles, in the receipt of customs, he +parted from me at the foot of the street that begins with the Grand +Mosque, and is the main artery of the town, for he had written for rooms +to the hotel called the Villa de France, and I, before leaving England, +had done the same to the hotel called the Continental. + +Thither I was led by a barefooted courier in white jellab and red +tarboosh, amid sights and sounds of fascinating strangeness: the low +drone of men's voices singing their evening prayers in the mosques, the +tinkling of the bells of men selling water out of goats' skins, the +"Allah" of blind beggars crouching at the gates, the "Arrah" of the mule +drivers, and the hooded shapes going by in the gloom or squatting in the +red glare of the cafes without windows or doors and open to the streets. + +I met the American in the Sok--the market-place--the following day, and +he took me up to his hotel to see some native costumes which he had +bought by way of preparations for his enterprise. They were haiks and +soolhams, jellabs, kaftans, slippers, rosaries, korans, sashes, +satchels, turbans, and tarbooshes--blue, white, yellow, and red--all +right and none too new, for he had purchased them not at the bazaars, +but from the son of a learned Moor, a Taleb, who had been cast into a +prison by a usurer Jew. + +"In these," said he, "I mean to go everywhere, and I'll defy the devil +himself to detect me." + +"Take care," I said, "take care." + +He laughed and asked me what my own plans were. I told him that I would +remain in Tangier until I received letters from home, and then push on +toward Fez. + +"I'll see you there," he said; "but if I do not hail you, please do not +know me. Good-by." + +"Good-by," I said, and so we parted. + +I stayed ten days longer in Tangier, absorbed in many reflections, of +which the strangest were these two: first, the Moors were the most +religious people in the world, and next, that they were the most +wickedly irreligious and basely immoral race on God's earth. I was +prompted to the one by observations of the large part which Allah +appears to play in all affairs of Moorish life, and to the other by +clear proof of the much larger part which the devil enacts in Allah's +garments. On the one side prayers, prayers, prayers, the moodden, the +moodden, the moodden, the mosque, the mosque, the mosque. "Allah" from +the mouths of the beggars, "Allah" from the lips of the merchants, +"Mohammed" on the inscriptions at the gate, the "Koran" on the scarfs +hung out at the bazaars and on the satchels hawked in the streets. And +on the other side shameless lying, cheating, usury, buying and selling +of justice, cruelty and inhumanity; raw sores on the backs of the asses, +blood in the streets, blood, blood, blood everywhere and secret +corruption indescribable. + +Nevertheless I concluded that my nervous malady must have given me the +dark glasses through which everything looked so foul, and I resolved, in +the interests of health, to push on toward Fez as soon as letters +arrived from home assuring me that all were well and happy there. + +But no letters came, and at the arrival of every fresh mail from Cadiz +and from Gibraltar my impatience increased. At length I decided to wait +no longer, and, leaving instructions that my letters should be sent on +after me to the capital, I called on the English Consul for such +official documents as were needful for my journey. + +When these had been produced from the Kasbah, and I was equipped for +travel, the Consul inquired of me how I liked the Moors and their +country. I described my conflicting impressions, and he said both were +right in their several ways. + +"The religion of the Moor," said he, "is genuine of its kind, though it +does not put an end to the vilest Government on earth and the most +loathsome immoralities ever practised by man. Islam is a sacred thing to +him. He is proud of it, jealous of it, and prepared to die for it. Half +his hatred of the unbeliever is fear that the Nazarene or the Jew is +eager to show his faith some dishonor. And that," added the Consul, +"reminds me to offer you one word of warning: avoid the very shadow of +offense to the religion of these people; do not pry into their beliefs; +do not take note of their ordinances; pass their mosques and saints' +houses with down-cast eyes, if need be; in a word, let Islam alone." + +I thanked him for his counsel, and, remembering the American, I inquired +what the penalty would be if a foreign subject offended the religion of +this people. The Consul lifted his eyebrows and shoulders together, with +an eloquence of reply that required no words. + +"But might not a stranger," I asked, "do so unwittingly?" + +"Truly," he answered, "and so much the worse for his ignorance." + +"Is British life, then," I said, "at the mercy of the first ruffian with +a dagger? Is there no power in solemn treaties?" + +"What are treaties," he said, "against fanaticism? Give the one a wide +berth and you'll have small need for the other." + +After that he told me something of certain claims just settled for long +imprisonment inflicted by the Moorish authorities on men trading under +the protection of the British flag. It was an abject story of barbarous +cruelty, broken health, shattered lives, and wrecked homes, atoned for +after weary procrastination, in the manner of all Oriental courts, by a +sorry money payment. The moral of it all was conveyed by the Consul in +the one word with which he parted from me at his gate. "Respect the +fanaticism of these fanatics," he said, "as you would value your liberty +or your life, and keep out of a Moorish prison--remember that, remember +that!" + +I _did_ remember it. Every day of my travels I remembered it. I +remembered it at the most awful moment of my life. If I had not +remembered it then, should I be lying here now with that--with +_that_--behind me! Ah, wait, wait! + +Little did I expect when I left the Consul to light so soon upon a +terrible illustration of his words. With my guide and interpreter, a +Moorish soldier lent to me by the authorities in return for two pesetas +(one shilling and ninepence) a day, I strolled into the greater Sok, the +market-place outside the walls. It was Friday, the holy day of the +Moslems, somewhere between one and two o'clock in the afternoon, when +the body of the Moors having newly returned from their one-hour +observances in the mosques, had resumed, according to their wont, their +usual occupations. The day was fine and warm, a bright sun was shining, +and the Sok at the time when we entered it was a various and animated +scene. + +Dense crowds of hooded figures, clad chiefly in white--soiled or dirty +white--men in jellabs, women enshrouded in blankets, barefooted girls, +boys with shaven polls, water-carriers with their tinkling bells, +snake-charmers, story-tellers, jugglers, preachers, and then donkeys, +nosing their way through the throng, mules lifting their necks above the +people's heads, and camels munching oats and fighting--it was a +wilderness of writhing forms and a babel of shrieking noises. + +With my loquacious Moor I pushed my way along past booths and stalls +until I came to a white-washed structure with a white flag floating over +it, that stood near the middle of the market-place. It was a roofless +place, about fifteen feet square, and something like a little sheepfold, +but having higher walls. Through the open doorway I saw an inner +enclosure, out of which a man came forward. He was a wild-eyed creature +in tattered garments, and dirty, disheveled, and malevolent of face. + +"See," said my guide, "see, my lord, a Moorish saint's house. Look at +the flag. So shall my lord know a saint's house. Here rest the bones of +Sidi Gali, and that is the saint that guards them. A holy man, yes, a +holy man. Moslems pay him tribute. Sacred place, yes, sacred. No +Nazarene may enter it. But Moslem, yes, Moslems may fly here for +sanctuary. Life to the Moslem, death to the Nazarene. So it is." + +My soldier was rattling on in this way when I saw coming in the sunlight +down the hillside of which the Sok is the foot a company of some eight +or ten men, whose dress and complexion were unlike those of the people +gathered there. They were a band of warlike persons, swarthy, tall, +lithe, sinewy, with heads clean shaven save for one long lock that hung +from the crown, each carrying a gun with barrel of prodigious length +upon his shoulder, and also armed with a long naked Reefian knife stuck +in the scarf that served him for a belt. + +They were Berbers, the descendants of the race that peopled Barbary +before the Moors set foot in it, between whom and the Moors there is a +long-continued, suppressed, but ineradicable enmity. From their mountain +homes these men had come to the town that day on their pleasure or their +business, and as they entered it they were at no pains to conceal their +contempt for the townspeople and their doings. + +Swaggering along with long strides, they whooped and laughed and plowed +their way through the crowd over bread and vegetables spread out on the +ground, and the people fell back before them with muttered curses until +they were come near to the saint's house, beside which I myself with my +guide was standing. Then I saw that the keeper of the saint's house, the +half-distraught creature whom I had just observed, was spitting out at +them some bitter and venomous words. + +Clearly they all heard him, and most of them laughed derisively and +pushed on. But one of the number--a young Berber with eyes of fire--drew +up suddenly and made some answer in hot and rapid words. The man of the +saint's house spoke again, showing his teeth as he did so in a horrible +grin; and at the next instant, almost quicker than my eyes could follow +the swift movement of his hands, the Berber had plucked his long knife +from his belt and plunged it into the keeper's breast. + +I saw it all. The man fell at my feet, and was dead in an instant. In +another moment the police of the market had laid hold of the murderer, +and he was being hauled off to his trial. "Come," whispered my guide, +and he led me by short cuts through the narrow lanes to the Kasbah. + +In an open alcove of the castle I found two men in stainless blue +jellabs and spotless white turbans, squatting on rush mats at either +foot of the horse-shoe arch. These were the judges, the Kadi and his +Khalifa, sitting in session in the hall of justice. + +There was a tumult of many voices and of hurrying feet; and presently +the police entered, holding their prisoner between them, and followed by +a vast concourse of townspeople. I held my ground in front of the +alcove; the Berber was brought up near to my side, and I saw and heard +all. + +"This man," said one of the police, "killed so-and-so, of Sidi Gali's +saint's house." + +"When?" said the Kadi. + +"This moment," said the police. + +"How?" said the Kadi. + +"With this knife," said the police. + +The knife, stained, and still wet, was handed to the judge. He shook it, +and asked the prisoner one question: "Why?" + +Then the Berber flung himself on his knees--his shaven head brushed my +hand--and began to plead extenuating circumstances. "It is true, my +lord, I killed him, but he called me dog and infidel, and spat at me--" + +The Kadi gave back the knife and waved his hand. "Take him away," he +said. + +That was all, as my guide interpreted it. "Come," he whispered again, +and he led me by a passage into a sort of closet where a man lay on a +mattress. This was the porch to the prison, and the man on the mattress +was the jailer. In one wall there was a low door, barred and clamped +with iron, and having a round peephole grated across. + +At the next instant the police brought in their prisoner. The jailer +rattled a big key in the lock, the low door swung open, I saw within a +dark den full of ghostly figures dragging chains at their ankles; a foul +stench came out of it, the prisoner bent his head and was pushed in, the +door slammed back--and that was the end. Everything occurred in no more +time than it takes to tell it. + +"Is that all his trial?" I asked. + +"All," said my guide. + +"How long will he lie there?" + +"Until death." + +"But," I said, "I have heard that a Kadi of your country may be bribed +to liberate a murderer." + +"Ah, my lord is right," said my guide, "but not the murderer of a +saint." + +Less than five minutes before I had seen the stalwart young Berber +swaggering down the hillside in the afternoon sunshine. Now he was in +the gloom of the noisome dungeon, with no hope of ever again looking +upon the light of day, doomed to drag out an existence worse than death, +and all for what? For taking life? No, no, no--life in that land is +cheap, cheaper than it ever was in the Middle Ages--but for doing +dishonor to a superstition of the faith of Islam. + +I remembered the American, and shuddered at the sight of this summary +justice. Next morning, as my tentmen and muleteers were making ready to +set out for Fez, my soldier-guide brought me a letter which had come by +the French steamer by way of Malaga. It was from home; a brief note from +my wife, with no explanation of her prolonged silence, merely saying +that all was as usual at Wimpole Street, and not mentioning our boy at +all. The omission troubled me, the brevity and baldness of the message +filled me with vague concern, and I had half a mind to delay my inland +journey. Would that I had done so! Would that I had! Oh, would that I +had! + +_Terrible, my son, terrible! A blighted and desolated land. But even +worse than its own people are the renegades it takes from mine. Ah, I +knew one such long ago. An outcast, a pariah, a shedder of blood, an +apostate. But go on, go on._ + + + + +II + + +Father, what voice was it that rang in my ears and cried, "Stay, do not +travel; all your past from the beginning until to-day, all your future +from to-day until the end, hangs on your action now; go, and your past +is a waste, your fame a mockery, your success a reproach; remain, and +your future is peace and happiness and content!" What voice, father, +what voice? + +I shut my ears to it, and six days afterward I arrived at Fez. My +journey had impressed two facts upon my mind with startling vividness; +first, that the Moor would stick at nothing in his jealousy of the honor +of his faith, and next, that I was myself a changed and coarsened man. I +was reminded of the one when in El Kassar I saw an old Jew beaten in the +open streets because he had not removed his slippers and walked barefoot +as he passed the front of a mosque; and again in Wazzan, when I +witnessed the welcome given to the Grand Shereef on his return from his +home in Tangier to his house in the capital of his province. The Jew was +the chief usurer of the town, and had half the Moorish inhabitants in +his toils; yet his commercial power had counted for nothing against the +honor of Islam. "I," said he to me that night in the Jewish inn, the +Fondak, "I, who could clap every man of them in the Kasbah, and their +masters with them, for moneys they owe me, I to be treated like a dog by +these scurvy sons of Ishmael--God of Jacob!" The Grand Shereef was a +drunkard, a gamester, and worse. There was no ordinance of Mohammed +which he had not openly outraged, yet because he stood to the people as +the descendant of the Prophet, and the father of the faith, they +groveled on the ground before him and kissed his robes, his knees, his +feet, his stirrups, and the big hoofs of the horse that carried him. As +for myself, I realized that the atmosphere of the country had corrupted +me, when I took out from my baggage a curved knife in its silver-mounted +sheath, which I had bought of a hawker at Tangier, and fixed it +prominently in the belt of my Norfolk jacket. + +The morning after my arrival in Fez I encountered my American companion +of the voyage. Our meeting was a strange one. I had rambled aimlessly +with my guide through the new town into the old until I had lighted by +chance upon the slave market in front of the ruins of the ancient Grand +Mosque, and upon a human auction which was then proceeding. No scene so +full of shame had I ever beheld, but the fascination of the spectacle +held me, and I stood and watched and listened. The slave being sold was +a black girl, and she was beautiful according to the standard of her +skin, bareheaded, barefooted, and clad as lightly over her body as +decency allowed, so as to reveal the utmost of her charms. + +"Now, brothers," cried the salesman, "look, see" (pinching the girl's +naked arms and rolling his jeweled fingers from her chin downward over +her bare neck on to her bosom), "sound of wind and limb, and with rosy +lips, fit for the kisses of a king--how much?" + +"A hundred dollars," cried a voice out of the crowd. I thought I had +heard the voice before, and looked up to see who had spoken. It was a +tall man with haik over his turban, and blue selam on top of a yellow +kaftan. + +"A hundred dollars offered," cried the salesman, "only a hundred. +Brothers, now's the chance for all true believers." + +"A hundred and five," cried another voice. + +"A hundred and ten." + +"A hundred and fifteen." + +"A hundred and fifteen for this jewel of a girl," cried the salesman. +"It's giving her away, brothers. By the prophets, if you are not quick +I'll keep her for myself. Come, look at her, Sidi. Isn't she good enough +for a sultan? The Prophet (God rest him) would have leaped at her. He +loved sweet women as much as he loved sweet odors. Now, for the third +and last time--how much? Remember, I guarantee her seventeen years of +age, sound, strong, plump, and sweet." + +"A hundred and twenty," cried the voice I had heard first. I looked up +at the speaker again. It was the American in his Moorish costume. + +I could bear no more of the sickening spectacle, and as I turned aside +with my interpreter, I was conscious that my companion of the voyage was +following me. When we came to some dark arches that divided Old Fez from +New Fez the American spoke, and I sent my interpreter ahead. + +"You see I am giving myself full tether in this execrable land," he +said. + +"Indeed you are," I answered. + +"Well, as the Romans in Rome, you know--it was what I came for," he +said. + +"Take care," I replied. "Take care." + +He drew up shortly and said, "By the way, I ought to be ashamed to meet +you." + +I thought he ought, but for courtesy I asked him why. + +"Because," he said, "I have failed to act up to my principles." + +"In what?" I inquired. + +"In saving the life of a scoundrel at the risk of my own," he answered. + +Then he told me his story. "I left Tangier," he said, "with four men in +my caravan, but it did not suit me to bring them into Fez, so I +dismissed them a day's ride from here, paying in full for the whole +journey and making a present over. My generosity was a blunder. The Moor +can not comprehend an act of disinterested kindness, and I saw the +ruffians lay their heads together to find out what it could mean. Three +of them gave it up and went off home, but the fourth determined to +follow the trace. His name was Larby." + +_Larby! El Arby, my son? Did you say El Arby? Of Tangier, too? A Moor? +Or was he a Spanish renegade turned Muslim? But no matter--no matter._ + +"He was my guide," said the American, "and a most brazen hypocrite, +always cheating me. I let him do so, it amused me--always lying to my +face, and always fumbling his beads--'God forgive me! God forgive +me'--an appropriate penance, you know the way of it. 'Peace, Sidi!' said +the rascal: 'Farewell! Allah send we meet in Paradise.' But the devil +meant that we should meet before that. We have met. It was a hot moment. +Do you know the Hamadsha Mosque? It is a place in a side street sacred +to the preaching of a fanatical follower of one Sidi Ali bin Hamdoosh, +and to certain wild dances executed in a glass and fire eating frenzy. I +thought I should like to hear a Moorish D. L. Moody, and one day I went +there. As I was going in I met a man coming out. It was Larby. 'Beeba!' +he whispered, with a tragic start--that was his own name for me on the +journey. 'Keep your tongue between your teeth,' I whispered back. 'I was +Beeba yesterday, to-day I'm Sidi Mohammed.' Then I entered, I spread my +prayer-mat, chanted my first Sura, listened to a lusty sermon, and came +out. There, as I expected, in the blind lane leading from the Hamadsha +to the town was Larby waiting for me. 'Beeba,' said he, with a grin, +'you play a double hand of cards.' 'Then,' said I, 'take care I don't +trump your trick.' The rascal had thought I might bribe him, and when he +knew that I would not I saw murder in his face. He had conceived the +idea of betraying me at the next opportunity. At that moment he was as +surely aiming at my life as if he had drawn his dagger and stabbed me. +It was then that I disgraced my principles." + +"How? how?" I said, though truly I had little need to ask. + +"We were alone, I tell you, in a blind lane," said the American; "but I +remembered stories the man had told me of his children. 'Little Hoolia,' +he called his daughter, a pretty, black-eyed mite of six, who always +watched for him when he was away." + +I was breaking into perspiration. "Do you mean," I said, "that you +should have--" + +"I mean that I should have killed the scoundrel there and then!" said +the American. + +"God forbid it!" I cried, and my hair rose from my scalp in horror. + +"Why not?" said the American. "It would have been an act of +_self-defense_. The man meant to kill me. He will kill me still if I +give him the chance. What is the difference between murder in a moment +and murder after five, ten, fifteen, twenty days? Only that one is +murder in hot blood and haste and the other is murder in cold blood and +by stealth. Is it life that you think so precious? Then why should I +value _his_ life more than I value _my own_?" + +I shivered, and could say nothing. + +"You think me a monster," said the American, "but remember, since we +left England the atmosphere has changed." + +"Remember, too," I said, "that this man can do you no harm unless you +intrude yourself upon his superstitions again. Leave the country +immediately; depend upon it, he is following you." + +"That's not possible," said the American, "for _I_ am following _him_. +Until I come up with him I can do nothing, and my existence is not worth +a pin's purchase." + +I shuddered, and we parted. My mind told me that he was right, but my +heart clamored above the voice of reason and said, "_You_ could not do +it, no, not to save a hundred lives." + +Ah, father, how little we know ourselves--how little, oh, how little! +When I think that _he_ shrank back--he who held life so cheap--while +_I_--I who held it so dear, so sacred, so god-like--Bear with me; I will +tell all. + +I met the American at intervals during the next six days. We did not +often speak, but as we passed in the streets--he alone, I always with my +loquacious interpreter--I observed with dread the change that the shadow +of death hanging over a man's head can bring to pass in his face and +manner. He grew thin and sallow and wild-eyed. One day he stopped me, +and said: "I know now what your Buckshot Forster died of," and then he +went on without another word. + +But about ten days after our first meeting in the slave market he +stopped me again, and said, quite cheerfully: "He has gone home--I'm +satisfied of that now." + +"Thank God!" I answered involuntarily. + +"Ah," he said, with a twinkle of the eye, "who says that a man must hang +up his humanity on the peg with his hat in the hospital hall when he +goes to be a surgeon? If the poet Keats had got over the first shock to +his sensibilities, he might have been the greatest surgeon of his day." + +"You'll be more careful in future," I said, "not to cross the fanaticism +of these fanatics?" + +He smiled, and asked if I knew the Karueein Mosque. I told him I had +seen it. + +"It is the greatest in Morocco," he said. "The Moors say the inner court +stands on eight hundred pillars. I don't believe them, and I mean to see +for myself." + +I found it useless to protest, and he went his way, laughing at my +blanched and bewildered face. "That man," I thought, "is fit to be the +hero of a tragedy, and he is wasting himself on a farce." + +Meanwhile, I had a shadow over my own life which would not lift. That +letter which I had received from home at the moment of leaving Tangier +had haunted me throughout the journey. Its brevity, its insufficiency, +its delay, and above all its conspicuous omission of all mention of our +boy had given rise to endless speculation. Every dark possibility that +fancy could devise had risen before me by way of explanation. I despised +myself for such weakness, but self-contempt did nothing to allay my +vague fears. The child was ill; I knew it; I felt it; I could swear to +it as certainly as if my ears could hear the labored breathing in his +throat. + +Nevertheless I went on; so much did my philosophy do for me. But when I +got to Fez I walked straightway to the English post-office to see if +there was a letter awaiting me. Of course there was no letter there. I +had not reflected that I had come direct from the port through which the +mails had to pass, and that if the postal courier had gone by me on the +road I must have seen him, which I had not. + +I was ashamed before my own consciousness, but all the same the +post-office saw me every day. Whatever the direction that I took with my +interpreter, it led toward that destination in the end. And whatever the +subject of his ceaseless gabble--a very deluge of words--it was forced +to come round at last to the times and seasons of the mails from +England. These were bi-weekly, with various possibilities of casual +arrivals besides. + +Fez is a noble city, the largest and finest Oriental city I had yet +seen, fit to compare in its own much different way of beauty and of +splendor with the great cities of the West, the great cities of the +earth, and of all time; but for me its attractions were overshadowed by +the gloom of my anxiety. The atmosphere of an older world, the spirit of +the East, the sense of being transported to Bible times, the startling +interpretations which the Biblical stories were receiving by the events +of every day--these brought me no pleasure. As for the constant +reminders of the presence of Islam every hour, at every corner, the +perpetual breath of prayer and praise, which filled this land that was +corrupt to the core, they gave me pain more poignant than disgust. The +call of the mueddin in the early morning was a daily agony. I slept +three streets from the Karueein minarets, but the voice seemed to float +into my room in the darkness, and coil round my head and ring in my +ears. Always I was awakened at the first sound of the stentorian +"Allah-u-Kabar," or, if I awoke in the silence and thought with a +feeling of relief, "It is over, I have slept through it," the howling +wail would suddenly break in upon my thanksgiving. + +There was just one fact of life in Fez that gave me a kind of melancholy +joy. At nearly every turn of a street my ears were arrested by the +multitudinous cackle, the broken, various-voiced sing-song of a +children's school. These Moorish schools interested me. They were the +simplest of all possible institutes, consisting usually of a +rush-covered cellar, two steps down from the street, with the teacher, +the Taleb, often a half-blind old man, squatting in the middle of the +floor, and his pupils seated about him, and all reciting together some +passages of the Koran, the only textbook of education. One such school +was close under my bedroom window; I heard the drone of it as early as +seven o'clock every morning, and as often as I went abroad I stood for a +moment and looked in at the open doorway. A black boy sat there with a +basket for the alms of passers-by. He was a bright-eyed little fellow, +six or seven years of age, and he knew one English phrase only: "Come +on," he would say, and hold up the basket and smile. What pathetic +interest his sunny face had for me, how he would cheer and touch me, +with what strange memories his voice and laugh would startle me, it +would be pitiful to tell. + +Bear with me! I was far from my own darling, I was in a strange land, I +was a weak man for all that I was thought so strong, and my one +besetting infirmity--more consuming than a mother's love--was preyed +upon by my failing health, which in turn was preying upon it. + +And if the sights of the streets brought me pain, or pleasure that was +akin to pain, what of the sights, the visions, the dreams of my own +solitary mind! I could not close my eyes in the darkness but I saw my +boy. His little child-ghost was always with me. He never appeared as I +had oftenest seen him--laughing, romping, and kicking up his legs on the +hearth-rug. Sometimes he came as he would do at home after he committed +some childish trespass and I had whipped him--opening the door of my +room and stepping one pace in, quietly, nervously, half fearfully, to +say good-night and kiss me at his bedtime, and I would lift my eyes and +see, over the shade of my library lamp, his little sober red-and-white +face just dried of its recent tears. Or, again, sometimes I myself would +seem in these dumb dramas of the darkness to go into his room when he +was asleep, that I might indulge my hungry foolish heart with looks of +fondness that the reproving parent could not give, and find him sleeping +with an open book in his hands, which he had made believe to read. And +then for sheer folly of love I would pick up his wee knickerbockers and +turn out its load at either side, to see what a boy's pockets might be +like, and discover a curiosity shop of poor little treasures--a knife +with a broken blade, a nail, two marbles, a bit of brass, some string, a +screw, a crust of bread, a cork, and a leg of a lobster. + +While I was indulging this weakness the conviction was deepening in my +mind that my boy was ill. So strong did this assurance become at length, +that, though I was ashamed to give way to it so far as to set my face +toward home, being yet no better for my holiday, I sat down at length to +write a letter to Wenman--I had written to my wife by every mail--that I +might relieve my pent-up feelings. I said nothing to him of my +misgivings, for I was loth to confess to them, having no positive +reasons whatever, and no negative grounds except the fact that I was +receiving no letters. But I gave him a full history of my boy's case, +described each stage of it in the past, foretold its probable +developments in the future, indicated with elaborate care the treatment +necessary at every point, and foreshadowed the contingencies under which +it might in the end become malignant and even deadly unless stopped by +the operation that I had myself, after years of labor, found the art of +making. + +I spent an afternoon in the writing of this letter, and when it was done +I felt as if a burden that had been on my back for ages had suddenly +been lifted away. Then I went out alone to post it. The time was close +to evening prayers, and as I walked through the streets the Talebs and +tradesmen, with their prayer-mats under their arms, were trooping into +the various mosques. Going by the Karueein Mosque I observed that the +Good Muslimeen were entering it by hundreds. "Some special celebration," +I thought. My heart was light, my eyes were alert, and my step was +quick. For the first time since my coming to the city, Fez seemed to me +a beautiful place. The witchery of the scenes of the streets took hold +of me. To be thus transported into a world of two thousand years ago +gave me the delight of magic. + +When I reached the English post-office I found it shut up. On its +shutters behind its iron grating a notice-board was hung out, saying +that the office was temporarily closed for the sorting of an incoming +mail and the despatch of an outgoing one. There was a little crowd of +people waiting in front--chiefly Moorish servants of English +visitors--for the window to open again, and near by stood the horses of +the postal couriers pawing the pavement. I dropped my letter into the +slit in the window, and then stood aside to see if the mail had brought +anything for me at last. + +The window was thrown up, and two letters were handed to me through the +grating over the heads of the Moors, who were crushing underneath. I +took them with a sort of fear, and half wished at the first moment that +they might be from strangers. They were from home; one was from my +wife--I knew the envelope before looking at the handwriting--the other +was from Wenman. + +I read Wenman's letter first. Good or bad, the news must be broken to me +gently. Hardly had I torn the sheet open when I saw what it contained. +My little Noel had been ill; he was still so, but not seriously, and I +was not to be alarmed. The silence on their part which I had complained +of so bitterly had merely been due to their fear of giving me +unnecessary anxiety. For his part (Wenman's) he would have written +before, relying on my manliness and good sense, but my wife had +restrained him, saying she knew me better. There was no cause for +apprehension; the boy was going along as well as could be expected, +etc., etc., etc., etc., etc. + +Not a word to indicate the nature and degree of the attack. Such an +insufficient epistle must have disquieted the veriest nincompoop alive. +To send a thing like that to _me_--to me of all men! Was there ever so +gross a mistake of judgment? + +I knew in an instant what the fact must be--my boy was down with that +old congenital infirmity of the throat. Surely my wife had told me more. +She had. Not by design, but unwittingly she had revealed the truth to +me. Granville Wenman had written to me, she said, explaining everything, +and I was not to worry and bother. All that was possible was being done +for our darling, and if I were there I could do no more. The illness had +to have its course, so I must be patient. All this is the usual jargon +of the surgery--I knew that Wenman had dictated it--and then a true line +or two worth all the rest from my dear girl's own bleeding mother's +heart. Our poor Noel was this, and that, he complained of so-and-so, and +first began to look unwell in such and such ways. + +It was clear as noonday. The attack of the throat which I had foreseen +had come. Five years I had looked for it. Through five long years I had +waited and watched to check it. I had labored day and night that when it +should come I might meet it. My own health I had wasted--and for what? +For fame, for wealth, for humanity, for science? No, no, no, but for the +life of my boy. And now when his enemy was upon him at length, where was +I--I who alone in all this world of God could save him? I was thirteen +hundred miles from home. + +Oh, the irony of my fate! My soul rose in rebellion against it. +Staggering back through the darkening streets, the whole city seemed +dead and damned. + +How far I walked in this state of oblivion I do not know, but presently +out of the vague atmosphere wherein all things had been effaced I became +conscious, like one awakening after a drug, of an unusual commotion +going on around. People were running past me and across me in the +direction of the Karueein Mosque. From that place a loud tumult was +rising into the air. The noise was increasing with every moment, and +rising to a Babel of human voices. + +I did not very much heed the commotion. What were the paltry excitements +of life to me now? I was repeating to myself the last words of my poor +wife's letter: "How I miss you, and wish you were with me!" "I will go +back," I was telling myself, "I will go back." + +In the confusion of my mind I heard snatches of words spoken by the +people as they ran by me. "Nazarene!" "Christian!" "Cursed Jew!" These +were hissed out at each other by the Moors as they were scurrying past. +At length I heard a Spaniard shout up to a fellow-countryman who was on +a house-top: "Englishman caught in the mosque." + +At that my disordered senses recovered themselves, and suddenly I became +aware that the tumult was coming in my direction. The noise grew deeper, +louder, and more shrill at every step. In another moment it had burst +upon me in a whirlpool of uproar. + +Round the corner of the narrow lane that led to the Karueein Mosque a +crowd of people came roaring like a torrent. They were Moors, Arabs, and +Berbers, and they were shouting, shrieking, yelling, and uttering every +sound that the human voice can make. At the first instant I realized no +more than this, but at the next I saw that the people were hunting a man +as hounds hunt a wolf. The man was flying before them; he was coming +toward me: in the gathering darkness I could see him; his dress, which +was Moorish, was torn into shreds about his body; his head was bare; his +chest was bleeding; I saw his face--it was the face of the American, my +companion of the voyage. + +He saw me too, and at that instant he turned about and faced full upon +his pursuers. What happened then I dare not tell. + +Father, he was a brave man, and he sold his life dearly. But he fell at +last. He was but one to a hundred. The yelping human dogs trod him down +like vermin. + +I am a coward. I fled and left him. When I got back to my lodgings I +called for my guide, for I was resolved to leave Fez without an hour's +delay. The guide was not to be found, and I had to go in search of him. +When I lighted on him, at length, he was in a dingy coffee-house, +squatting on the ground by the side of another Moor, an evil-looking +scoundrel, who was reciting some brave adventure to a group of admiring +listeners. + +I called my man out and told him of my purpose. He lifted his hands in +consternation. "Leave Fez to-night?" he said. "Impossible, my sultan, +impossible! My lord has not heard the order!" + +"What order?" I asked. I was alarmed. Must I be a prisoner in Morocco +while my child lay dying in England? + +"That the gates be closed and no Christian allowed to leave the city +until the morning. It is the order of the Kaleefa, my sultan, since the +outrage of the Christian in the mosque this morning." + +I suspected the meaning of this move in an instant, and the guide's +answer to my questions ratified my fears. One man, out of madness or +thirst for revenge, had led the attack upon the American, and a crowd of +fanatics had killed him--giving him no chance of retreat with his life, +either by circumcision or the profession of Islam. But cooler heads had +already found time to think of the penalty of shedding Christian blood. +That penalty was twofold: first, the penalty of disgrace which would +come of the idea that the lives of Christians were not safe in Morocco, +and next, the penalty of hard dollars to be paid to the American +Minister at Tangier. + +To escape from the double danger the outrage was to be hushed up. +Circumstances lent themselves to this artifice. True, that passage of +the American across country had been known in every village through +which he had passed; but at the gates of Fez he had himself cut off all +trace of his identity. He had entered the city alone, or in disguise. +His arrival as a stranger had not been notified at any of the "clubs" or +bazaars. Only one man had recognized him: that man was Larby, his guide. + +The body was to be buried secretly, no Christian being allowed to see +it. Then the report was to be given out that the dead man had been a +Moorish subject, that he had been killed in a blood-fued, and that the +rumor that he was a Christian caught in the act of defying the mosque +was an error, without the shadow of truth in it. But until all this had +been done no Christian should be allowed to pass through the gates. As +things stood at present the first impulse of a European would be to fly +to the Consul with the dangerous news. + +I knew something of the Moors and their country by this time, and I left +Fez that night, but it cost me fifty pounds to get out of it. There was +a bribe for the kaid, a bribe for the Kaleefa, and bribes for every +ragged Jack of the underlings down to the porter at the gate. + +With all my horror and the fever of my anxiety, I could have laughed in +the face of the first of these functionaries. Between his greedy desire +of the present I was offering him, his suspicion that I knew something +of the identity of the Christian who had been killed, his misgivings as +to the reasons of my sudden flight, and his dread that I would discover +the circumstances of the American's death, the figure he cut was a +foolish one. But why should I reproach the man's duplicity? I was +practising the like of it myself. Too well I knew that if I betrayed any +knowledge of what had happened it would be impossible that I should be +allowed to leave Fez. + +So I pretended to know nothing. It was a ridiculous interview. + +On my way back from it I crossed a little company of Moors, leading, +surrounding, and following a donkey. The donkey was heavily laden with +what appeared to be two great panniers of rubbish. It was dusk, but my +sight has always been keen, and I could not help seeing that hidden +under the rubbish there was another burden on the donkey's back. It was +the body of a dead man. I had little doubt of who the dead man must be; +but I hastened on and did not look again. The Moors turned into a garden +as I passed them. I guessed what they were about to do there, but my own +danger threatened me, and I wished to see and know no more. + +As I was passing out of the town in the moonlight an hour before +midnight, with my grumbling tentmen and muleteers at my heels, a man +stepped out of the shadow of the gateway arch and leered in my face, and +said in broken English, "So your Christian friend is corrected by +Allah!" + +_Moorish English, my son, or Spanish?_ + +Spanish. + +It was the scoundrel whom I had seen in the coffee-house. I knew he must +be Larby, and that he had betrayed his master at last. Also, I knew that +he was aware that I had seen all. At that moment, looking down from my +horse's back into the man's evil face my whole nature changed. I +remembered the one opportunity which the American had lost out of a +wandering impulse of human tenderness--of saving his own life by taking +the life of him that threatened it, and I said in my heart of hearts, +"Now God in heaven keep me from the like temptation." + +Ah! father, do not shrink from me; think of it, only think of it! I was +fifteen hundred miles from home, and I was going back to my dying boy. + + * * * * * + +_God keep you, indeed, my son. Your feet were set in a slippery place. +El Arby, you say? A man of your own age? Dark? Sallow? It must be the +same. Long ago I knew the man you speak of. It was under another name, +and in another country. Yes, he was all you say. God forgive him, God +forgive him! Poor wrecked and bankrupt soul. His evil angel was always +at his hand, and his good one far away. He brought his father to shame, +and his mother to the grave. There was a crime and conviction, then +banishment, and after that his father fled from the world. But the +Church is peace; he took refuge with her, and all is well. Go on now._ + + + + +III + + +Father, I counted it up. Every mile of the distance I counted it. And I +reckoned every hour since my wife's letter had been written against the +progress and period of my boy's disease. So many days since the date of +the letter, and Noel had been ailing and ill so many days before that. +The gross sum of those days was so much, and in that time the affection, +if it ran the course I looked for, must have reached such and such a +stage. While I toiled along over the broad wastes of that desolate land, +I seemed to know at any moment what the condition must be at the utmost +and best of my boy in his bed at home. + +Then I reckoned the future as well as the past. So many days it would +take me to ride to Tangier, so many hours to cross from Tangier to +Cadiz, so many days and nights by rail from Cadiz to London. The grand +total of time past since my poor Noel first became unwell, and of time +to come before I could reach his side, would be so much. What would his +condition be then? I knew that also. It would be so and so. + +Thus, step by step I counted it all up. The interval would be long, very +long, between the beginning of the attack and my getting home, but not +too long for my hopes. All going well with me, I should still arrive in +time. If the disease had taken an evil turn, my boy might perhaps be in +its last stages. But then _I_ would be there, and I could save him. The +operation which I had spent five years of my life to master would bring +him back from the gates of death itself. + +Father, I had no doubt of that, and I had no doubt of my calculations. +Lying here now it seems as if the fiends themselves must have shrieked +to see me in that far-off land gambling like a fool in the certainty of +the life I loved, and reckoning nothing of the hundred poor chances that +might snuff it out like a candle. Call it frenzy, call it madness, +nevertheless it kept my heart alive, and saved me from despair. + +But, oh! the agony of my impatience! If anything should stop me now! Let +me be one day later--only one--and what might not occur! Then, how many +were the dangers of delay! First, there was the possibility of illness +overtaking me. My health was not better, but worse, than when I left +home. I was riding from sunrise to sunset, and not sleeping at nights. +No matter! I put all fear from that cause away from me. Though my limbs +refused to bear me up, and under the affliction of my nerves my muscles +lost the power to hold the reins, yet if I could be slung on to the back +of my horse I should still go on. + +But then there was the worse danger of coming into collision with the +fanaticism of the people through whose country I had to pass. I did not +fear the fate of the American, for I could not be guilty of his folly. +But I remembered the admission of the English Consul at Tangier that a +stranger might offend the superstitions of the Moslems unwittingly; I +recalled his parting words of counsel, spoken half in jest, "Keep out of +a Moorish prison"; and the noisome dungeon into which the young Berber +had been cast arose before my mind in visions of horror. + +What precautions I took to avoid these dangers of delay would be a long +and foolish story. Also, it would be a mean and abject one, and I should +be ashamed to tell it. How I saluted every scurvy beggar on the way with +the salutation of his faith and country; how I dismounted as I +approached a town or a village, and only returned to the saddle when I +had gone through it: how I uncovered my head--in ignorance of Eastern +custom--as I went by a saint's house, and how at length (remembering the +Jewish banker who was beaten) I took off my shoes and walked barefoot as +I passed in front of a mosque. + +Yes, it was I who paid all this needless homage; I whose pride has +always been my bane; I who could not bend the knee to be made a knight; +I who had felt humility before no man. Even so it was. In my eagerness, +my impatience, my dread of impediment on my journey home to my darling +who waited for me there, I was studying the faces and groveling at the +feet of that race of ignorant fanatics. + +But the worst of my impediments were within my own camp. The American +was right. The Moor can not comprehend a disinterested action. My +foolish homage to their faith awakened the suspicions of my men. When +they had tried in vain to fathom the meaning of it, they agreed to +despise me. I did not heed their contempt, but I was compelled to take +note of its consequences. From being my servants, they became my +masters. When it pleased them to encamp I had to rest, though my +inclination was to go on, and only when it suited them to set out again +could I resume my journey. In vain did I protest, and plead, and +threaten. The Moor is often a brave man, but these men were a gang of +white-livered poltroons, and a blow would have served to subdue them. +With visions of a Moorish prison before my eyes I dared not raise my +hand. One weapon alone could I, in my own cowardice, employ against +them--bribes, bribes, bribes. Such was the sole instrument with which I +combated their laziness, their duplicity, and their deceit. + +Father, I was a pitiful sight in my weakness and my impatience. We had +not gone far out of Fez when I observed that the man Larby was at the +heels of our company. This alarmed me, and I called to my guide. + +"Alee," I said, "who is that evil-looking fellow?" + +Alee threw up both hands in amazement. "Evil-looking fellow!" he cried. +"God be gracious to my father! Who does my lord mean? Not Larby; no, not +Larby. Larby is a good man. He lives in one of the mosque houses at +Tangier. The Nadir leased it to him, and he keeps his shop on the Sok de +Barra. Allah bless Larby. Should you want musk, should you want +cinnamon, Larby is the man to sell to you. But sometimes he guides +Christians to Fez, and then his brother keeps his shop for him." + +"But why is the man following us?" I asked. + +"My sultan," said Alee, "am I not telling you? Larby is returning home. +The Christian he took to Fez, where is he?" + +"Yes," I said, "where is he?" + +Alee grinned, and answered: "He is gone--southward, my lord." + +"Why should you lie to me like that?" I said. "You know the Christian is +dead, and that this Larby was the means of killing him!" + +"Shoo! What is my lord saying?" cried Alee, lifting his fat hands with a +warning gesture. "What did my lord tell the Basha? My lord must know +nothing--nothing. It would not be safe." + +Then with glances of fear toward Larby, and dropping his voice to a +whisper, Alee added, "It is true the Christian is dead; he died last +sunset. Allah corrected him. So Larby is going back alone, going back to +his shop, to his house, to his wives, to his little daughter Hoolia. +Allah send Larby a safe return. Not following us, Sidi. No, no; Larby is +going back the same way--that is all." + +The answer did not content me, but I could say no more. Nevertheless, my +uneasiness at the man's presence increased hour by hour. I could not +think of him without thinking also of the American and of the scene of +horror near to the Karueein Mosque. I could not look at him but the +blood down my back ran cold. So I called my guide again, and said, "Send +that man away; I will not have him in our company." + +Alee pretended to be deeply wounded. "Sidi," he said, "ask anything else +of me. What will you ask? Will you ask me to die for you? I am ready, I +am willing, I am satisfied. But Larby is my friend. Larby is my brother, +and this thing you ask of me I can not do. Allah has not written it. +Sidi, it can not be." + +With such protestations--the common cant of the country--I had need to +be content. But now the impression fixed itself upon my mind that the +evil-faced scoundrel who had betrayed the American to his death was not +only following _us_ but _me_. Oh! the torment of that idea in the +impatience of my spirit and the racking fever of my nerves! To be dogged +day and night as by a bloodhound, never to raise my eyes without the +dread of encountering the man's watchful eye--the agony of the incubus +was unbearable! + +My first thought was merely that the rascal meant robbery. However far I +might ride ahead of my own people in the daytime he was always close +behind me, and as surely as I wandered away from the camp at nightfall I +was overtaken by him or else I met him face to face. + +"Alee," I said at last, "that man is a thief." + +Of course Alee was horrified. "Ya Allah!" he cried. "What is my lord +saying? The Moor is no thief. The Moor is true, the Moor is honest. None +so true and honest as the Moor. Wherefore should the Moor be a thief? To +be a thief in Barbary is to be a fool. Say I rob a Christian. Good. I +kill him and take all he has and bury him in a lonely place. All right. +What happens? Behold, Sidi, this is what happens. Your Christian Consul +says, 'Where is the Christian you took to Fez?' I can not tell. I lie, I +deceive, I make excuses. No use. Your Christian Consul goes to the +Kasbah, and says to the Basha: 'Cast that Moor into prison, he is a +robber and a murderer!' Then he goes to the Sultan at Marrakesh, in the +name of your Queen, who lives in the country of the Nazarenes, over the +sea. 'Pay me twenty thousand dollars,' he says, 'for the life of my +Christian who is robbed and murdered,' Just so. The Sultan--Allah +preserve our Mulai Hassan!--he pays the dollars. Good, all right, just +so. But is that all, Sidi? No, Sidi, that is not all. The Sultan--God +prolong the life of our merciful lord--he then comes to my people, to my +Basha, to my bashalic, and he says, 'Pay me back my forty thousand +dollars'--do you hear me, Sidi, _forty_ thousand!--'for the Nazarene who +is dead.' All right. But we can not pay. Good. The Sultan--Allah save +him!--he comes, he takes all we have, he puts every man of my people to +the sword. We are gone, we are wiped out. Did I not say, Sidi, to be a +thief in Barbary is to be a fool?" + +It was cold comfort. That the man Larby was following me I was +confident, and that he meant to rob me I was at first convinced. Small +solace, therefore, in the thought that if the worst befell me, and my +boy at home died for want of his father, who lay robbed and murdered in +those desolate wastes, my Government would exact a claim in paltry +dollars. + +My next thought was that the man was merely watching me out of the +country. That he was aware that I knew his secret was only too certain; +that he had betrayed my knowledge to the authorities at the capital +after I had parted from them was more than probable, and it was not +impossible that the very men who had taken bribes of me had in their +turn bribed him that he might follow me and see that I did not inform +the Ministers and Consuls of foreign countries of the murder of the +American in the streets of Fez. + +That theory partly reconciled me to the man's presence: Let him watch. +His constant company was in its tormenting way my best security. I +should go to no Minister, and no Consul should see me. I had too much +reason to think of my own living affairs to busy myself with those of +the dead American. + +But such poor unction as this reflection brought me was dissipated by a +second thought. What security for the man himself, or for the +authorities who might have bribed him--or perhaps menaced him--to watch +me would lie in the fact that I had passed out of the country without +revealing the facts of the crime which I had witnessed? Safely back in +England, I might tell all with safety. Once let me leave Morocco with +their secret in my breast, and both the penalties these people dreaded +might be upon them. Merely to watch me was wasted labor. They meant to +do more, or they would have done nothing. + +Thinking so, another idea took possession of me with a shock of +terror--the man was following me to kill me as the sole Christian +witness of the crime that had been committed. By the light of that +theory everything became plain. When I visited the Kasbah nothing was +known of my acquaintance with the murdered man. My bribes were taken, +and I was allowed to leave Fez in spite of public orders. But then came +Larby with alarming intelligence. I had been a friend of the American, +and had been seen to speak with him in the public streets. Perhaps Larby +himself had seen me, or perhaps my own guide, Alee, had betrayed me to +his friend and "brother." At that the Kaid or his Kaleefa had raised +their eyebrows and sworn at each other for simpletons and fools. To +think that the very man who had intended to betray them had come with an +innocent face and a tale of a sick child in England! To think that they +had suffered him to slip through their fingers and leave them some +paltry bribes of fifty pounds! Fifty pounds taken by stealth against +twenty thousand dollars to be plumped down after the Christian had told +his story! These Nazarenes were so subtle, and the sons of Ishmael were +so simple. But diamond cut diamond. Everything was not lost. One hundred +and twenty-five miles this Christian had still to travel before he could +sail from Barbary, and not another Christian could he encounter on that +journey. Then up, Larby, and after him! God make your way easy! +Remember, Larby, remember, good fellow, it is not only the pockets of +the people of Fez that are in danger if that Christian should escape. +Let him leave the Gharb alive, and your own neck is in peril. You were +the spy, you were the informer, you were the hotheaded madman who led +the attack that ended in the spilling of Christian blood. If the Sultan +should have to pay twenty thousand dollars to the Minister for America +at Tangier for the life of this dead dog whom we have grubbed into the +earth in a garden, if the Basha of Fez should have to pay forty thousand +dollars to the Sultan, if the people should have to pay eighty thousand +dollars to the Basha, then you, Larby, you in your turn will have to pay +with your _life_ to the people. It is _your_ life against the life of +the Christian. So follow him, watch him, silence him, he knows your +secret--away! + +Such was my notion of what happened at the Kasbah of Fez after I had +passed the gates of the city. It was a wild vision, but to my +distempered imagination it seemed to be a plausible theory. And now +Larby, the spy upon the American, Larby, my assassin-elect, Larby, who +to save his own life must take mine, Larby was with me, was beside me, +was behind me constantly! + +_God help you, my son, God help you! Larby! O Larby! Again, again!_ + +What was I to do? Open my heart to Larby; to tell him it was a blunder; +that I meant no man mischief; that I was merely hastening back to my +sick boy, who was dying for want of me? That was impossible; Larby would +laugh in my face, and still follow me. Bribe him? That was useless; +Larby would take my money and make the surer of his victim. It was a +difficult problem; but at length I hit on a solution. Father, you will +pity me for a fool when you hear it. I would bargain with Larby as Faust +bargained with the devil. He should give me two weeks of life, and come +with me to England. I should do my work here, and Larby should never +leave my side. My boy's life should be saved by that operation, which I +alone knew how to perform. After that Larby and I should square accounts +together. He should have all the money I had in the world, and the +passport of my name and influence for his return to his own country. I +should write a confession of suicide, and then--and then--only then--at +home--here in my own room--Larby should kill me in order to satisfy +himself that his own secret and the secret of his people must be safe +forever. + +It was a mad dream, but what dream of dear life is not mad that comes to +the man whom death dogs like a bloodhound? And mad as it was I tried to +make it come true. The man was constantly near me, and on the third +morning of our journey I drew up sharply, and said: + +"Larby!" + +"Sidi," he answered. + +"Would you not like to go on with me to England?" + +He looked at me with his glittering eyes, and I gave an involuntary +shiver. I had awakened the man's suspicions in an instant. He thought I +meant to entrap him. But he only smiled knowingly, shrugged his +shoulders, and answered civilly: "I have my shop in the Sok de Barra, +Sidi. And then there are my wives and my sons and my little Hoolia--God +be praised for all his blessings." + +"Hoolia?" I asked. + +"My little daughter, Sidi." + +"How old is she?" + +"Six, Sidi, only six, but as fair as an angel." + +"I dare say she misses you when you are away, Larby," I said. + +"You have truth, Sidi. She sits in the Sok by the tents of the +brassworkers and plaits rushes all the day long, and looks over to where +the camels come by the saints' houses on the hill, and waits and +watches." + +"Larby," I said, "I, too, have a child at home who is waiting and +watching. A boy, my little Noel, six years of age, just as old as your +own little Hoolia. And so bright, so winsome. But he is ill, he is +dying, and he is all the world to me. Larby, I am a surgeon, I am a +doctor, if I could but reach England--" + +It was worse than useless. I stopped, for I could go no farther. The +cold glitter of the man's eyes passed over me like frost over flame, and +I knew his thought as well as if he had spoken it. "I have heard that +story before," he was telling himself, "I have heard it at the Kasbah, +and it is a lie and a trick." + +My plan was folly, and I abandoned it; but I was more than ever +convinced of my theory. This man was following me to kill me. He was +waiting an opportunity to do his work safely, secretly, and effectually. +His rulers would shield him in his crime, for by that crime they would +themselves be shielded. + +Father, my theory, like my plan, was foolishness. Only a madman would +have dreamt of concealing a crime whereof there was but one witness, by +a second crime, whereof the witnesses must have been five hundred. The +American had traveled in disguise and cut off the trace of his identity +to all men save myself. When he died at the hands of the fanatics whose +faith he had outraged, I alone of all Christians knew that it was +Christian blood that had stained the streets of Fez. But how different +my own death must have been. I had traveled openly as a Christian and an +Englishman. At the consulate of Tangier I was known by name and repute, +and at that of Fez I had registered myself. My presence had been +notified at every town I had passed through, and the men of my caravan +would not have dared to return to their homes without me. In the case of +the murder of the American the chances to the Moorish authorities of +claim for indemnity were as one to five hundred. In the case of the like +catastrophe to myself they must have been as five hundred to one. Thus, +in spite of fanaticism and the ineradicable hatred of the Moslem for the +Nazarene, Morocco to me, as to all Christian travelers, traveling openly +and behaving themselves properly, was as safe a place as England itself. + +But how can a man be hot and cold and wise and foolish in a moment? I +was in no humor to put the matter to myself temperately, and, though I +had been so cool as to persuade myself that the authorities whom I had +bribed could not have been madmen enough to think that they could +conceal the murder of the American by murdering me, yet I must have +remained convinced that Larby himself was such a madman. + +As a surgeon, I had some knowledge of madness, and the cold, clear, +steely glitter of the man's eyes when he looked at me was a thing that I +could not mistake. I had seen it before in religious monomaniacs. It was +an infallible and fatal sign. With that light in the eyes, like the +glance of a dagger, men will kill the wives they love, and women will +slaughter the children of their bosom. When I saw it in Larby I shivered +with a chilly presentiment. It seemed to say that I should see my home +no more. I have seen my home once more; I am back in England, I am here, +but-- + +_No, no, not_ THAT! _Larby! Don't tell_ ME _you did_ THAT. + +Father, is my crime so dark? That hour comes back and back. How long +will it haunt me? How long? For ever and ever. When time for me is +swallowed up in eternity, eternity will be swallowed up in the memory of +that hour. Peace! Do you say peace? Ah! yes, yes; God is merciful! + +Before I had spoken to Larby his presence in our company had been only +as a dark and fateful shadow. Now it was a foul and hateful incubus. +Never in all my life until then had I felt hatred for any human +creature. But I hated that man with all the sinews of my soul. What was +it to me that he was a madman? He intended to keep me from my dying boy. +Why should I feel tenderness toward him because he was the father of his +little Hoolia? By killing me he would kill my little Noel. + +I began to recall the doctrines of the American as he propounded them on +the ship. It was the life of an honest man against the life of a +scoundrel. These things should be rated _ad valorem_. If the worst came +to the worst, why should I have more respect for this madman's life than +for my own? + +I looked at the man and measured his strength against mine. He was a +brawny fellow with broad shoulders, and I was no better than a weakling. +I was afraid of him, but I was yet more afraid of myself. Sometimes I +surprised my half-conscious mind in the act of taking out of its +silver-mounted sheath the large curved knife which I had bought of the +hawker at Tangier, and now wore in the belt of my Norfolk jacket. In my +cowardice and my weakness this terrified me. Not all my borrowed +philosophy served to support me against the fear of my own impulses. +Meantime, I was in an agony of suspense and dread. The nights brought me +no rest and the mornings no freshness. + +On the fourth day out of Fez we arrived at Wazzan, and there, though the +hour was still early, my men decided to encamp for the night. I +protested, and they retorted; I threatened, and they excused themselves. +The mules wanted shoeing. I offered to pay double that they might be +shod immediately. The tents were torn by a heavy wind the previous +night. I offered to buy new ones. When their trumpery excuses failed +them, the men rebelled openly, and declared their determination not to +stir out of Wazzan that night. + +But they had reckoned without their host this time. I found that there +was an English Consul at Wazzan, and I went in search of him. His name +was Smith, and he was a typical Englishman--ample, expansive, firm, +resolute, domineering, and not troubled with too much sentiment. I told +him of the revolt of my people and of the tyranny of the subterfuges +whereby they had repeatedly extorted bribes. The good fellow came to my +relief. He was a man of purpose, and he had no dying child twelve +hundred miles away to make him a fool and a coward. + +"Men," he said, "you've got to start away with this gentleman at +sundown, and ride night and day--do you hear me, night and day--until +you come to Tangier. A servant of my own shall go with you, and if you +stop or delay or halt or go slowly he shall see that every man of you is +clapped into the Kasbah as a blackmailer and a thief." + +There was no more talk of rebellion. The men protested that they had +always been willing to travel. Sidi had been good to them, and they +would be good to Sidi. At sundown they would be ready. + +"You will have no more trouble, sir," said the Consul; "but I will come +back to see you start." + +I thanked him and we parted. It was still an hour before sunset, and I +turned aside to look at the town. I had barely walked a dozen paces when +I came face to face with Larby. In the turmoil of my conflict with the +men I had actually forgotten him for one long hour. He looked at me with +his glittering eyes, and then his cold, clear gaze followed the Consul +as he passed down the street. That double glance was like a shadowy +warning. It gave me a shock of terror. + +How had I forgotten my resolve to baffle suspicion by exchanging no word +or look with any European Minister or Consul as long as I remained in +Morocco? The expression in the man's face was not to be mistaken. It +seemed to say, "So you have told all; very well, Sidi, we shall see." + +With a sense as of creeping and cringing I passed on. The shadow of +death seemed to have fallen upon me at last. I felt myself to be a +doomed man. That madman would surely kill me. He would watch his chance; +I should never escape him; my home would see me no more; my boy would +die for want of me. + +A tingling noise, as of the jangling of bells, was in my ears. Perhaps +it was the tinkling of the bells of the water-carriers, prolonged and +unbroken. A gauzy mist danced before my eyes. Perhaps it was the +palpitating haze which the sun cast back from the gilded domes and +minarets. + +Domes and minarets were everywhere in this town of Wazzan. It seemed to +be a place of mosques and saints' houses. Where the wide arch and the +trough of the mosque were not, there was the open door in the low +white-washed wall of the saint's house, surmounted by its white flag. In +my dazed condition, I was sometimes in danger of stumbling into such +places unawares. At the instant of recovered consciousness I always +remembered the warnings of my guide as I stood by the house of Sidi Gali +at Tangier: "Sacred place? Yes, sacred. No Nazarene may enter it. But +Moslems, yes, Moslems may fly here for sanctuary. Life to the Moslem, +death to the Nazarene. So it is." + +Oh, it is an awful thing to feel that death is waiting for you +constantly, that at any moment, at any turn, at any corner it may be +upon you! Such was my state as I walked on that evening, waiting for the +sunset, through the streets of Wazzan. At one moment I was conscious of +a sound in my ears above the din of traffic--the _Arrah_ of the +ass-drivers, the _Balak_ of the men riding mules, and the general clamor +of tongues. It was the steady beat of a footstep close behind me. I knew +whose footstep it was. I turned about quickly, and Larby was again face +to face with me. He met my gaze with the same cold, glittering look. My +impulse was to fly at his throat, but that I dare not do. I knew myself +to be a coward, and I remembered the Moorish prison. + +"Larby," I said, "what do you want?" + +"Nothing, Sidi, nothing," he answered. + +"Then why are you following me like this?" + +"Following you, Sidi?" The fellow raised his eyebrows and lifted both +hands in astonishment. + +"Yes, following me, dogging me, watching me, tracking me down. What does +it mean? Speak out plainly." + +"Sidi is jesting," he said, with a mischievous smile. "Is not this +Wazzan--the holy city of Wazzan? Sidi is looking at the streets, at the +mosques, at the saints' houses. So is Larby. That is all." + +One glance at the man's evil eyes would have told you that he lied. + +"Which way are you going?" I asked. + +"This way." With a motion of the head he indicated the street before +him. + +"Then I am going to this," I said, and I walked away in the opposite +direction. + +I resolved to return to the English Consul, to tell him everything, and +claim his protection. Though all the Moorish authorities in Morocco were +in league with this religious monomaniac, yet surely there was life and +safety under English power for one whose only offense was that of being +witness to a crime which might lead to a claim for indemnity. + +_That it should come to this, and I of all men should hear it! God help +me! God lead me! God give me light! Light, light, O God; give me light!_ + + + + +IV + + +Full of this new purpose and of the vague hope inspired by it, I was +making my way back to the house of the Consul, when I came upon two +postal couriers newly arrived from Tangier on their way to Fez. They +were drawn up, amid a throng of the townspeople, before the palace of +the Grand Shereef, and with the Moorish passion for "powder-play" they +were firing their matchlocks into the air as salute and signal. Sight of +the mail-bags slung at their sides, and of the Shereef's satchel, which +they had come some miles out of their course to deliver, suggested the +thought that they might be carrying letters for me, which could never +come to my hands unless they were given to me now. The couriers spoke +some little English. I explained my case to them, and begged them to +open their bags and see if anything had been sent forward in my name +from Tangier to Fez. True to the phlegmatic character of the Moor in all +affairs of common life, they protested that they dare not do so; the +bags were tied and sealed, and none dare open them. If there were +letters of mine inside they must go on to Fez, and then return to +Tangier. But with the usual results I had recourse to my old expedient; +a bribe broke the seals, the bags were searched and two letters were +found for me. + +The letters, like those that came to Fez, were one from my wife and one +from Wenman. I could not wait till I was alone, but broke open the +envelopes and read my letters where I stood. A little crowd of Moors had +gathered about me--men, youths, boys, and children--the ragged +inhabitants of the streets of the holy city. They seemed to be chaffing +and laughing at my expense, but I paid no heed to them. + +Just as before, so now, and for the same reason I read Wenman's letter +first. I remember every word of it, for every word seemed to burn into +my brain like flame. + +"My dear fellow," wrote Wenman, "I think it my duty to tell you that +your little son is seriously ill." + +I knew it--I knew it; who knew it so well as I, though I was more than a +thousand miles away? + +"It is a strange fact that he is down with the very disease of the +throat which you have for so long a time made your especial study. Such, +at least, is our diagnosis, assisted by your own discoveries. The case +has now reached that stage where we must contemplate the possibility of +the operation which you have performed with such amazing results. Our +only uneasiness arises from the circumstance that this operation has +hitherto been done by no one except yourself. We have, however, your +explanations and your diagrams, and on these we must rely. And, even if +you were here, his is not a case in which your own hand should be +engaged. Therefore, rest assured, my dear fellow," etc., etc. + +Blockheads! If they had not done it already they must not do it at all. +I would telegraph from Tangier that I was coming. Not a case for my +hand! Fools, fools! It was a case for my hand only. + +I did not stop to read the friendly part of Wenman's letter, the good +soul's expression of sympathy and solicitude, but in the fever of my +impatience, sweating at every pore and breaking into loud exclamations, +I tore open the letter from my wife. My eyes swam over the sheet, and I +missed much at that first reading, but the essential part of the message +stood out before me as if written in red: + +"We ... so delighted ... your letters.... Glad you are having warm, +beautiful weather.... Trust ... make you strong and well.... We are +having blizzards here ... snowing to-day.... I am sorry to tell you, +dearest, that our darling is very ill. It is his throat again. This is +Friday, and he has grown worse every day since I wrote on Monday. When +he can speak he is always calling for you. He thinks if you were here he +would soon be well. He is very weak, for he can take no nourishment, and +he has grown so thin, poor little fellow. But he looks very lovely, and +every night he says in his prayers, 'God bless papa, and bring him +safely home'...." + +I could bear no more, the page in my hands was blotted out, and for the +first time since I became a man I broke into a flood of tears. + +O Omnipotent Lord of Heaven and earth, to think that this child is as +life of my life and soul of my soul, that he is dying, that I alone of +all men living can save him, and that we are twelve hundred miles apart! +Wipe them out, O Lord--wipe out this accursed space dividing us; +annihilate it. Thou canst do all, thou canst remove mountains, and this +is but a little thing to Thee. Give me my darling under my hands, and I +will snatch him out of the arms of death itself. + +Did I utter such words aloud out of the great tempest of my trouble? I +can not say; I do not know. Only when I had lifted my eyes from my +wife's letter did I become conscious of where I was and what was going +on around me. I was still in the midst of the crowd of idlers, and they +were grinning, and laughing, and jeering, and mocking at the sight of +tears--weak, womanish, stupid tears--on the face of a strong man. + +I was ashamed, but I was yet more angry, and to escape from the danger +of an outbreak of my wrath I turned quickly aside, and walked rapidly +down a narrow alley. + +As I did so a second paper dropped to the ground from the sheet of my +wife's letter. Before I had picked it up I saw what it was. It was a +message from my boy himself, in the handwriting of his nurse. + +"He is brighter to-night," the good creature herself wrote at the top of +the page, "and he would insist on dictating this letter." + +"My dear, dear papa--" + +When I had read thus far I was conscious again that the yelling, +barking, bleating mob behind were looking after me. To avoid the torment +of their gaze I hurried on, passed down a second alley, and then turned +into a narrow opening which seemed to be the mouth of a third. But I +paid small heed to my footsteps, for all my mind was with the paper +which I wished to read. + +Finding myself in a quiet place at length, I read it. The words were my +little darling's own, and I could hear his voice as if he were speaking +them: + + * * * * * + +"My dear, dear papa, I am ill with my throat, and sometimes I can't +speak. Last night the ceiling was falling down on me, and the fire was +coming up to the bed. But I'm werry nearly all right now. We are going +to have a Thanksgiving party soon--me, and Jumbo, and Scotty, the puppy. +When are you coming home? Do you live in a tent in Morocco? I have a +fire in my bedroom: do you? Write and send me some foreign stamps from +Tangier. Are the little boys black in Morocco? Nurse showed me a picture +of a lady who lives there, and she's all black except her lips, and her +mouth stands out. Have you got a black servant? Have you got a horse to +ride on? Is he black? I am tired now. Good-night. Mama says I must not +tell you to come home quick. Jumbo's all right. He grunts when you shove +him along. So good-night, papa. x x x x. These kisses are all for you. I +am so thin. + +"From your little boy, + +"NOEL." + + * * * * * + +Come home! Yes, my darling, I will come home. Nothing shall stop me +now--nothing, nothing! The sun is almost set. Everything is ready. The +men must be saddling the horses again. In less than half an hour I shall +have started afresh. I will ride all night to-night and all day +to-morrow, and in a week I shall be standing by your side. A week! How +long! how long! Lord of life and death, keep my boy alive until then! + +I became conscious that I was speaking hot words such as these aloud. +Even agony like mine has its lucidities of that kind. At the same moment +I heard footsteps somewhere behind me. They were slow and steady +footsteps, but I knew them too well. The blood rushed to my head and +back to my heart. I looked up and around. Where was I? Where? Where? + +I was in a little court, surrounded by low, white-washed walls. Before +me there was an inner compartment roofed by a rude dome. From the apex +of this dome there floated a tiny white flag. I was in a saint's house. +In the confusion of my mind, and the agonizing disarray of all my +senses, I had stumbled into the sacred place unawares. + +The footsteps came nearer. They seemed to be sounding on the back of my +neck. I struggled forward a few paces. By a last mechanical resource of +despair I tried to conceal myself in the inner chamber. I was too late. +A face appeared in the opening at which I had entered. It was Larby's +face, contracted into a grimacing expression. + +I read the thought of the man's face as by a flash of light. "Good, +Sidi, good! You have done my work as well as my master's. You are a dead +man; no one will know, and I need never to lift my hand to you." + +At the next instant the face was gone. In the moment following I lived a +lifetime. My brain did not think; it lightened. I remembered the death +of the American in the streets of Fez. I recalled the jeering crowd at +the top of the alley. I reflected that Larby was gone to tell the mob +that I had dishonored one of their sanctuaries. I saw myself dragged +out, trampled under foot, torn to pieces, and then smuggled away in the +dusk on a donkey's back under panniers of filth. My horses ready, my men +waiting, my boy dying for want of me, and myself dead in a dunghill. + +"Great Jehovah, lend me Thy strength!" I cried, as I rushed out into the +alley. Larby was stealing away with rapid steps. I overtook him; I laid +hold of him by the hood of his jellab. He turned upon me. All my soul +was roused to uncontrollable fury. I took the man in both my arms, I +threw him off his feet, I lifted him by one mighty effort high above my +shoulders and flung him to the ground. + +He began to cry out, and I sprang upon him again and laid hold of his +throat. I knew where to grip, and not a sound could he utter. We were +still in the alley, and I put my left hand into the neck of his kaftan +and dragged him back into the saint's house. He drew his dagger and +lunged at me. I parried the thrust with my foot and broke his arm with +my heel. Then there was a moment of horrible bedazzlement. Red flames +flashed before me. My head grew dizzy. The whole universe seemed to reel +beneath my feet. The man was doubled backward across my knee. I had +drawn my knife--I knew where to strike--and "For my boy, my boy!" I +cried in my heart. + +It was done. The man died without a groan. His body collapsed in my +hands, rolled from my knee, and fell at my feet--doubled up, the head +under the neck, the broken arm under the trunk in a heap, a heap. + +_Oh! oh! Larby! Larby!_ + +Then came an awful revulsion of feeling. For a moment I stood looking +down, overwhelmed with the horror of my act. In a sort of drunken stupor +I gazed at the wide-open eyes, and the grimacing face fixed in its +hideousness by the convulsion of death. O God! O God! what had I done! +what had I done! + +But I did not cry out. In that awful moment an instinct of +self-preservation saved me. The fatal weapon dropped from my hand, and I +crept out of the place. My great strength was all gone now. I staggered +along, and at every step my limbs grew more numb and stiff. + +But in the alley I looked around. I knew no way back to my people except +that way by which I came. Down the other alley and through the crowd of +idlers I must go. Would they be there still? If so, would they see in my +face what I had done? + +I was no criminal to mask my crime. In a dull, stupid, drowsy, comatose +state I tottered down the alley and through the crowd. They saw me; they +recognized me; I knew that they were jeering at me, but I knew no more. + +"Skairi!" shouted one, and "Shairi!" shouted another, and as I staggered +away they all shouted "Skairi!" together. + +Father, they called me a drunkard. I was a drunkard indeed, but I was +drunk with blood. + +The sun had set by this time. Its last rays were rising off the gilded +top of the highest minaret in a golden mist that looked like flame +leaping out of a kiln. I saw that, as I saw everything, through a +palpitating haze. + +When at length I reached the place where I had left my people I found +the horses saddled, the mules with their burdens packed on their +panniers, the men waiting, and everything ready. Full well I knew that I +ought to leap to my seat instantly and be gone without delay; but I +seemed to have lost all power of prompt action. I was thinking of what I +wanted to do, but I could not do it. The men spoke to me, and I know +that I looked vacantly into their faces and did not answer. One said to +another, "Sidi is growing deaf." + +The other touched his forehead and grinned. + +I was fumbling with the stirrup of my saddle when the English Consul +came up and hailed me with cheerful spirits. By an effort that was like +a spasm I replied. + +"Allow me, doctor," he said, and he offered his knee that I might mount. + +"Ah, no, no," I stammered, and I scrambled to my seat. + +While I was fumbling with my double rein I saw that he was looking at my +hand. + +"You've cut your fingers, doctor," he said. + +There was blood on them. The blood was not mine, but a sort of +mechanical cunning came to my relief. I took out my handkerchief and +made a pretense to bind it about my hand. + +Alee, the guide, was at my right side settling my lumbering foot in my +stirrup. I felt him touch the sheath of my knife, and then I remembered +that it must be empty. + +"Sidi has lost his dagger," he said. "Look!" + +The Consul, who had been on my left, wheeled round by the horse's head, +glanced at the useless sheath that was stuck in the belt of my jacket, +and then looked back into my stupid face. + +"Sidi is ill," he said quietly; "ride quickly, my men, lose no time, get +him out of the country without delay!" + +I heard Alee answer, "Right--all right!" + +Then the Consul's servant rode up--he was a Berber--and took his place +at the head of our caravan. + +"All ready?" asked the Consul, in Arabic. + +"Ready," the men answered. + +"Then away, as if you were flying for your lives!" + +The men put spurs to their mules, Alee gave the lash to my horse, and we +started. + +"Good-by, doctor," cried the Consul; "may you find your little son +better when you reach home!" + +I shouted some incoherent answers in a thick, loud voice, and in a few +minutes more we were galloping across the plain outside the town. + +The next two hours are a blank in my memory. In a kind of drunken stupor +I rode on and on. The gray light deepened into the darkness of night, +and the stars came out. Still we rode and rode. The moon appeared in the +southern sky and rose into the broad whiteness of the stars overhead. +Then consciousness came back to me, and with it came the first pangs of +remorse. Through the long hours of that night ride one awful sight stood +up constantly before my eyes. It was the sight of that dead body, stark +and cold, lying within that little sanctuary behind me, white now with +the moonlight, and silent with the night. + +_O Larby, Larby! You shamed me. You drove me from the world. You brought +down your mother to the grave. And yet, and yet--must I absolve your +murderer?_ + +Father, I reached my home at last. At Gibraltar I telegraphed that I was +coming, and at Dover I received a telegram in reply. Four days had +intervened between the despatch of my message and the receipt of my +wife's. Anything might have happened in that time, and my anxiety was +feverish. Stepping on to the Admiralty Pier, I saw a telegraph boy +bustling about among the passengers from the packet with a telegram in +his hand. + +"What name?" I asked. + +He gave one that was not my own and yet sounded like it. + +I looked at the envelope. Clearly the name was intended for mine. I +snatched the telegram out of the boy's hand. It ran: "Welcome home; boy +very weak, but not beyond hope." + +I think I read the words aloud, amid all the people, so tremendous was +my relief, and so overwhelming my joy. The messenger got a gold coin for +himself and I leaped into the train. + +At Charing Cross I did not wait for my luggage, but gave a foolish tip +to a porter and told him to send my things after me. Within half a +minute of my arrival I was driving out of the station. + +What I suffered during those last moments of waiting before I reached my +house no tongue of man could tell. I read my wife's telegram again, and +observed for the first time that it was now six hours old. Six hours! +They were like six days to my tortured mind. + +From the moment when we turned out of Oxford Street until we drew up at +my own door in Wimpole Street I did not once draw breath. And being here +I dared hardly lift my eyes to the window lest the blinds should be +down. + +I had my latch-key with me, and I let myself in without ringing. A +moment afterward I was in my darling's room. My beloved wife was with +our boy, and he was unconscious. That did not trouble me at all, for I +saw at a glance that I was not too late. + +Throwing off my coat, I sent to the surgery for my case, dismissed my +dear girl with scant embraces, drew my darling's cot up to the window, +and tore down the curtains that kept out the light, for the spring day +was far spent. + +Then, being alone with my darling, I did my work. I had trembled like an +aspen leaf until I entered his room, but when the time came my hand was +as firm as a rock and my pulse beat like a child's. + +I knew I could do it, and I did it. God had spared me to come home, and +I had kept my vow. I had traveled ten days and nights to tackle the +work, but it was a short task when once begun. + +After I had finished I opened the door to call my wife back to the room. +The poor soul was crouching with the boy's nurse on the threshold, and +they were doing their utmost to choke their sobs. + +"There!" I cried, "there's your boy! He'll be all right now." + +The mischief was removed, and I had never a doubt of the child's +recovery. + +My wife flung herself on my breast, and then I realized the price I had +paid for so much nervous tension. All the nerves of organic life seemed +to collapse in an instant. + +"I'm dizzy; lead me to my room," I said. + +My wife brought me brandy, but my hand could not lift the tumbler to my +mouth, and when my dear girl's arms had raised my own, the glass rattled +against my teeth. They put me to bed; I was done--done. + +_God will forgive him. Why should not I?_ + +Father, that was a month ago, and I am lying here still. It is not +neurasthenia of the body that is killing me, but neurasthenia of the +soul. No doctor's drug will ever purge me of that. It is here like fire +in my brain, and here like ice in my heart. Was my awful act justifiable +before God? Was it right in the eyes of Him who has written in the +tables of His law, _Thou shalt do no murder_? Was it murder? Was it +crime? If I outraged the letter of the holy edict, did I also wrong its +spirit? + +Speak, speak, for pity's sake, speak. Have mercy upon me, as you hope +for mercy. Think where I was and what fate was before me. Would I do it +again in spite of all? Yes, yes, a thousand, thousand times, yes. I will +go to God with that word on my lips, and He shall judge me. + +And yet I suffer these agonies of doubt. Life was always a sacred thing +to me. God gave it, and only God should take it away. He who spilt the +blood of his fellow-man took the government of the world out of God's +hands. And then--and then--father, have I not told you all? + +_Yes, yes, the Father of all fathers will pardon him._ + +On the day when I arrived at Tangier from Fez I had some two hours to +wait for the French steamer from Malaga that was to take me to Cadiz. In +order to beguile my mind of its impatience, I walked through the town as +far as the outer Sok--the Sok de Barra. + +It was market day, Thursday, and the place was the same animated and +varied scene as I had looked upon before. Crushing my way through the +throng, I came upon the saint's house near the middle of the market. The +sight of the little white structure with its white flag brought back the +tragedy I saw enacted there, and the thought of that horror was now made +hellish to my conscience by the memory of another tragedy at another +saint's house. + +I turned quickly aside, and stepping up to the elevated causeway that +runs in front of the tents of the brassworkers, I stood awhile and +watched the Jewish workmen hammering the designs on their trays. + +Presently I became aware of a little girl who was sitting on a bundle of +rushes and plaiting them into a chain. She was a tiny thing, six years +of age at the utmost, but with the sober look of a matron. Her sweet +face was the color of copper, and her quiet eyes were deep blue. A +yellow gown of some light fabric covered her body, but her feet were +bare. She worked at her plaiting with steady industry, and as often as +she stopped to draw a rush from the bundle beneath her she lifted her +eyes and looked with a wistful gaze over the feeding-ground of the +camels, and down the lane to the bridge, and up by the big house on the +hillside to where the sandy road goes off to Fez. + +The little demure figure, amid so many romping children, interested and +touched me. This was noticed by a Jewish brassworker before whose open +booth I stood and he smiled and nodded his head in the direction of the +little woman. + +"Dear little Sobersides," I said; "does she never play with other +children?" + +"No," said the Jew, "she sits here every day, and all day long--that is, +when her father is away." + +"Whose child is she?" I asked. An awful thought had struck me. + +"A great rascal's," the Jew answered, "though the little one is such an +angel. He keeps a spice shop over yonder, but he is a guide as well as a +merchant, and when he is out on a journey the child sits here and waits +and watches for his coming home again. She can catch the first sight of +travelers from this place and she knows her father at any distance. +See!--do you know where she's looking now? Over the road by El +Minzah--that's the way from Fez. Her father has gone there with a +Christian." + +The sweat was bursting from my forehead. + +"What's his name?" I asked. + +"The Moors call him Larby," said the Jew, "and the Christians nickname +him Ananias. They say he is a Spanish renegade, escaped from Ceuta, who +witnessed to the Prophet and married a Moorish wife. But he's everything +to the little one--bless her innocent face! Look! do you see the tiny +brown dish at her side? That's for her drinking water. She brings it +full every day, and also a little cake of bread for her dinner. + +"She's never tired of waiting, and if Larby does not come home to-night +she'll be here in the morning. I do believe that if anything happened to +Larby she would wait until doomsday." + +My throat was choking me, and I could not speak. The Jew saw my emotion, +but he showed no surprise. I stepped up to the little one and stroked +her glossy black hair. + +"Hoolia?" I said. + +She smiled back into my face and answered, "Iyyeh"--yes. + +I could say no more; I dare not look into her trustful eyes and think +that he whom she waited for would never come again. I stooped and kissed +the child, and then fled away. + +_God show me my duty. The Priest or the Man--which?_ + +Listen! do you hear him? That's the footstep of my boy overhead. My +darling! He is well again now. My little sunny laddie! He came into my +bedroom this morning with a hop, skip, and a jump--a gleam of sunshine. +Poor innocent, thoughtless boy. They will take him into the country +soon, and he will romp in the lanes and tear up the flowers in the +garden. + +My son, my son! He has drained my life away; he has taken all my +strength. Do I wish that I had it back? Yes, but only--yes, only that I +might give it him again. Hark! That's his voice, that's his laughter. +How happy he is! When I think how soon--how very soon--when I think that +I-- + +God sees all. He is looking down on little Hoolia waiting, waiting, +waiting where the camels come over the hills, and on my little Noel +laughing and prancing in the room above us. + +Father, I have told you all at last. There are tears in your eyes, +father. You are crying. Tell me, then, what hope is left? You know my +sin, and you know my suffering. Did I do wrong? Did I do right? + +_My son, God's law was made for man, not man for His law. If the spirit +has been broken where the letter has been kept, the spirit may be kept +where the letter has been broken. Your earthly father dare not judge +you. To your Heavenly Father he must leave both the deed and the +circumstance. It is for Him to justify or forgive. If you are innocent, +He will place your hand in the hand of him who slew the Egyptian and yet +looked on the burning bush. And if you are guilty, He will not shut His +ears to the cry of your despair._ + + * * * * * + +_He has gone. I could not tell him. It would have embittered his parting +hour; it would have poisoned the wine of the sacrament. O, Larby! Larby! +flesh of my flesh, my sorrow, my shame, my prodigal--my son._ + + +END OF "THE LAST CONFESSION" + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Blind Mother and The Last +Confession, by Hall Caine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLIND MOTHER *** + +***** This file should be named 35140.txt or 35140.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/1/4/35140/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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