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._