AN OFFER.
HASSAN did his utmost to prevent the northward journey from being
commenced, and he had as many wiles as a fox. Orientals are skilful
in making excuses, and are masters in the art of causing delays.
But Hassan's master was more than a match for him,—had experimental
knowledge of his devices, and cut through every difficulty by his own
shrewdness, and the force of his strong will. It almost seemed to Robin
as if Ali took pleasure in provoking the jealousy, and disappointing
the efforts of his shadow, as we sometimes see a master wantonly
teasing the dog which crouches at his feet. It was clear to the English
youth that there was no affection between the Amir and Hassan, and
Robin wondered why the former did not dismiss from his service one whom
he neither liked nor trusted.
In spite of all that was said about camels being sick and horses lame,
of provisions running short and mashales growing leaky, the party
started on the route leading towards Djauf. Robin felt weak from loss
of blood, and his arm gave him pain, but he would have scorned to have
let weakness or pain act as an impediment in his search after his
brother.
The first stage was long, and seemed doubly tedious from its being a
going over ground already trodden. Hassan was by no means the only one
of the party to look sulky, for no one liked the prolongation of desert
wanderings which had been thought near a conclusion. Ali's tent was at
last pitched near the first brackish well which was reached; the horses
were tethered, the camels unloaded.
As the sun was still high, the Amir kept within the shelter of
his tent, reclining on cushions, with his narghillah at his side,
refreshing himself with perfumes, of which Orientals are fond. Ali
made Robin share his carpet, and while the attendants outside made
preparations for the evening meal, the Amir bade Robin beguile the time
by reciting more of his English verses.
The wounded youth, struggling against almost overwhelming languor,
increased by the heat, began the second chapter of St. John's First
Epistle. His was a discouraging task, for Ali looked so dreamy that
Robin doubted whether the Amir were listening at all, or whether the
faint voice at his side were not merely having the effect of lulling
the Persian to sleep.
Thus the first eight verses were recited, but when the following three
were repeated, Robin could no longer doubt that Ali was listening. "He
that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is in darkness
even until now. He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and
there is none occasion of stumbling in him: but he that hateth his
brother is in darkness, and walketh in darkness."
Ali raised himself from his cushions, fixed his dark melancholy eyes
upon Robin, and made a movement with his hand to stop the recitation;
he had heard enough, and more than he cared to hear. There was silence
for some time in the tent, and the weary English youth had dropped
asleep, when he was roused by a question from Ali.
"What will you do, O Feringhee, if you fail to find your brother?"
"I feel certain that I shall find him," said Robin the hopeful.
"There is nothing certain in this life, in which we are blown hither
and thither like chaff before the wind," observed Ali. "Or, to change
the metaphor, we are like bubbles floating for a moment over death's
waters, only to break, mingle with them, and be lost for ever."
"You take a very dark view of life, and I take a bright one," said the
Knight of St. John.
"The better for you," observed Ali, with a gloomy smile. "Pray, what is
your view of life, O sage one?"
"That it is a time to work for God here, with His sunshine upon us, and
a hope, nay, a certainty, of glory and happiness in His presence when
our work is done!"
"I return to my first question," said the Persian. "If you are
disappointed—as is likely enough—in your expectation of meeting your
brother, what will you do? Will you not let something else fill his
place?"
"Nothing; no one can fill Harold's place!" exclaimed Robin.
The tone of decision in which the words were uttered disappointed the
Persian, in whose breast there was a secret unacknowledged yearning to
have—what he had never yet had—a true friend.
Almost impatiently, he cried, "Why is it that you so set your
affections on him whom you call by the name of Harold?"
"Is he not my brother?" said Robin.
"Oh, that is not enough! There are brothers and brothers; some are
loved, and some—but let that pass. I want some better reason for your
devotion to this Harold than the mere tie of blood, the mere accident
of your having been born in the same dwelling."
"There is not a nobler fellow in the world than Harold?" said Robin.
"That is—in your eyes," said the Persian, drily; "you may not be an
impartial judge. There may be others as brave, as gifted, as worthy of
admiration as he."
"I never met such," observed Robin, who was not made for a courtier.
Quite unconsciously, he wounded the vanity of the Persian, who was
quite aware of his own personal advantages and mental acquirements.
"Have you any other reasons to give?" asked the Amir coldly.
"Plenty," was Robin's reply. "Harold has been my best friend, save
one, since I was a child; I always remember his kindness; it is the
first thing that I can remember. Harold carried me on his shoulders, he
played with me; and when I went to school he was my protector, he would
let no one bully his little brother. Harold helped me with my tasks,—I
must have given him lots of trouble, I was such a stupid little chap
over my books. Harold was the very model of an elder brother; I always
looked up to him, and I do so now."
Ali very imperfectly understood this description of English child
life, and school life, especially as Robin spoke faster than usual, as
familiar scenes rose to his mind.
"Did you never quarrel?" asked the Persian, and he watched Robin's
countenance keenly, as he replied in a slower, more hesitating tone.
"Harold was angry with me now and then, but never for long. I tried his
patience sometimes, especially with my foolish tongue."
"Perhaps you try other people's patience too," said the Persian, drily.
"But I like you," he continued more graciously, "your tongue has at
least no venom or falsehood beneath it. If you find not your brother,
what say you to following my fortunes? I could offer you much—wealth,
change, amusement, perhaps even a visit to your own native land."
As Robin, taken aback at the proposition, made no immediate reply, Ali,
in a tone more approaching to tenderness than he had used for many
years, added, "Could you not regard me as an elder brother?"
Poor Robin felt as if driven into a corner. He did not wish to offend
his protector, still less was he willing to wound his benefactor, and
to speak truth fully would probably do both. The youth's troubled,
perplexed look did not escape the keen notice of Ali.
"Answer me," he said, more sharply; "why do you hesitate in accepting
an offer which most in your position would close with at once?"
"Because you could not be my Christian brother," replied Robin. "The
closest tie of all between Harold and me is this—we serve the same God,
we love the same Saviour, and look forward to sharing the same home.
All other ties death must break; this, and this only, will last for
ever."
"Enough, you will not have the offer twice!" cried the Amir, angrily,
and leaning back on his cushions, he tried to sleep, but slumber would
not come at his bidding. At last, raising himself on his elbow, Ali
looked towards Robin, who was buried in deep sweet sleep. The Amir
gazed with an emotion of envy on that pale but peaceful face.
"'He that loveth his brother abideth in the light'—were not those
the words?" thought the Persian. "'He that hateth his brother is in
darkness'—darkness—" something like a stifled groan burst from the
Amir's lips, as there was no ear to hear it.