FOUND--IN THE HOUSE OF THE MOOR.
John hears at last.
A native servant brings him a note, and it can be set down as positive
that the young Chicagoan eagerly breaks the seal.
It is from Ben Taleb. He writes a fair English hand, for he is a man of
much education.
"Come again this night at eleven. Tell Mustapha to be at the wall where
you departed from my house, at that hour, and to rap upon the large
stone with the handle of his knife, giving the signal of Mahomet's tomb.
"Ben Taleb, of Morocco."
So John's heart thrills with expectation. This looks friendly; he may be
near the end of his journey. It is still dark and uncertain ahead, for
even when he has found his mother, a reconciliation between these
separated parents seems impossible. The past has too much of bitterness
in it to be easily put aside.
His first thought is of Mustapha, and he casts around for the Arab, whom
he last saw close by the door of the hotel.
The dusky courier is near by, engaged in a little game with several
companion guides, for the Arab as a rule loves gaming, and will risk
everything but his horse.
When Mustapha catches his eye he comes up hastily, understanding there
is something in the wind.
"We are to go again into the old town."
"When, monsieur?"
"This night. See! Ben Taleb has sent me a message."
The Arab looks at the paper stolidly; it might as well be Sanscrit to
him.
"Read it, monsieur."
So John complies, and his guide takes in all that is said. He nods his
head to show that he understands.
"This time I, too, will change my appearance, and they will not know
that it is Mustapha Cadi who walks through the lanes of old Al Jezira
with an unbeliever at his side."
"A bright thought, Mustapha. When shall we leave the hotel?"
"Say half past nine, meet me here. I will have all arranged. The
_burnoose_ is safe."
John prepares for business.
He remembers that on the previous occasion he had need of weapons--that
they came very near an encounter with the natives--and hence arms
himself.
Before quitting the hotel he feels it incumbent upon himself to see Lady
Ruth, and tell her where he is going. Nothing like beginning early, you
know. She has already commenced to control his destiny.
Lady Ruth has a headache, and is bathing her brow with cologne in the
privacy of her little boudoir parlor, but readily consents to see the
young man.
"You'll think me a fright, John, with my hair brushed back like
this"--John stops this in a thrice as any ardent lover might, taking
advantage of the professor's absence, and the fact that Aunt Gwen has
gone back in the second room for another chair--"but once in a great
while I have a headache that will only succumb to a certain process. You
will excuse me?"
"Indeed, I sympathize with you; have had the same splitting headache
myself more than a few times. I wouldn't have intruded--"
"You know it's no intrusion, John," with reproach in her eyes.
"Kind of you to say so, my dear, but to the point I have heard from Ben
Taleb."
"Oh! your face tells me it is good news."
"I am to visit him at ten."
"To-night?"
"Yes."
"But John, the danger. You yourself told me it was no little thing to
enter old Al Jezira in the night. Those narrow lanes, with strange
figures here and there, eying one fiercely; the houses that threaten to
topple over on one's head; all these things make it a risky place to
wander in even during the daytime. After dark it must be awful."
So John describes the plan of action, and interests his affianced, who
asks more questions about his former visit, not forgetting the marvelous
beauty of the Moor's daughter, for she is human.
Time flies under such circumstances, and hence it is John suddenly
exclaims:
"I declare, it's after nine o'clock."
"And my headache is gone."
At this both laugh.
"You must be a wizard, John, to charm it away so completely," she
declares.
"I trust I shall always be as successful in the days to come," breathes
John, and this of course causes a blush to sweep over the fair maid's
face.
He hurries to his room to prepare for what is before him. Deep in his
heart arises a prayer for success. Again that feeling of anticipation
sweeps over him. Remembering former disappointments, he endeavors to
subdue his hopes and to prepare for another set back, but this does not
prevent him at times from indulging in dreams of happiness.
It is just half-past nine when he reaches the door of the hotel.
Mustapha Cadi is there, looking confident and bearing a small bundle.
Again, in a dark corner, John assumes an Arab covering, while his
conductor proceeds to alter his own looks so that any whom they meet may
not know who the tall Arab is.
So they tread the lanes of the hill-side town. Just as on the previous
night, they meet Arabs, Moors, Kabyles, Jews and negroes. The silence is
like that of the tomb, and yet the interior of more than one house
doubtless presents a spectacle gay enough to please any lover of light
and color, of lovely women, of rippling fountains, sweet flowers that
load the air with their incense, and all the accessories a Moorish court
can devise, for these people, while keeping the exterior of their
dwellings plain, spend money lavishly upon the interior.
Now they are at the wall, and Mustapha gives the signal clearly; indeed,
John fancies the hilt of the knife meets the stone with more force than
is necessary, or else his ears deceive him.
The signal is heard, is answered, and in another minute they are inside
the wall.
As they walk along behind their guide John whispers to the Arab:
"On my word, I believe the fellow neglected to quite secure the door in
the wall," to which remark Mustapha replies in low tones:
"Presumably he knows his business, monsieur; anyhow, it concerns us not
at all."
Which John takes as a gentle reminder that these Arabs are very
particular not to interfere with things that belong to another.
He says no more.
They reach the central room, opening upon the court where plashes the
fountain.
The guide stops.
Upon the scented air comes the notes of a musical instrument, a mandolin,
and the chords are peculiarly sad and yet so very full of music.
Then a voice breaks forth--such singing John has heard only in his
dreams--it is a voice of wondrous power, sympathetic and sweet, a voice
that would haunt a man forever.
John knows no Moorish maidens can sing that song, and his heart gives a
wild throb as the conviction is suddenly forced upon him that at last,
after these weary years of waiting, after his search over half the
world, he is now listening to the voice that hushed his infantile cries,
and fell upon his ears like a benison.
No wonder, then, he stands there as if made of stone--stands and drinks
in the sweet volume of sound as it floods that Moorish court, until the
last note dies away as might the carol of a bird at even-tide.
Then he swallows a sob, and braces himself for the coming ordeal.
Something behind reaches his ear. He is positive he catches a deep groan
as of despair; perhaps it comes from some cage, where this Moorish
judge has an enemy in confinement.
He is not given a chance to speculate upon the subject. His guide
touches his arm and points. John discovers that his presence has already
been made known to the Moor.
He is expected to come forward. Under the circumstances, the young man
is in no condition for delay. That song, that heavenly voice, has gone
straight to his heart, and he longs to look upon the face of the sweet
singer.
So he advances, not slowly and with any show of dignity, but in the
eager way that does credit to his heart.
He sees a figure in black, seated near the old Moor, and instantly his
eyes are glued upon that face.
Then his heart tells him he now looks upon the face of the mother who
has been lost to him so long.
Does she know? has she received his note, or is her presence here simply
at the desire of her friend, the old Moor? She does not show any intense
excitement as he approaches, and this tends to make him believe she has
been kept in ignorance of the truth.
The Mohammedan doctor and his lovely daughter watch his advance with
deep interest, for they are human, and take pleasure in a good deed
done. The Koran commends it just as thoroughly as does our Bible. At the
same time slaves are in waiting near by, armed with deadly cimeters, and
should it prove that John has deceived them, that the Sister does not
greet him with love, but fear, because he bears the name of Craig, a
signal from Ben Taleb will be the signing of his death warrant.
John fastens his eyes hungrily upon the face he now sees. He stands
distant only a yard or so, and as yet has not uttered a syllable, only
waiting to see if his burning gaze, his looks of eager love and
devotion, will have a miraculous effect on his parent.
As he stands thus mutely before her, she becomes aware of his presence
for the first time. She looks up at his face, the casual glance becomes
immediately a stare; her cheeks grow pale as death; it is evident that
something has aroused memories of the past, and they flood her soul.
Slowly the woman arises. Her figure is slight, but there is a nobility
about it. Purity is written upon her brow, in her eyes shines the light
of faith that dares to look the whole world in the face. And before a
word is spoken John Craig knows his mother has been dreadfully wronged
in the past, suffering in silence because of some noble motive.
She has gained her feet, and now advances, walking like one in a dream,
her hands outstretched. No wonder; it is like a phantasy, this seeing a
loved face of the past in the home of a Moor in Algiers. She must indeed
think it an illusion.
Now her hand touches John's face. Imagine the intense thrill that sweeps
over his frame at the impact. Soul speaks to soul, heart answers heart.
The woman begins to tremble. The look of frightened wonder upon her face
gives way to one of astonishment.
"It is no illusion! Alive! Oh, what does this mean? Where am I? Who are
you?"
Thus the broken sentences fell from her lips, as though she hardly knows
what she says.
John can only think of one reply, and as he puts out his hands, his
whole heart is contained in the whispered words:
"Oh, my mother!"
This seems to break the spell. In another instant she has eagerly
clasped her arms around his neck.
"Heaven be praised; my prayer is answered. My child has sought me out."
It is the magic power of love.
John's face tells his great joy. Words are denied them for some little
time, but with brimming eyes they gaze into each other's face.
"Oh! mother, I have searched for you in many lands. For years I have
longed to see you, to tell you that my heart believed in you. By the
kindness of Heaven, that time has come."
"And you, my own boy, you believe me innocent, worthy of your love,
though the world called me guilty?" she murmurs.
"Yes, because of the great love I bear you, I would believe it against
all. Oh! my mother, how barren my life has been, without your
companionship, your love. Many, many nights I have wept bitter tears of
anguish to think of you somewhere upon the face of the earth, wandering
alone, because of circumstantial evidence."
Again from the darkness beyond the court, comes that deep, terrible
groan. The old Moor turns his head as though he does not understand it;
but the tableau in front is too dramatic to be lost.
"I began to believe I should have to quit this world of woes without
seeing you, for though I do not wish to disturb your happiness, my poor
boy, you must see from my looks that I am fading like a flower in the
fall; that the monster, consumption, is sapping my life. Still, I may
live some years to enjoy your love; be of good cheer. How strange to see
you a man grown, you whom I left almost a babe. And, John, you so
closely resemble, as I knew him then, your father, my poor deceived
Duncan, whom Heaven knows I have never ceased to remember with love; who
wronged me terribly, but the circumstances were fearfully against me.
Heaven has purified my heart by suffering."
"I can stand this no longer!" cries a voice, and a man rushes into view,
advancing until he stands before them. "My eyes have been opened to the
truth. In bitter tears I repent the sorrowful past. Blanche, behold your
husband, unworthy to kiss the hem of your garment."