The Blind Mother and The Last Confession Part 14

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 G.o.d? 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d gave it, and only G.o.d should take it away. He who spilt the blood of his fellow-man took the government of the world out of G.o.d'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 h.e.l.lish 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 bra.s.sworkers, 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 bra.s.sworker 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.

_G.o.d 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--

G.o.d 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, G.o.d'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 circ.u.mstance. 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"