bethought her of the master move, and rose determined.
“No, sit down, my dear!” cried Mrs. Cameron. “I have to talk to you. And though I would rather have had the night in which to think things over, I must, since you force me to it, speak quite simply now. I say: Don’t do it, child! Don’t take the step the Consul tells me that you contemplate! He thought that you had been seduced by unfair practices; but that, I see from your behaviour, is not so. It is just the charm of novelty, the spirit of adventure—is it not?—with just, perhaps, a little mischief prompting, a little grudge against the dull life you have led. My love, you must not be allowed to do it—you, an Englishwoman! It degrades us all. I have lived out here for years, and I assure you that, if a daughter of mine declared her will to marry one of them, sooner than it should happen I would kill her with my own hands. A girl!—It is unheard of! With their view of women!”
“It is plain you know nothing about them,” sneered the other; “at any rate, about the class of people I have mixed with. They have the greatest reverence for women. You suppose, because we veil—”
“We!” interjected Mrs. Cameron.
“Yes, we; for I am one of those whom you so grossly slander.” A drum of battle beat at either temple of the girl thus brought to bay. Her brain reeled with indignation, and her voice grew husky. “I say, you think because we veil that we are quite degraded, the same as we do when we see your faces bare. The difference is one of custom only. Underneath our veils, in our own houses, we are just as happy and as free as you are. … It is too droll! You fancy that Mahometan women have their lives made miserable? Why, I have never known such happy women. From my rooms, I hear them laughing, playing, singing all day long.”
“Poor things! They know no other life. You do, and would be miserable in the same conditions. Have you ever thought of what polygamy involves—for women, anyhow?”
“It seems to me extremely sensible and kind to women. It takes into consideration facts which we slur over, cruelly. It gives to every girl a chance of motherhood.”
“My dear!” exclaimed the mentor, greatly shocked.
“I don’t care what you think. It is quite true.”
“You are young and inexperienced. We who live in the country hear of things of which you cannot possibly know anything—things that I wish most heartily that you may never know. That is why I beg of you earnestly to change your mind.”
“Nothing will make me do that.”
“Then you are honestly in love, and we will say no more on that point.” The forbearance was so unexpected that the governess was startled and stared at Mrs. Cameron with unbelieving eyes. The elder lady showed such trembling earnestness that she grieved for the necessity to shock and wound her. “There remains another question, on an altogether higher plane—I mean the question of religion.” Mrs. Cameron’s voice turned awestruck. “The Consul tells me—but oh, no! It is too fearful!”
“I don’t see why!” returned the other doggedly. “They worship God as we do, and they count Christ as a prophet. They are no more fearful than the Unitarians in England. And I am sure they think much more about religion in their daily lives than people do at home.”
“They deny the essence of Christianity—the Redemption. How can you turn your back upon that marvel of Divine Love? Their ideals are all much lower, more material. … My dear, I see that you have come here primed with specious arguments, and I regret that I am not clever enough to make you see their falseness. I wish I had the tongues of all the angels at this moment grieving over you, to show you how terrific is the gulf you view so lightly.”
The girl laughed nervously. “I don’t suppose the angels bother much. You talk as if God only cared for Christians. I’m sure He thinks the Moslems just as valuable. If you are so much better, why don’t you mix with them and try to do them good?”
“Some of us are doing so.”
“In such a way! …”
“We are not discussing missionary methods, dear. Your case is the only one before us.”
“Well, you say that missionaries mean to do good in their way; but it never seems to strike you that I may hope to do a little good in mine!”
Her tone grew plaintive; the long contest wearied her. The bloom of shadow on the garden, underneath the rose of sunset, the voices of the evening made her wistful; while the sadness which attends all partings clutched her heart. The whine of doing good had slipped from her at unawares—an echo from her former life of hired hypocrisy. It had been the natural tone of conversation with a lady of the class “employer.”
“That rings untrue. You’re simply talking for effect!” cried Mrs. Cameron, indignant. “It is unkind when I am speaking from my heart of hearts. … Now, only one word more. If you ever loved any one—father, or mother, or friend—at home in England, think of that person and just ask yourself what he or she would think of your denying Christ. The act is so uncalled-for that it seems like wanton wickedness. You can marry your Mahometan without renouncing Christianity, and by so doing you would have more honour in your husband’s eyes. You could retain your status as a British subject, which means something here; and if you really have a purpose to do good among those people, you would be in a better position to do so than by sinking to their level.”
“I won’t hear a word more! Oh, you are brutal!” The girl started up with hands and teeth clenched, past endurance. “Oh, you are brutal to bully me like this! I tell you once for all, I love those people, whom you and all your kind hate and tell lies about. No one was ever really nice to me before. They are a million times better than any Christians I have ever known. I tell you I belong to them, and not to you! I mean to have the same religion as my husband, and if he goes to Hell, well, I’ll go too! Do you understand?” Her words now came in gusts, for she was sobbing heavily. “You’ll never see me any more, of course, for I’m a wicked Moslem and you’re so fanatical! I don’t care; I can do without you. I have truer friends, who really like me and don’t only patronize. Oh, how can you make me cry like this, when I was so—so happy!”
To her surprise, she found herself in her tormentor’s arms.
“You wrong me, dear. I’m not fanatical, nor yet so narrow-minded as you think. Now, will you promise that, whatever happens, you will look upon me as a friend and come to see me sometimes? I have said all I can to dissuade you, because I fear you may repent of your decision when too late. My hope is, now and always, that you may be happy. You’ll promise, won’t you, still to make a friend of me?”
The girl nodded, sobbing, speechless with emotion.
“Well, then, God bless you, dear, among the Moslems, and may you always bear the standard of true Christian womanhood!”
With that two-edged blessing in her ears, the renegade, a bowed and shrinking figure, traversed the garden in the blue of twilight. She felt guilty and unnerved, irresolute, until she saw the Pasha’s carriage waiting in the lane, when pride returned. The tears yet wet upon her cheeks, she stood erect and sniffed the evening air. There was still much traffic on the sandy road, running between dark garden-walls to where, beside a little dome, a single palm-plume stood up black against the sky. The dust kicked up by donkeys’ hoofs, by people’s footsteps, rose greenish like wood-smoke. Some wayfarers already carried lighted lanterns which made coloured circles in the gloaming like the peacock’s eyes. A life of passionate adventure lay before her, most curious and rich and warm with human failings,
