Sidi Abd-Er-Rahman was more deeply moved than he would have supposed possible by the death of his wife. A thoughtful man, he had read a good deal on the subject of marriage, and the place that women ought to have in society, and like many educated Moslems of the day, he felt that family life, and therefore national life also, can only be at its best where a man is the husband of one wife, and of one wife only.
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman had always been true to this belief, though he was rich enough to have taken a second wife (Moslem religious law permits a man to have four wives), if he had so chosen. He found it the easier to do his duty in this respect, because he was really interested in his work, and in his spare time was a keen reader. Sidi Abd-er-Rahman was singularly free from low tastes, and although he went daily to his cafe, he was known there as a serious, silent and reserved man.
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman knew, and admitted it to himself, that his seriousness, and his Christian-like ideas of marriage were to be traced back to his early boyhood under the influence of the English lady, Lalla Christabel. Her love and devotion to the Moslems had impressed him as nothing else could have done. The personality of Lalla Christabel had captured his boyish imagination. She seemed to understand boy-nature so well, and then she was such a great scholar, who could read fluently in English, French and Arabic.
With all this, however, Sidi Abd-er-Rahman was not inclined to become a Christian. What he wished was, that Moslems, and especially Moslem women, should learn to live good lives, such as these English Christians lived, and yet remain true to the beliefs of Islam and the members of its great brotherhood, scattered as it was among so many nations. Zubeida, as we have seen, had just begun to make him uneasy in this respect, when she refused to go to the marabout or wear her charm. Now she was dead, and he had forgiven her, and remembered only how sweet and gentle she had become since giving her heart, as she expressed it, to the Lord Jesus.
Abd-er-Rahman would not mention this remark of Zubeida’s to anyone, not even to little Fatima, during those sad days, when she came and nestled in his arms, longing more to comfort than to be comforted by him, though her own heart was aching sadly.
As time went on, several troubles pressed upon his mind. First, what was to happen in his home now that the wife and mother was gone? In these North African houses, inhabited by a number of families, unmarried men and widowers are not welcome. Fatima was too young to take upon herself the cares of a family, and, besides, Sidi Abd-er-Rahman wished her to go on with her classes at the English house. The time would soon enough come when she would have to be veiled (At about eleven years old girls are veiled, and soon afterward they are secluded in their homes), and not be seen going constantly to and fro through the streets.
He hated the thought of marrying again. It was spring-time, and the weather was too warm for the season of year; he felt weary and depressed. In his weakness, the words which had occurred to him on the roof in the moonlight, now nearly a year ago, kept repeating themselves in his head, to his worry and annoyance: “This is the way, walk ye in it.”
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”
“What is the way?” Sidi Abd-er-Rahman asked himself angrily. Once or twice he thought he would go to Lalla Christabel, and complain to her that the words she had taught him were getting on his brain. But he knew very well what her answer would be.
One day, he received a letter from his brother-in-law, Saleh, which lifted for a time the cloud from his brow. Saleh had heard of a well-paid post in the town, and had made up his mind to sell his house and bring his wife and family to live in the Kasbah. “And inshallah (If God will), O my brother,” the letter continued, “we two will join our households in one, and my wife shall cook for us all, and look after your little daughter, in the place of her mother who is dead.”
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman was not hard to persuade on this point, but little Fatima heard the news with mixed feelings. She had never seen her aunt, and was terribly afraid of being screamed at, or even beaten by her. She knew too well that Zubeida’s gentle ways were not the ways of all women in the Arab town.
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman determined that he would consult Saleh about his state of mind, which was becoming more and more heavy and sad. As it happened, however, some weeks passed before his brother-in-law could arrange his affairs and come up to town. With a curious pressure, almost against his will, he found himself longing to go and confide his troubles to Lalla Christabel.
He went one evening after supper. A good-looking boy of the wealthier class opened the door. From the room just inside came a buzz of voices. The boys’ class was there, learning to read in the Arabic gospel.
Lalla Christabel came out at once.
“You are past this now,” she said with a smile, pausing to look back with him for a moment at the red caps bending over the books (Arabs keep on their caps and take off their shoes when coming indoors).” But it brings back old times to you, does it not? Abdullah,” (to the boy who had opened the door), “you are mullah (master) here till I come back.”
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman made Fatima his excuse for coming. “I am pleased,” he said abruptly, “with the work she does, and she is a good girl. She is better than when she came to you at first. I want my daughter to grow up to be a good woman.”
“I know,” said Lalla Christabel. The sympathy in her voice and look brought a rush of feeling to Abd-er-Rahman, and he said what he had never intended.
“If I should die,” he muttered, “will you take my child, and be a mother to her? I am not poor,” he added apologetically, “I would arrange for payment. Will you take her then, O Lalla Christabel?”
“Indeed, I will,” she replied gently. “I love your Fatima. But Abd-er-Rahman, why do you speak like that? Inshallah, you have many years yet to live.”
“Inshallah,” he replied dully.
“Poor fellow,” she said, compassionately. “Your spirit is narrow, and your heart is heavy. You are very lonely without Zubeida. But she is at peace, I know. At peace, with God-and you will see her again, if you will walk in the way that she walked, and that leads to where she is.”
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman started and looked up.
“This is the way, walk ye in it!” he exclaimed. “Every day, every hour, I hear these words in my head.” “God speaks them,” she replied gently.
He was silent.
“There are other words,” she continued in her quiet voice. “Our Lord Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the truth and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by Me.’”
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman felt no thrill of response, but he also felt no resentment. Rather a sense of peace and resignation stole over him, like ointment upon a wound.
“Come back soon, Abd-er-Rahman,” said Lalla Christabel, as she saw him out at the door.
But much was to happen before they met again.
The worst of Sidi Abd-er-Rahman’s depression was soon over. His work kept him busier than usual at the office, and then there were things to be arranged in preparation for the arrival of Saleh. Added to this, the weather had changed for the better, and everyone who had been languishing in the sirrocco took courage and pulled himself together. The sky was clear and blue, and a fresh breeze blew through the Arab town.
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman, however, was still thin and pale, and looked older than he had done. Saleh, fresh from the country, was shocked at his brother-in-law’s appearance.
If he had not had interests of his own to serve, Saleh would certainly have advised Abd-er-Rahman to find another wife. However, the sale of his place in the mountains had not brought him in as much as he expected, and he thought it would be cheaper for the two families to live together. He knew Abd-er-Rahman well enough to feel sure that, if he were to marry again, he would prefer to have his house to himself. Therefore Sidi Saleh “advised his head” (as the Arabs say) as to another cure for his brother-in-law’s melancholy. After keeping his eyes and ears open for a few days, especially at the cafés, he felt quite sure that Abd-er-Rahman’s trouble was, apart from the loss of his wife, a religious one.
“Marriage and religion,” mused Saleh to himself, as he smoked his water pipe outside the Arab café, and watched a game of dominoes going on at his feet, “Marriage and religion are the two great things in a man’s life. As it does not suit me that my brother should marry again at present, I must turn his attention to religion.”
As soon as he saw his chance, Saleh introduced the subject.