The Scapegoat [115]
so long, and so many things might have happened since he went away. In this mood he tried to run. It was a poor uncertain shamble. At nearly every step the body lurched for poise and balance.
At last he came to a point of the path from which, as he knew, the little rush-covered house ought to be seen. "It's yonder," he cried, and pointed it out to himself with uplifted finger. The sun was sinking, and its strong rays were in his face. "She's there, I see her!" he shouted. A few minutes later he was near the door. "No, my eyes deceived me," he said in a damp voice. "Or perhaps she has gone in--perhaps she's hiding--the sweet rogue!"
The door was half open; he pushed it and entered the house. "Naomi!" he called in a voice like a caress. "Naomi!" His voice trembled now. "Come to me, come, dearest; come quickly, quickly, I cannot see!" He listened. There was not a sound, not a movement. "Naomi!" The name was like a gurgle in his throat. There was a pause, and then he said very feebly and simply, "She's not here."
He looked around, and picked up something from the floor. It was a slipper covered with mould. As he gazed upon it a change came over his face. Dead? Was Naomi dead? He had thought of death before--for himself, for others, never for Naomi. At a stride the awful thing was on him. Death! Oh, oh!
With a helpless, broken, blind look he was standing in the middle of the floor with the slipper in his hand, when a footstep came to the door. He flung the slipper away and threw open his arms. Naomi--it must be she!
It was Fatimah. She had come in secret, that the evil news of what had been done at the Kasbah and the Mosque might not be broken to Israel too suddenly. He met her with a terrible question. "Where is she laid?" he said in a voice of awe.
Fatimah saw his error instantly. "Naomi is alive," she said, and, seeing how the clouds lifted off his face, she added quickly, "and well, very well."
That is not telling a falsehood, she thought; but when Israel, with a cry of joy which was partly pain, flung his arms about her, she saw what she had done.
"Where is she?" he cried. "Bring her, you dear, good soul. Why is she not here? Lead me to her, lead me!"
Then Fatimah began to wring her hands. "Alas!" she said, weeping, "that cannot be."
Israel steadied himself and waited. "She cannot come to you, and neither can you go to her." said Fatimah. "But she is well, oh! very well. Poor child, she is at the Kasbah--no, no, not the prison-- oh no, she is happy--I mean she is well, yes, and cared for--indeed, she is at the palace--the women's palace--but set your mind easy--she--"
With such broken, blundering words the good woman blurted out the truth, and tried to deaden the blow of it. But the soul lives fast, and Israel lived a lifetime in that moment.
"The palace!" he said in a bewildered way. "The women's palace-- the women's--" and then broke off shortly. "Fatimah, I want to go to Naomi," he said.
And Fatimah stammered, "Alas! alas! you cannot, you never can--"
"Fatimah," said Israel, with an awful calm. "Can't you see, woman, I have come home? I and Naomi have been long parted. Do you not understand?--I want to go to my daughter."
"Yes, yes," said Fatimah; "but you can never go to her any more. She is in the women's apartments--"
Then a great hoarse groan came from Israel's throat.
"Poor child, it was not her fault. Listen," said Fatimah; "only listen."
But Israel would hear no more. The torrent of his fury bore down everything before it. Fatimah's feeble protests were drowned. "Silence!" he cried. "What need is there for words? She is in the palace!--that's enough. The women's palace--the hareem--what more is there to say?"
Putting the fact so to his own consciousness, and seeing it grossly in all its horror, his passion fell like a breaking in of waters. "O God!" he cried, "my enemy casts me into prison. I lie there, rotting, starving. I think of my little daughter left behind alone. I hasten home to her. But where is she? She
At last he came to a point of the path from which, as he knew, the little rush-covered house ought to be seen. "It's yonder," he cried, and pointed it out to himself with uplifted finger. The sun was sinking, and its strong rays were in his face. "She's there, I see her!" he shouted. A few minutes later he was near the door. "No, my eyes deceived me," he said in a damp voice. "Or perhaps she has gone in--perhaps she's hiding--the sweet rogue!"
The door was half open; he pushed it and entered the house. "Naomi!" he called in a voice like a caress. "Naomi!" His voice trembled now. "Come to me, come, dearest; come quickly, quickly, I cannot see!" He listened. There was not a sound, not a movement. "Naomi!" The name was like a gurgle in his throat. There was a pause, and then he said very feebly and simply, "She's not here."
He looked around, and picked up something from the floor. It was a slipper covered with mould. As he gazed upon it a change came over his face. Dead? Was Naomi dead? He had thought of death before--for himself, for others, never for Naomi. At a stride the awful thing was on him. Death! Oh, oh!
With a helpless, broken, blind look he was standing in the middle of the floor with the slipper in his hand, when a footstep came to the door. He flung the slipper away and threw open his arms. Naomi--it must be she!
It was Fatimah. She had come in secret, that the evil news of what had been done at the Kasbah and the Mosque might not be broken to Israel too suddenly. He met her with a terrible question. "Where is she laid?" he said in a voice of awe.
Fatimah saw his error instantly. "Naomi is alive," she said, and, seeing how the clouds lifted off his face, she added quickly, "and well, very well."
That is not telling a falsehood, she thought; but when Israel, with a cry of joy which was partly pain, flung his arms about her, she saw what she had done.
"Where is she?" he cried. "Bring her, you dear, good soul. Why is she not here? Lead me to her, lead me!"
Then Fatimah began to wring her hands. "Alas!" she said, weeping, "that cannot be."
Israel steadied himself and waited. "She cannot come to you, and neither can you go to her." said Fatimah. "But she is well, oh! very well. Poor child, she is at the Kasbah--no, no, not the prison-- oh no, she is happy--I mean she is well, yes, and cared for--indeed, she is at the palace--the women's palace--but set your mind easy--she--"
With such broken, blundering words the good woman blurted out the truth, and tried to deaden the blow of it. But the soul lives fast, and Israel lived a lifetime in that moment.
"The palace!" he said in a bewildered way. "The women's palace-- the women's--" and then broke off shortly. "Fatimah, I want to go to Naomi," he said.
And Fatimah stammered, "Alas! alas! you cannot, you never can--"
"Fatimah," said Israel, with an awful calm. "Can't you see, woman, I have come home? I and Naomi have been long parted. Do you not understand?--I want to go to my daughter."
"Yes, yes," said Fatimah; "but you can never go to her any more. She is in the women's apartments--"
Then a great hoarse groan came from Israel's throat.
"Poor child, it was not her fault. Listen," said Fatimah; "only listen."
But Israel would hear no more. The torrent of his fury bore down everything before it. Fatimah's feeble protests were drowned. "Silence!" he cried. "What need is there for words? She is in the palace!--that's enough. The women's palace--the hareem--what more is there to say?"
Putting the fact so to his own consciousness, and seeing it grossly in all its horror, his passion fell like a breaking in of waters. "O God!" he cried, "my enemy casts me into prison. I lie there, rotting, starving. I think of my little daughter left behind alone. I hasten home to her. But where is she? She