Marriages now seemed to have become the order of the day, and Saleh to have taken on the character of match-maker. By means of successful trading, he had, within a year of his coming to the town, made a good sum of money, and he now wished to move into larger rooms and have his family to himself. He therefore encouraged Sidi Abd-er-Rahman to let Aiccha find him a suitable wife. The lady was found, the arrangements were made, and, one beautiful summer evening, the bride was brought home-Fatima’s stepmother, amid much excitement and beating of drums.
She was a handsome girl of twenty-one, with a decided will of her own, and somewhat lacking, Fatima could not help feeling, in a sense of refinement. Her voice was loud, and she put together the wrong colors in her clothes. This was because she departed from the pure native style of dress and wore the sort of Arab garments which are trimmed in half-French style, with cheap lace and ribbons. She loved pink, which did not tone with the reddish-brown color she had dyed her hair. She also used too many beads, and too much gilt and tinsel.
She was no housekeeper, and from the first took upon herself to lord it over Fatima, making her do the cooking which she herself disliked. Meanwhile, she spent her time in visiting and receiving the other women in the house, and in doing the heavy gold embroidery with which a certain kind of Arab coat is decorated.
And what about Fatima? In these first secluded years of her young girlhood, she fared better than many others, for she was able to read and write, as well as to make and embroider the clothes for her future wedding; so that, with the housework already mentioned, her time was fully occupied. She submitted with a good grace to the lessons her father gave her in the Koran, that difficult religious book of the Muhammadans, with its beautiful passages which she did not fail to appreciate; while as to those parts which, alas, made very undesirable reading, Sidi Abd-er-Rahman was careful to keep them from her notice. She was allowed to receive visits from her English friends, and sometimes to be escorted, carefully veiled, to spend a few hours in their house. But she was not allowed to attend the Bible classes, and her New Testament and other Christian books were taken from her. Fortunately, however, she knew many passages by heart, as well as a number of hymns, which it cheered her to sing very softly by herself. And she always prayed that those around her, and especially her father, might yet be brought to Christ.
But, at last, the time drew near for her marriage to the young Abdullah, whom she had never seen. And because she always cherished the desire for a Christian husband, should such an one ever appear, and because she had no idea that Abdullah was himself a secret believer in Christ, she determined to make a last appeal to her father for the postponement, at least, of her wedding.
An opportunity came one day when she was alone with Sidi Abd-er-Rahman. He was seated on some low cushions, carefully sharpening a reed-pen, a thing at which his long, shapely fingers were particularly clever. Fatima crept up to him, with the old childish movement, laying her soft cheek for a moment against his. She knew that her father loved her, and that he was feeling already the pang of the coming parting. Sidi Abd-er-Rahman put down the pen, and looked at her affectionately. “What do you want, my daughter?” he inquired.
“O, Father,” cried the young girl, “I beg you, do not marry me to Sidi Abdullah ben Abdullah!”
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman frowned slightly. “A woman must marry,” he said, “and Abdullah is a good lad. I would not give you to any other.”
“O, Father,” she pleaded, “let me wait a little longer. Do me the favor, oh do me the favor, not to marry me yet!”
“My daughter, don’t worry,” her father replied kindly. “In truth, there is no cause for such fear. Yours will be a beautiful home and a kind and indulgent husband. I am very much pleased with you,” he went on. “You are more beautiful even than I had hoped. You can read and write, as well as cook, sew and embroider. Abdullah will be a learned and wealthy man, and he ought to think himself lucky to get such a wife. Neither are you ignorant of religion, for I myself have taught you the truths of the holy Koran.”
Fatima was trembling. “Father,” she faltered, “I have studied the Koran according to your will. I know all about Sidi Muhammad. But he is not my prophet. O, father, I have given my heart to the Lord Jesus, and I can never take it back.”
Abd-er-Rahman’s quick temper fired up. “You are a little fool,” he answered roughly.” Put this infidelity away once for all. Otherwise-”
She rose and stood before him, firm, though flushed and trembling, the picture of youthful grace and dignity.
Sidi Abd-er-Rahman’s wrath melted as suddenly as it had been kindled. “O my child,” he said, “let me hear no more foolish words; and I on my part will forget and not regard them, seeing you are on the eve of your marriage, and your reasoning is therefore less calm than usual. But, listen, keep silent on this matter to all others except your father. Do not disgrace me, Fatima! You are a woman now, and must walk in the path of Islam. Your husband is a good Moslem, and he will expect it of you.”
It was about this time that Abdullah and his father had a conversation on the same subject. The boy was becoming impatient that definite arrangements should be made for his college course in Paris which had been long delayed. The talk, however, turned out somewhat differently from his expectations.
His father sent for him to the ouest-ed-dar, or central court open to the sky. The floor was paved with squares of black and white marble; in the middle was a fountain playing in a sculptured basin. Goldfish swam in the basin, and the water gave a low, dreamy sound as it fell. The sides of the court, where the gallery was supported on twisted pillars of white marble, were beautiful with Moorish tiles, in soft colors and many different patterns.
Abdullah’s father was reclining on an arrangement of embroidered cushions, between two of the marble pillars. He was a small, shrunken old man, his face had the delicate look of parchment, his hair was perfectly white, his flowing robes were of silk and cashmere, and about him hung a strong odor of musk. On a stand beside him were grapes and sweets, and a tambourine decked with lively ribbons. He received his son graciously. Some minutes passed in meaningless talk; at last, the old man said: “How old are you, O Abdullah?”
“Eighteen,” the youth replied.
“A ripe age to take a wife,” rejoined his father. Abdullah laughed. Accustomed to think of himself merely as a student, and lately almost as a westerner, he was not yet inclined to take his father seriously.
“No, father,” he replied playfully, “what would I do with a wife, and in Paris?”
“She will not accompany you to Paris,” said his father. “During your absences, she will remain with our family. Returning two or three times in the year, you will find your wife waiting for you.”
Young Abdullah began to look serious. “Do you indeed desire me to be married, O my father?” he asked.
“I am an old man,” replied his father. “Allah knows how long I may have to live. Of course, my son, I desire to see you married before I die.”
“And to whom?” asked the boy.
His father looked at him narrowly. “Not to any of these French-educated girls,” he said, meaningly. “No, no, my son’s wife will be none other than a good Moslem!”
Abdullah started, suddenly aware of the pitfall before him. Then, recovering himself quickly, “Are there any other wives to be had?” he asked.
His father shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps,” he said. “At any rate, there are other husbands to be had, but-” with sudden anger, “I will not have my son to be one of them! Is it true,” he cried, turning upon him, “that you are thinking of changing your religion?”
Abdullah flushed, but he faced his father squarely. “Who has been telling you such things?” he demanded, instinctively seeking to gain time. All at once, there flashed across his mind a vision of the white-domed room at the House of the English, and the cunning eyes of Ibrahim fixed upon him. Almost at the same moment he remembered the words, which for so long had haunted Sidi Abd-er-Rahman: “This is the Way; walk ye in it.”
Was it the answer to Lalla Christabel’s prayers? Was it the new, true manhood asserting itself in him? Looking his father full in the face, and with perfect calmness, he replied: “You say truth. I am a Christian!”
Then Sidi Abdullah ben Acchour fell into a terrible passion. From his white lips torrents of words poured forth, which ought to be banished from the Arabic dictionary. At last there came a lull, a sudden weakness, and he lay back breathless on the cushions.
There was a sound from the side of the court, like the jingle of a woman’s anklets. The archways were growing dark, but Abdullah thought he saw a curtain move. The boy clenched his teeth. He hated to think, as he must, that Rucheia was at the back of this plot against him.
“Go!” gasped his father.
And the boy, shaken in nerves but not in resolution, obeyed.