time is how to rule Syria: and here is, in the heart of Syria, a Moslem prince who knows all the tribes and their tongues, and is living in special sanctity, who at the same time knows the Christians and their ways, and is friendly with all. If he is not the born ruler of Syria, we shall not find another. As patriot, human aggression was too strong for him, and he failed. As moderator,—as an impartial ruler,—he may prove strong enough to foil human passion. It would be wise to try; and if the experiment is tried, there may yet be more to tell of Abd-el-Kader.
Meantime, it is difficult to conceive of a nobler Representative Man.
MY ANGEL’S VISIT.
It seemed as if our prayers were wasted.
During the six years we had been married everything else went well with us. The business, in which my husband was a partner, had prospered so much that two years since he sold his open connection with it for a round sum. The money so obtained, added to what he had previously saved—(he was elderly when I, not an heiress, married him)—formed a very sufficient competence for people of a middling station, who meant to live quietly, and yet have it in our power to be hospitable to friends, and, at the same time, live respected by the poor people near, who might look to us for help when no one else could give it. Since he left the business, too, a certain sleeping interest he retained in it became of increased value, so that, though retired from active work, the fruits of work still ripened on the old tree. Alas, that our tree of life was the one which hung fruitless. That our paradise could attract no little angel from heaven to sport in it.
We had bought Elmbury Hall, and were now resident there. It was not much of a hall indeed, but the park was full of fine old elms, and it had a good garden.
It was a silly notion of mine, which I could not help nursing, that the habit of looking on a vacant home would, in time, make George think it vacant. Oh how I wearied heaven with promises, protesting that I would lead to virtue my son’s earliest feet. As if I would talk over the Life-Giver with fine speeches.
At last love was pitiful.
Oh morn of joy; bright after clouds—came Mary, our dawn. She came with the flowers of May—when birds are blithest. But no wild wood-note rang sweeter than Mary’s cry; no flower-bud revealed dearer charms than the infant blossom that unfolded on my breast. All inflated with the gladness—the world rose heavenward, as far as the straining cords that bound it apart would allow. What more could we wish? Our hearts’ desire had been given to us. The little childillnesses, that now and then cast shadows, were but passing clouds. The next breeze of health blew them aside, and the atmosphere was again clear.
We were playing in the garden with Mary on her birthday. She was then a year old. We had a small difference as to whether Mary’s husband was to be a great merchant or a man of high rank. Being slightly annoyed because George persisted that the station of a rich merchant’s wife was not so much amiss, I walked aside to air my heat, as I desired to show my husband how much he had offended me.
Just then a shower of feathers fell around us. Immediately a broken-winged pigeon, which a hawk or some other bird had struck, fluttered with loud screams to my feet, and nestled under my dress.
After washing it clean I laid it in the kitchen on some folded flannel. I remarked to George what a special providence it was that we had quarrelled, because else we might not have noticed this poor creature which had, no doubt, been sent for us to nurse. George, too, thought the quarrel providential, as it saved me from saying a good deal of nonsense, in addition to what I did say, or perhaps it was our dinner providentially sent to us all but cooked.
I thought this cruel, and said so. George defended his proposal, and asked if it was not better to kill a half-dead pigeon than one in full life. When I could not answer for indignation he gave me Mary’s wrapper to throw over the “other dove,” and recommended feeding it with some of the child’s food which the nurse was preparing. To my astonishment it ate well enough. Next morning we found the poor bird dead. I was shedding some natural tears over it when George observed, as a consolation, that there was another dove on which I could expand ministrations. Perhaps good fortune would favour it also with some kind of broken wing that would keep my hand in. I saw that George was still cross, after yesterday’s quarrel, so I said nothing.
I know not how it was, but dating from this incident, a vague uneasiness took possession of me. I, at first, fancied it symptomatic of some illness establishing itself in me; but, as no disease broke out, I was fain to laugh myself, as best I could, out of my alarm. Insensibly the fear that was on me connected itself with the wonder I had felt when noticing how slow Mary was to repeat words. Always the lightest movement that caught her eye drew it away, and I persuaded myself she was still too young. Day by day, however, the first faint darkness deepened, till the winter tempest came, and the terrible conviction broke on me that Mary was deaf. I saw, too, that other people had divined the secret, though no one spoke of it.
My husband was not a musician, but was fond, like nearly everybody, of hearing good music. I felt an inexpressible pang, as he expatiated, according to his habit, on how he would have Mary’s musical skill cultivated. It was some months after I made the discovery I have mentioned, before the child’s father knew the real state of matters; so that, many a time, with his words cutting me, have I listened smiling to his plans.
He spoke of this so continually that I dreaded more and more the hour when he must know the truth, and though I thought it right to tell him, I saw no chance of being able to do it otherwise than abruptly. It was not altogether