The knight was humiliated. He had believed that the woman’s heart could not bear the thought of separation, and now to find her willing to give him up, rather than her will, her faith, hurt his pride. But they had made an utter crossing of purposes. He ran out of their stone house, his heart as stony. A little way off he paused, looked back, and said, “For the last time, Rizpah, what dost thou say?”
“Go; once for love I gave up all. Again I do it; I give thee up for the highest of all love, the love of a mother for her child!”
Caressingly Rizpah embraced the infant; and then fell on her knees with her face averted from her husband. He took one glance, and realizing the defeat of his strong will by that kneeling woman, angrily hurried away. The die was cast. He turned his back on Rizpah, swearing that he would never more return.
For a few days Rizpah lived in a crazy dream; now laughing as she thought of her victory; again letting her maiden love re-assert itself; then assuring her heart that all was over and well as it was. But a woman who imagines that reproach or even open violence can utterly extirpate love that once completely possessed her, knows not her own heart. Especially is this true if to that heart, she at times, press, lovingly, a child begotten in that love, and the form bearing the impress of that man for whom sometime she would have willingly died.
One night the baby cried piteously, being ill, and Rizpah was feeling very lonely because so anxious for it. She had sometimes, since Sir Charleroy’s departure, prattled with the baby calling “papa” and “Charleroy,” mother-like, woman-like. Self-condemning, for this was a half confession that she would have the little one think, if it thought at all, that she, the mother, was not to blame for the absence. The baby had caught some names and in its moaning, feverishly cried: “Abbaroy, Abbaroy; I want my Abbaroy.” The cry was piercing to the mother’s heart and conscience. She even then wished for the husband’s return. Indeed, some hot tears fell as she prayed God to send “papa Charleroy back.” The tie of marriage, potent beyond all of earth, now drew her away toward the absent one, and she then began to marvel how easily they had separated; how lightly they had regarded the bonds which after all tightly held them. When lives have blended and been tied together by other lives, it is indeed a prophesy of union “until death do us apart.”
“Abbaroy, Abbaroy! I want my Abbaroy,” still piteously cried the sick child. The night without was raging; the little lamp sent dancing shadows over the black walls of her room and an unutterable loneliness took possession of the woman. One by one thoughts like these arose; “Father dead, mother dead; husband as good as dead; perhaps really so, and my child like to die! What if she should die thus crying for her father! Oh, God spare me this! I’d go mad by her corpse.” “Abbaroy, I want my Abbaroy,” sobbed the child in her sleep. The mother heard the waving palms without. Her vivid imagination turned them into persons, spirits. They seemed to be her dead ancestors and they caught up the cry of her child rebukingly “Abbaroy, I want my Abbaroy.” She swooned now and slept. In the sleep there came a dream. She thought she saw her daughter, grown to womanhood, but pale and sad. She had the hand of her mother and was drawing her toward the sea. Whenever the mother drew back the daughter wailed “Abbaroy, I want my Abbaroy.” Presently their feet touched the water edge, she saw a ship, floating at anchor, but with sails spread partly; on its stern was the name, “England.” The captain stood by the vessel’s side, observing her. At last he cried: “Well, how long must we wait for thee?” A wave seemed to dash against her face and she awakened. The heavy window blind of stone had swung open, the rain was beating in on her. She started up and felt for her child, half fearfully lest a corpse should meet her touch. But she found her hands clasping a little form with fast beating heart and burning skin. The light had gone out, but there alone in that desolate home amid the ruins of past ages, the woman bowed in agonizing prayer. The balm of broken hearts was sought and she for a time was clothed and in her right mind. She arose, serenely, in the morning the cry of the sea captain of her dream in her ears, and the firm resolve in her heart to seek her husband even in far-off England; with him to try for the things that make for peace. Then she opened the iron-bound chest that had come to her from her father and took therefrom a roll of the ‘Kethrubim’ and read. And it so happened that seeking to refresh her mind as to the story of how the giant Sampson got honey out of the slain lion’s carcass, that she might more fully apply the meaning to her own experience, she came to the story of his birth. That story fixed her attention for days. It was like a new revelation to her. And she read and read these words over and over:
“And there was a certain man of Zorah, of the Danites, whose name was Manoah.
“And the angel of the Lord appeared unto the woman, and said unto her, Behold now, thou shalt conceive and bear a son.
“Then the woman came and told her husband, saying, A man of God came unto me, and his countenance was like an angel of God, and he said unto me, Behold thou shalt bear a son.