“Dear El-Râmi,” he said—“this lady honours you. You will wish her well ere she departs from us,—that is all she seeks.”
El-Râmi turned again towards Irene, who remained perfectly quiet in the attitude she had assumed.
“I thought,”—he murmured slowly—“I thought you were an angel; it seems you are a woman. Sometimes they are one and the same thing. Not often, but sometimes. Women are wronged,—much wronged,—when God endows them, they see farther than we do. But you must not honour me,—I am not worthy to be honoured. A little child is much wiser than I am. Of course I must wish you well—I could not do otherwise. You see this poor bird,”—and he again stroked the dove which now dozed peacefully—“I wish it well also. It has its mate and its hole in the dove-cote, and numberless other little joys,—I would have it always happy,—and ... so—I would have you always happy too. And,—most assuredly, if you desire it, I will say—‘God bless you!’”
Here he seemed to collect his thoughts with some effort,—his dark brows contracted perplexedly,—then, after a minute, his expression brightened, and, as if he had just remembered something, he carefully and with almost trembling reverence, made the sign of the cross above Irene’s drooping head. She gently caught the hovering hand and kissed it. He smiled placidly, like a child who is caressed.
“You are very good to me”—he said—“I am quite sure you are an angel. And being so, you need no blessing—God knows His own, and always claims them ... in the end.”
He closed his eyes languidly then and seemed fatigued,—his hand still mechanically stroked the dove’s wings. They left him so, moving away from him with hushed and cautious steps. He had not noticed Sir Frederick or Lady Vaughan,—and they were almost glad of this, as they were themselves entirely disinclined to speak. To see so great a wreck of a once brilliant intellect was a painful spectacle to good-natured Sir Frederick,—while on Lady Vaughan it had the effect of a severe nervous shock. She thought she would have been better able to bear the sight of a distracted and howling maniac, than the solemn pitifulness of that silent submission, that grave patience of a physically strong man transformed, as it were, into a child. They walked round the court, Féraz gathering as he went bouquets of roses and jessamine and passiflora for the two ladies.
“He seems comfortable and happy”—Sir Frederick ventured to remark at last.
“He is, perfectly so”—rejoined Féraz. “It is very rarely that he is depressed or uneasy. He may live on thus till he is quite old, they tell me,—his physical health is exceptionally good.”
“And you will always stay with him?” said Irene.
“Can you ask, Madame!” and Féraz smiled—“It is my one joy to serve him. I grieve sometimes that he does not know me really, who I am,—but I have a secret feeling that one day that part of the cloud will lift, and he will know. For the rest he is pleased and soothed to have me near him,—that is all I desire. He did everything for me once,—it is fitting I should do everything for him now. God is good,—and in His measure of affliction there is always a great sweetness.”