“In such a way!...”
“We are not discussing missionary methods, dear. Your case is the only one before us.”
“Well, you say that missionaries mean to do good in their way; but it never seems to strike you that I may hope to do a little good in mine!”
Her tone grew plaintive; the long contest wearied her. The bloom of shadow on the garden, underneath the rose of sunset, the voices of the evening made her wistful; while the sadness which attends all partings clutched her heart. The whine of doing good had slipped from her at unawares—an echo from her former life of hired hypocrisy. It had been the natural tone of conversation with a lady of the class “employer.”
“That rings untrue. You’re simply talking for effect!” cried Mrs. Cameron, indignant. “It is unkind when I am speaking from my heart of hearts.... Now, only one word more. If you ever loved any one—father, or mother, or friend—at home in England, think of that person and just ask yourself what he or she would think of your denying Christ. The act is so uncalled-for that it seems like wanton wickedness. You can marry your Mahometan without renouncing Christianity, and by so doing you would have more honour in your husband’s eyes. You could retain your status as a British subject, which means something here; and if you really have a purpose to do good among those people, you would be in a better position to do so than by sinking to their level.”
“I won’t hear a word more! Oh, you are brutal!” The girl started up with hands and teeth clenched, past endurance. “Oh, you are brutal to bully me like this! I tell you once for all, I love those people, whom you and all your kind hate and tell lies about. No one was ever really nice to me before. They are a million times better than any Christians I have ever known. I tell you I belong to them, and not to you! I mean to have the same religion as my husband, and if he goes to Hell, well, I’ll go too! Do you understand?” Her words now came in gusts, for she was sobbing heavily. “You’ll never see me any more, of course, for I’m a wicked Moslem and you’re so fanatical! I don’t care; I can do without you. I have truer friends, who really like me and don’t only patronize. Oh, how can you make me cry like this, when I was so—so happy!”
To her surprise, she found herself in her tormentor’s arms.
“You wrong me, dear. I’m not fanatical, nor yet so narrow-minded as you think. Now, will you promise that, whatever happens, you will look upon me as a friend and come to see me sometimes? I have said all I can to dissuade you, because I fear you may repent of your decision when too late. My hope is, now and always, that you may be happy. You’ll promise, won’t you, still to make a friend of me?”
The girl nodded, sobbing, speechless with emotion.
“Well, then, God bless you, dear, among the Moslems, and may you always bear the standard of true Christian womanhood!”