For answer he produced a note from the folds of his inner garment and handed it with a bow. The nurse took it with trembling fingers and broke the seal. Then she adjusted her spectacles and turned towards the light. Mustaph complacently squatted on the floor.
“I think your project considerably fraught with risk both to the boy and yourself,” it ran; “but if you are determined to venture, I will not deter you. To-morrow will be a good opportunity on account of the full moon, and my carriage will be at your disposal. Be ready an hour and a half before sunset, when one of my servants shall call. Please inform Mustaph if this arrangement is satisfactory, or if you have changed your mind. Personally, I should advise you to leave well alone rather than be guided by a Mohammedan superstition.
O. von Felsen-Schvoenig.”
To read and digest the note took some little time; but the Arabs are never in a hurry, and Mustaph waited with calm patience. Anne sank on to a chair, with her back to the man and her elbows resting on the pillows of the bed. ‘To be, or not to be?’ that was the question which sent a thrill of agitation through her being. Whether it were better for Tom to remain as he was—a helpless imbecile—or to undergo the chance of being cured. Cured! The very word set all her pulses throbbing, and made the blood course rapidly through her veins. To have his intellect restored, to be clothed and in his right mind, like the demoniac of old, to be a help and a comfort instead of the burden he ever remained! For she knew he was a burden, in spite of the assurances she always gave herself to the contrary. His condition necessitated more attention than she was ever able to give him, even though he was watched by some obliging friend when she was away. Cured! As in a vision she saw him growing up beside her, his form no longer delicate and shrunken, but strong and stalwart with the vigour of youth; his face glowing with intelligence instead of that vacant expression which seemed to cleave her heart in twain. If he were but healthy like other boys, her life would be a very paradise on earth, for it but needed this to complete her happiness. A mist rose before her eyes as she gazed at the poor old-young face, the large forehead which betokened not intellect but idiocy, the heavy eyelids closed in sleep.
“Oh, Christ, dear Lord, help me!” she whispered, clasping her hands in an agony of indecision. She knew not what to do for the best.
Mustaph, noticing her agitation, rose from the floor and approached with wonder.
“Malaish!” he exclaimed, using the Arab term of condolence. “What matter? Mafîsh. There is nothing.”
“The cave,” she said, raising her head. “The Cave of Elijah. You have been there. Is it true that people are cured?”
He stared at her interrogatively, scarcely understanding her words.
“Fen—where? The cave? Boy go? Haiwa. Yes, varry good.”