RHODA FAIR: The Classic Novel of a Woman at the Crossroads

by Clarence Budingtion Kelland

  "It is well," said Paul.

  "And did you see?"

  "We saw."

  "And are satisfied?"

  Paul gazed hungrily upon Rhoda's face and she smiled up at him, a new beauty in her eyes. That expression which had troubled him, haunted him, was gone—that restlessness, that unease, that uncertainty, and in its place was the glow of peace and knowledge.

  "We are satisfied," said Rhoda.

  El Ghafir stood above them, benign, splendid in his dignity, impressive in his mantle of eternal grief.

  "Then," said he, gravely, "you are at the gateway of knowledge."

  "I have passed the gateway," said Paul. "To me it seems that I have learned all worth the learning."

  "And that is?"

  "The business of mankind on earth; why we are here; what is important for us to do."

  "Go on."

  "I can only quote, 'To love your neighbor as yourself."

  "There was more, 'To love the Lord thy God with all thy heart.' "

  "It means the same," said Paul, thoughtfully. "All is included. The one, great, unpardonable sin is selfishness. That, it seems to me, sums up all that is valuable in the philosophy of the ages. . . "

  "Paul. . . . Paul. . . ." Rhoda's voice was secret, tender.

  "I know why Jaunty Bailey died," he said.

  "But now," said El Ghafir, "it is day, and we must think of the day. What are you to do?"

  Paul let his eyes rest again upon Rhoda. "It is your problem," he said, gently, `and it is for you to decide."

  "I have decided," she said. "I shall hide no more. If I must suffer, if I must be punished—" Her voice trembled. "Mother knew. She made her decision, and she was happy. As she did I shall do. . . ."

  "Are you sure—and you are not afraid?" It was El Ghafir who spoke.

  "I am afraid, but I am none the less sure."

  "Then come. . . . Government House is above us. Let us go there and see."

  Paul helped her to arise and they walked out through the iron gate of the Garden, down the slope which leads to the tomb of the Mother of Christ, and so to the road which bends around the valley to Jerusalem, forking upward upon the higher side to wind its way up the element slopes of the Mount of Olives. As they reached the waiting car three horsemen clattered down the highway from Jericho so that they met face to face—and the leading horseman was Hana Effendi. His face was worn and marked by travel and hardship, but his small eyes, close set, had lost none of their brightness, nor his thick lips their ability to curve into that peculiar, reflective smile.

  "As beeg as life," he said, "and two times as natural. You should be three times—for where is the other."

  "He is dead," said Rhoda.

  "Ah—so-oo! I find Abdullah, ver dead indeed, and others. I hear many shot in the night. I say, 'What's all the shootin' for?' and I go ver' fast. . . . Then I follow to here. You have made a good run, but I have made a better one. Now we go on together."

  "They are going with me to Government House," said El Ghafir, gravely.

  "You make jus' one so-leetle mistake. They go weeth me. I have catch them, and now I shall keep, eh? . . . In you get, and drive so slow."

  And so, escorted by the policemen, they wended their way up the hill to that arched gateway which opens into the courtyard beyond which is the structure which is the seat of British authority in Palestine. Sentries at the gate interposed, but at a word from El Ghafir saluted and made way. . . . And then, walking toward them, Rhoda saw friends, faces she had grown to love, the faces of Reuben Friend and his wife—and with them another, in uniform, wearing an air of dignity and authority. Though he was unknown to Rhoda and Paul, it was he in whose hands the Empire had placed the ruling of the Holy Land.

  Rhoda made one little step forward and lifted her hands with a pitiful cry. Reuben Friend saw, paused, ran forward with lighted face, and eyes that for the moment lost that melancholy, that sadness which is characteristic of the great men of his race.

  "My child. . . . My child. . . . You have come! He has found you. . . . Look, mamma, see who is here."

  "I have come," Rhoda said, "to give myself up." But Mrs. Friend did not heed; she swept the girl to her ample bosom and mothered her, crooning to her and swaying her body as if she held a child to her breast. Then her bright eye saw Hana Effendi and she stiffened. "Mr. Policeman," she said, "what have you got to do with this?"

  "I have catch them,'" said Hana Effendi, simply.

  "Well," snapped Mrs. Friend, "you can just uncatch them again, can't he papa?!You will make him, won't you? . . . Where's the governor? Now, papa, you just tell the governor all about it and it will be all right." She patted Rhoda's hair. "You leave it to my husband," she said, proudly. "We are guests here. Yes, indecd. They would not hear of our going to a hotel. . . . Papa, put your hat right on. Do you want you should get sunstroke!"

  "Governor," said Reuben Friend, "these children are dear to me. I have told you of them." He nodded and smiled to Rhoda. "Oh, I have the whole tale. . . . See this little girl, Governor! And this boy! . . . They have suffered for a worthless old man. He—this boy that I hardly knew, risked his life to warn me. That is the truth. . . . And she!" Reuben Friend's eyes filled as the spoke. "She went out into the hills to buy me free. For an old man of no account she did this. . . . To buy me free—with herself. Ah, it is matters like this, Governor, that make life endurable—the goodness and the heroism! . . . No, Mr. Policeman, there is no need for you here."

  "I have follow them, and I have catch them," said Hana Effendi. He shrugged his shoulders. "It was my duty—so. I have done my duty to my salt. . . . For the rest, I do not care."

  "He didn't know," said Rhoda, "and I was guilty. I—I detained him on that day. I helped—but I did not know what I was helping to do."

  "It was a place bitterly hard for a child, Governor. . . . We will not hold it against her, eh?"

  "We will not hold it against her," said the Englishman, smiling, gravely. "But this other matter you spoke of—the jewels. Are there difficulties there?"

  "My child, that has never been clear to me," said Reuben. "Do you wish to tell me the truth about that?"

  "I can tell," said Rhoda, "because he is dead. . . . He—took them. You know my story, who I am, who my mother was. . . . He loved me, Mr. Friend . . . and he brought the jewels to my house when they were after him, and I kept them for him, but I would not give them back to him until I—decided."

  "Decided what, my dear?"

  "If I had to be as mother used to be—or if—if it was possible for me to—to be as she was all the years I knew her."

  "Yes. . . . Yes. . . . And then?"

  "And then I ran away. I wanted to think, to feel, to live. I had to decide. . . . And I carried the jewels always. They were a symbol, do you understand?"

  "I think I can understand."

  "Until I decided I could not give them to Jaunty, and I could not return them to—to the owner."

  "It is so. I understand. . . . But now—?"

  Rhoda searched within her waist and dropped a tiny packet into his hand. "Will you take charge of them for me? You will know what to do. . . . And now I am ready, I think."

  Then the governor did a gracious thing, a thing which for a moment Rhoda could not comprehend. "Mr. Friend," he said, "do you not think it time to present me to my guest? . . . It is," and his eyes rested upon Rhoda with grave admiration, "an honor I shall know how to appreciate. . . ."

  Rhoda stared at him, wide-eyed. Her hands lifted to her throat; she took one little step forward, and even then could not believe. "You—you mean—?"

  "That I shall esteem it a privilege to count you as my guest—not alone as friends of my distinguished friend, but for the sake of the splendid things you have done. . . . Miss Fair, I grudge you to America."

  "There," said Mrs. Friend sotto-voce to Paul Dare, "didn't I tell you my husband could fix it! . . . Now, papa, you mustn't excite yourself. You know how poorly you slept last night."


  The governor let his eyes rest upon Hana Effendi. "You, sir," he said, "have done your duty well. It will be remembered. You will not be required further."

  Hana Effendi stood for a moment, his little eyes moving from one to another, and then his thick lips curved in that boyish, tolerant smile. It was as though he restrained inward laughter—not at, but with, the frailties and absurdities of the world; as though he understood and condoned, and, on the whole, enjoyed. . . . He saluted, swung on his heel and disappeared through the gate.

  "I would suggest, said El Ghafir, "beds and food. For these young people have not slept nor eaten."

  "I am neglectful," said the governor. "Come."

  That evening Rhoda and Paul walked together upon the slopes of the mountain, and there was sweet silence between them, broken only by occaisional speech. Rhoda was recalling that offer of Reuben Friend's to Paul Dare.

  "Young man," he said, "I have influence with the American University at Beyrout. If you would return to your profession, I can assure you a chair upon its faculty."

  "No, Mr. Friend," Paul had said. "I shall never teach again. . . . My work will be to learn—and to live."

  She was proud of him, proud of the man he had become, proud because she herself had seen and taken a part in the changes which had taken place in him, in his awakening, in his rebirth. She had seen him burst from those imprisoning walls to enter the real, the beautiful, the glowing world of promise. . . . Rhoda felt that she knew him even better than he knew himself, and she was content.

  But he—he was hesitant, dubious of himself. His old self-assurance, arrogance, was gone, and he dared not speak what was in his heart. . . . How, after seeing him as he was, in all his weakness and error, could she—the so-wonderful she!—stoop from her splendid heights to him.

  "Rhoda!" he said, and faltered.

  "Yes, Paul?"

  "In one thing I have not altered."

  "What is that, Paul?"

  "My love for you."

  She smiled, and there was that in her eyes as she looked upward into his which promised all the glory and wonder and loveliness of the future.

  "It is the one thing I would keep unchanged," she said, "forever and forever. . . "