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The Scapegoat-Part5_Hall Caine(1853-1931)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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he said. So he played with her as he would have played with

any other playmate, laughing with her, calling to her,



and going through his foolish little boyish antics before her.

Nevertheless, by some mysterious knowledge of Nature's own teaching,



he seemed to realise that it was his duty to take care of her.

And when the spirit and the mischief in his little manly heart



would prompt him to steal out of the house, and adventure

into the streets with Naomi by his side, he would be found in the thick



of the throng perhaps at the heels of the mules and asses,

with Naomi's hand locked in his hand, trying to push the great creatures



of the crowd from before her, and crying in his brave little treble,

"Arrah!" "Ar-rah!" "Ar-r-rah!"



As for Naomi, the coming of little black Ali was a wild delight to her.

Whatever Ali did, that would she do also. If he ran she would run;



if he sat she would sit; and meanwhile she would laugh with a heart

of glee, though she heard not what he said, and saw not what he did,



and knew not what he meant. At the time of the harvest,

when Ruth took them out into the fields, she would ride on Ali's back,



and snatch at the ears of barley and leap in her seat and laugh,

yet nothing would she see of the yellow corn, and nothing would she hear



of the song of the reapers, and nothing would she know of the cries

of Ali, who shouted to her while he ran, forgetting in his playing



that she heard him not. And at night, when Ruth put them to bed

in their little chamber, and Ali knelt with his face towards Jerusalem,



Naomi would kneel beside him with a reverent air, and all her laughter

would be gone. Then, as he prayed his prayer, her little lips



would move as if she were praying too, and her little hands would be

clasped together, and her little eyes would be upraised.



"God bless father, and mother, and Naomi, and everybody," the black boy

would say.



And the little maid would touch his hands and hi throat, and pass

her fingers over his face from his eyelids to his lips, and then do



as he did, and in her silence seem to echo him.

Pretty and piteous sights! Who could look on them without tears?



One thing at least was clear if the soul of this child was in prison,

nevertheless it was alive; and if it was in chains, nevertheless it



could not die, but was immortal and unmaimed and waited only

for the hour when it should be linked to other souls, soul to soul



in the chains of speech. But the years went on, and Naomi grew in beauty

and increased in sweetness, but no angel came down to open



the darkened windows of her eyes, and draw aside the heavy curtains

of her ears.



CHAPTER IV

THE DEATH OF RUTH



For all her joy and all her prettiness, Naomi was a burden

which only love could bear. To think of the girl by day,



and to dream of her by night, never to sit by her without pity

of her helplessness" target="_blank" title="n.无能为力">helplessness, and never to leave her without dread



of the mischances that might so easily befall, to see for her,

to hear for her, to speak for her, truly the tyranny of the burden



was terrible.

Ruth sank under it. Through seven years she was eyes of the child's eyes,



and ears of her ears, and tongue of her tongue. After that her own sight

became dim, and her hearing faint. It was almost as if she had spent them



on Naomi in the yearning of dove and pity. Soon afterwards

her bodily strength failed her also, and then she knew that her time



had come, and that she was to lay down her burden for ever.

But her burden had become dear, and she clung to it. She could not look



upon the child and think it, that she, who had spent her strength

for her from the first, must leave her now to other love and tending.



So she betook herself to an upper room, and gave strict orders

to Fatimah and Habeebah that Naomi was to be kept from her altogether,



that sight of the child's helpless happy face might tempt her soul no more.

And there in her death-chamber Israel sat with her constantly,



settling his countenance steadfastly, and coming and going softly.

He was more constant than a slave, and more tender than a woman.



His love was great, but also he was eating out his big heart with remorse.

The root of his trouble was the child. He never talked of her,



and neither did Ruth dwell upon her name. Yet they thought of little else

while they sat together.



And even if they had been minded to talk of the child, what had they

to say of her? They had no memories to recall, no sweet childish sayings,



no simple broken speech, no pretty lisp--they had nothing to bring back

out of any harvest of the past of all the dear delicious wealth



that lies stored in the treasure-houses of the hearts of happy parents.

That way everything was a waste. Always, as Israel entered her room,






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