Every evening she returns mournfully to her little dwelling, and whenever she sits down to supper she places opposite to her a platter and a mug--and so she waits for him who comes not. At night she lays Halil"s pillow beside her, and puts _their_ child between the pillow and herself that he may find it there when he comes.
And so day follows day.
One day there came a tapping at her window. With joy she leaps from her bed to open it.
It is not Halil but a pigeon--a carrier-pigeon bringing a letter.
Gul-Bejaze opens the letter and reads it through--and a second time she reads it through, and then she reads it through a third time, and then she begins to smile and whispers to herself:
"He will be here directly."
From henceforth a mild insanity takes possession of the woman"s mind--a species of dumb monomania which is only observable when her fixed idea happens to be touched upon.
At eventide she again betakes herself to the road which leads out of the valley. She shows the letter to an old serving-maid, telling her that the letter says that Halil is about to arrive, and a good supper must be made ready for him. The servant cannot read, so she believes her mistress.
An hour later the woman comes back to the house full of joy, her cheeks have quite a colour so quickly has she come.
"Hast thou not seen him?" she inquires of the servant.
"Whom, my mistress?"
"Halil. He has arrived. He came another way, and must be in the house by now."
The servant fancies that perchance Halil has come secretly and she, also full of joy, follows her mistress into the room where the table has been spread for two persons.
"Well, thou seest that he is here," cries Gul-Bejaze, pointing to the empty place, and rushing to the spot, she embraces an invisible shape, her burning kisses resound through the air, and her eyes intoxicated with delight gaze lovingly--at nothing.
"Look at thy child!" she cries, lifting up her little son; "take him in thine arms. So! Kiss him not so roughly, for he is asleep. Look! thy kisses have awakened him. Thy beard has tickled him, and he has opened his eyes. Rock him in thine arms a little. Thou wert so fond of nursing him once upon a time. So! take him on thy lap. What! art thou tired?
Wait and I will fill up thy gla.s.s for thee. Isn"t the water icy-cold? I have just filled it from the spring myself."
Then she heaps more food on her husband"s platter, and rejoices that his appet.i.te is so good.
Then after supper she links her arm in his and, whispering and chatting tenderly, leads him into the garden in the bright moonlit evening. The faithful servant with tears in her eyes watches her as she walks all alone along the garden path, from end to end, beneath the trees, acting as if she were whispering and chatting with someone. She keeps on asking him questions and listening to his replies, or she tells him all manner of tales that he has not heard before. She tells him all that has happened to her since they last separated, and shows him all the little birds and the pretty flowers. After that she bids him step into a little bower, makes him sit down beside her, moves her kaftan a little to one side so that he may not sit upon it, and that she may crouch up close beside him, and then she whispers and talks to him so lovingly and so blissfully, and finally returns to the little hut so full of shamefaced joy, looking behind her every now and then to cast another loving glance--at whom?
And inside the house she prepares his bed for him, and places a soft pillow for his head, lays her own warm soft arm beneath his head, presses him to her bosom and kisses him, and then lays her child between them and goes quietly to sleep after pressing his hand once more--whose hand?
The next day from morn to eve she again waits for him, and at dusk sets out once more along the road, and when she comes back finds him once more in the little hut ... oh, happy delusion!
And thus it goes on from day to day.
From morn to eve the woman accomplishes her usual work, her neighbours and acquaintances perceive no change in her; but as soon as the sun sets she leaves everyone and everything and avoids all society, for now Halil is expecting her in the open bower of the little garden.
Punctually she appears before him as soon as the sun has set. It has become quite a habit with her already. She so arranges her work that she always has a leisure hour at such times. Sometimes, too, Halil is in a good humour, but at others he is sad and sorrowful. She tells this to the old serving-maid over and over again. Sometimes, too, she whispers in her ear that Halil is cudgelling his brains with all sorts of great ideas, but she is not to speak about it to anyone, as that might easily cost Halil his life.
Poor Halil! Long, long ago his body has crumbled into dust, Death can do him no harm now.
And thus the "White Rose" grows old and grey and gradually fades away.
Not a single night does the beloved guest remain away from her. For years and years, long--long years, he comes to her every evening.
And as her son grows up, as he becomes a man with the capacity of judging and understanding, he hears his mother conversing every evening with an invisible shape, and she would have her little son greet this stranger, for she tells him it is his father. And she praises the son to the father, and says what a good, kind-hearted lad he is, and she compares their faces one with the other. He is the very image of his father, she says; only Halil is now getting old, his beard has begun to be white. Yes, Halil is getting aged. Otherwise he would be exactly like his son.
And the son knows very well that his father, Halil Patrona, was slain many, many long years ago by the Janissaries.
THE END.