'Not even Simon? When he discovers that his waif is a girl, he will ask many questions. She has consented to wear my daughter's clothing while she is here.'
'Let Simon think whatever he likes about the girl's having disguised herself. She may or may not confide. If I were you, I should not press her for her story.' David was again on the point of moving away, but paused to inquire, 'Is she Jewish in appearance?'
'Yes, sir. She told Simon she was from Idumea. That's Jewish, is it not?'
'Idumea? Nonsense!' snorted David. 'Had she been from Idumea she wouldn't have wanted to bathe. No, indeed! That shirt did not originate in Idumea! . . . I shall see you again tomorrow. . . . I bid you good-day.' He turned slowly and was retracing his steps toward home, with bent head, and hands clasped behind him. After he had gone a little way, he suddenly straightened, turned about, and came back.
'You say the girl looks Jewish. Think hard now! If someone were to tell you she is part Jewish—and part Arabian—what would you say?' David's eyes invaded Hannah's earnestly.
'I wouldn't know, sir,' she replied, shaking her head. 'I don't know how the Arabians look. The girl is a little taller than most Jewish women of her age—and more slender, too.'
'What—would you say—is her age, Hannah?'
'Sixteen, perhaps; or seventeen, maybe.'
David made no comment on that; but stood silently, thoughtfully, counting his fingers. Having finished the addition, he nodded to himself, drew an enigmatic smile, and withdrew. 'I bid you good-day, Hannah,' he said absently.
For a long time the bewildered woman stood watching the venerable Sadducee's deliberate march up the hill. It was evident that David had been deeply impressed. Hannah hoped she wasn't getting into trouble. She wished she could feel free to confide the whole matter to Simon. But if the girl was—as David seemed to suspect—of Arabian blood, Simon would undoubtedly be angry and turn her out. He hated the Arabians. On the other hand, if he weren't told and found out later, he would have good cause for being enraged over the deception. Any way you looked at it, the situation was disturbing. Hannah was not experienced in dissembling.
After standing there irresolutely until her legs were weary she returned to the house. The door of the guest's bedroom was now open. The girl, in a simple white dress of Abigail's, was sitting on the edge of the bed, combing her cropped hair. Hannah smiled, but her eyes brimmed with tears. The girl instinctively guessed why.
'I'm afraid it makes you sad,' she said softly, 'to see a stranger in this keep-sake dress. I am sorry.'
Hannah brightened and dabbed at the tears.
'It was just for a moment, my dear. I am glad to see my Abigail's clothing put to some good use. She was a beautiful child. . . . And'—impulsively—'so are you! . . . What shall we call you—now that your name isn't Joe?'
There was a momentary pause before the girl replied: 'You may call me Esther.'
'Though that is not your name—either,' commented Hannah, disappointed—and hurt.
'I am told that Esther was the name my father chose for me,' said the girl, eager to make amends.
'Shall I suppose, then,' persisted Hannah, 'that others in your family preferred another name for you, and that their wishes prevailed?'
Esther nodded, absently, diligently preoccupied with her combing.
Hannah waited uneasily in the doorway for a fuller confidence, and when the girl responded only with a childish little smile of entreaty, she turned away with an impatient gesture that said, Oh—very well, then—if it's such a secret. Presently the dishes clattered in the kitchen as if they too were annoyed. It was clear that Hannah was offended by her guest's reticence. Esther felt very uncomfortable. She had a momentary impulse to follow the friendly woman and make a full disclosure of everything. On second thoughts she decided that too much was at stake.
* * * * * *
Having inflicted upon Hannah the thankless job of looking after the ragged young Idumean—an impetuosity that had already caused him some appropriate misgivings—Simon hurried away as if late for an important engagement, though the fact was that he had no plans for the day. He had never been so restless in his life. As he neared the highway, his long strides shortened and slowed to an indecisive saunter; and at the corner, he looked both ways, gnawing his bearded under-lip.
Daily habit suggested that he return to the fleet, but the idea was rejected. Simon had no relish for reappearing among his men so soon after the quarrel with Zebedee's boys, an affair which, he now felt, might easily have been avoided. Besides, Andrew would probably have sailed by this time. And, as for the Tetrarch's fish, doubtless one of the crew had been sent to deliver them, seeing the skipper had said he would not return today.
With no plausible errands in the direction of Tiberias, Simon turned the other way and walked slowly toward the sleepy little business zone of Bethsaida, for no reason at all except to keep in motion. He couldn't stand there on the corner any longer. Salutations were offered along the road, to which he responded grumpily, in no mood for neighbourly conversation.
Not for a long time had Simon been in this part of the town, but nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed in Bethsaida. Old Seth still sat where Simon had seen him last, on the stone flagging before the open door of his pottery-shop, hugging his thin knees tight against his bearded chin.
'Don't see you down this way very often,' shrilled the old man, unexpectedly stirring from his torpor. It was an invitation to tarry and talk, but Simon merely grunted and ambled on. At the wide doorway of the blacksmith's shop he paused only long enough to agree with sooty-faced, leather-aproned Ben-Abel that it was a hot day. Ben-Abel clanked down his hammer, advanced to the door, and further deposed that we needed rain. Simon nodded and moved away.
On the broad steps of the Synagogue lounged a beggar whom he distastefully recognized by the bulky and filthy bandage on a perennially sore arm. The loathsome creature straightened, grinned, and began to unwrap his odorous merchandise. Wrinkling his nose, Simon signed that he didn't want to see it, and dropped three copper pennies in the battered cup.
'No use going out there now,' advised the beggar. 'Everybody that's going today has gone a good two hours ago. Time you get there, it will be all over.'
'What will be all over?' demanded Simon gruffly.
'The Carpenter! That's where you're going, isn't it?'
'What gave you that foolish idea?'
'Oh—I can tell,' snickered the beggar. 'Some of them try to pretend they're going somewhere else, but I can spot 'em. Take yourself now. I know you. You're the Big Fisherman, that doesn't hold with the Synagogue and curses religion. But what business brings you out here, on your way up the hill? You're not carrying any fish and there's none to be had where you're going. You want to have a look at this Carpenter, same as everybody else. Heh! Heh!'
'If you are so interested in this miracle-working Carpenter,' growled Simon, 'why don't you show him that stinking arm? Maybe he would heal it for you. But perhaps you don't want it healed.'
'The fellow is a fraud and a blasphemer!' The beggar rattled his cup and made a wry face. 'Three pennies! And the Big Fisherman owns three ships! It isn't enough to buy a measure of leeks!'
Simon muttered a curse and strode angrily away, the beggar calling after him, 'It won't do you any good to climb that long hill, I tell you! He'll be gone. You'll be meeting all the other fools on their way back.'
The Big Fisherman had left the town behind him now and the highway was stiffly rising. He had been walking rapidly, stomping along still angry over his encounter with the impudent beggar. The dirty, insolent beast should be locked up as a public nuisance. However, he was a canny fellow; you had to say that much for him. He knew where Simon was bound for, even when Simon hadn't clearly decided on it himself. The impertinence of the filthy rascal! Simon had a notion to turn about and retrace his steps, just to show the beggar he had been wrong in his surmise; but then he might think that Simon had decided to take his advice. Simon wasn't in the habit of taking advice from beggars—or anyone else, for that matter.
The afternoon was hot and the Big Fisherman was not accustomed to climbing steep grades. He sat down in the shade of a wayside tree to rest and get his breath. He must be growing old. Sooner or later, men did grow old. Their muscles got flabby, and their lungs and their hearts—yes, and their heads, too. An old man got more and more testy, surly, quarrelsome, cantankerous, like an old dog; like old Zebedee, who was always saying the wrong thing, making himself ridiculous. Fortunately for Simon, he wasn't that old yet. He didn't pick quarrels. No man should be blamed for defending his beliefs.
Well—what had happened had happened: it was too late to do anything about that now. Johnny had walked out in a huff and wasn't likely to make the first move toward a reconciliation; and, naturally, the wilful boy wouldn't expect his boss to hunt him up—and coax him to come back. There'd be no living with the youngster after that: he'd think he was an admiral or something.
No; the only sure cure for Johnny's folly was the exposure of this Carpenter as an unscrupulous mountebank. . . . Simon rose, wincing, and plodded on, every step an effort. . . . The Carpenter must be pretty sure of himself, expecting people to climb a mountain to find him.
The sun was all but setting when Simon's aching legs brought him over the shoulder of the plateau. There he paused uncertainly, amazed at the size of the crowd. Johnny had guessed there might have been as many as a hundred out here yesterday. There were more than that today. He sauntered slowly forward toward the closely packed, silent, attentive multitude, wishing he might make himself invisible. It would be very annoying if he were recognized and a rumour spread that he had been seen there. It would be useless to explain his reason for coming. What if Johnny should see him? Simon walked slowly, softly, and stood at the rear of the crowd. No one paid the slightest attention to him. He felt somewhat less uneasy. And presently he left off thinking about himself at all.
Having come here to criticize and, if possible, to discover some trickery, the Big Fisherman had approached with a scowl. He was angry at this Carpenter for creating so much hubbub and for trying to deceive a lot of weak-minded people; but, in all honesty, the fellow did not look like an itinerant showman. It wasn't the impudent face of a juggler, nor was it the brazen voice of a street-hawker with some nostrum to sell. Johnny had been right about the man's voice. It was calm, deliberate, conversational, as if addressed to a single individual, a personal friend. You had to listen closely or you wouldn't hear, certainly not from where Simon stood; though it was to be observed that even the people in the forward rows tipped up their good ear. It was not a harangue. And the man was not exerting himself to compel attention. It was indeed a voice such as you had never heard in a public address: it singled you out. You! Yes—Simon—you!
He edged in closer against the backs of his neighbours. A head taller than most, he had no trouble seeing the Carpenter clearly. The man was tired. Surely the people should be able to see that. They had crowded in on him until he had hardly standing-room, nor could he retreat for the great rock immediately behind him. What the Carpenter needed, reflected Simon, was somebody to keep the crowd off him. This heedless pack of curiosity seekers were suffocating him; wearing him out. One would think he might have found at least one friend to stand by and protect him. Perhaps he didn't want any close friends. Maybe you couldn't get acquainted with him, even if you wanted to. But that conjecture was not in tune with the tone of the voice that appealed to your spirit of neighbourliness—if not, indeed, to your comradeship. Johnny was right: there was something very strange about the man. Not much wonder the boy had stammered—and groped for words.
Simon's animosity had cooled now. He had come hopeful of hearing something revolutionary, something seditious; something that would get the Carpenter into trouble. He intended to be on the alert for it; and if he heard anything incriminating, he would be willing to testify when the matter came to court, as it surely would. The rabbis would see to that. They too were eager to show him up as a seditionist. Simon hadn't given any thought to this phase of the problem, and it now annoyed him to foresee that he might presently be on the side of the rabbis. No—he didn't want to have anything to do with it personally. Let the patrols and the priests attend to it.
The extreme weariness of the Carpenter made a bid for Simon's sympathy. If it weren't for making a spectacle of himself, he would like to get down into that front row and use his elbows. He wouldn't be above cracking a couple of heads together. Simon had often done that in a general brawl; suddenly grab two handfuls of hair, and whack! It was always effective. Yes, he would enjoy nothing better than a chance to teach these yokels better manners.
The soft voice was talking now about the Day of Atonement. Simon wouldn't be interested; wondered what the Carpenter could find to say on such a dull subject; surely the multitude wouldn't have climbed the long hill to listen to that. The farmer in front of him twisted his head around, looked up fretfully, and lifted a cramped shoulder. Simon had unwittingly crowded in on the fellow until he couldn't stand straight. The sour look suggested that some people should mind their manners and stop pushing—even if they were big as Goliath and knew they could impose on smaller folks. Simon moved back a step and tramped on a squirming toe.
He had quite forgotten that tomorrow was the Day of Atonement. And today, too, if you obeyed the Scriptures. It was a two-day affair. On the first day you went about paying debts, returning things borrowed, and making up with people you had injured; though almost nobody ever did anything about that. On the second day, if you were religious, you went to the Synagogue with such an offering as you could afford, ranging in value from a pair of pigeons to a fat steer, and received a blessing.