But this afternoon—it had been raining all day—not even Demosthenes was able to do much for Fara. As she riffled through the yellow old scrolls that eulogized his bravery, she wondered whether his famed career hadn't cost more than it was worth. True, he had stirred Greece to a noisy house-cleaning, but the evil-doers had survived him. Demosthenes had kept his vow—but lost his life. Fara pushed the scrolls off her lap and asked herself what was the good of it. Maybe she and Demosthenes were a couple of fools to have set their youthful, dancing feet on the rough and lonely road toward a guaranteed disaster.
The afternoon was wearing on and the sombre, high-ceilinged library, never a bright and cheerful room even when the sun shone, was filled with depressing shadows. The gilded spool-ends of a pair of scrolls, high on a shelf in the corner, stared down at her through the gloom as if to inquire how long she thought she could sit there in the oppressive silence and ghostly shadows without losing her mind.
It had been her intention, yesterday, to leave the palace early this morning and spend the day with Hannah. She was homesick to see this motherly woman who had so tenderly befriended her. And perhaps Hannah could be persuaded to go with her into the country for another glimpse of the Nazarene Carpenter.
For a whole day, after her first experience of listening to Jesus, Fara had moved about, half dreamily, under the spell of his tranquillizing voice. Sitting there in that vast, stilled, yearning multitude, she had gradually yielded herself to the contagion of his calmness; and, retiring at length from his presence, she had carried with her a new possession. Indeed, it had so suffused her habitually unquiet spirit that for many hours thereafter nothing any longer mattered but the satisfaction of walking confidently under an almost tangible aureole of peace.
But she was not without misgivings, for she had never been really happy and carefree before, and something told her she had no right to this relief from her anxieties. Ever since she was a small child, Fara had had something to worry about: her sweet mother's frailty, her rascally father's neglect of them; and, overshadowing all other frets, the feeling that she wasn't wanted anywhere. She was the little Arabian who wasn't really welcome in Arabia, the little Jew who would never be really welcome in Jewry.
Now, by the magic of his persuasive voice, this Jesus had relaxed her tension and lifted her burden. 'Let not your heart be troubled,' he had said; and it was as if he spoke to her alone, with a full understanding of her heart and its trouble.
But, after a day of this peculiar ecstasy, the sensation of peace gradually gave way to the old anxieties. Again she strapped on her burden. Nor was she disconsolate over the loss of her strange quietude of mind; for had not Destiny ordained for her not only certain cares to be carried but responsibilities to be accounted for? It was all very well to possess an untroubled heart if one's troubles were honestly disposable. Whether peace was a virtue depended on how much duty-shirking was involved. What indeed would have become of Demosthenes' moral character had he resolved not to let his heart be troubled? Doubtless there were plenty of fortunate people who could dismiss their cares; but Demosthenes couldn't—nor could Fara. Returning that day from her curious experience in the presence of Jesus, she found that she had lost all interest in her vow; and, that night, her brightly polished dagger, with the jewelled handle, seemed an ugly, loathsome thing!
And so it was that Fara, briefly experiencing this singular sense of peace, gave it up for duty's sake. But the Carpenter's entreating voice continued to haunt her, and she had a mounting desire to hear him speak again. Often and often she found herself wondering about the nature of this strange man. He was a Jew, a citizen of Galilee, a carpenter; but these facts about him did not, Fara thought, explain him at all. He seemed to live outside the bondage and security of his race and nationality. This wasn't his world. Fara felt a strange kinship with him; for it wasn't her world either.
This morning, when she had wakened to find it raining, her disappointment had so depressed her that even Claudia's unfailing cheerfulness brought no response.
'I shall myself take the bug-eater his breakfast,' Claudia had volunteered. 'The poor fellow is sad enough without having to look at you.'
Soberly nodding her approval, Fara had made off to the gloomy library, where she had closeted herself throughout the whole wretched day, now almost ended.
Because the great house had been for so many hours as quiet as a tomb, the shrill voice of Claudia, quite obviously excited, startled Fara out of her apathy. From the foot of the winding staircase Claudia was shouting some unintelligible urgency. Perhaps the villa was on fire. Bounding out of her chair, Fara rushed to the doorway and ran into Voldi's open arms.
For a long moment their joy was too deep for any words of greeting. Utterly unnerved by her surprise, Fata leaned limply against him, snuggling her face into the folds of his tunic, while Voldi held her slim body tightly to him. After a time, she drew a long sigh, with something like a childish sob tugging at her throat, and softly patted his cheek. Voldi tightened his embrace, drawing her so close she was on tip-toe. Slowly raising her arms, she circled them around his neck and lifted her swimming eyes to meet his. He bent to kiss her parted lips and her instant response speeded his heart. It was not the first time he had kissed Fara, but always before it had been Voldi's doing. She had received his kisses without reluctance; but they had been Voldi's kisses. Now Fara was sharing them, eagerly, hungrily! Voldi was ecstatic, shaken, suffocated by his emotion. Again and again he kissed her until, breathless and trembling, she relaxed in his arms.
'You are all mine now, darling!' he murmured, huskily. 'We belong to each other—for ever and ever!'
Pressing her cheek hard against his breast, Fara slowly nodded her head. Deeply stirred by her complete surrender, Voldi felt free to speak at once of their future.
'We will forget all about this dangerous business of revenge,' he said, gently caressing the tight little curls on her forehead with his fingertips.
'I'll take you home, sweetheart, and we'll never be separated again.'
Fara made no response to this, and he continued softly while she listened with her pale face uplifted and her eyes closed. Impetuously he poured out the story of his grief, the agony of his relentless search for her on the mountain trails, the lonely days and sleepless nights, his despairing descents into deep ravines, calling, calling.
'And now I have found you! We will go back to our beautiful mountains! Nothing can ever part us—ever—as long as we live!'
Suddenly, to Voldi's surprise, for he had never seen her weep—not even when Arnon died—Fara gave way to an uncontrollable seizure of crying, her whole body racked with convulsive sobs. Gently supporting her in his arms, Voldi waited in bewildered silence for the storm to subside. Gradually the sobs diminished to involuntary little spasms. Resolutely, she straightened, dashed the tears from her eyes and released herself from his arms.
'Come, Voldi,' she said thickly. 'Let us sit down—and talk calmly if we can—and we must!' Taking him by the hand, she led him across the room to the huge leather chair and signed to him to sit down. He made a brief effort to draw her with him, but she gently resisted, drew up a low footstool, and sat facing him, with her arms folded on his knees. There was a moment of silence, while her tears again ran unchecked. At length she spoke, barely above a whisper.
'Voldi—dearest—I cannot go back with you to Arabia. . . . No, no, darling'—she went on, insistently, when he made a murmur of protest—'you must hear me out! . . . Voldi—if I loved you only a little less than I do, perhaps I could obey my selfish heart—and you. Believe me, it is not easy for me to make this sacrifice. You see, it isn't as if you were a common shepherd with no responsibilities beyond the care of your cottage and your flock. You are one of Arabia's most favoured sons, destined to be one of the King's Councillors—provided you are not encumbered with me.'
'But I am willing, glad to give all that up for you!' broke in Voldi earnestly. 'Nothing matters—but you!'
'That's the trouble, dear!' Fara went on. 'You would give up your duty and your distinction for me. Do you think I could ever be happy, in the days to come, knowing it was my fault that you were unable to serve your King and your country?' And when Voldi mumbled impatiently that it meant more to him to have her love than any honour the King might bestow, Fara warned, 'It may seem so now—but the time would come when we would realize that our love had been too costly. . . . Voldi—think of your father and mother and their pride in you!'
'They would understand.'
'They might try to understand, but it would be a lasting grief to them. . . . And that wise and good old man, Councillor Mishma! How he has counted on your future! . . . And there is another problem to be met.' Fara lowered her voice almost to a whisper. 'We would have children.'
'Wouldn't that be wonderful, Fara!' exclaimed Voldi.
'Yes, dear, it would be wonderful—but not for them. They would soon learn that they were—somehow different from other children, and that they were different because of me! Voldi—they might even grow to hate me as the cause of their unhappiness.'
They sat in silence for some time, Voldi having no answer to the problem Fara had proposed. At length, heartened by a new idea, he said, 'Very well, then. We will not return to Arabia. We will make a home somewhere else. We will go to Rome.'
Fara shook her head and sighed.
'Dear heart, you know you would be wretched there,' she said. 'You hate cities, as I do. We would be exiles, we and our children—people without a country.'
At this juncture, Claudia appeared at the door. Supper was ready, she said. Would they come down, or should she bring it up? Fara murmured a word of thanks and said they would come down. Claudia, divining that she had arrived at an inopportune moment, disappeared.
'Sorry, darling,' muttered Voldi, 'but I can't eat this rascal's bread!'
'This is my father's house,' said Fara. 'Surely his daughter has a right to invite a friend to supper.'
Voldi leaned forward and searched her eyes for a twinkle, but found them sober and sincere. The incongruity of the situation made him laugh.
'What's so funny?' demanded Fara, soberly.
'You came here to kill your father, didn't you?'
'Yes—but I haven't done it yet.' Fara's tone was still serious, but a little smile twitched her lips.
'And so long as you haven't yet had a chance to kill him,' grinned Voldi, 'you feel free to extend his hospitality to your guest! Fara—this is very amusing!'
She rose and reached for his hand.
'I'm glad to hear you laugh again, darling,' she said, 'even if you're laughing at me. Come—let us see what Claudia has for us. By the way, did she make eyes at you when you came?'
'Just a little, perhaps,' admitted Voldi obligingly.
'Well, don't let that turn your head,' drawled Fara, as they moved, arm in arm, toward the stairway. 'Our Claudia is as friendly as a muddy dog and not very particular in her choice of friends.' They both laughed. It eased their tension.
* * * * * *
The next morning dawned brilliantly bright but chilly. The two-month season called winter in Northern Galilee was at hand, a dreary period of searching winds and cold rains when the people were more comfortable indoors. This might be the last day of autumn.
With Lysias' gracious co-operation, Fara had overcome Voldi's reluctance to spend the night at the palace. The steward had been given to understand that Voldi was from Petra; and, as a student of the classics, had wanted to see the famous library. Seeing that the personable young man had been directed there by no less a prominent citizen than David, no further explanations of Voldi's visit seemed necessary. Anyone from Petra was welcome to the Tetrarch's hospitality. The beautiful, highly bred Darik had been properly stabled, groomed, admired.
After an early breakfast, Fara and Voldi had repaired to the library for a further discussion of their dilemma. It was soon made clear that the girl was adamant in her decision not to return to Arabia. She wasn't going to ruin Voldi's life and bring endless humiliation upon herself by being his wife and the mother of his children. No, she conceded, it was no fault of hers that her veins bore alien blood, but it was a misfortune that need not be bequeathed to others still unborn. In short, Fara had made up her mind and it was useless to argue with her.
'Let me give you a little more time to think it over, dear,' pleaded Voldi; and when Fara had pointed out that there was no suitable place for him to lodge, either in Tiberias, Capernaum, or Bethsaida, he said, 'I shall ride back to Caesarea and tarry for a few weeks. Then may I return—and see you again?'
She tried to convince him that this would only be salting their wounds, that they would both be better off if he rode away to occupy himself with other interests; but, after his earnest entreaty to be allowed to come back in the spring-time, she consented. Voldi saw that she was glad to have made this concession, and kissed her. Fara shook her head demurely, but shared the kiss, after murmuring helplessly that it wasn't fair to either of them. Voldi's failure to debate this point was an admission that she was right about that; but, drawing her closer into his arms, he kissed her again and again. 'I shouldn't let you do this,' she whispered; but she did. At length, reluctantly tugging herself loose from his embrace, she walked to the open window, Voldi slowly following. He put his arm around her gently.
'Let us get out into the sunshine,' she said. 'We will take a walk.' Her eyes lighted with a happy thought. 'We will visit Hannah!'
Voldi frowned thoughtfully, wondering whether it was discreet to add this emphasis to Fara's Arabian origin. Hannah might inadvertently say something to a neighbour that would expose Fara to the community's inquisitive conjectures. How does this Jewish girl happen, they would say, to be visited by a friend from Arabia? He voiced his anxiety.