He rose, and moved to the open casement, from which a light wooden stairway led down into the shaded precincts of his luxurious private garden. Leaning against the intertwisted trellis-work he looked out at the placid, star-strewn heavens with troubled and indifferent eyes.
“’Tis the last night of the watch” — he said— “And to-morrow all suspense will cease. The counsellor of Arimathea hath kept his word, — he hath not visited the tomb since the burial, — likewise the followers of the ‘Nazarene’ are scared, and rest of settled plan or purpose, wherefore so far all is well. To-morrow we shall attest unto the people the falseness of the Prophet they believed in, — then there will be no more cause for fear. So will the matter be forgotten; these fanatics for truth are more troublous than seditious rebels; open truth is most impolitic, — one cannot rule the world except by lies!”
He smiled a little at his own cynicism, — then started nervously, hearing a slight rustling in the thick foliage below his balcony. Moving from his indolent posture he bent forward to listen, and as he did so, two brilliant wild eyes peered up at him from the dusky shadows.
“Caiaphas!” and the whisper thrilled like the hiss of a snake through the silence, “ Caiaphas!”
Seized with a chill terror, he stepped swiftly and noiselessly down the stairway, and, bending back the bushes, gazed eagerly into what seemed a nest of leaves, — and there perceived the form of a woman crouched down on the ground as though seeking to hide herself, — a woman in draggled white garments with a fair, strangely agonized face that smiled at him in a sort of forlorn joy as he discerned it among the sheltering shrubs and flowers. He uttered a smothered cry, —
“Judith!”
And half in rage, half in love, he dragged her from her hiding-place, and caught her up in his arms, looking about him in dread lest any one should see them, and trying to cover her with his own flowing mantle.
“Judith! — Judith!” he muttered, his heart beating heavily, the while he sought to put back from her brows all the tangled gold of her dishevelled hair — What doest thou here? Where hast thou been? Knowest thou not that thy father hath sought thee all throughout the day with tears and heart-break? And why hast thou ventured hither thus alone? Rememberest thou not the scandal of tongues — the gossip of the city? Consider the folly of it! — if my wife saw thee! — if my servants spied thee! — oh, thou must not linger here one moment, Judith, — thou must go home; — come, — I myself will take thee through the private way, and naught will be suspected — come! — there is no time to be lost if thou wouldst silence slander.”
With unnatural violence she wrenched herself from his grasp and retreated step by step looking full at him. Leaves and brambles clung about her, — a spray of the scarlet cactus-blossom was twisted in her girdle, and against her breast she held some dark object which she appeared to cherish with a jealous care.
Thou art Caiaphas!” she said dreamily surveying him—” Thou art God’s great high-priest who hath become a slave for love of me. I have watched for thee all day and have not found thee, though, up at a casement yonder I saw thy wedded spouse, the pale daughter of Annas, weeping. Did she weep for thee, thinkest thou? — if so, ’twas strange. Who that is wise would shed tears for any man! Listen, Caiaphas, — thou who dost exact obedience from all the people of Jerusalem, — the hour is come when thou must obey me!”
Alarmed at her wild look and manner, Caiaphas went towards her, trying again to take her in his arms, — but she still retreated, her eyes flashing with a fierceness that startled him. —
“What can I do for thee, Judith?” he murmured, speaking as gently as he could, and hoping to soothe her by soft words—” Thou knowest how willing I always am to give thee pleasure. Only I beseech thee, come with me out of this place, lest we be seen and spoken of” —
“All the world may see,” — responded Judith with an air of triumph—” All the world may hear! I care naught. What is the world to me, so long as Judas still is angry? Judas will not speak to me for wrath, — he deems ’tis I did bring the ‘Nazarene’ to death, — whereas ’tis thou! — thou only. And thou must tell him so, — thou must declare thy full part in the matter, for neither he nor I will bear the undeserved blame. He is at home sleeping; I told him thou hadst sworn to make him great and famous in the land, — but he answered nothing. I promised I would bring him news, — come thou now and wake him — thou knowest not how fast he sleeps! — and tell him all, — tell him how thou didst teach me to persuade him to betray his friend the ‘Nazarene.’ For though the ‘ Nazarene’ is dead, it seems He was not altogether evil, — and methinks ’tis pity He is dead, since Judas loved Him. I knew not that his love was such, or of so great a tenderness, — and now I suffer for my ignorance, for Judas will not pardon me, or look at me, or say as he was wont to say— ‘Fair sister, morning is fairer for thy presence!’ — yea, he would oft speak so, smilingly, for I was beautiful, — the fairest woman in Judæa was I till I grew old!” Here she paused with a puzzled expression, — her own words seemed to frighten her, — but presently she went on, muttering to herself, —
“Till I grew old, — ay! — cruel age creeps on apace with us all, — we should not stint love lest those we love be taken from us, — we must not wait too long, Judas and I, or we shall be buried in our graves ere we be friends. And once shut in that darkness we shall never rise, not even on the waves of many tears!”
Her voice sank tremulously, — then suddenly it rang out clear and shrill.
“See!” she exclaimed wildly, “ Thus died the King!”
And unclasping her hands from the object she had hugged so closely to her bosom, she held up a Cross, made of two small olive branches tied together with a strand of silk drawn out of her own girdle.
Caiaphas staggered back, struck speechless by her words and the swiftness of her action, and involuntarily he made a gesture of repugnance and offence. She saw it and sprang up to him, still brandishing the Cross before his eyes.
“Thus died the King!” she repeated with a kind of exultation—” Slain by His own high-priest on the altar of the world!”
And with all the madness of her tortured brain lighting her looks as with fire, she stood transfigured into an unearthly loveliness that appalled while it fascinated her quondam lover, — and for one absorbing moment the twain confronted each other as though they were restless ghosts met by moonlight, — the Cross between them uplifted like a sign of parting, — a mystic barrier dividing them for ever.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
IT was but an instant that they remained thus inert, — then, shaking off the amazement and fear that had held him motionless and dumb, Caiaphas seized the crazed girl in his arms and strove to snatch the Cross from her grasp. But she clung to it fiercely in an access of fever and frenzy; and with a swift lithe spring like that of a young leopardess she again escaped from him and stood apart, eyeing him vengefully yet with a wan smile. Never had the proud priest been brought to such a verge of despair as now, — for what was he to do with this distracted creature, whose very presence in his private garden, if discovered, would bring scandal on his name, ruin his character, and degrade him from his lofty post! Even the words she uttered in her madness would betray the secret of their illicit loves, — the position was wholly intolerable, — yet how was he to extricate himself from it! And why did she threaten him with the Cross? — she who had openly declared the intensity of her hate for the “Nazarene”? It might be merely the working of a delirious brain toying with chaotic contradictions, yet it troubled Caiaphas strangely. He advanced a step or two extending his hands in appeal.
“Judith, come to me” — he said in a low tone of mingled coaxing and command, “Thou art ill, — distraught, — and perchance weary with wandering, — thou knowest not what thou sayest. Thy father waits for thee at home, — let me take thee to him now, — surely thou wouldst not break his heart and mine? Come!” — and he ventured still nearer to her— “Do I not love thee, Judith? �
� and wilt thou not trust thyself unto my tenderness?”
She looked at him strangely, her large eyes dilating with vague wonder.
“Thy tenderness?” she echoed. “What tenderness canst thou boast of, Caiaphas, unless it be that of the wolf for its prey? Speakest thou of love? Thou hast not loved me, — nor I thee, — moreover there is no love left in all the world, ’tis dead, and thou, methinks, hast slain it.” Here she paused, passing one hand over her brow with a puzzled expression, “ I know not how the message came to me” — she continued murmuringly—” for Judas said nothing!”
“What message?” asked Caiaphas softly, drawing nearer to her, and resolving in his own mind that he would coax her away from the garden by degrees—” Tell me what it is that troubles thee?”
A faint smile crossed her lips.
“Nay, naught troubles me!” she said—” I have lived too long to grieve for bygone things. Look you, since my time the world is changed, — old days are passed for ever, — and Judæa is no more what it hath been. And of the message, — why, that was strange, — it told me that God lived and that Death was dead! Listen!” and with a swift capriciousness that startled him she flung herself into his arms and leaned her head against his breast, looking upwards into his face—” I have heard that now there is some curse upon us and that we shall never die. ’Tis bitter, — for I am tired of life, and so, surely art thou. We have lived long enough; ’tis centuries since I was young and since thou didst slay the ‘Nazarene.’ Rememberest thou His shining face in death? — methought He wore the lightning as a crown! But darkness came, and then I lost my brother Judas; Barabbas found him afterwards, and brought him home.”
“Barabbas!” muttered Caiaphas, the while he held Judith half roughly, half caressingly in his embrace and sought to guide her steps imperceptibly towards the private gate leading out from the garden—” Barabbas is a murderer!”
“Then shouldst thou be his friend” — said Judith—” for thou art murderer likewise! Hast thou not subtly slain the ‘Nazarene’. ’Twas aptly planned. Caiaphas, — men are as blind fools without reason, and none will think of blaming thee. And as for Judas, — Judas is not dead; he sleeps; if he indeed were dead the world should know that thou hadst killed him!”
Caiaphas frowned, and a sudden rage began to kindle itself in his blood against this woman he had once recklessly adored.
“Hold thy peace, Judith!” he said fiercely— “Thou ravest! — thou art unlike thyself, else should I be wroth with thee. Talk not so wildly of the accursed ‘Nazarene,’ or it may be I shall hate thee even as ardently as I have loved. Thou thyself didst loathe this Prophet and desire His death; thou thyself didst mock Him ere He died; now, out of mere woman’s wantonness, thou pratest of Him almost as if His memory were dear to thee! Such folly passeth patience, — but thou’rt ill and canst not comprehend thine own distraction, — why now! — what new fancy doth torment thee?”
For she suddenly withdrew herself from his arms, and, sighing piteously, began to play idly with a piece of coarse Tope that dangled loosely from her girdle. Presently untying it, she held it out to him.
“Prithee take this, Caiaphas” — she murmured plaintively— “Place it among the holy treasures of the Temple, ‘twill serve. ’Twas round the throat of Judas, — see! his blood doth stain it here!”
He started back with a cry of horror. She came nearer, still with mute gestures praying him to accept the hideous gift she proffered.
“Wilt thou not receive it?” she asked, fixing her wild eyes on his alarmed and pallid countenance—” Then art thou no true priest, for on the altar thou dost serve, there are the things of blood and sacrifice, and this should be amongst them. Lo! — it doth express the penitence of Judas, — he hath done wrong and his remorse is great; he prays for pardon. And I have told him for his comfort, that he hath not been in all to blame, for that it was thou, — thou and the creatures of thy craft, of whom I was one, that did destroy the ‘Nazarene.’ And he is glad, I think, — for when I told him this, a light fell on him and he smiled, — for ever did he hate the priests, and that they should outrage innocence and crucify a god is no great wonder!”
Speechless with inward fury and despair, Caiaphas stood helplessly staring at her, while she in a kind of sad resignation, re-fastened the blood-stained cord at her own waist. Then she drew the roughly-made Cross from her bosom and smiled.
“This is a strange charm!” she said softly—” It makes the old world new. In rays of light this same sign fell on Judas as he slept and seemed to give him peace. I found these olive-branches in Gethsemane, and tied them thus together, — if it could comfort Judas, so shall it comfort me!”
And raising it to her lips she kissed it.
“Judith — Judith!” cried the high-priest desperately—” Wilt thou kiss the symbol of ignoble death?”
“Why not?” said she— “if Death thereby is dead? I told thee of the message, ’twas that God lived and Death was dead. We wept for Judas, believing he was gone from us into the grave for ever, — but now we know he lives we shall be comforted. ’Tis a new wisdom we have learned, albeit there was something sweet in the old ignorance. For when we were sure that we should die, — it mattered little whether we lived well or ill, — a few years and all was at an end, — sins were not counted then, — but now, we dare not sin lest we be burdened with the memory of wrong through everlasting time. Methinks there is a misery in this joy of endless life! — what will become of thee, Caiaphas? — of me? — shall we forget our sins, thinkest thou? — or must we evermore remember?” He met her large appealing eyes, — then gently advancing, encircled her with one arm.
“Judith, — beloved Judith” — he whispered—” As thou art dear to me, do not torment thyself and me with these wild fancies. Come, — I will not force thee homeward against thy will, — come within the palace, and I will hide thee where thou knowest of, — the secret nook where we have passed so many hours of love” —
“Flatter not thyself I ever loved thee!” she said with a returning flash of her former pride and scorn—” Men were my slaves, and thou the most abased of all!” She paused, shuddering violently, — then went on in feeble tones, “ But that was long ago, — when I was young; rememberest thou how fair I was? — with eyes like jewels and hair like gold?”
“Thou art not changed, Judith” — murmured Caiaphas, pressing her to his heart with involuntary force and passion—” Thou art as thou wert ever, the most beautiful of women!”
“Thou dost mock me,” she sighed, leaning against him languidly—” But I heed not what thou sayest, as I never loved thee. No man did ever move me to a sorrow for his sake — not even poor Barabbas who in very truth did worship me. Out of his love he slew Gabrias who had grown too boastful of my favour, — and for his crime he suffered long imprisonment, — yet I cared naught! If men are fools, they needs must pay the price for folly.”
She roused herself and shook back her long hair over her shoulders.
“Come!” she said— “Come and wake Judas. He has slept a long, long while, and it will soon be morning.” She moved swiftly and with an air of resolve over the grass, and Caiaphas, relieved that she seemed bent on departure, made an elaborate pretence of accompanying her. Her exquisite form, light, supple and stately, glided along before his eyes like some fair spectre, and the fascination of her beauty was such that he had much ado to keep himself from snatching her in his arms, all distraught as she was, and covering her with the last kisses of despairing love and farewell. But the fear of discovery held his passions in check, — and he was careful to walk beside her with an assumption of protecting dignity and compassion, so that if any chance beholder should spy him, he would be able to explain that he had found her wandering through his gardens in a state of fever and distraction, and that he was merely fulfilling his duty as a priest in taking her back to her father’s house.
Suddenly she stopped and surveyed him with frowning suspicion.
“Thou wilt make full confession to Judas?” she demanded— “Thou wilt declare how it was thy scheme and thine alone that brought to death the ‘Nazarene’? Thou wilt absolve him from the sin that troubles him? — the sin whereunto we both persuaded him?”
He looked away from her.
“Be at peace, I pray thee, Judith,” — he murmured evasively—” I will say what I can” —
“Nay, it is not what thou canst say but what thou must say!” cried Judith excitedly—” Thou canst say any lie, — thou must say the truth! Thou cruel priest! Thou shalt not darken my brother’s name and fame by thy treachery, — thou shalt not screen thyself behind him in this history. Thou, the priest, didst hate the god, if any god there was within thy Victim, — and thou didst slay Him. The very people would have set Him free hadst thou not bidden me cry out ‘Crucify Him’ to keep them in their vengeful humour. I tell thee thou shalt confess this thing, — I will not go from hence till thou dost promise me, — Judas waits for us at home, — swear to me thou wilt tell him all!”
Driven to desperation, and bethinking himself that after all Judas was dead, though his distraught sister would not realise it, Caiaphas answered hurriedly, —
“Be it as thou wilt, Judith. I swear!”
She peered at him distrustfully, her eyes glittering with a sparkle of malevolence.
“I do not believe thee!” she said deliberately—” Thou canst so aptly play the spy and traitor that thou art not to be trusted. If thou wilt be true to thy word for once, swear to me by this!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 314