by A. J. Cronin
“I had better shut out the brightness. Otherwise you will not sleep.”
In silence they began to disrobe and presently they had composed themselves to rest. But weary as he was, and try as he would, Elah could not find the respite of sleep which he craved. Never had he known such affliction of mind, such abject desolation of soul, such a crushing sense of his own worthlessness. It was as though for the first time he saw himself with the eyes of truth. The foundations on which he had built his life, the whole comfortable structure of his existence, had been undermined by the sequence of events which had marked these past days. In this moment of enlightenment and self-revelation all that he had sought and striven for so avidly—profit and gain, worldly success, the pleasures of the senses—all now seemed futile and sordid. Especially did he perceive in its true light the folly and danger of his involvement with Malthace. He had never loved her. It was a mere infatuation, surrender to flattery and enticement by a man past his prime.
And then, by contrast, his thoughts turned to Seraia, his wife, who for so many years had made life’s journey with him, worked by his side, endured his irritable words, his moods and selfishness, suffered without complaint, the heat and burden of the day. How could he have taken all this for granted, without a word of gratitude? Patience and kindness, regard for her neighbour, the desire to do good, above all a constant unselfishness, these were her qualities, all hitherto unacknowledged, and they rose to confront and accuse him. A dampness broke upon his brow. That unearthly light, penetrating the slats of the shutter, cast bars of shadow on the walls, seemed to imprison him in his iniquity. Swept by a wave of compunction and remorse he turned to her.
“Seraia … are you awake?”
She answered him at once: she, too, had been unable to sleep. A tense silence vibrated between them, then, at last, the strings of his tongue were loosed. In a broken voice, with a rush of words that told of his troubled spirit, he acknowledged his unfaithfulness, expressed his sorrow, asked her forgiveness. He would break with Malthace, send her away, with her brother, tomorrow. She heard him in silence, holding his hand with a consoling touch, and when he ceased she soothed him with calm and tender words.
After this release of all that had been upon his mind a great relief came to him. It was like a burden thrown off and, with renewed intimacy, he began to talk freely, confidingly, even in some degree extravagantly, since this was precisely his nature, that in his rebound from the depths he should soar to the opposite extreme.
“Tell me, Seraia … dear wife … all that has occurred … what do you make of it?”
“I do not know. But of one thing I am sure. There is a heavenly secret in what we have witnessed here.”
“For my part,” he meditated, “striving to put the facts together—and you know I have always been a logical man—this little one could well be the son of someone most important—an august personage … the Lord alone knows whom … yet one who for his own good reasons might wish at this stage to conceal the child’s origin. All the circumstances, especially the obscurity of the birth—though the meaning of this is not altogether clear to me—seem in great measure to support this view.” He ran on like this for a few minutes, extemporizing, then concluded fulsomely: “Be that as it may, I will admit freely that I regret my unfeeling conduct in the matter—so much indeed, that I would willingly make reparation.”
The innkeeper paused. Ever since the Child’s glance had struck into his heart a longing had germinated there, born of an unsuspected love and fostered by the instinct of possession. Thus with a touch of his old self-importance he resumed:
“I have been thinking, dear wife … if perhaps … we might offer to take the infant for our own.”
For a moment she did not reply. Then she shook her head slowly, but with certainty.
“No, Elah, that could never be. What mother would give up such a one?”
“But consider the advantages we could offer. We are well off … at least,” he interpolated cautiously, “ moderately so … I could well afford to be generous and kind.”
There was a brief silence then, seriously, she said:
“This very afternoon I spoke with Joseph. He told me they must leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” Elah exclaimed. “It is not possible.”
“Yes, it is possible. The mother is young and strong. And if danger threatens her child she will not tarry.”
“Danger?”
“Herod, the procurator, means evil towards the little one.”
“Ah, come, my good wife, I think you carry it somewhat too far. What proof have you of this? Did Joseph say from whom the warning came?”
“There are some, Elah … a chosen few … who are not guided by the voices of the world. Such were the prophets … and such … though he does not prophesy, is this good man. I assure you they must leave us, and for awhile go afar from here.”
He made as if to speak, then restrained himself. Holding to his own opinion, he nevertheless did not wish to contradict her, to oppress her with argument or reassert his will. His feeling towards her was too sweet, his assuagement too complete. He merely said, with what for him was unaccustomed mildness:
“Tomorrow I will rise up betimes. I will speak to your worthy Joseph, reason with him kindly, persuade him … you will see.”
She realized that he had caught only a glimmer of what, so clearly for her, was a celestial light, that while he marvelled at the mystery, still could view it only on a natural plane. Yet in the happiness of their reconciliation she was content to hold her peace. And in peace they fell asleep.
But indeed, when morning came Elah, the first to awake, remained intent upon his purpose. He roused Seraia, bade her dress quickly and come with him downstairs. She smiled at his tone of urgency but made it her pleasure to humour him. Avoiding the kitchen, where the maids were already stirring, they went by the side passage to the back premises. The sun was rising and the walls and the roofs of Bethlehem, outlined against the dappled sky, were caught by the flush of dawn. The air struck cool and fresh, and already wild doves were circling above the olive groves which lay on the slopes beyond. Elah had taken his wife by the arm as they made their way across the courtyard. Although she knew in advance what they must find, Seraia, hoping against hope, could feel her heart beating painfully as Elah knocked, then threw open the stable door.
Yes, they had gone. Except for the ox and the ass, the little hut was empty. Slowly the innkeeper entered, followed by his wife, glancing around in his disappointment, as though searching for something, a trace of its occupants, that might still remain. The place had been neatly tidied, the floor cleared of straw and carefully swept, everything indeed restored to an order better than before. In the air there faintly lingered the mingled aromatic odours of myrrh and frankincense and, on the edge of the manger where the Child had lain, there had been left a piece of gold.
“You see,” Seraia could not resist the quiet rebuke, “Mary has made payment for her lodging.”
Elah coloured deeply: the gold indeed would have settled tenfold the reckoning for his best room. He picked up the precious metal, which was not a coin but an oddly fashioned piece, bearing still, no doubt, the shape in which it had come from the mine or from some distant river bed. For a long moment he studied it in silence then, strange in one usually so covetous, he handed it to his wife.
“Take it … it is yours.”
Seraia took the piece. She, too, noted with surprise its singular outline. It had the rough form of a cross.
“And now,” Elah braced himself, “there is much for me to do. I pray you leave me till it is done. With his head erect he swung round and went before her towards the inn.
Back in her room Seraia stood for a while in anxious speculation. Would Elah carry through his resolution to send Malthace and her brother away? How often in the past had he expressed his good intentions and failed in the end to carry them out. She knew his inconstant nature, knew too that such weakness was not cured ove
rnight. Yet this time she was hopeful, yes, she fully believed that his effort to redeem himself would succeed. A wave of happiness surged over her. Mindful of a fine filigree chain which at their betrothal, years before, Elah had given her, she sought it, found it finally in a forgotten casket laid away in a drawer. Then, threading her little cross upon the chain, she placed it around her neck.
The ordinary day of the inn was beginning—the cooking pots bubbling in the kitchen, guests moving in the passages, shouting and clattering over the cobblestones of the courtyard. Had these days of wonder ever been? All might have seemed a dream but for the cross that lay upon her breast. Yet for Seraia it was no dream. In her mind’s eye she saw the little family moving bravely on … Mary, Joseph, and the Child … ever advancing on their predetermined path, suffering hardship and persecution, fulfilling their heavenly destiny. Tears moistened her eyes as she remembered the indescribable happiness of holding the Babe in her arms. He shall be great, she thought … and it was I who saw and held Him on the day that He was born. Would others, now or in the future, ever feel the sweetness of that blessed day? She could not tell but, fingering the cross, she vowed: every year, as long as I live, though I am the only one in all the world to do so, I shall keep the birthday of this Child, and keeping it, I shall know happiness. Then, softly to herself, as though treasuring it, she murmured that name which Mary had told her they would give Him.
THE END
Copyright
First published in 1958 by Hearst Publishing Co, Inc.
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © A. J. Cronin, 1958
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