Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She walked more quickly upon the smooth path, and her hands wrung each other, and once she felt the haft of that wicked Indian knife she ever wore. When she turned back and went up the broad steps of the palace, the moon was rising above the far misty hills to eastward, and there were lights beneath the columned portico. She paused and looked back across the peaceful valley, and far down below, a solitary nightingale called out a few melancholy notes, and then burst forth into glorious song.

  Nehushta turned again to go in, and there were tears in her dark eyes, that had not stood there for many a long day. But she clasped her hands together, and went forward between the crouching slaves, straight to Atossa’s apartment. It was not usual for any one to gain access to the eider queen’s inner chambers without first obtaining permission, from Atossa herself, and Nehushta had never been there. They met rarely in public, and spoke little, though each maintained the appearances of courtesy; but Atossa’s smile was the sweeter of the two. In private they never saw each other; and the queen’s slaves would perhaps have tried to prevent Nehushta from entering, but her black eyes flashed upon them in such dire wrath as she saw them before her, that they crouched away and let her pass on unmolested.

  Atossa sat, as ever at that hour in her toilet-chamber, surrounded by her tirewomen. The room was larger than the one at Shushan, for she had caused it to be built after her own plans; but her table was the same as ever, and upon it stood the broad silver mirror, which she never allowed to be left behind when she travelled.

  Her magnificent beauty had neither changed nor faded in three years. Such strength as hers was not to be broken, nor worn out, by the mere petty annoyances of palace life. She could sustain the constant little warfare she waged against the king, without even so much as looking careworn and pale for a moment, though the king himself often looked dark and weary, and his eyes were heavy with sleeplessness for the trouble she gave him. Yet he could new determine to rid himself of her, even when he began to understand the profound badness of her character. She exercised a certain fascination over him, as a man grows fond of some beautiful, wicked beast he has half-tamed, though it turn and show its teeth at him sometimes, and be altogether more of a care than a pastime. She was so fair and evil that he could not hurt her; it would have seemed a crime to destroy anything so wondrously made. Moreover, she could amuse him and make many an hour pass pleasantly when she was so disposed.

  She was fully attired for the banquet that was to take place late in the evening, but her women were still about her, and she looked at herself critically in the mirror, and would have changed the pinning of her tiara, so that her fair hair should fall forward upon one side, instead of backwards over her shoulder. She tried the effect of the change upon her face, and peered into the mirror beneath the bright light of the tall lamps; when, on a sudden, as she looked, she met the reflection of two angry dark eyes, and she knew that Nehushta was behind her.

  She rose to her feet, turning quickly, and the sweep of her long robe overthrew the light carved chair upon the marble floor. She faced Nehushta with a cold smile that betrayed surprise at being thus interrupted in her toilet rather than any dread of the interview. Her delicate eyebrows arched themselves in something of scorn, but her voice came low and sweet as ever.

  “It is rarely indeed that the queen Nehushta deigns to visit her servant,” she said. “Had she sent warning of her coming, she would have been more fittingly received.”

  Nehushta stood still before her. She hated that cool, still voice that choked her like a tightening bow-string about her neck.

  “We have small need of court formalities,” answered the Hebrew woman, shortly. “I desire to speak with you alone upon a matter of importance.”

  “I am alone,” returned Atossa, seating herself upon the carved chair, which one of the slaves had instantly set up again, and motioning to Nehushta to be seated. But Nehushta glanced at the serving-women and remained standing.

  “You are not alone,” she said briefly.

  “They are not women — they are slaves,” answered Atossa, with a smile.

  “Will you not send them away?”

  “Why should I?”

  “You need not — I will,” returned Nehushta. “Begone, and quickly!” she added, turning to the little group of women and slave-girls who stood together, looking on in wonder. At Nehushta’s imperious command, they hurried through the door, and the curtains fell behind them. They knew Nehushta’s power in the palace too well to hesitate to obey her, even in the presence of their own mistress.

  “Strange ways you have!” exclaimed Atossa, in a low voice. She was fiercely angry, but there was no change in her face. She dangled a little chain upon her finger, and tapped the ground with her foot as she sat. That was all.

  “I am not come here to wrangle with you about your slaves. They will obey me without wrangling. I met Zoroaster in the gardens an hour since.”

  “By a previous arrangement, of course?” suggested Atossa, with a sneer. But her clear blue eyes fixed themselves upon Nehushta with a strange and deadly look.

  “Hold your peace and listen to me,” said Nehushta in a fierce, low voice, and her slender hand stole to the haft of the knife by her side.

  Atossa was a brave woman, false though she was; but she saw that the Hebrew princess had her in her power — she saw the knife and she saw the gleam in those black eyes. They were riveted on her face, and she grew grave and remained silent.

  “Tell me the truth,” pursued Nehushta hurriedly. “Did Zoroaster love you three years ago — when I saw you in his arms upon the terrace the morning when he came back from Ecbatana?”

  But she little knew the woman with whom she had to deal. Atossa had found time in that brief moment to calculate her chances of safety. A weaker woman would have lied; but the fair queen saw that the moment had come wherein she could reap a rich harvest of vengeance upon her rival, and she trusted to her coolness and strength to deliver her if Nehushta actually drew the knife she wore.

  “I loved him,” she said slowly. “I love him yet, and I hate you more than I love him. Do you understand?”

  “Speak — go on!” cried Nehushta, half breathless with anger.

  “I loved him, and I hated you. I hate you still,” repeated the queen slowly and gravely. “The letter I had from him was written to you — but it was brought to me. Nay — be not so angry, it was very long ago. Of course you can murder me, if you please — you have me in your power, and you are but a cowardly Jew, like twenty of my slave-women. I fear you not. Perhaps you would like to hear the end?”

  Nehushta had come nearer and stood looking down at the beautiful woman, her arms folded before her. Atossa never stirred as Nehushta approached, but kept her eye steadily fixed on hers. Nehushta’s arms were folded, and the knife hung below her girdle in its loose sheath.

  Atossa’s white arm went suddenly out and laid hold of the haft, and the keen blue steel flashed out of its scabbard with a sheen like dark lightning on a summer’s evening.

  Nehushta started back as she saw the sharp weapon in her enemy’s hand. But Atossa laughed a low sweet laugh of triumph.

  “You shall hear the end now,” she said, holding the knife firmly in her hand. “You shall not escape hearing the end now, and you shall not murder me with your Indian poisoner here.” She laughed again as she glanced at the ugly curve of the dagger. “I was talking with Zoroaster,” she continued, “when I saw you upon the stairs, and then — oh, it was so sweet! I cried out that he should never leave me again, and I threw my arms about his neck — his lordly neck that you so loved! — and I fell, so that he had to hold me up. And you saw him. Oh, it was sweet! It was the sweetest moment of my life when I heard you groan and hurry away and leave us! It was to hurt you that I did it — that I humbled my queenliness before him; but I loved him, though — and he, he your lover, whom you despised then and cast away for this black-faced king of ours — he thrust me from him, and pushed me off, and drove me weeping to my cha
mber, and he said he loved me not, nor wished my love. Ay, that was bitter, for I was ashamed — I who never was shamed of man or woman. But there was more sweetness in your torment than bitterness in my shame. He never knew you were there. He screamed out to you from the crowd in the procession his parting curse on your unfaithfulness and went out — but he nearly killed those two strong spearmen who tried to seize him. How strong he was then, how brave! What a noble lover for any woman! So tall and delicate and fair with all his strength! He never knew why you left him — he thought it was to wear the king’s purple, to thrust a bit of gold in your hair! He must have suffered — you have suffered too — such delicious torture, I have often soothed myself to sleep with the thought of it. It is very sweet for me to see you lying there with my wound in your heart. It will rankle long; you cannot get it out — you are married to the king now, and Zoroaster has turned priest for love of you. I think even the king would hardly love you if he could see you now — you look so pale. I will send for the Chaldean physician — you might die. I should be sorry if you died, you could not suffer any more then. I could not give up the pleasure of hurting you — you have no idea how delicious it is. Oh, how I hate you!”

  Atossa rose suddenly to her feet, with flashing eyes. Nehushta, in sheer horror of such hideous cruelty, had fallen back against the door-post, and stood grasping the curtain with one hand while the other was pressed to her heart, as though to control the desperate agony she suffered. Her face was paler than the dead, and her long, black hair fell forward over her ghastly cheeks.

  “Shall I tell you more?” Atossa began again. “Should you like to hear more of the truth? I could tell you how the king — —”

  But as she spoke, Nehushta threw up her hands and pressed them to her throbbing temples; and with a low wail, she turned and fled through the doorway between the thick curtains, that parted with her weight and fell together again when she had passed.

  “She will tell the king,” said Atossa aloud, when she was gone. “I care not — but I will keep the knife,” she added, laying the keen blade upon the table, amid the little instruments of her toilet.

  But Nehushta ran fast through the corridors and halls till she came to her slaves who had waited for her at the entrance to the queen’s apartment. Then she seemed to recollect herself, and slackened her pace, and went on to her own chambers. But, her women saw her pale face, and whispered together as they cautiously followed her.

  She was wretched beyond all words. In a moment, her doubts and her fears had all been realised, and the stain of unfaithfulness had been washed from the memory of her lover. But it was too late to repent her hastiness. She had been married to Darius now for nearly three years, and Zoroaster was a man so changed that she would hardly have recognised him that evening, had she not known that he was in the palace. He looked more like the aged Daniel whom he had buried at Ecbatana than like the lordly warrior of three years ago. She wondered, as she thought of the sound of his voice in the, garden, how she could ever have doubted him, and the remembrance of his clear eyes was both bitter and sweet to her.

  She lay upon her silken pillows and wept hot tears for him she had loved long ago, for him and for herself — most of all for the pain she had made him suffer, for that bitter agony that had turned his young, fair locks to snowy white; she wept the tears for him that she could fancy he must have shed in those long years for her. She buried her face and sobbed aloud, so that even the black fan-girl who stood waving the long palm-leaf over her in the dim light of the bedchamber — even the poor black creature from the farther desert, whom her mistress did not half believe human, felt pity for the royal sorrow she saw, and took one hand from the fan to brush the tears from her small red eyes.

  Nehushta’s heart was broken, and from that day none saw her smile. In one hour the whole misery of all possible miseries came upon her, and bowed her to the ground, and crushed out the life and the light of her nature. As she lay there, she longed to die, as she had never longed for anything while she lived, and she would have had small hesitation in killing the heart that beat with such agonising pain in her breast — saving that one thought prevented her. She cared not for revenge any more. What was the life of that cold, cruel thing, the queen, worth, that by taking it, she could gain comfort? But she felt and knew that, before she died, she must see Zoroaster once more, and tell him that she knew all the truth — that she knew he had not deceived her, and that she implored his forgiveness for the wrong she had done him. He would let her rest her head upon his breast and weep out her heartful of piteous sorrow once before she died. And then — the quiet stream of the Araxes flowed softly, cold and clear, among the rose-gardens below the palace. The kindly water would take her to its bosom, beneath the summer’s moon, and the nightingales she loved would sing her a gentle good-night — good-night for ever, while the cool wave flowed over her weary breast and aching head.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  ON THE NEXT day, in the cool of the evening, Nehushta walked again in the garden. But Zoroaster was not there. And for several days Nehushta came at that hour, and at other hours in the day, but found him not. She saw him indeed from time to time in public, but she had no opportunity of speaking with him as she desired. At last, she determined to send for him, and to see whether he would come, or not.

  She went out, attended only by two slaves; the one bearing a fan and the other a small carpet and a cushion — black women from the southern parts of Syria, towards Egypt, who would not understand the high Persian she would be likely to speak with Zoroaster, though her own Hebrew tongue was intelligible to them. When she reached a quiet spot, where one of the walks ended suddenly in a little circle among the rose-trees, far down from the palace, she had her carpet spread, and her cushion was placed upon it, and she wearily sat down. The fan-girl began to ply her palm-leaf, as much to cool the heated summer air as to drive away the swarms of tiny gnats which abounded in the garden. Nehushta rested upon one elbow, her feet drawn together upon the carpet of dark soft colours and waited a few minutes as though in thought. At last she seemed to have decided, and turned to the slave who had brought her cushion, as she stood at a little distance, motionless, her hands folded and hidden under the thickness of the broad sash that girded her tunic at the waist.

  “Go thou,” said the queen, “and seek out the high priest Zoroaster, and bring him hither quickly.”

  The black woman turned and ran like a deer down the narrow path, disappearing in a moment amongst the shrubbery.

  The breeze of the swinging fan blew softly on Nehushta’s pale face and stirred the locks of heavy hair that fell from her tiara about her shoulders. Her eyes were half closed as she leaned back, and her lips were parted in a weary look of weakness that was new to her. Nearly an hour passed and the sun sank low, but Nehushta hardly stirred from her position.

  It seemed very long before she heard steps upon the walk — the quick soft step of the slave-woman running before, barefooted and fleet, and presently the heavier tread of a man’s leather shoe. The slave stopped at the entrance to the little circle of rose-trees, and a moment later, Zoroaster strode forward, and stood still and made a deep obeisance, a few steps from Nehushta.

  “Forgive me that I sent for thee, Zoroaster,” said the queen in quiet tones. But, as she spoke, a slight blush overspread her face, and relieved her deadly pallor. “Forgive me — I have somewhat to say which thou must hear.”

  Zoroaster remained standing before her as she spoke, and his luminous eyes rested upon her quietly.

  “I wronged thee three years ago, Zoroaster,” said the queen in a low voice, but looking up at him. “I pray thee, forgive me — I knew not what I did.”

  “I forgave thee long ago,” answered the high priest.

  “I did thee a bitter wrong — but the wrong I did myself was even greater. I never knew till I went and asked — her!” At the thought of Atossa, the Hebrew woman’s eyes flashed fire, and her small fingers clenched upon her palm. But, in an insta
nt, her sad, weary look returned.

  “That is all — if you forgive me,” she said, and turned her head away. It seemed to her that there was nothing more to be said. He did not love her — he was far beyond love.

  “Now, by Ahura Mazda, I have indeed forgiven thee. The blessing of the All-Wise be upon thee!” Zoroaster bent again, as though to take his leave, and he would have gone from her.

  But when she heard his first footsteps, Nehushta raised herself a little and turned quickly towards him. It seemed as though the only light she knew were departing from her day.

  “You loved me once,” she said, and stopped, with an appealing look on her pale face. It was very, weak of her; but oh! she was far spent with sorrow and grief. Zoroaster paused, and looked back upon her, very calmly, very gently.

  “Ay — I loved you once — but not now. There is no more love in the earth for me. But I bless you for the love you gave me.”

  “I loved you so well,” said Nehushta. “I love you still,” she added, suddenly raising herself and gazing on him with a wild look in her eyes. “Oh, I love you still!” she cried passionately. “I thought I had put you away — forgotten you — trodden out your memory that I so hated I could not bear to hear your name! Ah! why did I do it, miserable woman that I am! I love you now — I love you — I love you with my whole heart — and it is too late!” She fell back upon her cushion, and covered her face with her hands, and her breast heaved with passionate, tearless sobbing.