Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Here he seemed to collect his thoughts with some effort, — his dark brows contracted perplexedly, — then, after a minute, his expression brightened, and, as if he had just remembered something, he carefully and with almost trembling reverence, made the sign of the cross above Irene’s drooping head. She gently caught the hovering hand and kissed it. He smiled placidly, like a child who is caressed.

  “You are very good to me” — he said— “I am quite sure you are an angel. And being so, you need no blessing — God knows His own, and always claims them...in the end.”

  He closed his eyes languidly then and seemed fatigued, — his hand still mechanically stroked the dove’s wings. They left him so, moving away from him with hushed and cautious steps. He had not noticed Sir Frederick or Lady Vaughan, — and they were almost glad of this, as they were themselves entirely disinclined to speak. To see so great a wreck of a once brilliant intellect was a painful spectacle to good-natured Sir Frederick, — while on Lady Vaughan it had the effect of a severe nervous shock. She thought she would have been better able to bear the sight of a distracted and howling maniac, than the solemn pitifulness of that silent submission, that grave patience of a physically strong man transformed, as it were, into a child. They walked round the court, Féraz gathering as he went bouquets of roses and jessamine and passiflora for the two ladies.

  “He seems comfortable and happy” — Sir Frederick ventured to remark at last.

  “He is, perfectly so” — rejoined Féraz. “It is very rarely that he is depressed or uneasy. He may live on thus till he is quite old, they tell me, — his physical health is exceptionally good.”

  “And you will always stay with him?” said Irene.

  “Can you ask, Madame!” and Féraz smiled— “It is my one joy to serve him. I grieve sometimes that he does not know me really, who I am, — but I have a secret feeling that one day that part of the cloud will lift, and he will know. For the rest he is pleased and soothed to have me near him, — that is all I desire. He did everything for me once, — it is fitting I should do everything for him now. God is good, — and in His measure of affliction there is always a great sweetness.”

  “Surely you do not think it well for your brother to have lost the control of his brilliant intellectual faculties?” asked Sir Frederick, surprised.

  “I think everything well that God designs” — answered Féraz gently, now giving the flowers he had gathered, to Irene and Lady Vaughan, and looking, as he stood in his white robes against a background of rosy sunset-light, like a glorified young saint in a picture,— “El-Râmi’s intellectual faculties were far too brilliant, too keen, too dominant, — his great force and supremacy of will too absolute. With such powers as he had he would have ruled this world, and lost the next. That is, he would have gained the Shadow and missed the Substance. No, no — it is best as it is. ‘Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven!’ That is a true saying. In the Valley of Humiliation the birds of paradise sing, and in El-Râmi’s earth-darkness there are gleams of the Light Divine. I am content, — and so, I firmly and devoutly believe, is he.”

  With this, and a few more parting words, the visitors now prepared to take their leave. Suddenly Irene Vassilius perceived an exquisite rose hanging down among the vines that clambered about the walls of the little monastery; — a rose pure white in its outer petals but tenderly tinted with a pale blush pink towards its centre. Acting on her own impulsive idea, she gathered it, and hastened back alone across the quadrangle to where El-Râmi sat absorbed and lost in his own drowsy dreams.

  “Good-bye, dear friend, — good-bye!” she said softly, and held the fragrant beautiful bud towards him.

  He opened his sad dark eyes and smiled, — then extended his hand and took the flower.

  “I thank you, little messenger of peace!” he said— “It is a rose from Heaven, — it is The Soul of Lilith!”

  FINIS.

  THE END

  Barabbas

  A DREAM OF THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII.

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  CHAPTER XL.

  CHAPTER XLI.

  CHAPTER XLII.

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  CHAPTER XLIV.

  CHAPTER XLV.

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  CHAPTER XLVII.

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  EPILOGUE.

  An early edition

  “And they had then a notable prisoner, called Barabbas — Matthew xxvii v. 16.

  “One named Barabbas, which lay bound with them that had made insurrection with him.” — Mark xv v. 7.

  “Barabbas, who for a certain sedition made in the city, and for murder, was cast into prison.” — Luke xxiii v. 18, 19.

  “Now Barabbas was a robber.” — John xviii v. 40.

  CHAPTER I.

  ALONG sultry Syrian day was drawing near its close.

  The heavy heat was almost insupportable, and a poisonous stench oozed up from the damp earth-floors of the Jewish prison, charging what little air there was with a deadly sense of suffocation. Down in the lowest dungeons complete darkness reigned, save in one of the cells allotted to the worst criminals; there, all through the slow hours a thin white line of light had persistently pierced the thick obscurity. It was the merest taper-flame reflection of the outside glowing Eastern sky, yet, narrow as it was, it had vexed the eyes of the solitary prisoner on whom it fell, and he had turned from its hot flash with a savage curse and groan. Writhing back as far as his chains would allow, he covered his face with his manacled hands, pressing his eyelids down, and gnawing his lips in restless fury till his mouth was bitter with the taste of his own blood. He was seized with such impotent rages often. He mentally fought against that poignant light-beam cutting like a sword through deep darkness, — he regarded it as a positive foe and daily source of nervous irritation. It marked for him the dismal time, — when it shone he knew it was day, — when it vanished, it was night. Otherwise, whether minutes or hours passed, he could not tell. His existence had merged into one protracted phase of dull suffering, varied with occasional fits of maniac ferocity which only relieved him for the moment and left him more stupefied and brutish than before. He had no particular consciousness of anything except of that needle-pointed ray which, falling obliquely upon him, dazzled and hurt his eyes. He could have endured the glare of the Syrian sun in the free and open country, — no one better than he could have turned a bold gaze to its amber flame radiating through the vast blue dome of ether, — but here and now that thin shaft of brightness pouring slantwise through the narrow slit in the wall which alone served as an air-passage to the foul den in which he was caged seemed an aggression and a mockery. He made querulous complaint of it, and huddling on his bed of dirty straw in the furthest darkness refreshed himself anew with curses. Against God and Fate and man he railed in thick-throated blasphemies,
twisting and turning from side to side and clutching now and again in sheer ferocity at the straw on which he lay. He was alone, yet not altogether lonely, for close beside him where he crouched like a sullen beast in the corner there was a crossed grating of thick iron bars, the only air-aperture to the neighbouring cell, and through this there presently came a squat grimy hand. After feeling about for a while, this hand at last found and cautiously pulled the edge of his garment, and a faint hoarse voice called him by name.

  “Barabbas!”

  He turned with a swift savage movement that set his chains clanking dismally.

  “What now?”

  “They have forgotten us,” whined the voice. “Since early morning they have brought no food. I am perishing with hunger and thirst! Ah, I wish I had never seen thy face, Barabbas, or had aught to do with thine evil plotting!”

  Barabbas made no answer.

  “Knowest thou not,” went on his invisible fellow-felon, “what season this is in the land?”

  “How should I know!” retorted Barabbas disdainfully. “What are seasons to me? Is it a year or years since we were brought hither? If thou canst tell, I cannot.”

  “’Tis eighteen months since thou did’st slay the Pharisee,” replied his neighbour, with marked malignity of accent, “And had it not been for that wicked deed of thine, we might have missed this present wretchedness. Verily it is a marvel we have lived so long, for, look you, now it is Passover.”

  Barabbas uttered no word, either of surprise or interest.

  “Rememberest thou the custom of the Feast?” pursued the speaker, “How that one captive chosen by the people shall be set at liberty? Would that it might be one of us, Barabbas! There were ten of our company, — ten as goodly men as ever were born in Judæa, always excepting thee. For thou wert mad for love, and a frenzied lover is the worst of fools.”

  Barabbas still kept silence.

  “If innocence hath any merit,” continued the voice behind the grating anxiously, “then perchance the choice-will fall on me! For am I not an innocent man? The God of my fathers knoweth that my hands are not stained with the blood of the virtuous; I slew no Pharisee! A little gold was all I sought” —

  “And didst thou not take it?” rejoined Barabbas suddenly and with scorn, “ Thou hypocrite! Didst thou not rob the Pharisee of all he had upon him even to his last jewel? Did not the guard capture thee in the very act of breaking with thy teeth the gold band from his arm ere the breath left his body? Cease thy prating! Thou art the worst thief in Jerusalem, and thou knowest it!” There was a sound behind the bars as of something between a grunt and a snarl, and the squat hand thrust itself through with vicious suddenness, to be as suddenly withdrawn. A pause ensued.

  “No food all day!” moaned the voice again presently—” And not a drop of water! Surely if they come not I shall die! I shall die in this darkness, — this dense pitch blackness” — and the faint accents grew feebly shrill with fear—” Dost thou hear me, thou accursed Barabbas? I shall die!”

  “And so there will be an end of thee,” returned Barabbas indifferently—” And those who hoard gold in the city can sleep safely henceforth with open doors!”

  Out came the ugly hand again, this time clenched, giving in its repulsive shape and expression a perfect idea of the villainous character of its unseen owner.

  “Thou art a devil, Barabbas!” and the shadowy outline of a livid face and wild hair appeared for an instant against the grating—” And I swear to thee I will live on, if only in the hope of seeing thee crucified!”

  Barabbas held his peace, and dragged himself and his clanking chains away from his spiteful fellow-prisoner’s vicinity. Lifting his eyes distrustfully he peered upward with a smarting sense of pain, — then heaved a deep sigh of relief as he saw that the burning arrow line of white radiance no longer lit the cell. It had changed to a beam of soft and dusky crimson.

  “Sunset!” he muttered. “How many times hath the sun gone down and risen since I beheld her last! This is the hour she loves, — she will go with her maidens to the well behind her father’s house, and underneath the palm-trees she will rest and rejoice, while I, — I, — O God of vengeance! — I may never look upon her face again. Eighteen months of torture! Eighteen months in this tomb and no hope of respite!”

  With a savage gesture he rose and stood upright; his head almost touched the dungeon ceiling and he stepped warily, the heavy fetters on his bare legs jangling harshly as he moved. Placing one foot on a notch in the wall he was able to bring his eyes easily on a level with the narrow aperture through which the warm fire-glow of the sunset fell, but there was little to be seen from such a point of observation. Only a square strip of dry uncultivated land belonging to the prison, and one solitary palm-tree lifting its crown of feathery leaves against the sky. He stared out for a moment, fancying he could discern the far-off hazy outline of the hills surrounding the city, — then, too faint with long fasting to retain his footing, he slipped back and returned to his former corner. There he sat, glowering darkly at the rose-light reflected on the floor. It partially illumined his own features, bringing into strong prominence his scowling brows and black resentful eyes, — it flashed a bright life-hue on his naked chest that heaved with the irregular and difficult breath of one who fights against long exhaustion and hunger-pain, — and it glittered with a sinister coppery tint on the a massive iron gives that bound his wrists together. He looked much more like a caged wild beast than a human being, with his matted hair and rough beard, — he was barely clothed, his only garment being a piece of sackcloth which was kept about his loins by means of a coarse black rope, twisted twice and loosely knotted. The heat in the cell was intense, yet he shivered now and then as he crouched in the stifling gloom, his knees drawn nearly up to his chin, and his shackled hands resting on his knees, while he stared with an owl-like pertinacity at the crimson sunbeam which with every second grew paler and dimmer. At first it had been an ardent red, — as red as the blood of a slain Pharisee, thought Barabbas with a dark smile, — but now it had waned to a delicate wavering pink like the fleeting blush of a fair woman, — and a great shudder seized him as this latter fancy crossed his sick and sullen mind. With a smothered cry he clenched his hands hard as though assailed by some unendurable physical pang.

  “Judith! — Judith!” he whispered, and yet again—” Judith!”

  And trembling violently, he turned and hid his face, pressing his forehead close against the damp and slimy wall. And thus he remained, motionless, — his massive figure looking like a weird Titanesque shape carved in stone.

  The last red flicker from the sunken sun soon faded and dense darkness fell. Not a sound or movement betrayed the existence of any human creature in that noxious gloom. Now and again the pattering feet of mice scurrying swiftly about the floor made a feeble yet mysterious clamour, — otherwise, all was intensely still. Outside, the heavens were putting on all their majesty; the planets swam into the purple ether, appearing to open and shine like water-lilies on a lake, — in the east a bar of silvery cloud showed where the moon would shortly rise, and through the window slit of the dungeon one small star could be just discerned, faintly glittering. But not even an argent ray flung slantwise from the moon when at last she ascended the skies could illumine the dense thicket of shadows that gathered in that dreary cell, or touch with a compassionate brightness the huddled form of the wretched captive within. Invisible and solitary, he wrestled with his own physical and mental misery, unconscious that the wall against which he leaned was warm and wet with tears, — the painful tears, worse than the shedding of blood, of a strong man’s bitter agony.

  CHAPTER II.

  HOURS passed, — and presently the heavy silence was broken by a distant uproar, — a hollow sound like the sudden inrush of a sea, which began afar off, and gathered strength as it came. Rolling onward and steadily increasing in volume, it appeared to split itself into a thousand angry echoes close by the dungeon walls, and a confused tumult
of noisy tongues arose, mingling with the hurried and disorderly tramping of many feet and the clash of weapons. Voices argued hoarsely, — there were shrill whistlings, — and now and then the flare of tossing torches cast a fitful fire-gleam into the den where Barabbas lay. Once a loud laugh rang out above the more indistinct hubbub followed by a shout —

  “Prophesy! Prophesy! Who is he that smote thee?” And the laughter became general, merging itself swiftly into a frantic chorus of yells and groans and hisses. Then came a brief pause, in which some of the wilder noises ceased, and an angry disputation seemed to be going on between two or three individuals in authority, till presently the ocean-like roar and swell of sound recommenced, passed slowly on, and began to die away like gradually diminishing peals of thunder. But while it remained yet within distinct hearing, there was a slow dragging of chains inside the dungeon and a feeble beating of manacled hands at the interior grating, and the voice that had called before now called again:

  “Barabbas!”

  No answer was returned.

  “Barabbas! Hearest thou the passing multitude?”

  Still silence.

  “Barabbas! Dog! Assassin!” and the speaker dealt an angry blow with his two fists at the dividing bars, “ Art thou deaf to good news? I tell thee there is some strife in the city, — some new sedition, — it may be that our friends have conquered where we have failed! Down with the law! Down with the tyrant and oppressor! Down with the Pharisees! Down with everything!” And he laughed, his laughter being little more than a hoarse whisper, “ Barabbas! We shall be free! Free! — think of it, thou villain! A thousand curses on thee! Art thou dead or sleeping that thou wilt not answer me?”

  But he exhausted his voice in vain, and vainly beat his fists against the grating. Barabbas was mute. The moonlight, grown stronger, pierced the gloom of his cell with a silvery radiance which blurred objects rather than illumined them, so that the outline of his figure could scarcely be discerned by his fellow-captive who strove to see him through the bars of the lower dungeon. Meanwhile the noise of the crowd in the streets outside had retreated into the distance, and only a faint murmur arose from time to time like the far-off surge of waves on a rocky shore.