# Lazarus, a tale of the world's great miracle/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.
FOR a long while, almost from the moment when the Messiah had first entered his door, Lazarus had been ailing. His illness seemed to baffle his physician; for it yielded to none of the simple remedies he prescribed. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Lazarus grew weaker, but, as day by day his body became more feeble, his faith seemed to strengthen. Never was man tended with more devotion, Martha seeing to his bodily wants, while Mary sat and read to him, or prayed with him in his moments of despondency. Moreover, during the first stages of his illness he had been daily cheered by the presence of the Nazarene; but this was before the Jews had grown so virulent in their persecutions. Who can imagine a more peaceful family circle than that little one assembled around Lazarus's sick-bed—the two devoted women, refreshed at intervals by the presence of the Saviour? Who can describe the purity of the spiritual and moral atmosphere the Christ diffused around Him? And Lazarus, lying on his couch by the window and gazing on the setting sun sinking behind the mountains and tinging the olive grove and fig trees of Bethany, would wonder why death held no horrors for him beyond the pain of separation; for that he would die of his illness he felt certain. It could not but be that the little band ​of believers should sometimes ask the question of their heart, why Jesus, who had snatched so many who were strangers to Him from the jaws of death, should daily see this man he loved convulsed with pain, saddened by the prospect of separation, and yet doing nothing to relieve him.
"He hath but to say the word," Martha would sometimes say; "yet He speaketh it not." Once, even, she cast herself at the feet of Jesus and entreated Him to save her brother. But the words of the Lord were but scant comfort at such a moment:
"Thy brother shall rise again."
"I know," said Martha, with that querulous impatience, that common-sense which so many good people, who are devoid of charm and gentleness of character, possess—"I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.
Then, floating on the waves of unbelief, pardonable perhaps at such a moment, rose the words: "I am the resurrection, and the life he that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." And at the words the sick man's face would light up with a trusting confidence and joy that made the bystanders to wonder. It was as if a little glory had alighted from the Christ on to the man who loved Him so.
Then, when Lazarus was alone with Martha, he would say: "Entreat not the Lord, for who knoweth what glory will yet be revealed? His will be done on earth."
Thus the loving faith and trust of Lazarus never wavered.
Perhaps one of the hardest trials of all was the ​scoffing and mocking of the Jews; for Joanna, the wife of Chuza, who often came to see Lazarus and to bring gifts of fruit, never failed, with the garrulity of her class, to recount the gossip gathered in the market-place, if not to the family of Lazarus, at least to Rachel their handmaiden.
"What say the Jews of our master Lazarus?" the latter inquired one day. "Do they say that the Lord will restore him or that he shall die?"
"They say, 'Could not this Man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?'"
"Yet he is not dead. Methinks the Lord doth it to try the heart of my dear mistresses," said Rachel, who shared her master's belief in the Messiah.
Once more it was evening, and Mary had escaped from the heart-rending surroundings of the sick-chamber while Lazarus slept; he was looking paler and more wan than he had ever looked before. It was about the hour that the Nazarene was wont to return, for, while preaching to the multitudes He seemed to find relief in the solitudes of the country, and to like to shun the noise and tumult of great cities. Sadly she stood on the terrace that looked down upon that valley, in which she had once striven to comfort her poor brother. How doubly pathetic was that memory now! Loving and trusting as she was, she could not help joining in the strange wonder of those days. Death, with its attendant terror, had seemed so far while Christ was near. To be sure, in the far distance, death was looming on them all, for they knew the Lord must die; and it seemed a certain thing that, after His death, the Jews would ​seek to destroy all those who had believed in Him and followed Him, or who testified of Him by word or pen. Indeed, it had been common talk amongst the disciples and the followers of Christ that they were ready to die with Him, if needs be. Thomas, who was ever wont to see the darker side of things, had even stated openly that to be a follower of Jesus meant certain death; and certainly the terrible end of John the Baptist justified this assertion. Then, out of these very thoughts, that rose from the gloomy mists, not so much of doubt as of amazement, there came to Mary an illumined fancy, big with consoling possibilities, glorious in its awakening of faith. What if this approaching death were one of mercy? What if Lazarus were being taken from the wrath to come—from terrible temptation, from loss of faith, or from a violent and awful death?
"The ways of the Lord are past finding out," she murmured to herself, "but who shall gainsay them?"
Then, as the darkness began to fall, she fell to speculating, as we have so often speculated in gazing on the lifeless features of those we love—"What then is death? This strange, brief moment when all is over?"
"I will ask the Lord," she murmured to herself; but even while she spoke she heard the gate of the garden being shaken, and a voice calling her. A quick pain shot through her heart. "The Lord cometh not," she said to herself; for the Holy One of Israel needed no opening of gates, and was wont to appear to them suddenly and unexpectedly. But it was night now, and, for fear of the Jews, it was ​not the Christ's custom to journey after dark. Her heart, prone now to constant shocks and dreads, beat violently; yet with no physical fear she approached the gate.
"Who is without?" " 'T is I, Mary Magdalene. I come with a message."
Mary unfastened the gate quickly.
"Welcome, all they that come in the name of the Lord," she said.
"I will not detain thee but for a few moments, for Martha doth not willingly see me here," said the Magdalene sadly.
"This grief about our brother Lazarus hath softened much the heart of Martha," answered Mary gently, taking the Magdalene's hand in hers; "but why comest thou?"
The two women walked along the path together till they reached the marble seat on which Lazarus had given way to despair so dire. It was so dark now that neither could see the other's face.
"'T was James and John that bid me come, Mary, to tell thee that Caiaphas sought this day to lay hands upon the Lord."
A cry rose from the lips of Mary, but the Magdalene interrupted her.
"Nay, fear not, Mary; His hour hath not yet come. They have not taken Him." Then she went on: "'T was a wondrous sight, the brethren told me. The Lord stood in the porch of Solomon, and great multitudes were assembled. And on the terrace of his dwelling stood Caiaphas, the High Priest himself, and listened; and Nicodemus with ​him; and all the Jews believed that Nicodemus (who, it is known, loveth the Lord) had persuaded him to hear His words. He had just finished the words: 'Though ye believe not Me, believe the works; that ye may know and believe that the Father is in Me and I in Him.' Then, as He spoke these words, the multitude raised a mighty voice; 't was, some said, as if it thundered: 'Works—what works? Heal Lazarus, and we will believe.' '
"'T is verily a marvel," murmured Mary.
But the Magdalene went on: "Then, when the crowd grew even more angry and came nearer, as though to strike the Christ, the wily Caiaphas did choose that moment to send forth soldiers; and a centurion rushed into their midst followed by ten soldiers. 'Seize ye Him,' he cried; and all the multitude with one voice shouted, 'Seize Him, crucify Him, for He blasphemeth'; and every now and then a voice cried out, 'Show us Lazarus whole,' and all the time Caiaphas stood and watched to see them seize the Lord. The soldiers were upon Him. James doth tell me that the Roman centurion's brown hand did rest upon the white garments of the Nazarene, when suddenly he fell back as one that had seen a vision, and, while he stood with gaping mouth and wide-open eyes, the Nazarene did disappear.
"And now where is he?" asked Mary, after a brief pause.
"He hath gone again to Jordan, and will tarry many days," rejoined the Magdalene.
"Then Lazarus my brother will die," wailed Mary, and, giving way at last to the human grief, ​which, in the absence of the Lord, had gained the mastery, laid her head on the Magdalene's shoulder, while every now and then she moaned: "Lazarus will die and my Lord is away."
And the Magdalene, whose deep grief none but the mother of Jesus had divined, joined her tears with those of the other Mary, and cried as though her heart would break; yet, to give courage to herself, she sobbed: "He will live again, he will live again."
At that moment the door of the house was opened, and a woman came out of the porch and looked around; then a querulous voice exclaimed: "Mary, Mary, where art thou?"
Mary rose to answer her sister's call, but the Magdalene made as if she would depart.
"Nay, stay; thou wouldst see Lazarus," said the kindly Mary, "and thou hast walked many miles; thou must rest and be refreshed."
But the Magdalene answered: "Nay, nay; anger not Martha, for she hath much to trouble her."
They turned their footsteps towards the house, and Martha came to meet them.
"This is a fitting time, forsooth, when thy brother lieth sick, to wander in the garden. Thinkest thou I have naught to do that thou leavest me to serve alone?"
Mary had scarce murmured a meek, "Forgive me, sister," when the eyes of Martha fell on the Magdalene.
"What dost thou here?" she asked sternly; for she had been brought up in the sternest principles of morality, and with all the Pharisaical hatred of ​acknowledged sinners. She could not overcome her dislike of the Magdalene, although she had tried to modify it of late.
Ever striving to keep peace, Mary said gently to her sister: "She hath brought a message from James and John, to bid us not tarry for the Lord, for that He cometh not; and she is weary and footsore with the long journey."
The Jewish hospitality filled the gap of loving friendliness in Martha's heart, and she bid her welcome.
"Woe is me, that the Lord still tarrieth," she said, "for our brother is very weak, and but now he sent me forth to see whether the Master cometh. 'I cannot die without the Lord,' he said."
"Methought I would take the Magdalene to him, if so be he is awake," said Mary presently, glancing nervously at her sister, as though fearing she would not allow this visit. "Peradventure the night will seem shorter if the Magdalene tell him what hath happened to our Lord."
Martha's face hardened, but she said neither yea nor nay. "The night is far spent, the day is at hand," she murmured enigmatically as she re-entered the house. Mary conducted the Magdalene across the tesselated pavement to the gorgeous room, in which was a couch hung with costly silks. With his face turned in patient watchfulness towards the door lay the dying Lazarus, longing for his Lord.
But the sight of his poor thin face, the eager expectation in his eyes, that died out when the two women entered, was too much for the Magdalene, who had loved him so truly and so long; ever since, ​as a proud young ruler (proud in the rectitude of his immaculate life), he had passed her with disdain as she sat at the Virgin's Well and chatted with the passer-by. Wounded and stung by his indifference as she had been, it had yet been the first means of leading her to more serious thoughts. Since then her heart had filled with admiration and respect for this rich young ruler, who could resist the charms—of what she knew herself to be—the most beautiful woman in Jerusalem, and one who for several years had been courted by all the greatest men. Then, from that admiration, had grown an adoring, worshipping, respectful love, the shadow, as it were, of the purified love she now felt for the Saviour; and when, united by the common bond of devotion, they had met at the Lord's feet, she had been content to think that in religious thought, at least, they were as one. But Lazarus had known nothing of what she thought.
It was as if suddenly, with approaching death, a far-seeing second sight had come to him; as if scales had fallen from his eyes, and it were given to him to read the hidden thoughts of men. He said pityingly to the Magdalene, who had thrown herself on her knees beside his couch, and was shedding silent tears behind her hands: "Weep not for me, Mary, weep not for me." Then, while her frame shook with suppressed sobs, he laid his wasted fingers with reverence on her golden tresses, and stroking them tenderly, murmured: "Who knoweth yet what the Lord will do?" Then, when human strength gave way, spiritual weakness seemed to strengthen. "Would I could see the Lord! Would I could see ​the Lord! My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?"
This was indeed a bitter time ol trial and temptation to these poor women and to the dying Lazarus. To the dying man it seemed as if demons of despair were dancing around his bed, as if Satan himself grinned at him and hissed: "Where is now thy God? Where is now thy God?"
Once he shrieked out, as though in answer to their gibings: "Yet I will still believe, I will believe. Depart from me in the name of Jesus. Yea, though I die, I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He will take me unto Himself."
And angels unseen and unheard, except of Lazarus, echoed in glorious cadence of softest heavenly music: "I know that my Redeemer liveth."
But the two poor women were torn with grief. They felt now that the Lord durst not appear in person; but they knew that, if He were to speak the word, their brother would live. It needed all their teaching of many months to believe still, in the face of this seeming desertion by the Christ. They had sent messenger after messenger on horseback to Him, to where He sojourned near the river Jordan; but all He had answered them had been: "This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified thereby."
His words had given them a little hope, but when day succeeded day and Lazarus grew weaker, each hour seeming to make his breath more laboured, it seemed as if the very words of the Lord Himself for once lacked truth. The "If" of life entered the soul of Martha.
​If, after all, this man were an Antichrist, a deluder of souls, a fanatic who but fancied Himself the Son of God; a semi-illuminated prophet who understood the Truth, who knew the worth of righteousness but who had no power from above? Then again, if this doubting were but a temptation of the Evil One? Or again, what if God were trying and wringing the heart of Christ, as when He had allowed Him to be tempted by the devil on the Mount? What if Christ's prayers to His Father were unanswered? What if He too were enveloped in gloom and loneliness? Oh, what a mystery was life and death! And into the core of Martha's soul there crept once more the question, Why had this world been created? Why had each creature been born into a world of mystery and darkness? But, all the time, the two Marys clasped the hands of Lazarus, as if by pressing they could instil their courage into his deadening veins. What if, at the last moment, he were wrested from them eternally by a flickering out of faith?
No, to the end, be the future what it might, if the sisters were to live on to face disillusion and a crushing out of all their hopes till the fatal knock of death should be heard against the window, the flame of faith must be kept alive.
The silent chamber, dimly lighted by the Roman lamp, such as had now become the fashion in Judæa, grew even stiller and more gloomy, the three women's figures more immobile, the expectant eyes of Lazarus more dim; his breath came and went more painfully, and his body seemed torn by a spirit that was struggling to escape. Only the faint sound of ​croaking frogs and the far-off barking of dogs disturbed the silence.
Presently Lazarus murmured faintly: "Sing to me, Mary." It was as if he had bridged over years of suffering and trial and gone back to the time when he was a little child and Mary had sung him off to sleep.
Steadying her voice and wiping away her tears, Mary raised her voice on the silent night, singing to a lovely Hebrew chant the words of the Psalmist David—words that seemed written in answer to their doubtings: "The Lord is righteous in all His ways, and holy in all His works. The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon Him. He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him: He also will bear them up and will save them. The Lord preserveth all them that love Him: Refuge failed me; I cried unto Thee, O Lord; I said Thou art my refuge and my portion in the land of the living. Attend unto my cry, for I am brought very low. Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise Thy name."
Then, when her voice faltered, the Magdalene took up the strain and sang: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me."
As the words died away on her quivering lips, the expiring eyes of Lazarus met hers with a smile of deepest love and gratitude. Then the jaw relaxed, the hand that lay in Mary's twitched convulsively, and the last hope of those trusting women died when Lazarus fell back dead. And into their souls there crept a dull stagnation; something seemed to ​die within them, or to flee away with the spirit of their brother. The living flame of faith flickered lower and lower, and over the prostrate body of Lazarus bent but soulless images that could only weep and weep and weep.
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