# Lazarus, a tale of the world's great miracle/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV.
THE same night that Caiaphas was pacing his terrace—raging madly, like a wild beast deprived of its prey; baffled in his ambitious schemes, cheated of his dreams of vengeance, growing each moment more infuriated, more malevolent, more determined—a middle-aged woman was kneeling on the stone floor of a poor cottage at Nazareth. The whole room was dimly lighted by a candle standing on a stone shelf built into the wall.
The face was beautiful, more from expression than from feature. The brow, especially, impressed one by its whiteness, but the eyes turned up towards heaven were full of tears, and the corners of the lips, that prayed so fervently and met each moment in such reverence but to form words of piety and devotion, were drawn downwards, as if in agony. Yet there was no despair, no passionate vehemence on the face or in the prayer, only a meek, submissive pleading for resignation; and as, every now and then, a salt tear rolled down the gentle, fragile cheeks, it was swallowed meekly, as though such tears were symbols of a revolt to be subdued.
A soft footfall moved close up to the door; then a light hand rapped gently on it. Mary rose like one returning from a trance. She held her hand to her heart one moment, not in physical fear, but with ​a foreboding of some dread news, to bear which would tax all her fortitude. Then she listened; it could not be Jesus, her Son-God, for He needed no opening of doors to appear to her. No, it must be a messenger, or, perchance, Joseph returned from Bethany; but the step was light for Joseph, who was no longer young.
Then, when the rapping came again, she stepped to the door and opened it.
The moon was high in the heavens and its rays entered the cottage in a long streak of bluish white. The virgin mother's golden hair looked silver beneath its radiance, and the pale face grew paler still. A woman stood without, but, with her back to the moon's glory, her features were undistinguishable.
"'T is I, Mary Magdalene, the sinner," said a voice faint with penitence and meekness.
"No longer a sinner, since thou art forgiven," said the elder woman, drawing her in lovingly.
"But what dost thou here at night? 'T is not safe for thee, Magdalene, with thy beauty, to come thus late at night; for, till men's eyes be opened to understand, they do not honour women as one day they will."
"Yet, for thy sake, all women henceforth will be honoured," exclaimed the emotional, loving Magdalene; and kneeling at the elder woman's feet, she raised the hem of her garment and kissed it reverently.
"Nay, do not do so," said the other hastily; "worship me not, for I am only human like thyself. 'T is of God's mercy that He has chosen me to be the mother of our Lord."
​"In the far future many will worship thee, in that thou wast so chosen," replied the Magdalene. "But I must not tarry with my news that will soothe thy aching heart: I have seen Lazarus."
"Is it even so?" said the virgin mother calmly.
She had seen too many miracles, been too closely bound to the Messiah to be surprised at the news that Lazarus had risen; or, indeed, at any miracle performed by the God-Man. Then she went on: "What said Martha and Mary at the miracle? Did many believe?"
"Nay, but it is no miracle, mother of the Christ," replied the Magdalene. "It was his spirit only that I saw in the olive groves, and he bade me tell thee that thy Lord was not at Bethany yet, but safe with the brethren."
Over the sweet face there came a quieter, more peaceful look, as of one who had received a respite from some dreadful danger.
"Will He not then restore him ?" asked the gentle voice.
"I know not," answered Mary Magdalene sadly, lifting her veil from her face and seating herself on a stool.
"Poor Magdalene! Thou dost love Lazarus," said the mother of Christ, "and they who love must suffer."
The eyes of the Magdalene filled with tears; then, laying her hands timidly on the Virgin's knees, as though to touch so lovely a woman were to defile her, she replied: "Lazarus I have ever loved. But how should a ruler of Israel call a harlot wife? Yet, in his very scorn of me I love him; and, now that I ​know Jesus, the joy that I can feel so deep a grief for my great sins is as strong as is my love; and so my grief hath become a joy, in like manner as my joy is the offspring of my grief. 'T is a strange mystery, this love of Christ, that maketh all things bearable; but, mother of Jesus, is it not a wondrous thing that Lazarus, who in life was wont to pass me on the other side and forbid his sisters to have speech with me, should after death appear to me a sinner?"
The virgin mother, borne down with grief, yet ever quick to sympathise, smiled her sweet, pathetic smile.
"Perchance, Magdalene, the dead know all," she answered; "he knoweth that thy heart is right with the Lord. Dost but remember His words: 'To her much is forgiven, for she loved much'? "
"Those words are written forever on my heart, O mother of the Lord. For when the Lord spake them they were life to me. Oh, it is marvellous, this new life of love, and yet of mystery, for we know nothing, do we? Yet, when He speaketh, one's heart burneth within one and one knoweth that every word He saith is true. Methinks it is not a thing that comes by learning," went on the Magdalene.
"It is a gift of God that Jesus hath brought on earth," replied the mother. "It is a problem none can solve. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth. So are they who are born of God."
"May I bide with thee this night?" asked the ​Magdalene presently. "It is late to return to my dwelling; and thou, thou canst not sleep for thinking of thy Son. We will talk and pray together till the morning. Methinks that, when near to thee, I am closer to the Lord."
Then, in tones of deepest reverence, and stroking the thin, fair hands of the mother of Jesus down to the pointed finger tips, she murmured: "His mother, His mother, the mother of the Lord. The living witness of the greatness of the Lord, who hath visited His handmaiden to bring glory and salvation into the world."
As she spoke, the Virgin raised her face instinctively towards heaven.
"When thou dost gaze upwards thus, thou dost bring to my remembrance a lily looking towards the dying sun, expectant of the dews of heaven," said the Magdalene, and once more, with deep devotion, she kissed the Virgin's hands. Then, taking a clean napkin from the table, she proceeded to pour water into a basin.
"Be seated," she said in tenderest voice, "and I will wash thy feet, thou holy one! It will rest and refresh thee during the night watch." The virgin mother raised a hand in deprecation.
"Call me not holy, Mary; none is holy, save God alone. Who am I that thou shouldst wash my feet? Even a poor sinner, like thyself."
"Thou hast no sin," replied the Magdalene; "and to wash each other's feet, in deep humility, is the commandment of our Lord."
At her words, meekly and modestly, with deprecating gesture, as if not desiring such attention, the ​Virgin allowed Mary to wash first one foot and then the other.
With tender reverence, Mary laved each slender foot, kissing it when she had finished. Then she cast from her the cloth that she had bound around her waist.
"Nay, naught wrought with human hands shall touch thee, mother of my Lord"; and, catching hold of her own luxuriant golden tresses, she wiped the Virgin's feet till they were dry. Then, touched by strong emotion, she fell to the ground at Mary's feet and cried out: "Oh, would that I were pure and holy as thou, thou queen amongst women. Woe is me that I have sinned. Would that I were pure, would that I were pure! "And, with face bent down, she wept as though her heart would break. At sight of her abandonment, the Virgin lifted her heart heavenwards and prayed silently that comfort might be sent to the poor patient soul.
Then, as if in answer to her prayer (for whose prayer would be answered, if that of Mary were not?) a moonbeam shot straight through the window, lighting up the opposite wall; and, in dark relief, the shadow of the window frames stood out, its form a cross; and a voice of sweetest music murmured: "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."
At that moment, the clatter of horses' hoofs rang on the silent night, sounding hollow and resonant on the stony street.
The Magdalene sat up, and pushing her hair from her eyes with one hand, held out the other to clasp the Virgin's.
​In constant apprehension of the death of their dear Lord, the followers of Christ were ever ready to scent danger, ever steeling themselves for the dreadful moment when their Saviour would be taken from them. He had warned them, in His tenderness, that the support and comfort of His presence, the sweet companionship, would not last forever. Yes, all this they knew, but the agony of separation had yet to come. The sight of the suffering of their Beloved One was soon to wring their hearts, and, as love grew stronger, their coming grief became more sure. Each unwonted sound brought terror to their hearts.
The two listened.
"'T is some message from Caiaphas or Pontius Pilate; or, perchance a fire hath broken out in some ruler's house," the Magdalene suggested to reassure the Virgin's heart.
"Peace! cheat me not," replied the Virgin sternly; "they halt at this very door. They think to find Him here, but His hour is not yet come."
The horses drew up at the door, and one could hear them pawing the ground, and a man's voice giving orders. Farther down the street some dogs began to bark.
The Virgin rose and stood with mild dignity in the chamber, hard by the door. Half fearful, yet half eager, the Magdalene pressed behind her, her long tresses falling almost to the ground.
A loud, hasty knock, and the door was opened. At sight of the Virgin, standing ethereal and lovely in her beautiful simplicity, faintly outlined by the streaks of early dawn, now striving to get the better of the waning moon, the soldier started.
​"Surely this is some angel," he muttered to himself; then, making his gruff voice as gentle as he could, he said: "Good woman, the High Priest, Caiaphas, hath commanded me to search this cottage, lest the Nazarene be hidden here, and, if I find Him, to bring Him to him."
"Sir, do as thou wilt," replied the Virgin. "The Lord is not here, but, if He were, ye could do nothing unless it were given ye from on high. Seek ye Him."
The men searched, but without much ardour. They were not anxious to find the Nazarene, nor had they imagined that He would be there, for it was well known that He dwelt not now at Nazareth.
"Mother of the Nazarene," said the soldier, after he and his men had searched the house, "I have yet an ugly message to convey to thee. Caiaphas hath commanded that, if we found not the Nazarene, we should bring to him all within this house." While he was speaking his eyes fell on the Magdalene.
"Thou here?" he exclaimed. Then his lips parted with a coarse, rude smile, ready to speak some prurient jest. A look from the mother of the Christ arrested him, but the Magdalene had seen and understood the look, and bent her head humbly to the ground. That henceforward would be the cross she would have to bear. The moral crucifixion of the world's opinion had begun. No nails could pierce more sharply, no spear strike more deeply, no burden be bitterer or harder to bear than would the judgment of the world on sins that she had done with. For God forgives more quickly than does man. It would never be wiped out, that past of Mary Magdalene's; daily, hourly, the familiarity of ​men, the taunts and coldness of women, no better, nay, worse than herself, would remind the Magdalene of that thoughtless past of wantonness and passion. Years of endless writhing torture lay before her, a weary battling against man's proffered love and woman's jealousy and hardness, till welcome death should come to free the hunted being.
"This is the Magdalene, my friend," said the Virgin's gentle voice; a voice that came from one who knew that the Magdalene's fame could not be damaged by the friendship of one whose love par- took of the divine, and, like that of Jesus clung to the one loved alike through good report and evil.
With rough courtesy, the soldier bowed before the majestic form of purity incarnate.
"One to whom the immaculate Mary of Nazareth hath given shelter is safe from all men."
With infinite sweetness the Virgin answered the rough soldier: "I thank thee, proud Roman, for thy kindly words; may it be so done unto thee and more." Then wrapping her cloak around her, so as almost to cover her face, she again addressed him: "If thy orders are to convey us to Caiaphas we must obey."
Then, in the cold, grey light of dawn, the two women were conveyed outside. But, when the soldier was about to assist the Virgin to mount the horse that was to convey her, the Magdalene stepped forward.
"Forgive me, brave soldier," she interprosed, "but no man hath ever laid hands on this woman of all women. Wilt permit me to help her on the horse?"
​"Methinks 'twixt thee and me there is not much to choose," the soldier muttered; "but as thou wilt."
At his word, the Magdalene lifted the frail figure of the Virgin, with almost a man's vigour, yet with all a woman's tenderness, on to the horse.
"Thou art not so fearful for thyself," the Roman went on coarsely, as he placed the Magdalene on the horse and shook her fallen tresses around her. The Magdalene blushed; then, with the appealing, trustful manner that had been her charm and her perdition in days gone by, "Friend," she said, "speak no more to me in words of jest. Magdalene, the sinner, is no more. We are two lone, sorrowful women who look to thy manliness for protection."
Her sweet seriousness touched the Roman soldier, and, beckoning to his comrade to lead on the horse, he took the reins and led his own behind. For nearly an hour the strange cavalcade proceeded thus in the lightening darkness through the streets of Jerusalem, and the sun was up and the shadows were sharp and well defined when they halted at the house of Caiaphas.
As to Caiaphas, he hardly knew himself why he had commanded the soldiers to bring the mother of the Nazarene to him. Furious at having been foiled in capturing the Christ, and with a growing conviction that he was being treacherously dealt with by those in his employ; full of suspicion as those are who are themselves unworthy—and enraged at any obstruction to his arrogance, any crossing of his will, he had been prompted in his action partly by the wish to lay hands on all or any connected with the ​Nazarene he could; and partly by curiosity to see this woman so many talked of, and to hear her version of the circumstances of her Son's birth. These times were too uncommon, too unsettled, by the teachings of the lowly carpenter, for even Caiaphas to be able to close his eyes to the fact that the Nazarene was no ordinary man. To justify himself, nay, more, to enjoy the full flavour of his vengeance, he must know all concerning Him that he could glean from those who had conversed with Him. From the first he had feigned ignorance of the preachings in the Temple, the assemblies by the seashore, the miracles, the strange doings and sayings of this young madman, as he had named the Christ; but the day had come when, if Caiaphas had made up his mind to crucify the Man, he must know enough to give good reasons for His condemnation to Herod and to Pontius Pilate; even to Cæsar, should he demand it; nay, more, he must have an excuse to give himself.
Two rulers of the Synagogue, Nicodemus and Lazarus, had gone over to this Man. Lazarus, indeed, was now dead, but Pontius Pilate himself, urged on by his wife, this Claudia Procula whom Caiaphas hated, was beginning to speak in tones of no disfavour, even of admiration, of the Nazarene. Surely, therefore, it was time to tremble and to act. But he was not prepared for the presence of the Magdalene. Her beauty troubled him, for he was as licentious as he was hypocritical; nay, more, he owed her a grudge, in that she, a sinner, had repulsed his advances when, disguised as a peasant, he had mingled more than once in the crowd that ​chatted with the maidens at eventide by the well of Samaria.
"Thou art too ugly," she had ofttimes cried to him before them all, "and thou hast a priestly face." And the maidens would shriek with laughter, for they knew full well that he was Caiaphas. But that was in the days gone by, before the Magdalene had become a follower of Christ. She had almost hoped that they would not bring her before Caiaphas, and, but for her affection for the Virgin, she would have asked to remain in the outer chamber.
While they were being ushered into the presence of the High Priest she drew her veil closer over her face; but Caiaphas, fearful always of treachery, bade her lower it. When she did so, her long, golden tresses fell about her, and, changed though her face was with grief and weeping, he knew that there was but one woman in Jerusalem with tresses such as those.
"Thou art in questionable company, Mary of Nazareth," said Caiaphas, laughing coarsely. "Methinks that, for one reported so immaculate, thou choosest strange associates."
Both women were silent.
"Hast naught to say, woman? Dost thou fully understand that the life or death of this Nazarene doth lie with me?"
Then, raising her pure eyes steadily to Caiaphas, the Virgin answered: "Thou couldst do naught at all were it not that power were given thee from above. He hath escaped thee many times, for His hour was not yet come; but He knoweth that He must die to save the world from sin."
​Uneasy at her words, Caiaphas turned to another subject: "It seemeth thy Son did not raise Lazarus?"
"He will be raised up," replied the Virgin.
"At the resurrection, forsooth," said Caiaphas, shrugging his shoulders.
Then the Magdalene, who had been silent, burst forth with a gleam of triumphant daring: "Yet I spake with Lazarus yesterday."
The brows of Caiaphas flushed crimson, and he clenched his fists. Terrified almost, he leaned forward, and forgetful of all else, he gasped: "Thou hast talked with Lazarus?" Then, shaking his head and rising from his chair: "Thou art mad, woman. Thy penitence hath turned thy brain. But now they brought me tidings that he hath lain in his grave two days." With strange agitation he rose and paced the room. "The soldiers, too, must be bewitched, since they fear to tell me what hath happened."
Then the voice of the Virgin rose distinct and clear: " 'T was but his spirit Mary saw."
"Ha! thou shouldst not speak in parables, Magdalene, for they ill become thy lips, which are made rather for man's kisses than for the telling of grave matters. His spirit forsooth! Thou lovest Lazarus, and in thy dreams he visited thee. Poor fond, foolish woman, he is no more on earth." Then, turning from her, he addressed the Virgin: "There are strange things spoken of thy Son's birth. Is He in truth not the Son of thine husband? Then whose Son is He? These incredible reports work harm; they but unsettle the minds of men and entangle ​the thoughts of the populace. No virgin yet hath borne a son, yet methinks, with eyes like thine, thou couldst not tell a lie. Whose Son is He? Proudly, and with head thrown back, the Virgin answered: "He is the Son of God." And, even while she spoke, there gathered round her head a filmy radiance of glory, that even Caiaphas could see.
He staggered back; then, pointing with a finger towards the Virgin, cried: "What is that light?" And Magdalene, conscious that the glory of the Lord was nigh, fell down in solemn worship at the Virgin's knee.
Then, for a moment terrified, Caiaphas cried out, "Woman of Nazareth, who art thou? What art thou? Speak, for on thy word dependeth the salvation of the world. Speak, and tell us plainly who is thy Son? Whence is He? Is He but a poor carpenter, or is He the Son of God?"
"He is Very God and Very Man," replied the Virgin; "but the mystery I cannot tell thee, for I know it not. All the learning of the scribes and Pharisees, all the philosophy of this earth cannot explain why I should have been chosen to be the mother of my Lord, nor how He did enter the womb; but I declare unto thee that this Jesus, whom they call my Son, is the Son of God, descended from heaven and made man; but how I know not. Only I know that the Lord hath so revealed it to me. But this I say truly, that he who believeth on Him shall be saved from eternal damnation."
"It was never so known," said Caiaphas. "Why ​should the Son of God come thus to judge the world?"
"He cometh not for judgment, but to save the world," replied the Virgin, her face still illumined by the wondrous light. "He came to call sinners to repentance. 'T is God that judgeth, and He will come again to judge the world."
"Why, then, do I not believe?" asked Caiaphas."
"Because thou wilt not, Caiaphas," replied the Virgin fearlessly.
A long silence followed, while Caiaphas mused. Then, as if suddenly remembering that these two women stood still before him, he looked up.
"Leave me, I pray you, to consider of this thing, for it hath never so been known in Israel."
Then came to pass a thing which never yet had been. Caiaphas, the great High Priest, escorted the two women through the ante-chambers and past the soldiers to the street.
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