The Silver Chalice (33 page)

“Deborra,” said Basil earnestly, “I will be proud to marry you. I will marry you on whatever terms you wish. Any conditions you make will be acceptable to me. I shall strive hard never to cause you trouble or pain.”

“If we marry, will you think it necessary to keep your promise and see this—this woman when you are in Rome?”

He shook his head. “If it is your wish, I shall never see her again. That I promise.”

“Then,” she said after a moment and in a low tone, “it is settled.”

With the decision made, Basil realized that he had found relief in promising not to see Helena again. He hoped this would make it possible for him to banish her from his mind completely. It might even be that he and Deborra would regain the mood they had shared as they stood together that day on the crest of the valley.

It became apparent to him at once, however, that any such happy development as that was impossible. Deborra’s attitude had changed. She was no longer composed, as when she had spoken of the qualities she shared with her grandfather. She was pale and her eyes had a withdrawn look. There was no suggestion about her that she would welcome a return to a better understanding between them.

“I owe you thanks,” she said in a voice as devoid of feeling as her eyes. “You have been honest with me—and very kind.”

“No, I have not been kind,” answered Basil unhappily.

After a moment she said: “It will be necessary for the ceremony to take place at once. You have noticed, no doubt, that I came dressed for it.”

Adam ben Asher was standing at the entrance when Luke reached the dining hall of the servants. Under brows as black as a thunderstorm his eyes were as nervously active as a sparking fire.

“The people we sent for are beginning to arrive,” he said in an undertone. “They are standing outside. The Mar’s men are worried. They are buzzing about like horseflies.” He paused and then burst out angrily: “What would you have to say about a man of Gaza who still expected the gates that Samson carried away on his shoulders to be returned at this late day? You would call him a fool, a credulous fool. I am as stupid as that, I think. I, Adam ben Asher!”

The informality of the wedding of Deborra and Basil was in keeping with the tradition of simplicity that governed the marriage rites. Only six members of the household were admitted as witnesses, and the rest were under the most stern injunction to remain in their rooms. The chosen six stood in a line facing the canopy when Deborra entered and took her stand there. She had added a long veil to her costume, and it was impossible for Basil, when he joined her, to see anything of her face.

Uzziel, the overseer, who was an elder of the church, stood with them under the canopy, his face damp with excitement and his fingers tightly locked about the silver vessel that was to serve as the Cup of the Blessing. They repeated in turn the
Berchath Nissuin
, Basil stumbling over the unfamiliar words and having to be prompted throughout. Deborra’s reading of the lines was clear and steady, although her voice seemed toneless. Uzziel then invoked the benediction and frowned at the bridegroom when he did not proceed at once to the next step.

“It is customary,” he said in a severe tone, “to raise the veil of the bride.” Then he added in a whisper, “Must I explain also that you are expected to utter a cry of joy when your eyes rest on the face of the one who will henceforth share your joys and sorrows?”

Basil raised the veil, but the exclamation he gave was a poor imitation of the joyousness that tradition demanded. The pallor of the bride was startling and the unhappiness he saw in her eyes made such pretense impossible.

“At this point,” said Uzziel, clearing his throat importantly, “it is usual for the marriage contract to be read aloud. As there has been no opportunity to prepare one, we proceed to the concluding rite, the sharing of all present in a cup of wine.”

Adam ben Asher had not moved from his post near the door. If there had been any eyes to see it would have been clear that his dark face was reflecting openly all the emotions that consumed him. “I was never promised the hand of Deborra as Rachel was promised to Jacob,” he was thinking. “But I labored long for my master in hopes that this reward would be mine. At the end of his seven years of servitude Jacob did not get his Rachel, but in her place he was given the older sister, Leah. The Word says that Leah was tender of eye, but I am not sure of that. I think she had hips like a chariot horse and that she was flabby and blotched and as yellow as the falling leaves. There is not even a Leah for me to be consoled with, and now I must ruin my fine camels in a mad chase on the desert. Why should I waste my hard-earned substance in this way? Truly, I am a credulous fool. I do this so that the bride, who prefers another man to me, may win an inheritance to share with him. I am like the ass on which Balaam rode when he issued out to join the princes of Moab and which was smitten by him three times when it warned him of danger.” He gave an angry shake of the head. “But I shall do everything I can. There is nothing I would not do for the little Deborra.”

The ceremony had been completed. Basil and Deborra were man and wife in the sight of the Lord and in the eyes of men. One of the flagons on the shelf was filled and passed around the small circle of witnesses. Everyone took a sip in turn; even Adam, although he frowned as he did so and muttered in a partly audible tone: “My ears must be growing out from my head like those of Balaam’s ass. Soon they will be large enough to flap in every breeze.”

“It is customary,” said Uzziel, “to preserve the cup in which the happiness of the newly wedded couple has been pledged.”

A sheet of rich white satin was brought out, and Deborra spread it on a table under the shelf. Basil, as was the custom, stood beside her.

“We must live in separate tents,” said Deborra in a whisper. Her hands were busy and they trembled a little as she proceeded with her task. “I do
not know how it may be explained, but I shall try to find some way.”

Basil nodded his head in silent assent. He felt completely unhappy as he watched her fingers at work. Things could have been so different if he had exercised some restraint over his instincts. He had sought out Helena for a purpose that had seemed to him both necessary and laudable. There had been no desire on his part then to see her again. The fascination she had for him had begun with his second visit, when Simon had practiced his trickery to such small effect. He could not understand why his feelings for the ex-slave girl had become charged so suddenly with violent emotions. But that was how it had fallen out.

“We must try to act natural,” continued Deborra, keeping her eyes down. “The truth must not be suspected; at least, not at first. It will not be possible to keep it a secret always. That I realize. But my pride—yes, I have pride, although I could not blame you if you doubted it—my pride demands it should not happen at once. I could not stand to have it known now. My grandfather is dying and I am doing something for which my father will never forgive me. He may even denounce me and cast me off. On top of this I do not want it said that I—I had to buy a husband.”

“Deborra, Deborra!” he exclaimed. “You do not think of it that way!”

“That is what everyone would say.” She stole a glance about the room. Luke had begun to speak, and the rest seemed to be listening intently and watching him. “Will it be hard for you to pretend? To make it seem we are truly man and wife, even though we do not share a tent?”

“You must see how deep my feeling for you is——” he began.

She gave her head a quick and passionate shake of denial. “It is not necessary to—to say such things to me. We both understand the relationship between us.” To herself she added, “I do not want him to think he has to be kind to me, to—to throw me crusts!” There had been in her voice a suggestion of emotions that might suddenly break the control she was maintaining over them. It was in a calmer tone that she went on after a brief silence. “We have only a moment left; and so, please, listen to what I have to say. We must seem affectionate. We must talk together a great deal—alone, whenever possible. We must smile. No one must be allowed to see that all this will be on the surface. Are you willing to help me by keeping up this pretense?”

“I am willing to do everything you suggest.”

“But,” said Deborra in a tense whisper, “we must not carry it too far. There must be no embracing for appearance’s sake. No touching of hands. We must practice our deceit in other ways.”

“I understand. It shall be as you say.”

Luke was still speaking. The wrinkles about his eyes smiled as he told stories of the bride: how Deborra had once said in his hearing, when she was a very small girl, that she would never marry anyone but a king of Israel like David and that she would have twelve sons and name them after the twelve tribes. Later she had said that the husband she sought must be as wise as Solomon but that only in his wisdom must he be like that great king, he must never have more than one wife; and she had reduced the number of sons she desired to four, their names to be Peter, John, James, and Andrew.

“I am a sorry substitute for what you wanted in a husband,” said Basil in a contrite tone.

She said to herself, “You could have been all that I ever wanted, all I ever dreamed.”

The rest of the company in the room were so interested in what Luke was saying that no one noticed what was happening where the newly wedded couple stood. They did not see that the bride, with hands that now trembled noticeably, had wrapped in the sheet of handsome white satin, not the cup that had been passed around, but one that had remained untouched on the shelf. It was a plain old cup with a battered rim under which there was a mark somewhat like the flat fish of Galilee.

L
UKE AND ADAM
accompanied the bride to the door of her grandfather’s room but did not go in with her. A small group had been waiting quietly in the hall, and to each of these Adam took a document for signature. “It may be necessary later,” he explained, “to prove that the marriage of the daughter of the house took place before the death of the master.”

Having observed this precaution, he began to pace up and down and to talk of the greatness of the life that was coming to an end. He spoke for the most part in a rumbling undertone but occasionally allowed his feelings to show in an outburst of words.

“There has never been his equal,” he declaimed. “Abraham was a poor man, Job in the days of his affluence a mere seeker after wealth. Pharaoh did not lavish on Joseph a tithe of the gold that came into the possession of Joseph of Arimathea. His glory will be sung in the records of his day, but no one has known him as I did. His word was as good as the bond of a king. His heart was as clean as the morning sky. His mind was like unto a blade fresh from the firing. He was always right. And now this goodness and wisdom must end in the tomb! Open your minds to sorrow, all ye who knew him and benefited at his hands. Prepare to lament his passing——”

He stopped abruptly and allowed his eyes to dart hurriedly from one face to another. “What folly have I spoken? There must be no lamentation. Not a single note of grief must be raised to let it be known when our master and friend has closed his eyes. The sorrow we feel must be expressed for a time in silence.”

It was a very few minutes later that the door opened and Deborra appeared.
She was composed, but her cheeks were white and she did not raise her eyes.

“He is dead.”

Every head was lowered at once. The silence was so complete that it seemed unnatural, for grief in a Jewish house is loudly expressed. After some time had passed eyes were turned to Adam for a hint as to what was now expected. He was holding his eyes down and his lips moved in prayer. No one moved or spoke. Finally Adam looked up and motioned to Ebenezer, who stood on the edge of the group.

“Much will depend on your vigilance,” he said in a low tone.

Ebenezer stole away silently. He took up his station outside the door of Aaron. Until other arrangements had been completed, no one was to be allowed to carry to the new master of the house the word that Joseph of Arimathea had been gathered to his fathers.

The two
conchar
men who stood guard at the main entrance had been keeping their eyes on the windows above them where Aaron had his quarters. At the same time they were conscious of something else that was going on about them, which had the effect of putting them on their guard. Men and women in rather considerable numbers were arriving and standing about in silent groups. They came chiefly from the valley and they were people of humble dress and mien.

“What does this mean?” demanded Mijamin of his fellow. He had, apparently, a temper as short as himself, for his hand played irritably with the dagger at his belt. “Why are these poverty-stricken laglags coming here and hanging around like this?”

“They are Christians,” declared the tall
conchar
man. “They have faces like sheep. They smell like sheep. That is always the way with these Christians. I am sure they have come to mourn the death of the old man within.” He nodded his head, which was bald and covered with huge yellow freckles. “When is this old moneybags going to give in and die as any decent man would do? I am tired of standing at his door.”