THE ROBE (49 page)

'And Bartholomew--he was a little chicken, too?'

'Well,' deliberated Justus, 'not quite in the same way, perhaps.
Bartholomew never expressed his opinions so freely as Simon, when Jesus was
away from us. He didn't have quite so far to drop--as Simon. It was amazing how
much fatigue the old fellow could endure. He attended the last supper they had
together on the night Jesus was betrayed. But when the news came in that the
Master had been arrested, it was too much for Bartholomew. He was very sick.
They put him to bed. By the time he recovered--it was all over.' Justus closed
his eyes, sighed deeply, and an expression of pain swept his face. 'It was all
over,' his lips repeated, soundlessly.

'He must be quite infirm, by this time,' said Marcellus, anxious to lift
the gloom.

'About the same,' said Justus. 'Not much older. Not much weaker.' He
grinned a little. 'Bartholomew has a queer idea now. He thinks he may never
die. He sits all day in the fig orchard, when the weather is fair.'

'Looking up the road, perhaps,' speculated Marcellus, 'and wishing he
might see Jesus again, coming to visit him.'

Justus had been gazing down at the lake. Now he turned his eyes quickly
towards Marcellus and stared into his face. After a rather tense moment, which
left Marcellus somewhat bewildered, Justus returned his gaze to the lake.

'That is exactly what old Bartholomew does,' he murmured. 'All day long.
He sits, watching the road.'

'Old men get strange fancies,' commented Marcellus.

'You don't have to be old,' said Justus, 'to get strange fancies.'

The little caravan, which had lagged on the last steep climb, now
shuffled over the shoulder of the hill. Jonathan came running across, and
snuggled down beside Justus.

'When shall we have supper, Grandfather?' he wheedled.

'Quite soon, son,' answered Justus, gently. 'Go and help the boy unload.
We will join you presently.' Little Jonathan scampered away.

'The lad seems in quite good spirits to-day,' observed Marcellus.

'That's Miriam's work,' declared Justus. 'She had a long talk with
Jonathan yesterday. I think we need not worry about him now.'

'That conversation must have been worth hearing,' said Marcellus.

'Jonathan didn't seem inclined to talk about it,' said Justus, 'but he
was deeply impressed. You noticed how quiet he was, last night.'

'I doubt whether there is another young woman--of Miriam's sort--in the
whole world!' announced Marcellus, soberly.

'There is a widow in Capernaum,' said Justus. 'Perhaps you may have an
opportunity to meet her. She spends all her time with the very poor who have
sickness in their houses. Her name is Lydia. You might be interested in her
story.'

'Tell me, please.' Marcellus sat up and gave attention.

'Lydia lost her husband, Ahira, while still quite a young woman. I do
not know how it is in your country, but with us the predicament of a young
widow is serious. She goes into retirement. Lydia was one of the most beautiful
girls in Capernaum, so everyone said. Ahira had been a man of considerable
wealth, and their home was in keeping with his fortune. Shortly after his
death, Lydia became grievously afflicted with an ailment peculiar to women, and
gradually declined until her beauty faded. Her family was most sympathetic. At
great expense, they summoned the best physicians. They carried her to many
healing springs. But nothing availed to check her wasting disease. The time
came when it was with great difficulty that she could move about in her room.
And now the whole country began to be stirred by reports of strange things that
Jesus had done for many sick people.' Justus hesitated, seemingly in doubt how
to proceed with the story. Marcellus waited with mounting curiosity.

'I think I had better tell you,' continued Justus, 'that it wasn't
always easy for substantial people to have an interview with Jesus. As for the
poor, they had no caste to lose. Most of them were in the habit of begging
favours, and were not reticent about crowding in wherever they thought it might
be to their advantage. But men and women in better circumstances--no matter how
much they wanted to see Jesus--found it very hard to shed their natural pride
and push into that clamorous multitude. Jesus was always sorry about this.
Often and often, he consented to talk alone with important men, late in the
night, when he sorely needed his rest.'

'Men who wanted to be privately cured of something?' asked Marcellus.

'Doubtless, but I know of some cases in which very influential men, who
had no malady at all, invited Jesus into their homes for a long conference.
Once we waited at the gate of Nicodemus ben Gorion, the most widely known
lawyer of this region, until the cocks crew in the early morning. And there was
nothing the matter with Nicodemus; at least, nothing physical.'

'Do you suppose he was warning Jesus to cease his work?' wondered
Marcellus.

'No. Nicodemus came out with him, that night, as far as the gate. Jesus
was talking earnestly to him. When they parted, each man laid a hand on the
other's shoulder. We only do that with social equals. Well--as I had meant to
say--it would have taken a lot of courage for a gently bred woman of means to
have invaded the crowd that thronged about Jesus.'

'That's quite understandable,' agreed Marcellus.

'One day, when Jesus was speaking in the public plaza in Capernaum, a
well-to-do man named Jairus pushed his way through the crowd. The people made
way for him when someone spoke his name. It was plain to see that he was greatly
excited. He went directly to Jesus and said that his little daughter was sick
unto death. Would Jesus come at once? Without asking any questions, Jesus
consented, and they started down the principal street, the crowd growing larger
as they went. When they passed Lydia's house, she watched them from the window,
and saw Jairus, whom she knew, walking at Jesus' side.'

'Where were you, Justus?' asked Marcellus. 'You seem quite familiar with
these details.'

'As it happened, it was in the neighbourhood of Lydia's house that I
joined the crowd. I had come with a message for Simon, who had serious illness
at home. His wife's mother was sick, and had become suddenly worse. I was as
close to Jesus as I am to you when this thing happened. I don't suppose Lydia
would have attempted it if she hadn't seen Jairus in the throng. That must have
given her confidence. Summoning all her poor strength, she ran down the steps
and into that crowd, desperately forced her way through, and struggled on until
she was almost at Jesus' side. Then, her courage must have failed her; for,
instead of trying to speak to him, she reached out and touched his robe. I
think she was frightened at her own audacity. She turned quickly and began
forcing her way out.'

'Why didn't some of you call Jesus' attention to her?' asked Marcellus.

'Well,' said Justus defensively, 'there was a great deal of confusion,
and it all happened so quickly--and then she was gone. But, instantly, Jesus
stopped and turned about. "Who touched me?" he demanded.'

'You mean--he felt that contact--through his robe?' exclaimed Marcellus.

Justus nodded, and went on.

'Simon and Philip reminded him that there were so many crowding about.
Almost any of them might have crushed against him. But he wasn't satisfied with
that. And while he stood there, questioning them, we heard this woman's shrill
cry. They opened the way for her to come to him. It must have been a very
trying moment for Lydia. She had lived such a sheltered life. The crowd grew
suddenly quiet.'

Justus's voice was husky as he recalled the scene.

'I saw many pathetic sights, through those days,' he continued, 'but
none more moving. Lydia came slowly, with her head bowed and her hands over her
eyes. She knelt on the ground before Jesus and confessed that she was the one who
had touched him. Then she lifted her eyes, with the tears running down her
cheeks, and cried, "Master! I have been healed of my affliction!"'

Overcome by his emotions, Justus stopped to wipe his eyes on his sleeve.
Steadying his voice with an effort, he went on:

'Everyone was deeply touched. The people were all in tears. Jairus was
weeping like a child. Even Jesus, who was always well controlled, was so moved
that his eyes were swimming as he looked down into Lydia's face.
Marcellus--that woman gazed up at him as if she were staring into a blinding
sunshine. Her body was shaking with sobs, but her face was enraptured! It was
beautiful!'

'Please go on,' insisted Marcellus, when Justus fell silent.

'It was a very tender moment,' he said, thickly. 'Jesus gave her both of
his hands and drew her gently to her feet; and then, as if he were speaking to
a tearful little child, he said, "Be comforted, my daughter, and go in
peace. Your faith has made you whole."'

'That is the most beautiful story I ever heard, Justus,' said Marcellus,
soberly.

'I hardly know why I told you,' muttered Justus. 'I've no reason to
think you could believe that Lydia was cured of her malady merely by touching
Jesus' robe.'

He sat waiting, with an almost wistful interest, for a further comment
from Marcellus. It was one thing to say of a narrative that it was a beautiful
story; it was quite another thing to concede its veracity. Marcellus had been
adept in contriving common-sense explanations of these Galilean mysteries. The
story of Lydia's healing had obviously moved him, but doubtless he would come
forward presently with an attempt to solve the problem on natural grounds. His
anticipated argument was so long in coming that Justus searched his face
intently, astonished at its gravity. He was still more astounded when Marcellus
replied, in a tone of deep sincerity:

'Justus, I believe every word of it!'

Notwithstanding his weariness, Marcellus had much difficulty in going to
sleep that night. Justus's story about Lydia had revived the memory of his own
strange experiences with the robe. It had been a long time since he had
examined his mind in respect to these occurrences.

He had invented reasons for the amazing effects the robe had wrought in
his own case. His explanation was by no means conclusive or satisfying, but he
had adopted it as less troublesome than a downright admission that the robe was
haunted.

The case, viewed rationally, began with the fact that he had had a very
serious emotional shock. The sight of a crucifixion was enough to leave scars
on any decent man's soul. To have actually conducted a crucifixion was
immeasurably worse. And to have crucified an innocent man made the whole affair
a shameful crime. The memory of it would be an interminable torture, painful as
a physical wound. Not much wonder that he had been so depressed that all his
mental processes had been thrown into disarray.

There was that night at the Insula when he had drunkenly consented to
put on the blood-stained robe. Apparently his weighted remorse over the day's
tragedy had reached a stage where it could not endure this one more perfidy. A
wave of revulsion had swept through him, as if some punitive power, resident in
the robe, had avenged the outrage.

For a long time Marcellus had suffered of that obsession. The robe was
possessed! He shuddered when he thought of it. The robe had become the symbol
of his crime and shame.

Then had come his remarkable recovery, that afternoon in Athens. His
mental affliction had reached a moment of crisis. He could bear it no longer.
The only way out was by suicide. And at that critical juncture, the robe had
stayed his hand.

For a few hours thereafter, Marcellus had been completely mystified.
When he tried to analyse the uncanny thing that had happened to him, his mind
refused to work on it. Indeed, he had been so ecstatic over his release from
the bondage of his melancholia that he was in no mood to examine the nature of
his redemption. Such brief and shallow reasoning as he put upon it was as
futile as an attempt to evaluate some fantastic, half-forgotten dream.

The time came when he could explain his recovery even as he had
explained his collapse. The robe had been a focal point of interest on both
occasions. But--did the robe actually have anything to do with it? Wasn't it
all subjective?

The explanation seemed sound and practical. His mind had been deeply
wounded, but now it had healed. Evidently the hour had arrived, that afternoon
in the cottage at the inn, when his harassed mind determined to overthrow the
torturing obsession. It was a reasonable deduction, he felt. Nature was always
in revolt against things that thwarted her blind but orderly processes. For
many years a tree might wage a slow and silent warfare against an encumbering
wall, without making any visible progress. One day the wall would topple--not
because the tree had suddenly laid hold upon some supernormal energy, but
because its patient work of self-defence and self-release had reached
fulfilment. The long-imprisoned tree had freed itself. Nature had had her way.

Marcellus had contented himself with this explanation. He had liked the
analogy of the tree and the wall; had liked it so well that he had set it to
work on other phases of his problem. You had had a peculiar experience that had
forced you to a belief in the supernatural. But your mind--given a chance to
resume its orderly functions--would begin to resist that untenable thought. It
wasn't natural for a healthy mind to be stultified by alleged supernatural
forces. No matter how convincing the evidences of supernatural power, one's
mind would proceed--automatically, involuntarily--to push this intrusive
concept away, as a tree-root pushes against an offending wall.

Until long after midnight, Marcellus lay on his cot, wide awake,
re-examining his own rationalizings about the robe in the light of Lydia's
experience, and getting nowhere with it. He had impulsively told Justus that he
believed the story. There was no reason to doubt the good man's integrity; but,
surely, there must be a reasonable explanation. Maybe Lydia's malady had run
its course, that day, needing only this moment of high emotional stress to
effect her release. He silently repeated this over and over, trying to make it
sound reasonable; trying to make it hold good. Then he agreed with himself that
his theory was nonsense, and drifted off to sleep.