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  Contents

  A. J. Cronin

  Chapter 2

  A. J. Cronin

  The Innkeeper's Wife

  Born in Cardross, Scotland, A. J. Cronin studied at the University of Glasgow. In 1916 he served as a surgeon sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteers Reserve, and at the war’s end he completed his medical studies and practiced in South Wales. He was later appointed to the Ministry of Mines, studying the medical problems of the mining industry. He moved to London and built up a successful practice in the West End. In 1931 he published his first book, Hatter’s Castle, which was compared with the work of Dickens, Hardy and Balzac, winning him critical acclaim. Other books by A. J. Cronin include: The Stars Look Down, The Citadel, Three Loves, The Green Years, Beyond This Place, and The Keys of the Kingdom.

  Chapter 2

  At dawn, Seraia, wife of the innkeeper, awoke, and her first instinctive glance showed that Elah, her husband, was not there beside her. She sighed and for some moments lay still, facing another day, feeling anew the weight of sadness that bore down upon her heart. She thought of the troubles in Judea, the last trace of liberty gone, the people oppressed by the harsh rule of the Roman procurator, forced to worship as idols the images of the deified Emperor set up in the temple. Throughout the land, between apathy and recklessness, a blight had spread, brigandage and robbery were rife, the taint of moral decay, of sacrilege, exaction and ill-will, hung in the air. Would nothing, she asked herself, ever come to change it? Above all, with deepening anxiety, she thought of her own difficulties, and of the painful problem which, beneath her own roof, increasingly beset her.

  The morning was grey and cheerless with a harsh breeze blowing across from Mount Hermon but, urged by her sense of duty, she stirred, got up and began to clothe herself, shivering slightly, for Bethlehem lay high on its windswept spur and the air at this season was sharp and chill. She was a comely woman still, despite her forty odd years, short and trim in figure and with an open face marked by lines of kindness. Her expression in repose showed a pleasant quietude. Her grey eyes, matching the sober hue of the robe she now girded about her, had in their depths the look of one who sees more than outward things, one who has, perhaps of necessity, created an interior life all her own.

  She had finished dressing and, with a last look around the room to ensure its order, was about to leave when slowly, with a cautious touch, the door opened. It was her husband. Plainly discomfited to find her up, he hesitated irresolutely on the threshold then, too hastily, launched into an explanation of his absence: he had gone downstairs at an early hour to prepare for the crowd of guests that must flock to the inn today; and with a sudden gust of that fretful irritability which had lately come upon him, he began to grumble at the extra work which they would have because of the great movement of people to register in the census ordained by Herod Antipas. When he paused, appearing to expect some reply, she said quietly:

  “It is not like you to complain of trade, Elah.”

  “Of good trade, no,” he retorted. “But today’s may be of a mixed variety. The rabble will be on the move.”

  “Then why concern yourself so deeply … you must have risen in darkness, long before the dawn?”

  He reddened perceptibly under her steady gaze.

  “Someone must make arrangements … yes, yes, someone must do it … so why not I …?”

  While he ran on with increased confusion she answered little, pitying his weakness and shame, yet finding in these manifest emotions and in his sidelong questing glances, a faint encouragement that he still cared something for her.

  As she went downstairs the light was brightening, already there were movements in the kitchen—her two good maids, Rachel and Athalea, both devoted to her, had begun the many preparations for this busy day. The cooking pots of lentils were already on the fire, water had been drawn from the well, the goat’s flesh was roasting on the spit, as was proper under the Mosaic law. To Rachel, kneading the dark barley flour she had ground in the stone handmill, Seraia said:

  “Today we must make an extra batch of loaves … also a special sauce of butter and milk for the meat. And fill extra gourds with olives.”

  “But, mistress,” Rachel, the short dark one, who had a sense of humour, looked up jestingly, “ if all the world is to be taxed our guests may well lack appetite.”

  “They will eat,” Seraia said, with a faint smile, “ if only to assuage their grief.” Then to Athalea: “ When the bread is in the oven see that the upper rooms are made ready.”

  Malthace, Seraia noted with relief, had not yet appeared. She, indeed, from natural indolence, and the elaboration of her toilet, which often occupied her for an hour, or more, was always late, but her brother Zadoc was in the yard and Seraia could hear him bullying the stable boys and shouting for the wine jars to be brought in, as if he owned the place and were not a known rogue with a long record of misdemeanours who, some years before in his native Lydda, had been publicly flogged for stealing.

  The rough sound of Zadoc’s voice, and the thought of his sister upstairs, idly bedizening herself before her mirror, plunged a sword in Seraia’s heart but with an effort she drew herself erect and commenced her household tasks, managing in many ways through her own competence to make up for the slackness and short-tempered inefficiency which had marked her husband since Malthace and Zadoc had come to the inn, at first as servants, but soon after with a growing assertiveness and authority that could only spring from Elah’s infatuation for the woman.

  It was not until after the tenth hour that Malthace showed herself, announced by her loud laugh and wearing the rich, braided gown which Seraia knew Elah had given her. As she swept into the kitchen, with a look of bold effrontery and that sly air of proprietorship which cut Seraia so cruelly, she exclaimed:

  “It promises right well for today. There should be good pickings for us. Already there are many travellers on the road.”

  “Doubtless,” Seraia rose from the hot roasting spit, basting spoon in hand, “but not all will be as rich or lavish as you would wish.”

  “Elah will single out the rich ones,” the other laughed knowingly. “That I promise you.”

  “Then you feel that you may speak for him?” Though her nerves quivered, Seraia forced herself to answer evenly.

  “Why not?” Malthace retorted, with a toss of her earrings. Placing her hands upon her hips she postured like a dancer. “Tell me, do you like my dress?”

  Seraia saw her maids watching her with covert sympathy and this increased her sense of insult. But with an effort she maintained her calm and answered the servant girl.

  “Yes, it is beautiful … and costly too, I do not doubt.”

  “Which makes it fitting for today. There will be excitement in plenty before we see the end of it.”

  Indeed, as Malthace had said, there presently began a great stir without and a great commotion within. Situated as it was, among the olive groves on the main road to Bethlehem—which lay, girded and fortified by the great wall of Rehoboam, a bare quarter of a league away—the inn was passed by all the traffic to and from the town. Founded by Elah’s grandfather, a man of high integrity and a member of the council of the Zealots, o
f whom it was said he would rather lose ten talents than overcharge one shekel, the hostel had in these days enjoyed a high and sober reputation. Now, in Elah’s hands, this was less than formerly, but he had made extensions, adding a large atrium, lit from above, in the Roman manner, and with this and other modern innovations, still commanded an abundant though perhaps a less exclusive patronage.

  Thus before the day was far advanced the place was filled to overflowing, all rooms occupied or bespoken, the long atrium packed with a noisy throng, eating and drinking, some disputing violently, others forgetting the discomforts of their enforced journey and the gloomy prospect of the new Roman taxes by making merry.

  Amongst them Elah bustled officiously, scolding the kitchen maids, interfering with the waiters, but always with a sharp eye to the main chance—it seemed to Seraia that his love of gain, grown within recent months, had never been more evident. Nor had Malthace and Zadoc ever seemed nearer to him, always at his elbow, smiling, prompting, propitiating, yet with an interchange of glances between themselves that, to Seraia, boded ill.

  Indeed, for the innkeeper’s wife, as the oppressive noontide passed and the long, noisy afternoon wore on, a strange sense of personal crisis began to form and take shape within her. What, she asked herself, would be the outcome of it all? She believed that Elah still respected her, yet he seemed more and more under the domination of Malthace. After twenty years of marriage she knew her husband, knew him to be well-meaning in many ways, soft by nature rather than severe, a man absorbed by commerce who, despite his uncertainty of temper, had on the whole been considerate towards her in the past. But lately he had changed and, obsessed with those material things which to her were of slight importance, had fallen into that self-indulgence spread by the loose ideas and looser living of the Imperial masters.

  Of one thing she felt sure—if only their child had lived this would not have happened … yes, that would have bound them together. But it had been the will of the Almighty to take their son and now, with that tie unloosed, with nothing to restrain him, of what might not Elah be capable? Might he not even put her away? She trembled at the thought which had long tormented her. He would not be the first who had cast off his lawful wife and taken the bondwoman to his bed. She had prayed that it might not be, yet such things were commonplace in these evil days when immorality was rife and paganism swept the land.

  It was just then, towards the fifth hour, that Seraia, meditating thus as she helped her maids scour the piles of platters borne in from the dining hall, suddenly heard her husband’s voice raised angrily in the yard. Looking out she saw that a man, advanced in years, and a young woman, dusty and travel-stained, had come to the back door of the inn.

  “I tell you we have no room,” Elah’s tone rose higher. “You must go elsewhere.”

  “But, sir,” entreated the old man, “we have sought everywhere in Bethlehem and there also not a single lodging is to be found.”

  Seraia drew nearer the open window, wiping her hands upon her apron, observing the drawn look of endurance on the young woman’s face and the weariness of her companion as he leaned upon his staff. Now, humbly, and in a deeply troubled voice he was again begging Elah to reconsider his refusal. They had come far, he pleaded; his name, he added, with touching simplicity, was Joseph and Mary, his young wife, was even now expecting to be delivered of her firstborn. Only the edict of the procurator Herod had forced them to journey at such a time—in this extremity they must have shelter of some kind.

  “Of your goodness,” he concluded, “ could you not spare us a corner beneath your roof?”

  “I have not even a garret,” Elah almost shouted. “Can you not understand, the inn is full? And were it not, there would still be no room for such as you.”

  As the innkeeper turned away, the rejected travellers stood in silence: Mary with downcast eyes, her husband so bowed in troubled perplexity it was plain he knew not what to do. Meanwhile Zadoc and one of the waiters, standing by, found the opportunity to demonstrate their wit too good to miss.

  “Ay, ay, this is a sorry pass you’re in,” Zadoc began, with affected concern. “Had we known of your distinguished coming we should certainly have reserved our finest chamber … plenished it with brocades from Damascus, rich carpets from Persia, furnishings of sandalwood inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl.…” His grin broke through and, encouraged by the sniggers of his ally, leaning idly against the wall, he continued to mock the two wayfarers.

  To these jeers Joseph made no answer but, taking Mary’s arm, slowly turned away. Touched in her generous heart, Seraia could bear it no longer. She must not, could not, let them go. Impulsively she ran from the kitchen and caught the dusty sleeve of Mary’s dress. Because of Elah she dared not take them into the house. Perhaps he was watching even now, ready to forbid and rebuke her. Hurriedly, she conducted them across the yard towards the low straggle of outbuildings on the opposite side and pushing open an unlatched door drew them into the protective darkness of the stable. This was no more than a deep recess cut from the ridge of red volcanic earth that marked the boundary of the courtyard, but it was faced with sun-dried bricks and thatched with stout osiers. At the back, dimly seen, an ox and a young ass lay together in their stall.

  “It is poor enough, the Lord knows,” Seraia said, breathing a little quickly from nervousness and haste, “ but it is all I have to offer. Still … here at least is shelter, warmth against the keen wind, and a clean litter of straw on which to rest.”

  “We are grateful … most grateful,” Joseph said, gazing at her earnestly. “Heaven will bless you for your kindness.”

  “You will not mind the animals?” Seraia ventured, with anxious solicitude. “ They are quiet beasts.”

  “We are country people … we shall be at home with them,” Joseph answered. Then turning to Mary he pressed her hand, murmuring reassuringly: “Be of good cheer. It is come to pass … exactly as in my dream.”

  These strange words, though spoken in an undertone, were heard distinctly by the innkeeper’s wife. They surprised and confounded her. So too did the calm and inevitable air with which the travellers accepted this makeshift haven in which they found themselves. Hurriedly, almost with embarrassment, she said:

  “I will bring you some refreshment.” And, even as Joseph started to thank her, she hastened away. It was not easy to procure the food under her husband’s watchful eye, but here again she was successful and in no more than a few minutes had returned, bringing barley bread, slices of goat’s cheese, and a brimming bowl of milk. Nor was her intervention too soon. Both were faint for want of sustenance but beyond this she saw that Mary, worn to the point of collapse, was already suffering in silence the pangs of labour. And so, with deepening compassion, the innkeeper’s wife set out to help her.

  Afternoon turned to evening with a sky from which the clouds had passed, leaving the heavens bathed in a strange pellucid twilight, and Seraia, between her duties at the inn, made many journeys across the courtyard. By taking her good maid, Rachel, into her confidence, thus far she had succeeded in accomplishing all these missions unobserved—an augury bringing much relief, for now she stood so deeply committed she dreaded discovery by Elah. Yet, come what may, she must go on. Begun in charity, this work of human kindness insensibly had assumed for her a different character, mysterious and momentous, even intimidating. These were no ordinary vagrants. Joseph, when questioned, revealed that he came of the house of David—a royal line. Advanced so far in years beyond his youthful bride, withal so gentle, he appeared more a guardian than a husband. And Mary, over and above her modesty and beauty, possessed a dignity striking in one so young. In the uncomplaining serenity with which she submitted to the humble circumstances of her confinement, it seemed almost as though she knew these to be predestined. This sky, too, windless now, and of an unearthly purity, in which a great star had suddenly appeared, distant yet brilliant, increased Seraia’s sense of fearful wonderment. She asked herself if she was not partaking
in some great event, she knew not what, and at this a sweet thought came to her. On an impulse to give what was dearest to her heart she climbed to the attic of the inn. Here, under the roof tree, laid carefully away in a cedar chest were the swaddling clothes which, ten years before, she had made with loving fingers, for her own child. Between pain and tenderness Seraia viewed them, breathing the fragrance of the cedarwood, reflecting wistfully on her own loss, on all that might have been, and on the strange undreamed of use to which now, with gladness, she would put these soft, long-treasured garments. Swiftly she took them up.

  But as she came down, bearing them, all expectant of the joy of giving, she drew up short. There, at the foot of the stairs, Elah was awaiting her, his look charged with anger and resentment. In the shadows of the passage Malthace was visible behind him.

  “What’s this you are about, woman?” he burst forth. “Did I not send these two beggars upon their way. Yet I am told you have given them both food and shelter. And now,” he bent forward, outraged, pulling at the clothes, “these.”

  She had turned pale, realizing that the woman had spied, then informed, upon her. But she answered bravely, in a tone mingling resolution with entreaty.

  “Their need is great, Elah, how could I do otherwise than help them? I beg you not to interfere. There is in this … something beyond our understanding.”

  “Beyond whose understanding?” he cried.

  “Have you not seen the great star … rising … there in the East? It is a sign, Elah.”

  “What nonsense are you talking? Once and for all, I forbid you to continue this … this … wasteful folly.”

  A moment of silence, prolonged and absolute, while with downcast eyes Seraia sustained the gaze of her husband and Malthace. Then she raised her head and faced him steadily.

  “No, Elah, I must do it.”