Chapter 12

It had been her intention, yesterday, to leave the palace early this morning and spend the day with Hannah. She was homesick to see this motherly woman who had so tenderly befriended her. And perhaps Hannah could be persuaded to go with her into the country for another glimpse of the Nazarene Carpenter.

For a whole day, after her first experience of listening to Jesus, Fara had moved about, half dreamily, under the spell of his tranquillizing voice. Sitting there in that vast, stilled, yearning multitude, she had gradually yielded herself to the contagion of his calmness; and, retiring at length from his presence, she had carried with her a new possession. Indeed, it had so suffused her habitually unquiet spirit that for many hours thereafter nothing any longer mattered but the satisfaction of walking confidently under an almost tangible aureole of peace.

But she was not without misgivings, for she had never been really happy and carefree before, and something told her she had no right to this relief from her anxieties. Ever since she was a small child, Fara had had something to worry about: her sweet mother’s frailty, her rascally father’s neglect of them; and, overshadowing all other frets, the feeling that she wasn’t wanted anywhere. She was the little Arabian who wasn’t really welcome in Arabia, the little Jew who would never be really welcome in Jewry.

Now, by the magic of his persuasive voice, this Jesus had relaxed her tension and lifted her burden. ‘Let not your heart be troubled,’ he had said; and it was as if he spoke to her alone, with a full understanding of her heart and its trouble.

But, after a day of this peculiar ecstasy, the sensation of peace gradually gave way to the old anxieties. Again she strapped on her burden. Nor was she disconsolate over the loss of her strange quietude of mind; for had not Destiny ordained for her not only certain cares to be carried but responsibilities to be accounted for? It was all very well to possess an untroubled heart if one’s troubles were honestly disposable. Whether peace was a virtue depended on how much duty-shirking was involved. What indeed would have become of Demosthenes’ moral character had he resolved not to let his heart be troubled? Doubtless there were plenty of fortunate people who could dismiss their cares; but Demosthenes couldn’t—nor could Fara. Returning that day from her curious experience in the presence of Jesus, she found that she had lost all interest in her vow; and, that night, her brightly polished dagger, with the jewelled handle, seemed an ugly, loathsome thing!

And so it was that Fara, briefly experiencing this singular sense of peace, gave it up for duty’s sake. But the Carpenter’s entreating voice continued to haunt her, and she had a mounting desire to hear him speak again. Often and often she found herself wondering about the nature of this strange man. He was a Jew, a citizen of Galilee, a carpenter; but these facts about him did not, Fara thought, explain him at all. He seemed to live outside the bondage and security of his race and nationality. This wasn’t his world. Fara felt a strange kinship with him; for it wasn’t her world either.

This morning, when she had wakened to find it raining, her disappointment had so depressed her that even Claudia’s unfailing cheerfulness brought no response.