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 this 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."