IN NAAMAN’S
HOUSE
BY
MARIAN MACLEAN FINNEY
[Illustration]
THE ABINGDON PRESS
NEW YORK CINCINNATI
Copyright, 1922, by
MARIAN MACLEAN FINNEY
Printed in the United States of America
TO
MY FRIENDS
“Other blessings may be taken away, but if we have acquired a good
friend, we have a blessing which improves in value when all others
fail.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. NEW ACQUAINTANCES 7
II. SURPRISES 18
III. VISITORS 29
IV. CAPTIVES 40
V. JOURNEYING 51
VI. DAMASCUS 63
VII. WAYFARERS 74
VIII. DOUBTS 85
IX. INTRODUCTIONS 95
X. HANNATHON 107
XI. CONFESSION 117
XII. UNDERSTANDING 129
XIII. CHANGES 139
XIV. DECISION 151
XV. CONSTERNATION 162
XVI. HOPE 173
XVII. REWARDS 185
XVIII. PLANS 196
XIX. HOME 206
XX. DEVOTION 218
XXI. TIDINGS 228
XXII. MEETINGS 239
XXIII. ISRAEL 249
XXIV. WAITING 261
XXV. ANTICIPATION 274
XXVI. CERTAINTY 285
CHAPTER I
NEW ACQUAINTANCES
“I like not the maiden, Caleb. No good will come of taking in this
daughter of strange people.”
“Thy words belie thy kind heart, Sarah. Thou wert willing to take
under our care the child of my kinsman, even though estranged from his
father’s house by his marriage. I fear, however,” and the man’s voice
was troubled, “that we shall not be able to make her happy.”
“Make her happy!” broke in the woman’s indignant tones. “I fear that
she will not be able to make herself useful. She hath not so far.”
Then, more gently, “Yet is she welcome to all we can do for her now
that she hath no kin save us, but I am fearful because her mother was
of the natives of Canaan so that she hath not been instructed in the
way of Jehovah. If she should have a wrong influence over our little
Miriam!”
The woman in the doorway glanced over her shoulder at the scene within
the dwelling where an animated conversation was in progress.
“Awake, Judith. I myself have awaked early. See, the door hath been
opened and the fresh morning breezes blow sweet after the night-time
when no air cometh in at all. Father hath almost finished leading
out the animals. Did they bother thee last night with their stamping?
Peradventure some wild animal was prowling about outside. Is it not a
fine arrangement to have the mangers built between their part of the
house and ours? And is it not comforting to know that at night and on
stormy days they are safe under the same roof with us? Art thou still
asleep?”
An older maiden sprang to her feet. “Who could sleep through thy
chatter, Miriam? Thou makest more noise than the oxen and the asses
and the cow and the calf all put together.” But a smile tempered the
severity of the speech.
The younger and smaller maid laughed delightedly and stooping to the
floor began to fold the thickly padded rug or quilt on which she had
slept, depositing it in a nook in the wall apparently built for the
purpose and keeping up a steady stream of talk designed to be informing
to the new arrival.
“If our olive trees have a good crop this year, we are going to have
curtains to hide the beds. Last year father built this wooden floor
to raise our living room above the ground where the animals stay. It
is cleaner and dryer now and ants and mice do not trouble us so much.
Thinkest thou not we have a splendid home?”
Judith’s somewhat cool response caused Miriam to look at her in hurt
surprise. The mother flashed a reassuring smile from her seat in the
doorway, though never ceasing for a moment her skillful manipulation
of a large sieve. It was tossed and shaken and every few minutes tilted
sideways to allow a tiny shower of straws and dust to fall upon the
ground. While Miriam took up the beds Judith was required to assist
her aunt in grinding the newly sieved grain. With a steady, monotonous
motion they worked the wooden handle of the mill back and forth, back
and forth, never hastening but never stopping until at last the sound
of the grinding became lower and lower and finally ceased, the whole
grains of wheat having been crushed into a coarse powder between the
upper and lower stones of the mill.
It did not take long for this to be made up into dough, patted into
small, flat cakes, and baked quickly in the out-of-doors oven made of
heated stones. By ten o’clock, as was usual in the Land of Israel, the
morning repast was ready: hot bread, fresh milk, and to-day there were
young onions dipped in salt. Had this been winter instead of spring,
there might have been a handful of raisins or a few olives or the bread
might possibly have been dipped in grape-syrup. This meal was always
relished, however, for no other would be cooked until sunset. By the
time it was finished the morning mists had rolled away, the sun had
dried up the heavy dews of the night before, and the distant fields
were calling to the husbandmen.
Linking her arm through Judith’s, Miriam guided the newcomer through
the one long street of the village.
“Thou hast a beautiful name, Judith, almost as beautiful as thyself.”
“A Hittite name, Miriam, what thy people call ‘heathen,’ so it will not
recommend me hereabouts, but thou art named for one of the great women
of thy race.”
“Oh, not because she was great,” was the quick response, “but because
she was useful and good. Knowest thou not how she cared for her baby
brother, Moses, when she was just a little maid like me?”
The conversation was cut short by their arrival at a dwelling from
whose open doorway voices floated out upon the balmy air.
“Thy father and I toiling and sacrificing for thee, our only child, and
thou rebelling when we ask for appreciation and obedience!”
Another voice, choked with sobs, made answer: “Thou didst have no
objection to Benjamin until Abner fancied me.”
“Dost thou add impudence to stubbornness? It is well thou hast thy
father and me to see that thy folly doth not ruin thy young life.”
Catching sight of the two hesitating upon the threshold, the woman
hastened to welcome them, then turned to the girl she had first
addressed: “Wipe away thy tears and take thy water jar. See, Rachel,
here is Miriam and her young kinswoman from the Plain of Sharon, a
maiden of thine own age. Go with them and be diligent in thy task, but
this time next year thy feet will take no such journeys nor thy hands
be so employed, for thou shalt have servants to do thy bidding.”
The woman turned to her work and the three girls proceeded on their
way, Miriam walking between the grief-stricken Rachel and the envious
Judith, seeking to atone for the silence which had fallen upon each.
Thus she began to speak in joyous enthusiasm:
“Now that the rains are over for the season, dost thou notice how sweet
is the air? Every breeze bringeth the mingled scent of wild flowers
which the hand of the Lord hath planted to delight the bees and us.
Even from here we can tell what their faces will be like when we see
them closer: anemones and poppies and wild tulips and arbutus and hosts
of others. Even at night it is interesting here, for thou canst not
tell whether thou wilt be awakened by the song of a nightingale or the
howling of a wolf, and in the daytime, see!”
With a sweep of her arm she indicated the light-green garden patches
and wheat-fields in the valley below them and the darker green of the
olive groves and patches of oaks and pines nestling among the rugged
gray hills on every side.
Neither of the girls commented and Miriam became silent.
At the foot of the path they were descending Judith paused to take
breath. “To one who hath but lately come from the level plain along
the seacoast, the mountains are wearying,” she remarked. “Why are thy
cities perched upon the hilltops when thou must grow thy food in the
valleys?”
As Rachel seemed disinclined to talk, Miriam took it upon herself
to answer: “To be cool in summer and relieved from danger of flood
in winter and safe from our enemies all the time. Knowest thou not
how often the Syrians have swooped down upon us, like birds of prey,
seeking that wherewith to enrich themselves?” Then, in tones of
sympathy: “The path will not seem so steep when thou art used to it.
For to-day do thou rest here and I will make two journeys to the
spring, one for thee and one for me. Thou knowest we are commanded by
our Law to be mindful of strangers because our people were strangers in
the Land of Egypt, and I must remember how lonely I should feel to have
to live where nobody knew or loved me even as thou.”
Judith, deeply touched, was affectionately declining Miriam’s offer
of rest when a whoop startled alike the echoes and the girls and the
mischievous face of a boy, somewhat older than Miriam, peeped from
behind a rock.
“Nathan!” The exclamation was full of distress, and Miriam gazed at a
shattered water jar at her feet. “Knowest thou not that jars cost wheat
and sometimes olives? But,” soothingly, “never mind, the jar is not
wasted, for _these_ pieces will make drinking cups and _these_ will do
to carry coals in. They are splendid sherds. Hast thou noticed, Eli,”
as a still older lad came hurrying toward them, “that no matter what is
broken there is always something left?”
The entire party was busy picking up bits of pottery from the path,
when a youngish man joined them, at sight of whom Rachel immediately
called to mind an errand elsewhere and, with a whispered explanation to
Miriam, promptly disappeared. While the newcomer was apparently known
to the younger girl, her face did not light up with pleasure, although
he addressed her gently.
Were they bound for the spring? He was going in the same direction. He
had not met Judith before. So she was Miriam’s kinswoman from the Plain
of Sharon where the roses grow. Then Sharon had sent her most beautiful
rose to bloom near the Jordan! And these lads, he ought to know them.
Fine, sturdy boys. Ah, Hannah’s children. He believed that they and
their mother lived on a bit of his land. He had the pleasure, now and
then, of doing them little favors. Of course he knew them, should
probably know them better as time went on. Lads of excellent qualities
indeed!
His soft voice trailed on and on. After the manner of the Orient, the
man and bays walked ahead, the girls following.
So, thought Judith, this was Abner, the rich suitor for Rachel’s
unwilling hand and she (Judith) the unwanted guest in an irksome home.
If only their places might be reversed! But no hint of inward agitation
appeared in her outward manner, nor, when the awe with which the boys
had first regarded the newcomer had gradually changed into friendliness
and the elder of the two had been beguiled into telling an original
story, did she appear to do aught but listen.
He cast it in the form of a fable, after the manner of the young
theological students of the day, the “Sons of the Prophet,” among whom
his father had been numbered:
“Once there was a young ant who lived with a large colony of its
relatives in the clean, warm earth. It had everything to make it happy,
a good home and abundance of food, yet was it wroth, for its elders
required it to work. ‘Come,’ said they, ‘lend thy strength to the task
of carrying home this grain that we may live and not die when the wet
winter sets in and there is no food to be had.’
“This little ant, however, who had never seen a wet winter, was
rebellious and ran off to hide and sulk. Soon it saw a strange sight:
men digging great holes in the fields and coating the floor and walls
with a white substance. With his curiosity aroused, he went back to the
spot day after day until the sun came out with great heat, the harvest
passed and the threshed and winnowed grain was carefully stored in
these underground chambers, the cavities being closed in such a way
that thieves could not readily discover its hiding place.
“‘Ah,’ said the ant, ‘here is my opportunity. Once inside such a place
as that, I should have no fear of cold or hunger, such as my elders
are always trying to guard against. Naught would I have to do but eat,
sleep and grow fat. Then should I be happy.’
“Forthwith he watched his chance and slipped into a little opening just
before the workmen closed it. Alas for his expectations, however, for
where moth and rust could not flourish neither could an ant. In the
stifling atmosphere he began to grow faint. Tortured in body with this
nauseating sickness and in mind with the thought that he had brought
all this trouble upon himself by his sloth and selfishness, he finally
expired.”
Miriam, who had listened with rapt attention, now beamed upon Judith,
who stifled a yawn. The next instant she clutched the younger maid’s
arm. “See, Miriam, the little gorge below us is filled with innumerable
gray shapes, and from the sound of a reed flute which ascends to us I
perceive that it is a shepherd with his flock.”
They came nearer the objects pointed out. Miriam gave one look and a
joyous little cry: “It can be no other than my brother, Benjamin, whom
thou hast not met before, Judith. He giveth my father’s flock a drink
below the spring where the water floweth still and quiet so they will
not be frightened. See, he carrieth a lamb in his bosom. Is it not nice
that men wear such long, loose garments belted in at the waist, so they
can gather the fullness together wherewith to carry things?”
By this time they were near enough for greetings. Miriam bounded
forward with an eager salutation for Benjamin and much compassion for
the lamb. “See, Judith, it is all torn and bleeding, but its good
shepherd hath anointed its wounds with oil and even put some on its
head to comfort and refresh it.”
Judith listened and smiled. From under lids discreetly lowered she was
conscious that both the very young man and the older one were stealing
glances of approval at her.
“Peradventure,” she thought, “it may not be so uninteresting here after
all.”
Abner also listened and smiled, making mental calculations. As he moved
away there was on his face a look of resolution. “Why not?” he communed
with himself. “Fine lads both and can become useful. The younger and
sturdier can care for the young of the flock while my shepherds take
their mothers out to graze. The elder hath a remarkable mind, coming
as he doth of a family which combineth Israel’s piety and culture. He
can be trained as a clerk. There is trading to be done and accounts to
be kept. It should be regarded as a kindness to their mother. Let me
see, how much doth she owe me? Yea, enough and more.”
Meanwhile Sarah had observed with surprise Rachel’s hasty return and
now watched with some anxiety for Miriam and Judith.
“I tell thee, Caleb, friendship with a heathen bodeth no good.”
“Surely, Sarah, no harm can come from caring for the orphan and the
needy as we are commanded in our Law,” and the man’s voice was almost
harsh in its reproof.
“Seemeth to me it might depend somewhat upon the orphan,” murmured the
woman, softly, “and my heart hath been strangely heavy since I first
beheld this maiden.”