DOUBTS
Almost six months passed. In the House of Amos, friend of that Ezekiel
who had died, sat Rachel, the scalding tears dropping from between her
fingers. She was not unmindful that Rebekah, wife of Amos, was holding
a guarded conversation out in the courtyard with her bosom friend and
that it concerned her.
“I think her trouble hath affected her mind,” the neighbor was saying.
“When thou wert gone to the Street of the Bakers I peeped in at the
door and she was laughing and crying over a bracelet made of dried
grasses which was hung around her neck. She would have hidden it when
I appeared, but when I insisted upon knowing its history she said it
had been given her by the young shepherd to whom she is betrothed. They
were children then and played at a wedding and she kept the foolish
token. It is the nearest she will ever come to a marriage, poor child,
and I told her so.”
Rebekah nodded.
“Thou knowest,” the other woman continued, “that the soldier who
brought her hither cometh not at all since the first day or two, when
he came to inquire how she fared. Then he did not ask to see her,
nor even when he brought thee the gold wherewith to purchase her new
clothing. Didst thou not think it strange that he wished her to think
the gift came from Amos and thee? To my mind it is plain that he
desireth to be rid of the maiden. Peradventure he is relieved to place
the responsibility with thee.”
Under this positive indictment Rebekah’s double chin quivered. “All
we know of her,” she agreed, “is that some six months ago she came
somewhat after dawn, which hath seemed very odd to me, with a young
soldier, evidently an officer, seeking Ezekiel, and that Amos, in
pity for her distress, took her into our home until we could find out
something about her. Yet, beyond the tale she telleth, we know no more
than at first. Gentle she is and sweet and if what she saith be true--”
Rebekah’s friend regarded her severely. “The minute I saw her with the
soldier I knew that no good would come of it. Thou didst say the same
and her story goeth but to prove--”
The voices sunk lower. Rachel could catch the import but not the words.
However, she had heard enough. They doubted her account of herself
and she had no way whereby to prove it. She might, of course, make an
attempt to find the soldier who had been so kind. His name was “Isaac”
and he had spoken of the great House of Naaman as “home,” but she
hesitated to throw herself upon the mercy of any man. The bitterness of
being allowed a shelter on a sufferance which might terminate at any
time! Where was she to go? What to do? And not for herself alone was
she anxious. What had become of Nathan? How fared it with poor little
Miriam?
* * * * *
In the meanwhile Miriam, formerly of the Land of Israel, now of the
Land of Syria but always, at least in her happier moments, a dweller in
the Land of Make-Believe, where you and I once lived, had discovered
something new. By piling the cushions high on that wide bench which ran
around three sides of the room, and standing upon them, she could look
through the window-opening out upon the street. The lattice, which kept
out the bats so nicely, would also prevent anyone on the outside from
seeing the face at the window.
There was so much to be seen close at hand! From the roof, the figures
on the streets of Damascus looked almost as small as had the ants
crawling about their hills in Israel. Why, there was Isaac coming and
he had a timbrel under his arm! She was sure it was for her because she
had mentioned, one day, how much better she could sing the Lord’s songs
when accompanied by music, and they had talked about timbrels. She knew
just how he would give it to her. He would make an elaborate bow and
say: “Fair lady, accept, I pray thee, a fond token of remembrance from
thy faithful subjects beyond the Great Sea who have sent this, through
many and great dangers, by the hand of thy devoted slave.”
She would take it with very grand airs, just as if she were a fair lady
with subjects beyond the Great Sea and it had been sent through many
dangers, when they both knew that he had bought it for her in that
very city in one of those puzzling little shops he had told her about
and which he was going to take her to see some time. She wondered if
it would be the day he would also take her to see Rachel, who was so
happy in the home of Ezekiel’s friend in the street of the merchants of
Israel.
Next she would become extremely grave and tell him that just before
he came into the courtyard somebody had thrown him a kiss. She knew
it for a fact, but he would never guess who it was. At first he would
not believe such a thing, then he would reluctantly admit that she
might have seen a kiss thrown, but it was surely meant for someone
else--Milcah, perhaps. This being denied, he would accept her word for
it, but be very much mystified and make so many wild and improbable
guesses as to the source from which it came that it was a great deal of
fun. At last he would give it up and she would have to tell him that
it was herself. At this he would assume a comical expression of relief
and say that such being the case he was not so distressed because, not
having any little sister of his own, he had adopted her, but if it had
been anyone else--here his tone would become tragic--he would be most
uncomfortable, for, as she knew, he was so bashful. At this they would
both laugh, for he was not bashful at all, and their play would be over.
They would then sit on the marble bench under the damson tree in the
courtyard, where they could see the fountain and hear the birds, and he
would give her a lesson. Every day he taught her a few words of Syrian
and encouraged her to tell him all her experiences since the day before
in that language so that she would the sooner become proficient. Thus
she began to “save up” things to relate and to “pick up” words as she
wandered among the maid servants. He had begun this task as a dreaded
duty. He continued it as a pleasure, finding her intelligent and quick
and her ideas frequently original.
Miriam neither guessed his one-time aversion to these lessons nor his
present satisfaction. He was learning tact as well as patience. She
only knew that he was sufficiently young to grasp her viewpoint just
as Eli had once done--that Eli about whom she was so voluble. “Because
Benjamin had Rachel to talk to,” she explained, “and I am going to
marry Eli when I grow up.” He wondered why he felt complimented that
she should tell him this “secret,” but he did. In response he gravely
approved her choice, and even asked the privilege of being the friend
of the bridegroom, who would, according to Eastern usage, make the
necessary arrangements! The lesson over he would say good-by until the
next day, and when he had gone she always found that the sun did not
seem to shine so brightly.
She was still gazing through the lattice when she was suddenly jerked
down, and a voice she had learned to fear said, indignantly, “I know
the man to whom thou art throwing kisses.”
Miriam fingered her arm ruefully. To get those bruises over that! She
answered a little triumphantly: “Nay, Milcah, it was no man at all. It
was only Isaac.”
There was a sound from the veranda wonderfully like a stifled laugh,
but it passed unnoticed in the excitement. Milcah’s tones were coldly
severe: “In justice I shall have to say that I can find no fault with
thy general conduct, but I have observed that thou art very bold toward
my brother. Shame on thee!”
Miriam was stunned. Bold! Why, to be that was to be the worst thing on
earth, for a bold maiden was never respected. Her mother had told her.
After a long minute she found voice: “Thinkest thou I do not know that
‘men’ are strangers or those who have no right to caress thee? Thinkest
thou my mother hath not warned me to be careful? Isaac is not a man.
He is just--just--Isaac. The same as Benjamin. I almost hated him at
first because he took me from my home”--the words came chokingly--“but
he hath explained to me that he cannot take me back, yet he repenteth
of the evil he hath done and seeketh to make me happy. _Thou_ hast
never been kind--nor anyone else in this big house save Isaac--”
She could say no more, but with heart almost bursting under its load of
grief and misunderstanding, she ran swiftly past Isaac without seeing
him and hid somewhere to weep for the mother she never expected to see
again. Milcah was limp with despair when her brother entered the room.
“At her age _I_ never attracted a man’s attention.”
“Nor at any age, sister.”
The woman glanced at him quickly and beheld what she had never thought
to see in his face--a wrath so great that she cowered before it. His
tones were new and strange: “Oft hast thou told me, sister, of our
great leader, Moses, who met Jehovah face to face in the flaming bush
of the desert. I go to the desert but to fight its wandering hordes of
warriors. Hast thou considered where _I_ am to meet Jehovah? Might it
not be in the pure heart of this little maid? Certainly I have done
nothing to deserve her gratitude and affection, and thou as little;
but if I were worthy, I think there is naught that could hold a man to
higher thoughts and better deeds than the trust and expectancy in the
eyes of a child.”
The speaker departed hurriedly. He too could say no more, for quite
suddenly his own shortcomings swarmed before him like black specters
with murderous intent. Why had he not told Miriam of her brother’s
captivity? Why had he not taken her to see Rachel? Why had he failed
to tell the older maiden of the presence in Syria of her betrothed?
Why had he not sought out Benjamin, as he had long ago promised? Was
it enough that he had assured himself of his benefactor’s safety? Nay,
he lacked courage. That was it: he was afraid, he, a soldier! He was
afraid to lose the flattering confidence of the little maid; afraid to
expose himself to the fascination Rachel still held for him; afraid to
confess the injury he had unwittingly wrought Benjamin, the man to whom
he was indebted. The thought was bitter: he--afraid. Yet it was true.
He would begin reparation by telling Miriam of Benjamin; by taking her
this very day to see Rachel; but she was nowhere to be found and he
went away regretful. On the morrow, if he could obtain permission, he
would be far away. _If_ he could obtain permission! Did he not come and
go at another’s will? The morrow might bring duties elsewhere.
Milcah, when Isaac had gone, sat down weakly upon the bench which had
been the scene of Miriam’s transgression. She was face to face with a
stupendous thought. Her young brother was growing into manhood. He
formed his own opinions and defended them. She had lost her baby! She
said the words over slowly, trying to comprehend; trying to tear loose
her heart-strings; trying to imagine him as he would be in the future.
She was dazed, bewildered, sorrowful. That he should have rebelled
against words spoken for his own good; should have defied her, to whom
he was so dear! The outburst had been so unnecessary, and then her
anger flamed against Miriam. Had it not been for _her_ it would never
have happened. Always was there a maid, large or small, to come between
a man and his family. Had she not seen it? It was the way of the world.
The only thing that saved the present situation was that this was a
little maid. How careful she would have to be never to offend one whom
he loved!
Meditating irritably, she was annoyed to find a small figure in her
lap, a wet cheek pressed to hers: “I am sorry, Milcah, that I said
thou wert not kind. I should have remembered thou wert not brought
up in Israel, and so thou dost not know about ‘showing forth his
loving-kindness in the morning and his faithfulness every night,’ but
be of good comfort, I will show thee how.”
The woman gasped. “I need not,” she commenced indignantly, and broke
off the sentence in the middle, glaring in displeasure but utter
helplessness into the tear-stained face of this unwelcome child who
was taking such unwarranted liberties. No one else would dare! Yet it
was distinctly pleasant to feel those clinging little arms. It roused
one to such unexpectedly human emotions. She wondered how it would have
been if her mother had not frowned upon Somebody. If the brief romance,
so quickly stifled, had come true, if she had married, would a little
maid of her very own be making charming overtures of affection like
this one?
All at once Milcah gathered the child to her bosom, a little awed at
the overpowering sweetness of it but wholly lost in its joy. Without
premeditation she was whispering soft words which had never been used
since Isaac had needed them; words which came falteringly from a tongue
to which they were new and strange; words she had thought never to
speak again. A long time they sat thus while a maid servant peeped in
at the door and, amazed at what she saw, went away stealthily to tell
the tale to those who scoffed at it as impossible.
Thus did Miriam end her Quest of the Hidden Heart, the same having been
found.