HOME
In the House of Naaman at Damascus all was anxiety. As soon as the
days were accomplished when the caravan might return, a watchman
was stationed upon the roof to give tidings of its arrival, but day
succeeded day without sight of the party itself or even a messenger. At
least twenty times between dawn and sunset did Miriam run lightly up
the stone staircase to her own favorite spot. Shading her eyes with her
hand she would gaze long into the grayish distances and then, sighing,
descend to her mistress, who, weary with waiting and unutterably
distressed at the delay, had ceased asking questions with her lips
and now asked them only with her eyes. When no gladness appeared in
Miriam’s expressive countenance, Adah would sink back upon her silken
cushions with one brief exclamation:
“It is as before. We could expect nothing else.”
Not even the little maid’s confident cheerfulness could rouse her
to hope. Added to the gloom of her mistress, Miriam experienced
other trials. Her position in the household began to be somewhat
uncomfortable. She could not fail to be aware of whispered remarks,
slighting, scornful, amused. If a visit to the prophet who dwelt in the
Land of Israel were all that was needed for her master’s restoration,
why had he not returned ere this with the healing predicted? The delay
was proof positive of the failure of his mission. And who had doubted
that it would fail? Certainly not they. Had they not said all along
that if Baal and Rimmon and Chemosh and Tammuz and all the other gods
could do nothing, was it not highly improbable that this Jehovah of
Israel, of whom the maid was always talking, could do more? And the
idea of one in her place offering advice to her master!
It was on a particularly trying day that anticipation was changed
to certainty. It needed not the cry of the watchman nor the tense
excitement with which the household responded to apprize Miriam, for in
her own particular lookout on the roof she had observed for herself.
Far in the distance she had noted moving specks which could be no other
than a caravan. Fascinated, hopeful, she had watched its approach
until assured from appearances that it _might_ be Naaman’s party. She
had seen the sudden paralysis of Damascus traffic and had heard the
exultant cry of the multitude, two marks of respect accorded only the
great and the popular. It _must_ be Naaman’s party! Slowly and with
dignity the procession moved through the narrow, crowded streets amid
the cheering throngs and came to a halt before the arched gateway.
With wildly beating heart Miriam knew that it _was_ Naaman’s party.
Peeping over the parapet surrounding the roof, she noted that the
household had hurried into festal garb and gone forth to meet its
master in the solemn joy of the dance, accompanied by the music of
silver trumpets and cymbals, stringed instruments and timbrels. Her
place was with them, but surprise and dismay held her motionless for
a long moment, then she bounded down the steps and ran, panting, to
the apartments of her mistress. Adah, in excitement scarcely less than
Miriam’s but decidedly more controlled, stood by the doorway, trembling
and waiting. Miriam, with white face, clutched her garment and her
voice sounded strange even to herself.
“My mistress, knowest thou? Knowest thou?”
She could proceed no further. In Adah’s eyes the light of happy
expectancy slowly faded--and it had shown there momentarily. In its
stead came the old, deep despair. Dropping back a pace she covered her
face with her hands.
“I should have known--oh I think I did know--yea, I knew.”
Miriam, in utter misery, gazed at her fixedly. “Thou knewest and didst
not tell me. Thou didst wait and let me find out for myself that his
horse is led and riderless and that they carry a prostrate figure!
Someone hath told thee and thou hast concealed it from me. Oh, how
couldst thou?”
Adah moaned. “That he could not be healed I felt, I knew, but that it
is with him as thou sayest--Miriam, art thou sure?”
But Miriam was gone. With swift steps she passed various members of
the elated household. With unseeing eyes she rushed past its master
on his way to his wife’s apartments, and though he stopped and spoke
graciously she noted not it was he. Her objective was a room in another
courtyard where the figure she had seen was being tenderly cared for.
Here she knelt beside Milcah and stroked Isaac’s hand, openly weeping
over him; took from the servant the cooling drink and administered it
herself; listened to an account of the battle with the robbers and
forgot to ask for Naaman, and left the room only when she and Milcah
were satisfied that it was quite safe to leave him in the hands of
other attendants for the time being.
She was soon summoned to the apartments of her mistress, where she
prostrated herself before her master, but he gently raised her.
“Look upon me, little maid, and behold what thy faith hath wrought.”
Timidly she raised her eyes as she was bidden and the look lingered. To
behold him thus restored! Around the mouth which life had molded into
sternness played a little smile, to which the lips of his wife and her
handmaiden likewise responded.
“Well did I know that Jehovah would do this,” Miriam exclaimed,
delightedly, “if my lord would but go to the Man of God who dwelleth in
Samaria in the Land of Israel.”
Adah, with the lassitude all gone, drew Miriam down beside her while
the story was told from beginning to end, and the little maid heard
with such great happiness that the attitude and the recital seemed the
most natural thing in the world and not at all, as it was, an unusual
piece of condescension. Nor did either master or mistress appear to
remember. The tale finished and questions asked and answered with
entire frankness, Naaman suddenly propounded a query.
“And now what wouldst thou, little maid? Behold, a gift is thine.”
Into Miriam’s eyes crept a certain wistfulness and they entreated her
mistress. Adah turned her own away. Like the sharp thrust of a dagger
she remembered the girl’s wail on the day Naaman had started to Israel
and her own words of promise. Yet how could they let her go? Oh,
anything but this!
Miriam’s reply was not, however, what was expected by either of her
auditors. “A gift, my lord? Nay, for I sought only thy good because I
loved my mistress and thee.”
Naaman’s keen eyes searched her face. “We express our thanks by a gift,
little maid. Speak thou and be not afraid.”
“Then, my lord, let thy gift, I pray thee, come to Isaac, who
deserveth it more. He it is who hath brought this to pass more than thy
handmaiden. Thou wouldst not have listened to me, yet wert thou ready
to hear the servant in whom thou delightest.”
Naaman toyed with the hilt of the buckler which hung at his girdle.
Strangely unselfish were these Israelites. First the prophet, then
Isaac, now Miriam. “Yea,” he said aloud, “and Isaac shalt have his
reward, but something must be given also to thee. Speak! What wouldst
thou?”
Thus importuned the girl hesitatingly voiced her desires: “Thou
knowest, my lord, that with great anguish of spirit have I thought upon
the distress of my father and mother, bereft of both son and daughter,
and that with great longing have I desired to know how it fareth with
them. If, therefore, I have found favor in thy sight, I pray that thou
wilt allow my brother, Benjamin, who is a captive shepherd in the
Syrian hill country, to return unto them.”
Adah drew a sharp breath of surprise and relief, but Naaman was not
satisfied. “Yea, thy brother shalt go. Isaac hath already asked this
thing, but in Benjamin’s hand he shall carry a gift to thy parents.
I have told thee that but a little is gone of all that we took into
Israel. What wouldst thou?”
Miriam’s decision was prompt. “If thou couldst find it in thine heart
to give him some of the sheep. Thou knowest he hath tended them until
they are dear unto him, and with a few, my father’s flock could again
be restored.”
Naaman hastened to grant the request. “A few sheep would be but small
recompense for all that I owe thee. He shall take the flock with its
increase. I will send a messenger to the palace and the king will give
orders to his servants that this be done.”
Miriam knelt before him, her face transfigured with joy. “So good art
thou to thy handmaiden, my lord. I thank thee,” and slipped hastily
away while Naaman and his wife conversed long and earnestly on a
subject Adah presented and which appeared to be of concern to the
little maid, since her name was frequently mentioned.
“Let us consider well,” advised the man, gravely, “and if thou art of
the same mind a week or so hence--”
But evidently she was, for Miriam was again summoned to appear before
her master and mistress, and in a maze of bewildered delight soon
afterward sought Isaac on the veranda, where his couch had been placed.
“And when I am _daughter_ to the House of Naaman, thou who hast taught
me so much must teach me yet more,” she said with smiling confidence in
the help which had never been refused.
She was surprised at his averted head, his long silence. When he did
speak it was slowly and with seeming difficulty.
“When thou art daughter to the House of Naaman it will not be my right
to teach thee anything. Then will I come into thy presence only to do
thy bidding. I shall be thy servant even as I am servant to my master
and mistress.”
The smile left Miriam’s face. She put her hand on his arm and he
covered it with his larger one.
“But, Isaac,” she began, in a dismayed little voice, “why, Isaac--” and
got no further, for he went on earnestly:
“But I am glad for thee, Miriam, truly glad. Thou art entirely worthy.
Sweet art thou and refined and teachable, and with the advantages they
will give thee thou shalt be second to none at the court. They have
chosen wisely, much as they owe thee, and thou shouldst be grateful and
pleased at the honor.”
He smiled at her encouragingly, trying to steady the voice which
sounded so unlike his own, and went on telling her all that the new
position would mean in responsibility and opportunity and happiness.
Very quietly she sat listening, her hand still in his, but when Milcah
came, bringing some nourishment for the invalid, Miriam slipped away to
her favorite nook, trying to think calmly. Somehow joy had fled.
It had gone for Isaac also. Over and over he told himself how glad
he was for her, and over and over his heart mocked him with its own
desolation. Never again would she come to him with her innocent
confidences; never again bring him her problems to be solved; never
again would he have the sweetness of knowing that he was first to her!
And that was what he wanted; wanted it more intensely than he had
ever wanted anything in his life. Once he had craved the affection of
another maiden. Now he wondered that he should have been carried away
by a fancy. That was a dream, an impossibility. This was reality and
likewise an impossibility, and Isaac was unutterably wretched.
For a week Miriam avoided him, as he knew she would henceforth, and
then she sought him once more as he moped in the courtyard. It was the
same Miriam he had always known. As if they had parted but an hour ago
she plunged into the continuation of her tale.
“I am not going to be daughter to the House of Naaman.”
He was startled. “Miriam! What right hast thou to choose? Thy master
and mistress hath spoken. Naught is left for thee but to obey.”
“We can always choose between right and wrong, Isaac.”
He regarded her helplessly. “But what will thy mistress say? She will
be very wroth with thee.”
Miriam shook her head. “Nay, for I have already explained, and she is
not wroth. She laughed.”
He could not understand. “Laughed? At what?”
“I know not,” with a puzzled frown. “What other answer could I make to
her questions and her planning but that I could not be daughter in the
house where thou art only a servant?”
A long moment of silence. One searching glance and Isaac’s thrill was
strangled by disappointment. Quite frankly her eyes had looked into
his. Very matter-of-fact were the comments she was making upon the
sacredness of friendship and the gratitude she felt for his great
and constant kindnesses. He resisted the impulse to laugh as her
mistress had done. The barbaric joy which her words had awakened died
prematurely. In a little while he was the kindly, serious Isaac of her
former acquaintance. He drew her down on the stone seat beside him,
speaking in a tone of authority he had never used to her before.
“Sit thou here while I speak plainly to thee. Thinkest thou I shall let
thee ruin thy future for the sake of what thou canst not understand?
Shall I take advantage of thy innocent generosity to thine own hurt?
Am I so weak and my friendship so poor, so mean that I will allow thy
inexperience to deprive thee of that which thou dost so richly deserve?”
He spared neither himself nor her. He told her of the great riches of
the House of Naaman, of its power, of all the advantages which would
be hers. He reminded her that this was a childless household; that
its mistress was lonely, needing a daughter’s companionship; that he
and Milcah would be proud of her in the new relationship, and that she
would be able to accomplish much good for the name of Jehovah, her God.
She was distressed at his reception of her tidings. She wept at the
sternness of his tone, but her decision remained unchanged.
“Thinkest thou I have not thought of all these things, Isaac? Have I
not been to the court with my mistress and beheld its glory and its
folly? It would be wickedness to me. To be daughter in this household
would not mean to give more time or greater service to my mistress, but
less of both, for would not my duties be increased? More than this,
as daughter here I must bow to Rimmon, but as handmaiden I can serve
Jehovah. Thinkest thou the Lord, who looketh upon the heart, would
be unmindful of my deceit? Nor, as I have told thee, would I thus
ungratefully treat my friend. Thinkest thou I could be happy were I to
take precedence of thee?”
Isaac was sternly resolved. “Miriam, thou must take heed to what I say.
Quickly, before it is too late, thou must go to thy mistress and say--”
but Miriam had gone.
In her place stood Milcah, shocked and reproving, as is the right of
elder sisters. “I was passing through the courtyard shrubbery and
heard. That she should tell a man what she told thee! And at her age!”
Isaac’s serenity unexpectedly returned. “That it should be ‘at her
age,’” mocking Milcah’s tone, “is the only sad part of it to me.
Would she were two or three years older! Would she had whispered it,
hesitatingly and with a blush! Then would it have pleased me better,
but as it is, she knoweth not what she hath said, and when she findeth
out she will not mean it.”
Milcah’s sharp glance encountered one of the maid servants lingering
within a doorway, smiling upon Isaac. The sight infuriated her, and by
contrast, Miriam’s friendly admissions appeared the embodiment of frank
childishness. She sighed.
“Useless is it to enlighten her or to chide thee, for Miriam is just
Miriam, and neither thou nor I would have her different,” and so
saying, Milcah went her way.