MEETINGS
In a guest-chamber of the House of Naaman Nathan hovered anxiously
around his brother. They had heard the happy announcement of Miriam’s
return, had seen the great house transformed into a scene of busy
festivity as if some honored guest were about to arrive, had even stood
at a distance and observed the bit of rivalry between the soldier who
had brought her hither and Isaac, who assisted her to alight from the
chariot into the arms of her waiting mistress, had noted the happiness
in her countenance and had turned away, sick at heart. Later the
servant who had been in almost constant attendance upon them had come
to name the hour when they would be conducted to Adah’s apartments, but
for the present they were quite alone.
Eli spoke dully, his whole attitude one of extreme dejection: “Strong
were we to labor when we thought of the maid despised and ill-treated.
Sacrifice was as sweet to us as the cool air of morn. Joyful were we
as they who conquer in battle when we had this--and this--and this--”
touching the separate pieces of jewelry which lay in a glittering heap
beside him. “Enough and more did we deem them for her ransom, yet how
little it profiteth! All of her impressionable years have been spent
in the midst of such plenty, such riches as we in Israel knew not
existed save in kings’ houses. Nor hath she been required to labor.
Peradventure she scorneth toil. Her master refuseth to let her go, and
she would not wish to be redeemed even if we had sufficient gold to
purchase her freedom.”
He regarded the jewelry at his side with disdain. “Take it, Nathan. Let
me never see it more nor speak thou of it to me. Wasted is our work,
ill-spent are our years, blasted are our hopes. It is as a pomegranate
tree which a man planteth in his vineyard and careth for, and lo, when
it might have borne, the frost killeth it.”
He relapsed into bitter musings while his brother took the gold as
he was bidden and, wrapping it carefully in its sheepskin coverings,
put it in his bosom. Eli silently passed him the pearl, but neither
of them looked at it, nor did they observe a figure which approached
stealthily, peered through the partially opened door, and departed a
little distance, remaining near enough, however, to note the comings
and goings from that particular portal.
Eli was speaking again in the same despondent tone: “Peradventure she
will have for us naught but contempt, and brought up in this heathen
splendor she may not even care to remember her home in Israel, nor the
mother who weepeth for her, nor the God of her fathers. Come, let us
return before her words and actions reveal to us this shame. In an hour
we are to see her, so the servant hath said. Let us hasten and depart
lest a greater sorrow be ours.”
Nathan pressed him back into the seat from which he had risen. “Thou
art beside thyself with grief and disappointment. Nay, but we will see
the maid. We will tell her wherefore we are come. If she hath forgotten
aught she should remember, we will teach her gently and patiently as a
mother teacheth her babe, and we will plead for that mother whose heart
will break if we return with ill news. Nay, but we will quit ourselves
like men, and if there be blame, it shall be upon the maid and not upon
us. Do thou remain here while I step into the courtyard and see if the
servant cometh who is to conduct us to the apartments of her mistress.
Wait, I say, until my return.”
And Eli waited. As Nathan crossed the threshold no servant was in
sight, and, attempting to shake off the gloom which weighed upon him in
spite of attempted cheerfulness, he walked slowly down the courtyard,
turned into an adjoining one and crossed to yet another before he
realized, with a start, that he was in unfamiliar surroundings. Lost
in thought, he had not noticed that he was followed. Now, halting in
confusion and seeking to recall how he had come, he was confronted
by a figure oddly familiar. There was neither formal salutation nor
friendly greeting, but only a look of insolent amusement.
“So thou hast changed thy mind,” said the newcomer. “Once thou didst
refuse to remain in the company which would have brought thee straight
to this house. Five years later thou hast come of thine own free will.
Peradventure reflection hath brought wisdom, yet thou shouldst have
known it was dangerous.”
Nathan was startled. The speaker continued.
“Isaac knew thee not yesterday, but thou couldst not so deceive me.
Thou art the lad who once escaped out of his hand.”
Nathan considered it prudent to appear fearless. “Thou art Lemuel,” he
said, slowly, “the soldier who captured Miriam and me in Israel.”
“Thou hast guessed rightly,” went on the other. “I am Lemuel, who
forgetteth neither friend nor foe. One word from me to my master,
Naaman, and thou wouldst indeed serve as bond-servant, not willingly
but by right, for wert thou not fairly taken in war?”
Nathan determined upon escape, but the watchful Lemuel laid a detaining
hand upon his shoulder. “Yet I may not speak that word, or, speaking
it, may soften the tone with a gift. Thou canst procure thine own
ransom more easily than the maiden’s. The same gold intrusted to me for
my master--” he paused to give the better effect to his words.
Nathan was distressed.
“Or the pearl,” went on Lemuel, “and it may require all. Thy fate is in
thine own hands. Come, what sayest thou? Which shall it be, thy freedom
or thy gold? Thou hast not long to debate the matter. Thinkest thou I
know not that the treasure is even now in thy bosom?”
Nathan gave the speaker a quick glance of anxiety. How could he know
that?
“Come,” continued his tormentor, “what is the word that I shall speak?”
Before the now thoroughly frightened lad could frame a reply, Isaac
stood before them. Frowningly he addressed himself to Lemuel.
“I will carry the word to our master, the word that a guest in his
house hath been intimidated and an attempt made to rob him of his
possessions. I will not soften it, neither will he.”
Lemuel held up a deprecating hand. “Thou art too harsh. Thou dost not
remember that the lad was a prisoner, taken in open warfare. Should he
not purchase his ransom?”
Isaac replied by a look, one long look of scorn and indignation, and
Lemuel departed, failing miserably to maintain his old-time swagger.
Isaac watched him, his lip curling. At last he turned to Nathan.
“Hadst thou intrusted thy treasure to him, never wouldst thou have
seen it again, nor would my master have known of the matter. Guard it
and thyself as well.”
Nathan stammered his thanks, wondering the while if he had not been
delivered from one peril but to fall into another. He braced himself
for the ordeal.
“The man hath spoken the truth,” he confessed, bravely. “Five years
hath made a change in my appearance, but look thou steadily upon my
countenance and thou wilt see that I am the lad who escaped out of
thine hand. Behold, it is revealed. What owe I thee?”
The soldier regarded him with the same frank admiration as had Naaman
on the day previous. “Thy courage is equal to thy resourcefulness
and independence of spirit. What a soldier thou wouldst make! Not at
first did I know thee, but soon did thy brother’s words bring thee to
remembrance. Naught owest thou, for didst thou not guard and guide the
maiden, Rachel, who was very dear to a friend of mine, a man to whom I
owe my very life? Nor have I any claim upon thee after this lapse of
time and we at peace with Israel and grateful because of the healing of
my master by thy great prophet. Nay, fear not, but go in peace.”
Nathan would have gone instantly and with joy had he known the way,
and so it came about that once more was he indebted to the soldier
against whom he had cherished resentment for five long years. In
the guest-chamber Eli had awaited his brother’s return in profound
melancholy. The servant came to conduct them to the apartments of
Miriam’s mistress just as Nathan and Isaac reached the threshold, but
Eli sat still.
“Why go?” he asked, mournfully, in reply to Nathan’s sharp
remonstrance. “If we find, as seemeth likely, that the maid hath chosen
to forget all she should remember: Israel the land of her birth, her
mother and her home, and more important than all else, Jehovah her God,
how could we carry the tidings which would be sharper than a sword to
the heart of her mother?”
Isaac regarded the speaker with surprise. “Hadst thou dwelt long
in Damascus,” he said, “thou wouldst have heard that so far from
forgetting Israel and Jehovah, the maid hath remembered with profit to
the House of Naaman. The wonder of it is on every tongue.”
He recounted his master’s cure at the hands of the prophet, ascribing
the suggestion to Miriam and praising her persistency. “In gratitude
for this healing,” he went on, “Naaman and his whole house have since
worshiped only Jehovah, the God of Israel, at which the maid greatly
rejoiceth.”
Eli’s face glowed. “Sayest thou so? Upon coming to Damascus we first
sought Ezekiel to obtain news of Rachel and to see if she knew of
Miriam. Finding him long since dead and Rachel married and somewhere
out on the hills with Benjamin, her husband, who is a shepherd, we then
sought thee, fearing to mention Miriam’s name or to betray our errand
lest obstacles be put in our way or our treasure stolen. From Amos,
seller of perfumes, did we learn that one, Isaac, wast in the service
of Naaman at this house. From thee we hoped to learn of the maiden’s
whereabouts. Later we heard that an Israelitish maid, Miriam by name,
was also here, so we sought to speak to the master.”
He paused, gazing at Isaac with a strange mixture of diffidence and
resolution. “We came,” he went on, “thinking of thee as an enemy to be
approached with cautious dread. We find thee a friend to whom we are
much indebted.”
Nathan nodded, telling briefly his experience just past and joining
his thanks to Eli’s, but Isaac waved aside the praise and, dismissing
the servant, himself conducted them to the apartments where they were
expected. Miriam was nowhere in sight. Adah listened languidly while
Eli earnestly pleaded his cause, Nathan, as usual, in admiring silence.
Isaac paced the courtyard without.
“And so because her master, thy husband, refuseth to accept a ransom,”
Eli supplicated, “even though we have offered to become servants in her
stead, I have determined to ask of thee a gift--the gift of the maid to
her mother, who yearneth for her.”
Restless under those burning eyes, jealous for the reputation of her
own household, she addressed him haughtily: “The same request hath
already been preferred by Isaac, and although the maid is dear unto us,
yet to-day hath she been told that she is not bound to the House of
Naaman save by the cords of affection. When the rainy season is over,
she is to go with her brother and his family, together with his flocks
and herds, back to the Land of Israel, in the care of a captain and
horsemen. Behold, before thou camest thou hadst thy desire.”
Cutting short Eli’s bewildered expressions of gratitude, she dispatched
a servant in search of Miriam. To the waiting ones, it seemed hours
before she came, although in reality it was but a few minutes. It was
her fifteenth birthday and she was glowing with happiness, smiling
radiantly upon the little world inside the walls of Naaman’s house.
Adah claimed her attention: “Another gift, little maid, an unexpected
one: tidings from thy home in Israel brought by these two young men.
Dost thou know them?”
Miriam turned, scanning their faces eagerly. Nathan smiled and Eli
began to speak, but she interrupted with a joyous cry: “Eli! Nathan!
How tall thou art grown! And how didst thou ever find me? But how glad
I am, how very glad! Tell me, my mother and my father--”
It was the same Miriam Eli had last seen in Israel. Out in the
courtyard Isaac heard the joyful greeting and through the partly opened
door his eyes encountered Adah’s, looking past the young people. She
beckoned him to her side for a whispered word.
“I fear the little maid will no longer be _our_ little maid.”
The words were spoken in so low a tone he scarcely caught them, but
they might have been shouted and Miriam and her visitors would not have
heard. Isaac watched for a moment the little group so absorbed each in
the other and sighed.
“Yea,” he admitted, sadly, “we have lost our little maid and thou and I
will sorrow most.”