WAITING
In the House of Abner the usual household scenes mocked the sorrowing
man who beheld them. “Empty, empty, empty!” he moaned. “My Rose of
Sharon have I plucked from its stem and cast aside. Ah, woe is my
portion!”
Striding down the village street long before the morning mists had
faded, he paused in front of Sarah’s house, thereby startling a
beautiful girl in foreign raiment who had just stepped over the
threshold and surprising himself scarcely less. Then he recalled the
conversation of his excited servants the day before, tidings which had
been unheeded in his own grief. This must be Miriam!
“Nay,” she replied to his question, “my mother and I are quite alone.
Very early this morning did Benjamin take Rachel and their little son
to the house of her parents, whom she saw but briefly yesterday. Eli
and Nathan soon afterward took the path down the hill to the camp of
the soldiers, and Judith departed likewise. Nay, I know not where.”
He was hastening away when she ran and prostrated herself in his path.
“My lord hath been good to his servant. I thank thee for the pearl
which thou didst send to Syria by the hand of Eli for my ransom.”
Abner listened dully. “A pearl, thou sayest?” And then the significance
of her speech dawned upon him. “Rise thou,” he commanded, suavely, “it
was but a small gift. Happy am I that it hath helped to purchase thy
freedom.”
A tenderly reminiscent smile played around Miriam’s mouth. “Nay,” she
said, “I have returned to Israel because of a jewel more precious than
any found in earth or sea: the love of my master and mistress. Naught
would they accept but gave me freedom and sent me to my mother with a
gift in mine hand.”
“But the pearl,” inquired Abner, eagerly. “What hath become of the
jewel?”
“Eli hath already given it back to Judith, from whom he received it,”
she answered, and with cool adieux turned and left him.
He passed a hand over his brow, made as if to turn back, hesitated and
then went on, groping his way down the hill and through the fields,
wet with the night dews. The camp of the soldiers, so busy a scene at
sunset, was now deserted, and huddled over the still warm ashes of what
had recently been a fire was the figure he sought.
“I--arrived--too--late. They--were--already--gone,” she said, slowly,
in response to his excited inquiry.
Abner laid a shaking hand upon her shoulder. A crimson flush crept into
the pale cheek. Rising suddenly she wrenched herself from his grasp and
thrust something into his hand. “Take it,” she cried. “I should have
known thou wouldst have followed me even to Damascus to get it back.
Lo, thou hast that which thou seekest,” and turning, she fled.
He glanced hastily at the object she had given him. It was the pearl.
With sudden passion he threw it into the unsearchable depths of the
canyon and swiftly followed Judith, but a loose stone ended the
pursuit. With a cry of pain she stumbled and fell, and when he bent
over the prostrate figure a moment later her eyes were closed. It was
Eli who answered Abner’s hail and helped him carry his burden up the
hill. Stopping for a moment’s rest they met Miriam on her way to the
spring.
With anxious questions and practical sympathy the girl knelt beside
her cousin, slipping off the sandal and examining the rapidly swelling
ankle. “Straight to my mother’s house,” she suggested. “It is so near,”
but Abner objected.
“To her own home,” he commanded, sharply, preparing to resume his load.
Judith’s eyes flew open. “Nay,” she protested feebly. “Thou shouldst
know that truth is not my companion nor hath ever been. I stole the
pearl. It is that for which Caleb, brother to my father, was slain, and
which Sarah, who hath been a mother to me, cast away in her despair. I
found it and used it to serve my own ends. Then, when it had long been
a coal of fire in my bosom I gave it to Eli to help with the little
maid’s ransom. Yet sin reapeth sorrow as surely as harvest followeth
the time of sowing. Because of the pearl my husband hath divorced me,
and lest my disgrace be known to those to whom it would bring grief,
I determined to use the jewel to purchase my way to Damascus with the
soldiers.”
Miriam’s amazed look encountered Eli’s stern one. “I knew not,” he
began, but Miriam was stroking Judith’s forehead and speaking tenderly.
“Always hast thou been unhappy in Hannathon, for wast not thy sadness
mine? Yea, but come thou. Behold, our home is thine also.”
“Nay,” said Abner with decision, “we take thee to thine own house,
thine and mine. As for the pearl, I knew not it belonged to Sarah. I
hated it for the trouble it hath caused thee and me and just now I
flung it into the gorge.”
Eli gasped. “But thou wilt pay,” he insisted. “Its value shalt thou
redeem, that the widow and the orphan be not robbed.”
Miriam was quite as decided. “Nay, it hath ever been an evil thing,
and with the gift sent by Naaman my master, my mother will not miss
the pearl. Rather would she wish it counted dead now that it hath been
buried. Her anxiety will be for Judith. Take her to our house, I pray
thee.”
But he would not and the little procession resumed its slow march to
his abode.
An hour later Miriam remembered the abandoned water jar, and bidding
her cousin an affectionate farewell, hastened to reclaim her forgotten
property. The sun had finally conquered the fog and sweet-scented
breezes played with her hair, but the sight of Eli, dolorously gazing
into the distance, hushed the song in her heart.
He broke the news without preamble. “Nathan hath returned to Damascus
with the soldiers.”
The water jar came near crashing to the earth in Miriam’s consternation.
“Oft have we talked of our future plans now that thou art provided
for,” went on Eli, sure of understanding, “but only this morning, when
we visited the camp, did he tell me of his resolve. Then I could not
say him nay, knowing that here he must work for Abner, whom we like
not, and I was the more persuaded when Isaac, chief of the band which
brought us on our way, promised to be surety for the lad.”
Miriam was staring wild-eyed into the valley at their feet. “Gone, thou
sayest? The soldiers gone? And Isaac came not to my mother’s house,
came not to tell me that he goeth--”
Eli nodded impatiently. “Thinkest thou he would have said more to thee
than to me? A likable young man and one in whom remorse hath kindled
the fires of penitence which alone purifieth. He hath restored thee to
the home from which thou wert stolen, and he saith that when the rains
are over and the roads passable once more he will return to see if thou
dost wish to go back to Damascus. As if thou wouldst again be bound by
the cords of bondage!”
But Miriam was half-way down the hill, sobbing bitterly, leaving Eli to
gaze after her in great and growing bewilderment.
* * * * *
The same sun which had kissed into bloom the wild flowers of Israel
shone with dazzling brightness upon the white walls of Damascus,
warming youth into gayety and age into contentment, but its rays were
futile to coax into cheerfulness the great House of Naaman. There
was an inexplicable sense of loss. The maid servants grumbled among
themselves at the uncertainty of Milcah’s temper and longed for Miriam,
their ever-sympathetic mediator. The men servants hoped they would see
her bright face again.
“Not that she ever had much to say,” explained the old gatekeeper, “and
few were the smiles she had for the young men, as most maids have, but
the lowest servant and the grandest visitor were alike to her. Well do
I remember--” and the garrulous tongue would run on as long as it had
an audience.
Nor were the servants the only ones who missed Miriam. With light
fingers Adah smoothed the creases from between her brows. “The maid
servants drive me frantic,” she moaned. “‘Do I want this?’ and ‘how
will I have that?’ The little maid would have known without asking and
seen that it was done without confusion. My heart yearneth over the
maiden.”
The soldier standing respectfully on the other side of the room nodded.
“The young man Eli, to whom I talked long, saith that the mother
faileth fast. Peradventure Miriam will be free to return to Syria if
she so desire.”
Adah’s irritation increased. “The young man Eli! Admire him I must,
but like him I cannot, for would he not rob thy master and me of the
sunbeam which hath gladdened our hearts--the little maid we have come
to love as a daughter? Nay, but not for always. One year, Isaac, shalt
thou remain in Syria, then shalt thou return to Israel with a gift in
thine hand, bringing Miriam and her mother gently and by slow degrees
if the woman be feeble. Here shall the household delight to do her
honor. One year, Isaac, from the time our little maid went away shall
she come back to us!”
With this decree of its mistress, the House of Naaman entered, with
what patience it could, upon its period of waiting.
* * * * *
But Miriam did _not_ return at the end of a year. The wild flowers
faded in Israel; the figs ripened and were gone; the hills grew bare
and yellow under the sun’s persistent glare; the grapes turned dusky
and filled with liquid sweetness; the olive trees blossomed and bore
and were denuded; the rains came and went; barley and wheat were sowed
and matured and were harvested and wild flowers bloomed a second time
in Israel. It was another spring, the time Isaac had said he would
come, but though Miriam strained her eyes day after day gazing afar, no
foreign horsemen, no chariot, no Syrian camels bestirred the dust of
the Valley of Jiptha-el.
Rachel touched her lightly on the shoulder as she stood in the doorway.
There was yearning tenderness in the older woman’s tones: “Still
waitest thou, little maid? Peradventure they think thy mother hath need
of thee, knowing not that she sleepeth long months in the sepulcher of
thy people. Ample time hath there been since the rains ceased to take
even the long journey from Damascus.”
Miriam turned a musing countenance. “But when Isaac talked last with
Eli he said he would return when the rains were over to see how it
fareth with me and to bring me tidings of my home.”
Rachel sighed and drew the girl close. “Is not thy mother’s dwelling
‘home’? And behold how Benjamin and little Caleb and I have loved thee.
Are we not dearer than any in the House of Naaman?”
Miriam smiled and returned the caress. “The love light in thine eyes
is beautiful and it filleth me with delight when it shineth upon me,
but mostly doth it shine for thy husband and babe and for joy in thy
home, not for thy sister.”
“It is the way with a woman,” was the answer, “as some day thou wilt
know for thyself, for I have seen a look in eyes that followed thee,
such a look as a man giveth to but one maid, though peradventure thou
knowest--”
She paused, but as there was no reply and Miriam’s face was turned
away, she hurried on: “And so thou wilt soon have a home of thine own
if that is what thou desirest.”
Miriam at last found voice: “‘Home’ is where thou art needed, Rachel,
where thou hast a place no other can fill. Here in Israel, now that my
mother hath left me--” there was a choking pause--“I am not necessary
as I am to the household in Syria. Milcah groweth feeble in body and
impatient in mind. The maid servants resent her sharpness, and my
mistress is distressed when things go not well. But most of all do
they need help to walk in the way of Jehovah, for him only do they
serve since the healing of my master at his word. So do I wait until
my mistress sendeth. Nay,” as Rachel affectionately protested, “nay, I
shall not be disappointed, for did not Isaac say he would come?”
And so she waited. Again the wild flowers faded and the figs ripened
and the hills grew sere and brown. It was midsummer. This time a
pilgrim approached Hannathon, but he was alone and on foot, taking the
steep hills and fertile vales with an easy, swinging stride as none but
a Highlander, born and bred, could have taken them. From the flat roof
where she was spreading linen to dry, Miriam saw him while yet a great
way off and called to Rachel exultantly:
“Eli cometh.”
She did not go to meet him. Instead, she hastily descended the stairs
and retreated within the house, excitement in her manner and an
unwonted color in her cheeks. When he entered, though they spoke only
commonplaces, neither of them observed that Rachel took the child and
slipped quietly out of the house with a smiling glance backward. Quite
absorbed in each other, they sat on one of the low benches which lined
three sides of the room.
“Two years hath it been, Miriam, since I joined myself to the young
men, the Sons of the Prophet. Two full years have I hung upon the words
of our great master, Elisha, learning much concerning our Law and its
interpretation, and things of lesser importance such as music and
sacred poetry. Thinkest thou not my mother would be pleased to know
that I am of this company, even as was my father?”
The girl’s face was glowing with enthusiasm. “It is as thou and I have
dreamed from childhood, Eli.”
“A little while shall I spend with thee and with Benjamin, for I have
a mind to learn the care of a flock. Then, with the treasure not needed
for thy ransom will I purchase sheep and goats, which will supply my
living while I preach the word of Jehovah to this froward people.
Beyond that thou knowest--thou must know--my heart’s desire.”
He took her hand in his and although it trembled slightly it was not
withdrawn.
“I think there will be no objection from thy brother, for long hath
he known me, so I shall speak to him in due time without dread, but
concerned am I to know if thou wouldst be satisfied so to spend thy
life.”
Her face paled under his anxious scrutiny, “Nay, I could not,” she
faltered.
He was silent a long moment, and when he spoke his voice betrayed
profound sorrow. “It is even as I feared. In Damascus, where thy
impressionable years were spent, thou hast learned the luxury which
belongeth alone to kings’ courts. Thou wouldst not be willing to toil
as do the women of Israel, where there is neither man servant nor maid
servant. Have I not been in Syria and do I not know how different are
the ways there and here?”
She disengaged her hand and faced him earnestly: “Not because of its
riches, Eli, must I return to the House of Naaman, but because of its
poverty. Except through me they know not Jehovah.”
“And except we of prophetic vision teach him in Israel, the people are
altogether turned unto idols,” he answered, in his eyes the fanatical
gleam of the zealot.
“Yea, but there be many Sons of the Prophet in Israel. There be none
in Syria. Save as tidings of the healing of my master hath been
scattered abroad and praise given to the God by whose hand it was
performed, none knoweth Jehovah. He is merely the God of Israel, their
sometimes-enemies in the south, and Rimmon and Baal and a host of
others are more real to them. Come thou with me to Damascus, where
thou art needed, and instead of a shepherd, thou shalt be a scribe,
and being diligent in the business of Naaman, thou shalt also instruct
the household and preach the word of the Lord to those who know it not
otherwise. Say thou wilt come,” she pleaded, but he only gazed at her
pityingly.
“I pray thee, Miriam, deceive not thyself. For more than a year hast
thou waited for a messenger from Syria and grown pale and thin with
disappointment. Rachel hath told me, and have I not seen for myself
when I came to visit thee? Nay, for if one were coming, there hath been
time and to spare.” His brow clouded. “Yet had I hoped to hear from
Nathan through that same messenger. Both thou and I didst trust the
soldier, and thou more than I.”
The color sprang again to Miriam’s cheek. “My trust will not be in
vain,” she declared, quietly. “Something of ill hath happened in
Damascus, else my mistress would have sent, but Isaac will yet come.”
The conversation was interrupted by Rachel’s entrance, and Miriam,
making an excuse of the linen on the roof, ran quickly up the stairs to
a task which consumed a vast amount of time even in the leisurely East,
where time counted for little.