CERTAINTY
A trifle shyly Miriam stood in the doorway awaiting Isaac, who was
coming alone up the hill. One look into his face as he came nearer,
with eyes only for her, and both her hands were outstretched, but Eli
pushed past her, speaking low:
“I pray thee, Miriam, let us greet the man with becoming dignity.
Behold, have I not been as a son in thy mother’s household and in
Benjamin’s absence is it not my place to welcome its guests?”
The girl laughed happily. “Why, it is only Isaac. He would think it
strange if I delayed to meet him and I am so glad, so very glad, he
hath come.”
“But he may misunderstand thy eagerness, Miriam.” Eli’s tones were
somewhat stern. “Remember, thou art no longer a child.”
Miriam stopped short, reddening painfully. “Isaac hath never
misunderstood,” she retorted.
Nevertheless, when he took both her hands in his she was for the
first time unable to meet his gaze frankly. He found it very charming
and in some circumstances it might have been encouraging, but he had
seen, if he had not heard, and now put his own construction upon the
degree of understanding between herself and Eli. With a heavy heart
he noticed that Eli acted as host, a right not only undisputed but
apparently expected by both Rachel and Miriam. From this he drew
further disquieting conclusions, which were not contradicted by the
conversation he was allowed with Miriam herself.
She asked innumerable questions about the household at Damascus, but
there was not half time to answer fully. She told him a great deal
about her mother’s last days and very little about herself. Far too
little to satisfy him. She called his attention to the new abode,
built on the site of the old with the gift she had brought from the
House of Naaman. Her mother had never found the dwelling comfortable.
It had seemed too luxurious to have those low and wide benches on
three sides of the room for sitting and sleeping, and she was uneasy
about the animals, banished to quarters in the courtyard. She had
felt more secure to have them at night on the unfloored portion of
the same apartment. But the new house was much prized by Benjamin and
Rachel, and since they preferred to remain in Israel to be the stay and
consolation of Rachel’s parents, Miriam was glad they would have the
comfort of a home like those in Syria.
The gift Isaac had just brought--such a generous present from her
beloved master and mistress--should be used to purchase a larger flock
for Benjamin and thus secure a greater income. Then she spoke of her
plans for Eli (she and Isaac were alone for a few minutes), plans
which he heartily approved because it would please her. She talked with
a pretty hesitancy and with such an evident gratitude and admiration
for Eli that Isaac’s worst fears were confirmed, yet he could not bring
himself to ask a question direct. He would wait a few days and observe
for himself, and he was comforted to an extent by the fact that she
desired to return to Damascus. He had hardly expected such willingness.
Finally, Isaac and Eli and Rachel and Miriam together decided that
the journey to Syria should not be undertaken for a week. Isaac
particularly wished to see Benjamin, and a week would give Miriam time
to say her farewells without haste. Also the soldiers would be grateful
for a rest in the shade of the mountains. The midsummer heat of the
roads they must travel was anything but pleasant, but circumstances
had granted them no choice. As Miriam watched him depart, the virus of
Lemuel’s remarks began to be active in her brain. Isaac was evidently
not in any hurry to return to Damascus!
* * * * *
It was the morning of Miriam’s departure and she and Rachel, from the
doorway, were watching the sun rise.
“Thou art so pale, Miriam. Thou dost not have to go. Hast not thy
generous master freed thee? I shall miss thee every day.”
“And every day will I think of thee, Rachel, and of Benjamin and
little Caleb, and wish we could all be in the same country rather than
separated.”
“But I am better satisfied to know that Isaac is going to be married,”
went on the older woman. “His wife will be like a sister, taking my
place to thee.”
There was no answer.
“Why--why--Miriam,” with a bewildered little laugh, “wouldst thou have
me think--why, art thou not glad, too?”
“Nay,” answered the girl, “I like not to dwell upon the thought. Have
I not always been first to him, next after his duty to his master? And
now how greatly is he changed! A week hath passed and he hath never
mentioned the maiden’s name nor even told me he is to be married. If it
be thus now--”
Rachel was aghast. Her tones were pityingly severe: “Thou hast no
mother, Miriam, and I must speak plainly for thine own good. Isaac took
thee into captivity out of no malice. Thou wert one of the spoils of
war. Afterward, when he knew thou wert sister to Benjamin, the man who
had befriended him, he was sorry and tried to be kind, but remorse is
not love. Thou must not expect it of him.”
The girl turned a face as pink as the sky. “I go to the sepulcher,” she
said, and slipped hastily out of the door--to confront Eli.
It was a pale and scandalized Eli, but he spoke quietly: “I will go
with thee, for doth not my mother lie there also?”
Halfway down the hill they met Isaac and Benjamin in earnest
conversation. Isaac intercepted the pair: “The caravan is ready. The
start awaiteth thy pleasure.”
“In an hour,” Eli returned, briefly, but Miriam answered not at all,
nor even raised her eyes.
As they plodded on, Isaac turned sadly to Benjamin: “I fear my question
is already answered.”
Benjamin put a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. “Then for many
reasons would I be sorry,” he declared, “yet peradventure the maiden’s
mistress will not let her make such a mistake.”
Not until they neared their destination did Eli speak to Miriam, then
he burst forth with a vehemence which awed her: “Could _he_ come with
thee to this sacred place? Canst thou share thy holiest memories with
him? Nay, for well thou knowest that our two mothers lie here because
of the wounds he inflicted.”
“Say rather ‘the wounds of war,’ Eli. Isaac hath repented of his part
and hath made such restitution as he could. Should we count it as
naught? I think our mothers would forgive, and doth not our Law require
it?”
Eli continued as if he had not heard: “Tidings did I hear in the camp
that thy mistress was to give thee to him in marriage, but because
thou hast filled my heart did I believe I was in thine. I did not know
thou wouldst prefer the servant of the rich man, who hath manners which
belong to a king’s court, who is clothed in fine linen and fareth
sumptuously every day. I thought not thou wouldst despise the preacher
of Jehovah, whose lot will be a far country and coarse apparel and
scanty food and the contempt and ridicule of the multitude. Thou didst
tell me that it was duty which called thee to Damascus. I have just
learned that it was the voice of thy beloved. Nor would I have believed
had I not heard from thine own lips through the open door.”
Miriam lifted her head a trifle defiantly. “What thou sayest is as if
it were in an unknown tongue. The tidings thou hast heard have not
reached mine ears, nor can it be true when well I know that it would
not be to his liking.” Her tones were bitter. The poison of Lemuel’s
remarks was still at work.
She went on more calmly: “Never have I thought of Isaac as thou hast
described him but only as the friend in whom I could safely trust,
who was never amused like my mistress nor impatient like Milcah nor
indifferent like everyone else.”
“But friendship is not love, Miriam. Thou must not think it.”
Suddenly he took her in his arms. “Thou art mine,” he cried, fiercely.
“Long ago thy mother gave thee to me. Neither Isaac nor any man shall
take thee from me.”
He drew a long, sobbing breath, gazing at her with a face so full of
tragic sorrow she was appalled.
“I owe thee so much--so much, Eli,” she whispered, contritely.
“He shall not _take_ thee,” repeated the young man, “but I shall go
with thee to Damascus to preach the word of Jehovah as we have said,
and when the time cometh I will _give_ thee to him if it pleaseth thee.”
Releasing her not urgently he strode away. She stood still for a
moment, then she called after him, her voice sweetly compassionate. She
begged him to tarry, but he seemed not to hear, and after a little she
followed him to the sleeping place of the dead.
* * * * *
It was not a cheerful party which started that day to Syria. Farewell
tears were thinly veiled under encouraging smiles. Miriam was so
obviously considerate for Eli that Isaac was plunged into the depths
of despondency. Eli himself seemed lost in painful reverie. Nathan,
obliged to ride the horse Lemuel had not had opportunity to take,
loudly bewailed his own better steed, while the soldier-escort, under
its breath, cursed the merciless rays of the sun.
Hour after hour they journeyed. Through dim eyes Miriam beheld a
fleeting picture of the hilltop villages and scattered groves of
her beloved Israel. Here and there they passed other travelers and
infrequent beggars. Once, the chariot in which Miriam and her two maid
servants were riding came to a sudden halt. Apparently there was some
obstruction in the road ahead. A leper, hurrying away, was yet near
enough for her to look upon his repulsive countenance. Shuddering, she
turned to see if Eli or Nathan had noticed, but they were busy helping
the soldiers conceal a loathsome something with a light covering of
earth. The leper was Gehazi!
Isaac rode up with an explanatory word. He pointed to the mound: “It is
the deserter, Lemuel. Some wild beast hath met him at night while he
slept and where there was none to help. The body is gnawed and broken,
but there can be no mistake.”
Nathan called excitedly and Isaac responded at once. A little
later they returned with Nathan’s own horse, which had broken his
halter--doubtless through fright--and roamed at will until reclaimed
by his master. For half an hour Miriam listened indulgently to the
boy’s enthusiastic recital of the capture and the steed’s wonders, then
Nathan took a place in the rear. They descended the hot gorge in which
roared the Jordan, crossed its foaming waters, emerged into the freer
air of the uplands and so to the main-traveled roads leading north.
Nathan was again beside Miriam.
“I have been watching the party for hours,” he declared with a
boisterous laugh. “Funny how it rides. The soldiers plod along
silently, sometimes jesting or quarreling. Obeying is their business.
Never once hath Eli turned his head. Already he seeth himself a prophet
of the Lord in the strange land toward which he goeth. But ever Isaac
watcheth thee, and always thine eyes are turned toward Eli.”
As they resumed their journey after the noon-time rest it was Isaac who
rode beside the chariot. He put into her hands a piece of sheepskin,
folded protectingly over something evidently very precious.
“Once,” he explained, “when thou wert but a little maid and knewest not
the meaning of such things, I bound these damson blossoms upon my heart
in token of loving devotion to thee. They have withered, but that for
which they stood has never died. I cannot suppose”--with an involuntary
glance at Eli--“that thou wilt treasure them as I have, but it is thy
right to know.”
Without waiting for an answer he dropped back to his old position. A
long time Miriam stared at the blossoms, then, with tenderest care she
folded them in their sheepskin covering and put them in her bosom. He
was at her side instantly.
“Thou dost not count them as naught, Miriam?”
“Love is not friendship, Isaac.”
The thrill he had experienced suddenly died. It was a moment before
he could answer in the old, matter-of-fact way. “Then it were only
selfishness, Miriam. If it be not friendship, then it is not love
either, for love is friendship intensified, glorified.”
She was silent. After some hesitancy he spoke again, this time with
quiet determination and in the speech of Israel, which they had used
before so that the maid servants might not understand.
“The hour hath come, Miriam, when I must tell thee what thy mistress
hath said and ask thee for the truth.” He told her briefly the plans
Adah had outlined to him.
She made no comment.
“But because thou wert free in Israel and but a servant in Syria I have
wondered if thou art sacrificing thyself to give advantages to Eli.”
The answer was very faint. “Nay, Isaac.”
“Thy sense of duty is strong, Miriam, and thou art necessary to the
happiness of the household in Damascus, yet because thou hast cherished
the token which hath meant so much to me I almost thought--peradventure
because I so wished it might be--”
She did not speak for so long that he peered under the awning,
beholding a face that crimsoned as it looked into his and in the eyes a
something which lit his own with rapturous hope.
“I could not be content to be free when thou wert still in bondage,
Isaac.” The tones were very low, very sweet, very hesitant.
“Miriam,” he gasped, “thou canst not mean--thou dost not--”
But evidently she did, for the two maid servants exchanged smiles and
meaning glances, and he continued to ride beside the chariot while they
drew near to Damascus and the glad welcome of the House of Naaman.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “A short sword buckled to the belt or girdle.”
[2] A _timbrel_ was an instrument similar to our modern tambourine.
A _tabret_ was the progenitor of our modern drum, though smaller.
_Cymbals_ were the same to which we are accustomed.
[3] It is impossible to translate into modern terms the exact value
of the treasure Naaman took into Israel, the figures of different
authorities varying greatly, but none estimate it at less than $60,000,
and some vary much more. At all events, it was considered a worthy and
even a generous gift.
[4] Some authorities claim that at this period Syrian arms were
renowned because she had repelled even mighty Assyria.
[5] In this age, deities were supposed to favor localities or peoples;
there was no conception of a God other than one who was local or
national.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.