IT was a week later that Milcah’s voice interrupted Miriam’s slumbers: “Arise quickly and prepare thyself. This day thou goest with me to the shop of Amos, the perfumer.”
A pair of bright eyes flew open, a cheerful voice answered, and an agile little body was soon robing itself.
“Nay, not that garment, Miriam, but this which I have had woven for thee, and sandals for street-wear and this padded cloak. The morning is cool.”
The recipient of these unusual attentions gazed with delight, touching the gifts with admiration and wonder. “’Tis so white, Milcah, the robe, I mean, and it hath such a beautiful border of colored threads. I like it better than fringe and I never had so fine a cloak before nor such expensive sandals. They are like a pair sent to Rachel from this very city by her kinsman, Ezekiel.”
It had been a very different week from any Miriam had passed before. Milcah’s awkward motherliness had been all the more welcome since Isaac had been away on business for his master. She had seen him for but a brief and serious moment.
“When I return,” he had told her, “I must tell thee something thou shouldst have known before. Also, thou shalt see Rachel, but to-day there is not time enough,” and he was gone.
The speech had led to much speculation as to what that “something” might be, but then she was puzzled by quite a number of things in the new life. For instance, it was not a joyous household. No one was ever merry, and if any inadvertently laughed aloud, he or she immediately assumed an apologetic attitude which seemed strange when coupled with the evident prosperity of the House of Naaman. Also, though of lesser importance, there was one door in the Women’s Courtyard which never remained open and through which none passed save Milcah and, less often, Isaac. Miriam had never asked questions. To her, the Closed Door was an accepted but mystifying fact just as was the Joyless Household; just as had been the Lady of the Hidden Heart by whose side she was now crossing the courtyard.
At a point just outside the gate they met Isaac, who greeted them hurriedly. He had returned but an hour ago, he said, and was even now setting off on another errand on which he would be gone a few days. This being not unusual and Milcah likewise disposed to hasten, they went their separate ways, but Miriam was distinctly disappointed. He had not noticed the new garments of which she was so happily conscious; he had not inquired where she went on this, the first occasion she had left the House of Naaman since she had entered it; he had scarcely seemed to see her at all.
Wondering much, she walked very soberly by Milcah’s side, but the marvelous experiences of the next two hours crowded unpleasant remembrances from her mind. For the first time she viewed close at hand the streets and bazaars of Damascus; those crowded streets at which she had once been affrighted; which she had so often observed from the roof; which seemed mysteriously shorn of terror now; those small, stall-like bazaars Isaac had described, crowded with every conceivable merchandise, salable articles hung on the walls and piled on the ground, the merchants sitting cross-legged in the center of their wares. It was all so bewilderingly different from Hannathon, the only “city” she had ever seen save Damascus!
The stern lines of Milcah’s mouth relaxed into a little smile as she answered eager, excited questions and looked into the flushed face of her companion. “The child taketh dress,” she thought to herself. “She is not so unattractive as at first and she commenteth with intelligence upon what she sees. Peradventure she may become useful to me. Her nimble feet may oft save mine own from weariness. At once will I begin—”
But Milcah’s thoughts received an unexpected check. She stopped short, amazed and displeased, for there, on the footway of the busy street, in front of the shop of Amos the perfumer, stood Isaac, talking low and earnestly with a maiden whose full face was not visible from where they stood. The two saw only each other, paying no attention whatever to the jostling throngs which surged past them.
Milcah drew Miriam a little aside: “So this was the meaning of his haste! Deaf is he and blind to his only sister, and when he is married he will have time for neither thee nor me.” She was greatly agitated, and her impressive tones carried an unaccountable chill to the heart of her listener. She had lost her friend! That was why he had not seemed to see her that morning. It would always be that way. Miriam brushed away a tear as the two parted with lingering adieux.
For the first time they saw the face of the girl at whom he was still smiling, and Milcah was not relieved to note that she was of undoubted beauty. Evidently, too, she was of Israelitish blood, which made the situation all the more hopeless. It would be easier to urge objections against one of another race. With determination she turned to Miriam.
“The maiden went into the House of Amos. With him have I business regarding perfumes for my mistress and with his wife have I some acquaintance, so that I may, with no impropriety, inquire the meaning of what we have witnessed. I would know how long this hath continued and something of the maid herself. Before I am obliged to accept her as a sister I desire to learn—”
But Milcah was speaking to empty air. Miriam had already disappeared within the doorway and when the woman arrived and had exchanged with the inmates of the dwelling the elaborate courtesies of the East, she found the child and the strange maiden wholly engrossed in a happy conversation. The older girl at last became aware of voices near and questioning, annoyed glances. She looked up with a face transfigured with joy.
“Two beautiful surprises hath come to me to-day: this little maid and before that Isaac came—”
Rachel paused, perceiving the sudden coolness with which her words were received, but lifting her head a trifle defiantly she concluded the sentence almost with triumph: “And within the month I am to be publicly betrothed.”
“I suppose,” commented Milcah, “that thou art counting the days.”
The girl looked her steadily in the eye: “I never wanted anything in my life so much as I want a home in which I may hide from the cruelties I have suffered since I was taken captive.” She brushed away a tear. “Yet I would not be ungrateful for all the mercies vouchsafed unto me by the God of my fathers, nor would I be so unjust to my betrothed as to marry him if I did not love him much, much more than my own ease or comfort.”
A blush overspread her cheek and she smiled down at Miriam, whom she was holding in a close embrace.
“Then thou art very sure thou lovest him and wilt make him a worthy wife; that thou art not taking advantage of his goodness of heart nor considering thyself first of all.” Milcah’s tone was judicial, almost accusing.
Rachel answered slowly, wonderingly: “I know not why thou shouldst ask, but since our vows are soon to be said before the world there is no reason why I should not tell thee how I love him, have always loved him—as he loveth me.”
Milcah’s heart sank. Here was confirmation of her worst fears. She loved him too. She did not wish him to marry this maiden, nor any other, but if his heart were set in this direction, she would not want him disappointed. She would try to approve his choice; try to forget her own loneliness when he should be absorbed in someone else and forget her, as was natural, as all men did forget their families when once they were married.
A little hand was laid against her arm, a little voice with compassion in it was urging her to listen. In the light of what had gone before, Miriam had understood Milcah’s remarks as Rachel could not; had comprehended Milcah’s thoughts from the despair on her countenance, and now came to the rescue of both. With a thrill of being at last needed she realized that she held the key to an embarrassing situation. How much more she knew of the whole matter than anyone else present! She could guess why Isaac had come. Had he not promised to take care of Rachel for Benjamin, to whom he was indebted? Into an atmosphere thick with misunderstanding, Miriam volubly poured her explanations.
And now, she concluded, Isaac had gone to bring Benjamin, to whom Rachel was betrothed, lacking only the public acknowledgment. Not until Rachel told her did Miriam know he was also in Syria, a captive with his flock, Isaac having spared to tell her lest she grieve for the desolation of her parents. Her voice choked. But now that Rachel had no home (Rebekah winced), she was glad he was near.
“Thinkest thou he will come?” asked Rebekah’s friend, sharply. “Will he not resent the—the—interest of the soldier?”
Rachel answered with a trace of indignation. “He will be grateful to the soldier, for much kindness hath Isaac showed me and asked naught in return.”
Milcah, likewise indignant at the slur, found herself liking Rachel immensely. In this maiden’s hands her brother’s reputation was quite safe.
Miriam assured them that he would come and that without delay, and went on to add numberless details which bore the manifest stamp of truth, even to the mention of the sandals she was wearing, which were so very like a pair Ezekiel had once sent Rachel.
Long after farewells had been said and the visitors had departed, Rachel caressed the grass-woven bracelet strung from a chain around her neck, oblivious to comments, unheeding the low-toned conference between Rebekah and her friend.
“The minute I saw her with him,” Rebekah was saying, “never did I doubt either of them nor the tale they told.”
“Never,” agreed her friend, “and she with looks and ways so like Ezekiel, as we have often said.”
“Well do I remember,” continued Rebekah, “the gifts he sent to Israel and with what praise he spoke of this young kinswoman! The child, Miriam, recalleth it to my mind. A lovable little maid! Ah me, how fast they grow! To think I should not have known Isaac, a man now and an officer, when as a lad his sister hath oft brought him to the shop!”
“If only the maiden were betrothed to the soldier!” sighed the friend, “but to a wandering shepherd!”
“Yea,” Rebekah answered, sorrowfully, “and a sad day will it be for Amos and me when we shall have to lose our sweet little Rachel!”
That visit changed Miriam’s whole attitude toward her new life. Although her longing for her parents and the old familiar faces and places remained almost overpowering at times, yet in Rachel’s presence and Benjamin’s nearness she discovered comforting home ties. The certainty that her brother would soon be in Damascus and that she was free to visit her friend, did much to bring contentment. A captive she might be, but not a prisoner. The color began to come back to the pale cheeks; she grew more cheerful and energetic, more diligent in seeking ways of usefulness, and that is how it happened that she had an adventure while Isaac was gone. She walked straight through the Closed Door and stepped—not on but still further into—Milcah’s heart.
It was Memory that opened the door and Kindness which escorted her over the threshold, and it all came about through her new timbrel. She was singing in the courtyard and inadvertently paused near the Closed Door.
“Show me thy ways, O Lord;
Teach me thy paths.
Guide me in thy truth and teach me;
For thou art the God of my salvation;
For thee do I wait all the day.”
Looking up, she was startled to find Milcah at hand with a hesitant invitation.
“I never told thee before and asked Isaac not to let thee know that our mother is living, lest thou annoy her. She is old and bedridden, and I thought she would not enjoy having a child around, but to-day she hath heard thee singing the Lord’s songs in which she rejoiceth and hath asked that thou shouldst be brought to her. Dost thou wish to go? She is a native of Israel.”
“Take me quickly, Milcah. I would be so very glad to sing to her,” and though the woman looked incredulous, she did not delay.
Behind the Closed Door was a sight that ordinarily would not appeal to youth, for age is not beautiful in the East. Wrinkled, bald, toothless and feeble, it excited compassion in the heart of the little visitor. She went to the bed and spoke kindly, stooping to peer into the weak eyes and to pat the worn hand. Then, at a command, she picked up her timbrel and sang again:
“Blessed be the Lord,
Because he hath heard the voice of my supplications.
The Lord is my strength and my shield,
In him hath my heart trusted,
And I am helped;
Therefore my heart greatly rejoiceth,
And with my song will I praise him.”
That was only the beginning: the beginning of that particular visit and of others which followed, and in between the songs were snatches of conversation in the speech of Israel. In her youth the invalid had been a resident of Tish-bi (or Tish-beh) in Gilead, the cattle country east of the Jordan, in whose fertile valleys grew the spicy herbs for medicine and perfume which had made her land famous all over the East.
In her village were the home and kinsfolk of Elijah, the prophet of Jehovah, whom she well remembered with his long, thick hair, his girdle of skins and his sheepskin mantle or cloak, and more than one tale did she tell of his prowess in strength, for, exposed to the raids of the fierce desert tribes as was Gilead on the east, every man must be a soldier at need. She told of the prophet’s earnestness and eloquence, his stormy moods of exaltation and despair, his wanderings, his sudden reappearances where least expected, his invectives against Baal by which he had roused the ire of the foreign Queen Jezebel, his miraculous escapes from personal danger and the staggering blow he finally gave Baal-worship on Mount Carmel.
Only through Miriam’s eyes, however, did she know Elijah’s successor, Elisha the Healer, the civilized man who dwelt in cities, who for the most part went about displaying the loving-kindness of Jehovah rather than his terrible might; whose task it was to build up as Elijah’s had been to destroy; who established the prophetic Guilds wherein the Law which had been so long forgotten was once more taught. And then Miriam and her new friend fell into more personal confidences, comparing notes as to their coming to Syria, their impressions, their longings, weeping and smiling together and parting only to visit again at the earliest opportunity.
Thus did Hope, nature’s most renowned and successful physician, undertake the cure of the little maid’s wounded heart as, far away, it was doing likewise for her mother, though Miriam knew it not.