THE death of Milcah’s mother made changes in the House of Naaman. Adah, its mistress, was inconsolable, not with grief but with vexation.
“So Milcah will sit on the floor for a whole week and mourn! Of course I wish her to treat her mother’s memory with respect. I am myself willing to pay for the mourning men and mourning women. I will provide the spices and linen in which the body is to be wrapped. I will even have it laid in the rocky tomb her people prefer, but I cannot go without bathing and dressing for a week. Who will see to my raiment and my perfumes?”
To Miriam, who had brought the message, this was a very simple matter. “Thou hast so many servants,” she began, but her mistress interrupted irritably:
“Thinkest thou Milcah would instruct any who might supplant her? Nay, for jealous is she and sour of disposition, hence doth she keep both my maidens and me dependent upon her.”
Miriam was genuinely distressed. “Milcah is not young and much pain doth she suffer at times, for she hath told me. Oft hath she waited upon thee when naught but determination urged her tired footsteps. Many times have I wondered what will become of her when she is unable to work.”
“She will be taken care of, as was her mother, and in place of a daughter thou shalt attend upon her.”
The little maid clasped her hands. “Then will I be able to show how I love her. Thinkest thou she will let me make her hair look prettier? When Rachel, the maiden to whom my brother Benjamin is betrothed, was sick many weeks I waited upon her continually.”
Adah surveyed the small figure doubtfully. “Thinkest thou the duties of the bath-chamber would be too much for thee with older maids to help?”
Miriam thought not, and with enthusiasm began a week which ended all too quickly, for Milcah resumed her old duties when the period of mourning was past. With fine delicacy the little maid absented herself entirely from the apartments of her mistress, but when three days had elapsed she was sent for.
Adah surveyed her with a half displeasure. “Why dost thou not come without being commanded? Knowest thou not that I have found thee teachable and quick and have determined to make thee one of my handmaidens? Already have I talked with Milcah, and she is not displeased, nor will she keep from thee knowledge that will be of use when thou art older. Hear thou? She calleth thee. Thou mayest go.”
The older woman beamed upon her. “I see by thy face thou hast heard. Young art thou to find such favor in the sight of thy mistress, and much will I have to teach thee, but that thou shouldst be chosen for such honor doeth credit to my instruction.”
Thus did it come about that Miriam became necessary to the House of Naaman, and in gladness of heart she began that very day to fill the place she had won for herself.
Far away the sun had begun to shine also for another heart. A month after the Syrian raid Sarah was still upon her bed, a little paler, a little weaker every day. Judith had been her faithful attendant, and so it happened that when Abner came, as he had promised, to ask the girl at the hands of her kinswoman, there had been no opposition. The betrothal “feast” had been held minus the usual festivity, the pall of melancholy having settled upon the tiny “city” of Hannathon. Also, the principals to this strange alliance were not popular. Lastly, there was nothing to feast upon, the daily rations, doled out by Abner, being barely sufficient to keep the people alive.
A few weeks later, as was the custom, Judith went to the home of her husband, whither she would have removed Sarah but for vigorous objection.
“If they should return and find the dwelling closed—” said the woman. “Nay, but here must I remain,” and no argument availed to change her decision.
Thus it had come about that Eli had gone to dwell with Sarah in place of the son and daughter she had lost, and Abner, upon Judith’s insistence, sent a maid servant to care for her in Judith’s stead. Eli was Sarah’s one stay and comfort. He treated her precisely as he would his own mother, sustaining her feeble strength largely by his own cheery courage and unfailing hopefulness. Under his tender ministry she had begun to grow stronger. The time had come when she no longer kept to her bed.
“I must live to welcome them when they come back,” she told him, and he turned his head to hide a tear of pity.
Never did she tire of planning for the journey he should some time take to ransom the captives, although both clearly apprehended the difficulties first to be overcome. “Yet will we trust in Jehovah,” he assured her, confidently, “and he shall bring it to pass.”
The first obstacle was removed when Abner, returning from a short pilgrimage with seed for sowing his fields, agreed with Eli that the latter should work on his land for wages, the same to be collected at harvest time. The second obstacle yielded when Nathan, ragged and weary but rejoicing, arrived in Hannathon. Finding that his mother’s home was closed, he had come at once to Sarah’s, and however doubtful his tidings it had been eagerly received: Rachel had reached Damascus. At this very moment she was doubtless enjoying the peace and plenty of her kinsman’s abode. Miriam had been well treated on the journey and had borne up bravely. Of Benjamin he knew nothing at all and the mother wept afresh.
To Eli the important thing, next after the safety of his brother, was that he now knew the name of the soldier in charge of the party. Isaac, once found, could tell him the whereabouts of the captives. But surprise was not confined to the dwelling of Sarah nor yet to the abode of Rachel’s parents. It was also present in the House of Abner. The master had brought the mistress a most unexpected gift: a pearl of great price which he had not sold for seed, as she had supposed.
“The grapes and olives be surety for that wherewith I am to sow, and because thou hast been prudent and far-seeing I return unto thee the jewel given thee by thy father. Behold, thou hast what is thine own, yet none but thou and I shall know, lest it be stolen from thee.”
Judith, receiving the gift with smiling thanks, frowned when Abner had departed. Throwing the pearl upon the floor she stamped her foot: “Thus hath our deeds power to follow and torment us! Thou,” addressing the jewel, “hast served thy purpose. Why comest thou back to me like a spirit from the sepulcher to remind and to mock, yea to be ever unto me like a live coal in my bosom?”
It had been late autumn when Miriam came to Syria; but winter rains were now over and Damascus rejoiced in an absence of dampness and chill, nor had the extreme heat come on with its irritating dust. The charm of one day had not faded when another began, but the nameless gloom which always hovered over the House of Naaman had not lifted, and Miriam pondered much.
All this time she had never seen the master of the house, but, running across the courtyard one morning, she met him face to face and bowed low. She knew him by his splendid dress, his air of authority, the deference paid him by the numerous servants moving here and there. When he had passed she staggered back against the wall, faint with horror, vainly seeking to erase from memory what she had witnessed. Now she knew why he had not braved the inclemency of the weather heretofore. It was leprosy!
Her errand forgotten, the little maid went directly to her mistress, out of breath with haste. Impulsively she clasped between her own the hand she had thought so white and idle.
“Not until this moment, my mistress, did I know that thou art grieved. I thought thou wert lonely in this big house, but I have beheld the reason for thy sorrow. Oh, my mistress, would God that my lord were with the prophet that is in Samaria, for he would recover him of his leprosy!”
Adah, wife of Naaman, looked down upon the flushed and eager figure kneeling beside her and gently drew away her hand. She was not insensible of the kindness intended, but it was so futile.
In vain Miriam told her of the miracle which had saved Hannah’s sons from bondage and of many another wrought by the Man of God who dwelt in Israel, but her words fell upon an unbelieving heart. Wonderful was it, thought Adah, to have the unquestioning belief of youth before experience disillusions, yet how absurd to suppose that what Rimmon and Baal and Chemosh and a host of other gods could not do, even though Naaman had offered rich gifts, could be accomplished by this almost unheard of Jehovah! Nay, it were impossible, and lest fruitless expectation be aroused and a fresh disappointment experienced, she would say nothing to her husband of this well-meant but wholly impossible suggestion.
It was, however, to reach Naaman’s ears a few days later and in another manner. Miriam spoke to Isaac about the matter and urged it with vehemence. He could not resist her pleading, but he was reluctant, doubtful.
“Yea, I will tell him all thou sayest, but he hath tried so many things so many times I fear he will not heed.”
Isaac was, however, mistaken. Naaman, commander-in-chief of the armies of Syria and popular hero, was accustomed to solicitude. To him it seemed neither unusual nor audacious that a small maid servant should have suggested a means of relief from the awful malady which was slowly sapping his strength. He paid it the compliment of a brief consideration, wholly untouched by the hopelessness of his wife or the hesitancy of his favorite man servant, with both of whom he spoke concerning it.
Small matter that this Jehovah whom she named was little known and probably much less powerful than she believed. He had long suspected—and who would not among so many gods?—that latent abilities sometimes resided in the most unlikely. In favorable circumstances who could tell? Nevertheless, it was a long journey to Israel and in his condition a painful one. Besides, there were other plans, suggested by people for whose judgment he had the greatest respect, which could not be discountenanced in favor of one so vague. Nay, he would try remedies closer at hand.
Isaac bowed and withdrew, dreading the message he must carry to Miriam. He told her with compassion in his face, his voice, his manner, yet with an attempt at cheerfulness which deceived neither of them.
After a little she turned the head which had been averted. “Isaac, believest thou?”
He hesitated, then hit upon a happy expedient. “I believe thee, little maid.”
“Wouldst thou be pleased to do whatever thou canst for me, Isaac?”
There was a flash of amusement on the young man’s countenance. “Knowest thou, Miriam, thou wilt soon be a woman? Already thou art akin to her thou shalt be.” He reached into the flowering tree above their heads and broke off a small branch. “Even as this beauty is the delight of our eyes, so art thou the delight of my heart. I swear it. See, I bind these flowers upon that heart in token of my fealty. There shall they remain, and though they wither, that for which they stand shall never die. Needst thou other assurance?”
But she was not laughing. “Believest thou in Jehovah, Isaac?”
“Was I not taught so to believe, Miriam?”
She sighed. “If Eli were only here to make thee understand! But when thou believest Jehovah as thou believest me, then wilt thou speak to thy master with boldness and insistence and he will hear.”
Isaac patted her cheeks. “I am not sure, Miriam, but that I have known Jehovah, at least as long as I have known thee. Be very courageous, little maid. Thy plea shall yet save thy master,” but neither knew how long a time must first elapse, nor that this same unselfish entreaty would some day cause international complications.
In the meanwhile an event occurred which, at least temporarily, banished the subject from Miriam’s mind. Rachel became legally Benjamin’s wife. With all the lavish display and elaborate ceremony of the East they were married. That is to say, the bridegroom walked three times around the bride ere he lifted the detachable portion of the heavy “veil” (really a thick garment enveloping her from head to foot) and threw it over his shoulder as a token that he accepted the government of this woman. In so doing the bride’s blushing face was exposed to the fond gaze of her husband and the curious looks of their assembled friends.
Following this the guests broke into song, accompanying themselves with timbrels, tabrets, cymbals, and the clapping of hands. There was no priest, no religious observance, nothing but this public demonstration, but it was considered sufficient and binding. The “sweet singer” now came forward. As a matter of fact, he did not “sing” as we understand the term, but recited in a monotonous, sing-song voice, composing his production as he went along. First he recounted the charms of the bride, calling attention to her physical beauty with such detail and fulsome praise that Rachel, with burning cheeks, kept her eyes cast down, ashamed to look anyone in the face. Then he told of her modesty, her amiability, her industry, her frugality, and a host of other virtues, real and imaginary.
After the bride’s personality had been dissected, so to speak, the sweet singer turned to the bridegroom and did the same for him, to Benjamin’s great disgust and Isaac’s would-be-concealed amusement. The principals having been disposed of, the indefatigable singer turned his attention to each of the guests in turn, reciting their eminent history and complimenting their virtues at as great length as the singer’s knowledge extended or his imagination could, at a moment’s notice, supply. For a whole week the celebration lasted. The street of the merchants of Israel rejoiced loudly and there were flowing wines (at Isaac’s expense) and much gluttony and revelry.
The happy occasion ended with a night-time procession through the streets of Damascus, accompanied once more by the usual music of timbrels, tabrets, cymbals[2] and the clapping of hands; the usual lamps and torches carried by each individual to light the dark streets and add to the festive appearance; the usual waiting crowds to shower congratulations and good wishes upon the happy couple. The route should have been from the home of the bride to that of the bridegroom. In this case it was from the abode of Amos, in a long and circuitous march, back to it again. Miriam, sole representative of the bridegroom’s family, at the head of the chosen maidens, escorted Rachel to the bridal chamber. This happened to be the guest room on the roof, which had been decked with flowers and rendered sweet with perfumes.
By this act public notice was served that the bride had been willingly received into the heart and home of her husband. Shortly thereafter, the bridegroom was left at the door of the dwelling by Isaac, heading the young men, and the public expressions of felicity were now complete. The next day came the leave-taking. Rebekah and her friend wept copiously. Milcah smiled upon Rachel with the most perfect cordiality and approval. Rachel herself and Miriam were both very misty-eyed as they bade each other farewell. Isaac and Benjamin held a brief but earnest conversation in which all traces of former misunderstandings seemed completely obliterated, and Amos lifted his hands and voice in blessing as the newly married pair mounted patient asses and started alone into the hills of Syria to set up that most important of all sanctuaries, a home.