IN the House of Naaman at Damascus all was anxiety. As soon as the days were accomplished when the caravan might return, a watchman was stationed upon the roof to give tidings of its arrival, but day succeeded day without sight of the party itself or even a messenger. At least twenty times between dawn and sunset did Miriam run lightly up the stone staircase to her own favorite spot. Shading her eyes with her hand she would gaze long into the grayish distances and then, sighing, descend to her mistress, who, weary with waiting and unutterably distressed at the delay, had ceased asking questions with her lips and now asked them only with her eyes. When no gladness appeared in Miriam’s expressive countenance, Adah would sink back upon her silken cushions with one brief exclamation:
“It is as before. We could expect nothing else.”
Not even the little maid’s confident cheerfulness could rouse her to hope. Added to the gloom of her mistress, Miriam experienced other trials. Her position in the household began to be somewhat uncomfortable. She could not fail to be aware of whispered remarks, slighting, scornful, amused. If a visit to the prophet who dwelt in the Land of Israel were all that was needed for her master’s restoration, why had he not returned ere this with the healing predicted? The delay was proof positive of the failure of his mission. And who had doubted that it would fail? Certainly not they. Had they not said all along that if Baal and Rimmon and Chemosh and Tammuz and all the other gods could do nothing, was it not highly improbable that this Jehovah of Israel, of whom the maid was always talking, could do more? And the idea of one in her place offering advice to her master!
It was on a particularly trying day that anticipation was changed to certainty. It needed not the cry of the watchman nor the tense excitement with which the household responded to apprize Miriam, for in her own particular lookout on the roof she had observed for herself. Far in the distance she had noted moving specks which could be no other than a caravan. Fascinated, hopeful, she had watched its approach until assured from appearances that it might be Naaman’s party. She had seen the sudden paralysis of Damascus traffic and had heard the exultant cry of the multitude, two marks of respect accorded only the great and the popular. It must be Naaman’s party! Slowly and with dignity the procession moved through the narrow, crowded streets amid the cheering throngs and came to a halt before the arched gateway. With wildly beating heart Miriam knew that it was Naaman’s party.
Peeping over the parapet surrounding the roof, she noted that the household had hurried into festal garb and gone forth to meet its master in the solemn joy of the dance, accompanied by the music of silver trumpets and cymbals, stringed instruments and timbrels. Her place was with them, but surprise and dismay held her motionless for a long moment, then she bounded down the steps and ran, panting, to the apartments of her mistress. Adah, in excitement scarcely less than Miriam’s but decidedly more controlled, stood by the doorway, trembling and waiting. Miriam, with white face, clutched her garment and her voice sounded strange even to herself.
“My mistress, knowest thou? Knowest thou?”
She could proceed no further. In Adah’s eyes the light of happy expectancy slowly faded—and it had shown there momentarily. In its stead came the old, deep despair. Dropping back a pace she covered her face with her hands.
“I should have known—oh I think I did know—yea, I knew.”
Miriam, in utter misery, gazed at her fixedly. “Thou knewest and didst not tell me. Thou didst wait and let me find out for myself that his horse is led and riderless and that they carry a prostrate figure! Someone hath told thee and thou hast concealed it from me. Oh, how couldst thou?”
Adah moaned. “That he could not be healed I felt, I knew, but that it is with him as thou sayest—Miriam, art thou sure?”
But Miriam was gone. With swift steps she passed various members of the elated household. With unseeing eyes she rushed past its master on his way to his wife’s apartments, and though he stopped and spoke graciously she noted not it was he. Her objective was a room in another courtyard where the figure she had seen was being tenderly cared for. Here she knelt beside Milcah and stroked Isaac’s hand, openly weeping over him; took from the servant the cooling drink and administered it herself; listened to an account of the battle with the robbers and forgot to ask for Naaman, and left the room only when she and Milcah were satisfied that it was quite safe to leave him in the hands of other attendants for the time being.
She was soon summoned to the apartments of her mistress, where she prostrated herself before her master, but he gently raised her.
“Look upon me, little maid, and behold what thy faith hath wrought.”
Timidly she raised her eyes as she was bidden and the look lingered. To behold him thus restored! Around the mouth which life had molded into sternness played a little smile, to which the lips of his wife and her handmaiden likewise responded.
“Well did I know that Jehovah would do this,” Miriam exclaimed, delightedly, “if my lord would but go to the Man of God who dwelleth in Samaria in the Land of Israel.”
Adah, with the lassitude all gone, drew Miriam down beside her while the story was told from beginning to end, and the little maid heard with such great happiness that the attitude and the recital seemed the most natural thing in the world and not at all, as it was, an unusual piece of condescension. Nor did either master or mistress appear to remember. The tale finished and questions asked and answered with entire frankness, Naaman suddenly propounded a query.
“And now what wouldst thou, little maid? Behold, a gift is thine.”
Into Miriam’s eyes crept a certain wistfulness and they entreated her mistress. Adah turned her own away. Like the sharp thrust of a dagger she remembered the girl’s wail on the day Naaman had started to Israel and her own words of promise. Yet how could they let her go? Oh, anything but this!
Miriam’s reply was not, however, what was expected by either of her auditors. “A gift, my lord? Nay, for I sought only thy good because I loved my mistress and thee.”
Naaman’s keen eyes searched her face. “We express our thanks by a gift, little maid. Speak thou and be not afraid.”
“Then, my lord, let thy gift, I pray thee, come to Isaac, who deserveth it more. He it is who hath brought this to pass more than thy handmaiden. Thou wouldst not have listened to me, yet wert thou ready to hear the servant in whom thou delightest.”
Naaman toyed with the hilt of the buckler which hung at his girdle. Strangely unselfish were these Israelites. First the prophet, then Isaac, now Miriam. “Yea,” he said aloud, “and Isaac shalt have his reward, but something must be given also to thee. Speak! What wouldst thou?”
Thus importuned the girl hesitatingly voiced her desires: “Thou knowest, my lord, that with great anguish of spirit have I thought upon the distress of my father and mother, bereft of both son and daughter, and that with great longing have I desired to know how it fareth with them. If, therefore, I have found favor in thy sight, I pray that thou wilt allow my brother, Benjamin, who is a captive shepherd in the Syrian hill country, to return unto them.”
Adah drew a sharp breath of surprise and relief, but Naaman was not satisfied. “Yea, thy brother shalt go. Isaac hath already asked this thing, but in Benjamin’s hand he shall carry a gift to thy parents. I have told thee that but a little is gone of all that we took into Israel. What wouldst thou?”
Miriam’s decision was prompt. “If thou couldst find it in thine heart to give him some of the sheep. Thou knowest he hath tended them until they are dear unto him, and with a few, my father’s flock could again be restored.”
Naaman hastened to grant the request. “A few sheep would be but small recompense for all that I owe thee. He shall take the flock with its increase. I will send a messenger to the palace and the king will give orders to his servants that this be done.”
Miriam knelt before him, her face transfigured with joy. “So good art thou to thy handmaiden, my lord. I thank thee,” and slipped hastily away while Naaman and his wife conversed long and earnestly on a subject Adah presented and which appeared to be of concern to the little maid, since her name was frequently mentioned.
“Let us consider well,” advised the man, gravely, “and if thou art of the same mind a week or so hence—”
But evidently she was, for Miriam was again summoned to appear before her master and mistress, and in a maze of bewildered delight soon afterward sought Isaac on the veranda, where his couch had been placed.
“And when I am daughter to the House of Naaman, thou who hast taught me so much must teach me yet more,” she said with smiling confidence in the help which had never been refused.
She was surprised at his averted head, his long silence. When he did speak it was slowly and with seeming difficulty.
“When thou art daughter to the House of Naaman it will not be my right to teach thee anything. Then will I come into thy presence only to do thy bidding. I shall be thy servant even as I am servant to my master and mistress.”
The smile left Miriam’s face. She put her hand on his arm and he covered it with his larger one.
“But, Isaac,” she began, in a dismayed little voice, “why, Isaac—” and got no further, for he went on earnestly:
“But I am glad for thee, Miriam, truly glad. Thou art entirely worthy. Sweet art thou and refined and teachable, and with the advantages they will give thee thou shalt be second to none at the court. They have chosen wisely, much as they owe thee, and thou shouldst be grateful and pleased at the honor.”
He smiled at her encouragingly, trying to steady the voice which sounded so unlike his own, and went on telling her all that the new position would mean in responsibility and opportunity and happiness. Very quietly she sat listening, her hand still in his, but when Milcah came, bringing some nourishment for the invalid, Miriam slipped away to her favorite nook, trying to think calmly. Somehow joy had fled.
It had gone for Isaac also. Over and over he told himself how glad he was for her, and over and over his heart mocked him with its own desolation. Never again would she come to him with her innocent confidences; never again bring him her problems to be solved; never again would he have the sweetness of knowing that he was first to her! And that was what he wanted; wanted it more intensely than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Once he had craved the affection of another maiden. Now he wondered that he should have been carried away by a fancy. That was a dream, an impossibility. This was reality and likewise an impossibility, and Isaac was unutterably wretched.
For a week Miriam avoided him, as he knew she would henceforth, and then she sought him once more as he moped in the courtyard. It was the same Miriam he had always known. As if they had parted but an hour ago she plunged into the continuation of her tale.
“I am not going to be daughter to the House of Naaman.”
He was startled. “Miriam! What right hast thou to choose? Thy master and mistress hath spoken. Naught is left for thee but to obey.”
“We can always choose between right and wrong, Isaac.”
He regarded her helplessly. “But what will thy mistress say? She will be very wroth with thee.”
Miriam shook her head. “Nay, for I have already explained, and she is not wroth. She laughed.”
He could not understand. “Laughed? At what?”
“I know not,” with a puzzled frown. “What other answer could I make to her questions and her planning but that I could not be daughter in the house where thou art only a servant?”
A long moment of silence. One searching glance and Isaac’s thrill was strangled by disappointment. Quite frankly her eyes had looked into his. Very matter-of-fact were the comments she was making upon the sacredness of friendship and the gratitude she felt for his great and constant kindnesses. He resisted the impulse to laugh as her mistress had done. The barbaric joy which her words had awakened died prematurely. In a little while he was the kindly, serious Isaac of her former acquaintance. He drew her down on the stone seat beside him, speaking in a tone of authority he had never used to her before.
“Sit thou here while I speak plainly to thee. Thinkest thou I shall let thee ruin thy future for the sake of what thou canst not understand? Shall I take advantage of thy innocent generosity to thine own hurt? Am I so weak and my friendship so poor, so mean that I will allow thy inexperience to deprive thee of that which thou dost so richly deserve?”
He spared neither himself nor her. He told her of the great riches of the House of Naaman, of its power, of all the advantages which would be hers. He reminded her that this was a childless household; that its mistress was lonely, needing a daughter’s companionship; that he and Milcah would be proud of her in the new relationship, and that she would be able to accomplish much good for the name of Jehovah, her God.
She was distressed at his reception of her tidings. She wept at the sternness of his tone, but her decision remained unchanged.
“Thinkest thou I have not thought of all these things, Isaac? Have I not been to the court with my mistress and beheld its glory and its folly? It would be wickedness to me. To be daughter in this household would not mean to give more time or greater service to my mistress, but less of both, for would not my duties be increased? More than this, as daughter here I must bow to Rimmon, but as handmaiden I can serve Jehovah. Thinkest thou the Lord, who looketh upon the heart, would be unmindful of my deceit? Nor, as I have told thee, would I thus ungratefully treat my friend. Thinkest thou I could be happy were I to take precedence of thee?”
Isaac was sternly resolved. “Miriam, thou must take heed to what I say. Quickly, before it is too late, thou must go to thy mistress and say—” but Miriam had gone.
In her place stood Milcah, shocked and reproving, as is the right of elder sisters. “I was passing through the courtyard shrubbery and heard. That she should tell a man what she told thee! And at her age!”
Isaac’s serenity unexpectedly returned. “That it should be ‘at her age,’” mocking Milcah’s tone, “is the only sad part of it to me. Would she were two or three years older! Would she had whispered it, hesitatingly and with a blush! Then would it have pleased me better, but as it is, she knoweth not what she hath said, and when she findeth out she will not mean it.”
Milcah’s sharp glance encountered one of the maid servants lingering within a doorway, smiling upon Isaac. The sight infuriated her, and by contrast, Miriam’s friendly admissions appeared the embodiment of frank childishness. She sighed.
“Useless is it to enlighten her or to chide thee, for Miriam is just Miriam, and neither thou nor I would have her different,” and so saying, Milcah went her way.