SOMEWHERE out on the Syrian hills a mother caressed her babe. “Awakest thou, little one? Knowest thou that when thine eyes open it is as if sunrise had come and when thou closest them again it is as sunset?”
The exultation went out of her face, but the tenderness remained in her voice. “To think, joy of my life, that thou shalt never know thine own people! Never shall the eyes of thy father’s father or thy mother’s mother behold thy sweetness and delight in thee.”
The next words came with a low intensity like the fierce growl of some mother-beast called upon to defend her young: “Always shalt thou be a stranger in a strange land with not even memories, such as thy father and I enjoy, to console thee. Scorn and misunderstanding and bitterness of spirit shall be thy portion forever. O little son, dearly as I love thee, how can I bear to see thee grow into manhood thus?” Her bosom heaved and her eyes suffused with tears.
She was startled by a long, low peal of thunder and a great gust of wind which blew violently into the tent through the raised flap. With the babe in her arms she went quickly to this opening, which served as both door and window, and peered out anxiously. A few large drops of rain were already falling, giving promise of the deluge which came suddenly, even as she looked. For some reason the babe wrinkled up its tiny face and began to wail. The woman, with a quick movement, let fall the curtain flap and retreated from the entrance, soothing the child meanwhile.
“Nay, little son, it is not Rimmon, whom these Syrians sometimes worship as the sun-god and sometimes as the storm-god. He is not, as they believe, punishing his people for their sins, lashing them with the fury of the storm. It is Jehovah, sending rain that grass may grow upon the hills to provide food for his creatures. Surely, none knowest better than thy mother that he is of tender mercy. Nay,” as the cries grew louder, “weep not even for thy father. Long before thou and I thought of rain he had sensed the storm and securely hidden his sheep in some cave of the mountains where the forethought of the shepherds hath already stored food for such emergencies. Skillful and tender and watchful is thy father. The worst for us is that we shall have to spend the night alone, so far from the sheepfold and the tents of other shepherds. Shall we sit here, just within the door, where we can see what passeth without, heart’s delight?”
Suiting the action to the word she lifted the tent-flap a little and peered out, uttering an exclamation. “It is hard to see through the blinding rain and the wind, sweet one, but someone cometh.”
Again she looked. “It is not sheep, and so I know it is not thy father. Rather it seemeth like a chariot. Yea, it is a chariot with horsemen before and behind.”
She clasped the babe to her in an agony of apprehension. “Only king’s messengers ride with chariot and horsemen. They come in haste, as if on urgent business. They will stop when they see the tent and seek shelter from the storm. And thou and I alone!”
Scarcely had she ceased speaking when she detected that the little company was, as she feared, preparing to halt. The foremost horseman dismounted and, approaching the tent, entered with an air of insolent authority. The woman, face to face with her intruder-guest, drew back in fear. He smiled triumphantly.
“Twice,” he said, “nay, thrice hast thou escaped me. Once in the gorge in Israel when thou fedest wild pigeons and knew not thou wert observed; once as we journeyed toward Damascus, and again in Damascus itself. Thrice had I thee in my power. Wert thou not my captive? Thrice hast thou escaped through the help of thy friend—peradventure more than friend—Isaac.”
The woman lifted her head proudly, resenting the sneer, a torrent of indignant denials on the end of her tongue, but his manner immediately became conciliatory: “Yet though the gods, who have ever been kind to me, have brought thee into my hand once more, and there be no Isaac near to secure thy release, thou hast no cause for alarm. Only speak thou favorably of me to the maiden I have brought hither and all shall be well with thee and with thy husband and babe. Refuse, and—”
His words were cut short by the arrival of the rest of the party, who crowded into the tent unceremoniously, but though the threat was unspoken, the woman shuddered. It was as if personified Evil had intruded into the sacredness of Home. Retreating as far as possible into the dim shadows of the tent’s interior, she watched apathetically the entrance of two women, heavily veiled. That they were persons of importance was evidenced by the deference with which they were treated by the soldier-escort, chief of whom was Lemuel.
The older woman was speaking querulously: “Never should we have come to seek those who are but wayfarers. Saidst I not to thee that only storms and uncertainty would be our portion?”
Her companion, evidently much younger, answered, soothingly: “Yea, and many more discouragements didst thou prophesy, but said we not that none of them should delay the message of joy we carry, for is not Jehovah able to deliver us out of them all? See how he hath now provided shelter for us.”
Lemuel, dropping the tent-flap, which he had held as the two entered, bowed deferentially to the last speaker: “Rightly hast thou spoken, Miriam. Blessed be the name of Jehovah, as I learned in our recent visit to Israel.”
It was noticeable that the girl did not return the smile but drew away somewhat coldly. The woman within the shadows suddenly recovered her self-possession, noting that this was the tongue of Israel and not the despised Syrian. Hastening forward she spoke those courteous words of greeting which no Oriental householder would, under any circumstances, omit, placing her services and her possessions entirely at the disposal of the strangers and drawing the two females of the party into the woman’s portion of the tent while the men made themselves quite at home in the other and larger section.
The younger traveler received these kindly ministrations of her hostess with a wondering hesitancy. “Thou art not—thou canst not be—” she began, then, throwing aside the drenched veil worn on the journey, she peered intently into the face which could not be seen plainly in the semi-darkness.
“Thy voice,” she continued, “and what I can see of thy countenance—” and then a glad cry rang out: “Thou art she whom Milcah and I have sought, lo, these many days. Thou art Rachel, wife of my brother Benjamin. Blessed be the name of Jehovah, who hath brought us to thee safely!”
“Yea, blessed be the name of Jehovah!” piously echoed the men of the party, but two of them exchanged glances partly amused and partly sinister yet altogether significant.
It was an evening of joy. After the tiny lamps had been lighted and the wayfarers had eaten, Rachel listened to Miriam’s recital in amazed incredulity.
“That we should return to Israel when we had despaired of seeing our kindred again! That our son should be reared in the land of Jehovah instead of in this country of many gods! And that we should return as thou sayest, not as those who flee from an enemy but with a gift in our hand, the sheep that Benjamin loveth, nay, I have not heard aright. Truly thy master is good unto thee and unto us. And thou wilt come also?”
For a moment Miriam struggled with emotion. “Nay,” she declared with sad finality, “thou must know that since my master’s healing at the hands of the Man of God, Jehovah only doth our household worship and there be none to teach them his ways when I am gone. Besides, is it not Benjamin and the flock which will be of most help to our parents? What am I that I should ask more when I have already been granted much?”
Her lip quivered and very unexpectedly she found herself weeping in Rachel’s arms. The cords of captivity, however entwined with love, have ever been found to cut the very heart-strings! The storm without almost drowned conversation within and very early, sleeping mats were unrolled in both sections of the tent, the lights were extinguished and silence reigned.
All day long the same rain had dripped and drizzled upon the streets of Damascus, driving its inhabitants to shelter. All day long the several courtyards of Naaman’s house had been deserted and the two young men from Israel, guests for several days under its hospitable roof, waited in isolation and impatience for the interview they had been promised with Miriam and her mistress. Instead, a servant had come with a courteous message to the effect that the maiden was on a short journey and Adah was indisposed, but it was hoped it would please them to abide there for a time, and so they had remained.
Some time during the night the wind changed and drove a fine spray through the lattice, sprinkling the sleepers below and slapping them in the face with its raw breath. Nathan sprang to his feet with an exclamation of disgust, dragged his quilt-mattress to another and dryer part of the room and was soon dreaming again that he was a soldier with a commander who looked extremely like Isaac.
Eli too arose, but with greater deliberation. Peering through the lattice into the inky blackness without, he sighed. “Rain coming with a quiet steadiness that seemeth to deluge my heart with its cold torrent. Persistence hath the power of accomplishment. Already are the roads washed out and a long winter must we remain in Syria before travel to Israel will be safe or comfortable. And the mother, old before her time, bent under the weight of misfortune like an olive tree before a storm, can she endure? So different hath been our coming from all we had planned! To find the maid well treated, even honored and beloved, how it would hearten the mother could we but send her word! And yet—what if Miriam should not wish to go?”
Others there were in the House of Naaman who felt the wind’s rough caress. Isaac, in no wise discomfited by the spray, as became a soldier, merely moved away from the lattice, but drowsiness had fled. A thought of Miriam came to him. She would be greatly disappointed that she must wait throughout the long, wet months of winter, for when she should learn that Eli had come, she would desire to start for Israel at once. Now the rain had made it impossible and his heart was filled with a great pity, even though her going meant more to him than he dared to dwell upon. Perhaps, in all that great abode, Adah, its mistress, alone felt pleased over the storm. Staring into space with wide-open eyes for hours, she had listened to the rain’s gentle patter, listened with a kind of fierce joy.
“Until spring Miriam cannot go,” she whispered to herself. “Months must she abide here. Blessed respite! But how can I spare her at all? She who hath been the sunshine, the courage, the hope in our time of darkness and distress. She who hath taught me to be happy as she said she would. Ah, empty will be the house and dreary the days without our little maid!”
For two days the storm expended its fury. The third dawned clear, and a wind which threatened to tear down the tent dried the soaked earth. The fourth found Benjamin, with his sheep, pushing forward with as much speed as the safety of his flock would permit, anxious for the welfare of his loved ones. He was surprised and delighted to greet his unexpected guests, and with a joy scarcely less restrained than Rachel’s listened to the wondrous tale his sister had traveled so many miles to bring him.
“But thou also shalt ask to go. Behold, is not the House of Naaman indebted to thee?”
Miriam shook her head. “There is no debt, but if there were, would it not be more than repaid when thou and thy flock are restored to those who need both? And thou wilt tell my mother that I have kept the Lord alway before my face, even as she bade me promise.”
The voice faltered, and Benjamin put an arm about her. “Be of good courage, little maid. Thinkest thou Isaac will let thee weep for thy kindred? Nay, but he will speak to his master and he to thy mistress, and when we start for Israel in the spring thou shalt go also. Rest thou in hope.”
Miriam tried to smile and, saddened that the storm should have rendered her errand futile, but rejoicing in the confidence it had inspired, she lingered yet another day and took her departure. Almost at the last moment Rachel drew her aside for a whispered word.
“Put no confidence in this Lemuel who hath charge of thy party. Not now can I explain, but I fear for thee if thou dost trust him.”
Miriam nodded. “Isaac told me the same and wished greatly that I wait until he should be well enough to bring me himself or spare his servant, but the tidings seemed too joyful to delay.”
Milcah, Miriam’s perpetual shadow, put in a word: “And so my brother besought his master that I be allowed to come with the maiden, and our mistress, who can deny her nothing, hastened the plans lest disappointment befall her.”
At a little distance Lemuel was talking confidentially with a fellow soldier. “Pleased am I that our errand hath ended well,” he was saying.
“Yea,” rejoined the other with a sneering smile, “pleased if it please the maid and, better still, pleased if it please her master and mistress, for very dear unto them is Miriam since Naaman’s healing. So shall thine own schemes be furthered.”
Lemuel frowned. “My creditors agreed to wait.”
“And the gods, whom thou art always boasting have thee in their favor, have given thee this opportunity. How much thinkest thou is the treasure which hath been given to the maid?”
But it was time for the little company to start back to Damascus and with a sigh of relief Lemuel took his place at its head. He gritted his teeth as, obeying his order, the man to whom he had been speaking took a place in the rear.
“Better were this Jehovah-worshiping maid than thy insolence,” he said under his breath. “May the gods help me to find favor in the eyes of the maid and most of all in the eyes of her mistress, who holdeth the maid’s future and the maid’s fortune in her hands!”