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.