Part 5

Deborah walked home with her head in the air, the color bright on her face. In the village she stopped to speak a few words to the gossips, who greeted her with curiosity and interest.

“Well,” she said, “Jonah is going back to the desert soon. God will need him again shortly.

“Such excitement last night; I couldn’t sleep after it. So I still have on my shawl, taking some air in the morning.”

She passed on, humming a little tune to herself.

Uncle David hurried home before her. Dripping with perspiration, and with a white face, he burst into the house, and sank dejectedly upon a bench.

“All is lost,” he cried.

“Woe is me.”

He could say no more. Deborah, when she came home, told Jonah the story.

IX

When Prince Ahab told his niece that she was not to be allowed to marry Jonah, she wept bitterly. For an entire day she refused to eat or speak; for she thought her heart was broken. In the evening she went to the tree in the garden where she had sat with Jonah; and, as she leaned her cheek against its bark, she saw again in her mind the dark, thin face of her lover, the brown eyes speaking to her in silence. She heard his voice:

“Beauty often makes people sad. It is something they would like to have in their hearts, and their sadness is their longing.”

“Oh, Jonah, Jonah....”

And her tears fell unchecked.

When she returned to the house, Sarah said to her indignantly,

“Do you know that your young man wished to marry you for nothing? What an impertinence.”

Judith replied tearfully, “He has nothing, the poor fellow.”

“That is what makes the insult all the harder to bear,” said Sarah. “If he has nothing, he should keep quiet, for your sake. What would people think of you if you were to marry for nothing? You would be ruined socially.”

Judith sat up straight, with red cheeks. “Why,” she exclaimed, “what an idea.”

But she remained thoughtful for the rest of the evening. The next morning she said to Sarah, “He is so gentle and sweet. I love him.” And she added,

“Men are so thoughtless.”

At once Sarah, who knew what she was doing, exclaimed, “My poor lamb, you have been badly treated.”

Judith’s eyes filled with tears again. “I am a young girl,” she thought, “and already my heart has been broken.”

All day she was pale, and said nothing. Occasionally she wept, but without violence. In the evening she walked among her flowers, composed and quiet, her brown eyes sad and wondering, like a child’s. And as the sky faded from the color of roses to the color of leaves, she breathed a name sadly, but so faintly, into the air.

“Jonah....”

No one answered, and her heart vibrated with sadness and with peace. “I have lived,” she thought, “I have loved, I have been unhappy.

“That is life, isn’t it....”

And coming upon Hiram the Phœnician among the roses, she gave him a dignified bow.

In the morning, in the bright sunshine, she said to herself, “Men are so selfish. Just imagine, if I were married for nothing, what would people think of me?”

And she said seriously to Sarah, “I feel so old, Sarah. I feel as old as Methuselah.”

“You are a little pale,” said Sarah, “but that does not do any harm.”

“Do I look well?” asked Judith in surprise. “No.”

“You are like a lily,” said Sarah.

But Judith insisted that she looked, at least, a little thin. “And my eyes are all red from crying,” she added.

She did not walk in her rose garden that night. In the morning Sarah said to her, “You are yellow as a dead leaf.” And she brought the little mirror for her mistress to look into.

Judith looked at her reflection for a long time. She seemed a little proud and a little vexed at what she saw. “It is because I have suffered so much,” she said at last to Sarah. And she added,

“Men are so cruel.”

In the afternoon she dressed in white, with a girdle of silver about her hips. And Hiram, meeting Sarah in the court, cool with its fountain, said to the nurse,

“The Lady Judith has a very spiritual face. Is she unhappy about something?”

But Sarah threw up her hands at the mere thought of such a thing. “‘Unhappy’?” she cried; “what an idea. She knows nothing of life. She is like a lily. If she looks a little sad, it is because of her gentle nature.”

That night Judith dined with her uncle and his guest. Her cheeks were pink as the youngest roses in her garden, her lips red again, like poppies. Ahab, seeing her blooming so, was satisfied. And Hiram also watched her carefully, with his shrewd dark eyes.

In Judith’s apartments Sarah put away the pots of red and pink paste, the myrrh and cassia buds, and the little silver mirror. Then with a sigh she sat down to await the return of her mistress. She was content; she felt that the worst was over.

“A woman should know her own worth,” she said to herself; “in that way she saves every one a lot of trouble.”

X

Jonah stood again before Amaziah, the High Priest. On his face, dark with woe, were drawn lines of determination. He held out his hands, empty, and brown as the earth.

“I have not brought you anything this time,” he said, “not even an eagle’s feather.”

Amaziah chose to ignore this greeting. “What now, Jonah,” he exclaimed cheerfully; “do you not bring me another war? The presence of my favorite prophet fills me with the liveliest hopes.”

But Jonah shook his head. “I am weary of being a prophet,” he said simply; “I have come to ask you to make me a priest.”

Without losing the serenity of his expression, Amaziah looked thoughtfully at the young man whose weary face expressed dissatisfaction and bitterness. The old High Priest seemed to be reaching back into his own past, to the time when he, too, had had a choice to make. And his face, as he gazed at Jonah, softened; an expression almost of pity crossed his features, sharp and cruel as a hawk’s.

“This is bad news, Jonah,” he said gently. And he was silent, waiting for an answer.

But Jonah had nothing further to say.

Amaziah stroked his chin. “Tell me,” he said at last, “what has caused you to look with dissatisfaction on your career at the very moment when all Israel speaks of you with admiration?”

“What is the good of admiration?” asked Jonah sadly. “I have a living to make.”

“Ah,” said Amaziah, and his face clouded, “so that is it. What a nuisance.”

And he sat looking before him with a frown.

“You do not really wish to be a priest,” he said at last; “for one thing the duties would soon prove irksome to one of your temperament.”

Jonah threw out his hands. “What is there for me to do?” he cried. “Shall I keep cattle, like my brother Aaron? Or am I to beg, with a bowl?”

“There are worse things than begging,” said Amaziah. “In the desert every one is a beggar.”

“I am tired of the desert,” said Jonah; “I am not going to live there any longer.”

But Amaziah held up his hand reprovingly. “My son,” he said gravely, “one does not change the course of one’s life with impunity, or for no reason.”

“There is a reason,” said Jonah. He looked down at his feet; then he looked boldly up again. “I wish to marry,” he said.

The High Priest made a gesture of discouragement. “I might have guessed,” he murmured. And he gazed sadly at the prophet, on whom he had been counting to help further his own plans. Presently he said with a sigh,

“I can see that this maiden’s father does not wish to give her away for nothing.”

“He is wealthy,” said Jonah gloomily. “For that reason he cannot abide a poor man for a son-in-law.”

Amaziah nodded his head. “Naturally,” he agreed; “if he is wealthy, he feels obliged to add to his fortune. It is only those without anything who can give away what they have, without suffering an overbearing sense of loss. For one thing they do not lose as much, and for another, having nothing, they are not required to succeed in the world, and so they can afford to be generous.”

As Jonah did not reply to this observation, he continued in a grave voice:

“Are you really determined upon this thing, my son? Think well. Marriage in your case may well be a calamity. You have a name already famous in Israel. You are at the outset of a career like that of Samuel. It is safe to predict that you will go far. And you wish to give this up in order to be married? Such a thing is incredible. Farewell to glory, Jonah.”

Jonah folded his arms, and regarded the High Priest with a gloomy and obstinate look. “Nevertheless,” he said firmly, “that is my decision.”

“It is not even your loss,” continued Amaziah earnestly, “wholly; it is Israel’s. It is you who shine like a lamp in her darkness; yours is the voice of hope in her night. If you were Amos, or Hosea, I should say that Israel could get along without you. But you are different; you are the messenger of God’s geniality. Israel cannot afford to lose you, Jonah, my son.”

However, Jonah was proof against arguments of this kind. Seeing which, Amaziah exclaimed,

“What will God think of His prophet, who no longer listens to His voice?”

Jonah replied with an effort: “Is God only audible in the desert? And must He be silent in the Temple? I tell you, He will speak to me wherever I am.”

Almost at once he astonished Amaziah by crying out in a muffled voice, full of pain, “Do you think this is easy for me?”

Amaziah seized what he took to be his advantage. “You are confident,” he remarked in quiet tones, “but I have noticed that God does not speak to my priests with the same enthusiasm with which He addresses Himself to the wild and savage hermits who live in the desert of Tob and Golan. And it is my experience that His angels do not enter the cottages of married men with the same boldness with which they visit the huts of bachelors. If it is true that prophets have sometimes been married, it is also true that they have often left their wives and gone out alone to live in the wilderness.”

“That,” said Jonah stubbornly, “is a personal matter, which need not concern us.”

And he added, “You cannot shake me in my resolve.”

Amaziah looked at him sadly. But suddenly his brow cleared, and he struck his palms together. “Wait,” he cried; “if the father of this young woman did not object to your poverty, then there would be no reason for you to become a priest.”

“Well,” said Jonah sourly, “he does object.”

“Then,” exclaimed Amaziah, “for the glory of his country he shall be prevailed upon to change his mind.”

And he waited with a smile for the name of the unreasonable man whose opinions were making a successful war with Nineveh highly improbable.

“It is Prince Ahab,” said Jonah.

At once the smile left Amaziah’s face, to be replaced by a look of consternation. The High Priest sank back in his seat, and stared at Jonah with brows which slowly drew together into a frown. His fingers caressed his chin; he sat for a long time without speaking. At last he said:

“My son, the more I think of things, the more convinced I am that you would not make a good priest. It is the duty of a priest to serve men, and the Temple. You cannot be a good priest, and at the same time be given to divine illumination, because God deals only in generalities, and does not bother Himself about the details of administration.

“A priest must conform; he must not have ideas of his own. He is a soldier with certain duties to perform: he must obey his superiors, and must serve the interests of the men and women who worship the god.

“That would never do for you; your spirit is too lively. You would try to change everything.

“Moreover, since you are not a Levite, I cannot make you a priest of Adonai. I cannot believe that you would be willing to become a priest of a baal such as Melcarth or Kemosh.

“Besides, can you read or write? No? Well....

“I can do nothing for you.”

So saying, he clapped his hands, to show that the interview was at an end.

“Will you speak to Prince Ahab?” cried Jonah wildly.

Amaziah did not reply. Instead, two Nubian slaves came forward, and hustled Jonah out of the house.

A number of people, hearing that the prophet Jonah was in town, had gathered in the street, to gaze at the man who had won a victory over the Aramæans. When they saw Jonah they waved their sticks and shawls, and cried,

“Hurrah for the prophet.”

“God bless Jonah.”

“There is a great man; just look at him.”

One old woman came hobbling forward, to touch the hem of his cloak. Jonah did not even see her. His eyes, hot with anger, were on the ground; he saw the dust, and the tip of his own beard. Finding an old woman in his path, he gave her a shove; whereat she fell with a bump to the ground.

“Oh my,” she said, when she had got her breath. “Oh my. Well, there’s a great man for you. Tst; I feel better already.”

XI

Hiram, the Phœnician, was short, dark, and compactly built. His hair was curled and oily; his body, dressed in richest silks, and in linens forbidden to the Jews, exhaled an arresting fragrance. He walked in the garden with Judith and her nurse, Sarah, as evening was falling.

“Redder roses than these,” he said, “bloom in the gardens of Tyre. The serpent priestesses of Astarte, the Kedeshoth, wear them in their hair at the festival of their goddess, who reigns in Sidon as the deity of cows, but in Tyre as the goddess of doves.”

He had about him an air of the world, of cities by the shores of seas, of mountains far away. As he stood on the terrace at Gath-Hepher, his dark, shrewd eyes seemed to behold in the distance the white domes of Tyre, shining above the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean.

“He reminds me of a man I knew long ago,” said Sarah to Judith in a low voice; “he was a camel driver, and he had been everywhere.”

The Phœnician went on to describe the wonders of his country; the mighty trees of Lebanon, from which Solomon’s Temple had been built, the markets of Acre, with their silks, fruits, and ivory, the Temple of Melcarth, Baal of Tyre, with its two great pillars of marble and gold. He told them of the spacious Temple of Atareatis at Ascalon, with its pool in which floated sacred fish adorned with ornaments of gold.

“At Aphaca,” he said, “there is a temple dedicated to Astarte, with a pool into which gifts are thrown by her worshippers. Once a year this pool is visited by the goddess in the form of a falling star. It is a marvelous sight and makes one very thoughtful.”

“How strange,” said Judith. “And how I should love to see such a thing.”

Hiram looked at her proudly. “You can understand,” he said, “that your temples do not compare with ours. In the first place, ours is a very old country. And then, our religion is not like yours. Our gods have faces you can look at, and love.”

“Yes,” said Judith, thinking of her little silver dove.

“What is more,” continued Hiram, “you who live inland cannot imagine the wonders of the great sea-coast cities. This is all very well; you have a pleasant garden here. But it is nothing compared to the terraces above the harbor at Tyre, looking out over the sea. There is magnificence for you. Well, you see, ships have come from all over the world to decorate them.”

Sarah sighed. “I’d have seen them,” she said, “if I had gone as I was bid.”

The Phœnician gave Sarah a wise look. “Perhaps you will see them after all,” he said. And he glanced for a moment at Judith as he turned away.

“Oh,” said Sarah.

Overhead the sky had grown dull with evening, green in the west, where the evening star, planet of love, hung silver over the hills. Shadows drew down about the garden, the wind rose and moved among the trees, the scent of flowers in the slow-falling dew ascended from the earth and mingled with the fragrance of pines.

“How you would love the markets,” said Hiram, “with their bales of silk and rich stuffs, the strange fruits from the West and South, the gold and ivory. And such an enchanting odor of spices in the air.”

“Just imagine,” said Judith.

Hiram continued: “All the nations of the earth trade with my city. The masts of our ships rise like a forest along the sea wall, and their sails in the harbor are like orange and yellow moons. Ophir and Egypt, the colonies of Carthage, the isles of the barbaric Greeks with golden hair, all send their produce to us, in exchange for our linens, cedarwood, and dyes. It is a wonderful sight to see the ships come in, loaded with so much wealth.”

Judith sighed. “How I should love that,” she said. And she looked around her at her uncle’s simple garden.

“That is life, isn’t it?” she said; “to live in the world, in a great city with ships, and strange things to wear, and interesting sights to see.”

“It is the life of a Phœnician,” said Hiram simply.

And he added, “This sort of thing is all very well, but where does it lead to? You spend your life in a rose garden, between some low hills, among ignorant people.”

“You would never believe how ignorant some of these people are,” said Sarah, nodding her head.

“The life of a merchant,” said Hiram, “is another thing entirely. Take myself, for example; I travel a great deal. And it is really amazing how much information one is able to pick up here and there. I have been to Crete, where I went to look at the sewers. They are made out of stone, and very interesting. But perhaps sewers do not appeal to you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Judith, “they appeal to me very much. But tell me something about your own city. What do the women wear? I suppose they are very beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Hiram slowly, with his eyes on Judith, “they are beautiful. But to tell you the truth, I have never bothered much with women. How do they dress? With jewels, of course, and silks.... I hardly know. I am too busy most of the time to notice such things.”

“Well,” said Sarah firmly, “I am sure you’ve seen no one in your city, or in any other city, for that matter, to compare with our young lady.”

“No,” said Hiram, with a smile, “that is true.”

Judith blushed a fiery red. “Why,” she cried, “I am not even pretty.”

“You see,” said Sarah in Hiram’s ear, “she is not at all spoiled. What a jewel.”

“The life of a merchant,” said Hiram thoughtfully, “is the most interesting life in the world. There is nothing like commerce to give one a liberal education. For one thing, the merchant has to travel a great deal, because naturally he has to see what he is buying; he has to visit other countries, in order to know what to sell. As you can imagine, it is a delightful way to occupy oneself.”

“It’s quite another thing from living in a stable,” said Sarah.

“Why, Sarah,” exclaimed Judith indignantly, “we don’t live in a stable.”

“Maybe not,” the nurse admitted. “But we might just as well.”

“In the morning,” said Hiram, “I go down to the docks, to see what ships are in. Several of the captains are known to me, and we discuss some matters of importance. Then I visit the markets, to see for myself what people are buying, because that is the only way to make a success of business. It is very interesting, all of it. One has to be perspicacious, to be a merchant. For instance, if people wish to buy silk in Damascus, it is useless to send them sandalwood, or betel-nut, even though I, personally, might prefer such things.

“In the evening one goes for a stroll on the terraces above the water, to drink syrups, and watch the sun go down in the sea.

“On festival occasions the streets are gayly decorated with flowers and rugs, and processions carrying the god pass among the houses, and meet at the Temple. Then there is music in the evening on the terraces, and bands of priests and worshippers perform the dances in honor of the deity.”

Judith heaved a deep sigh. “How exciting that must be,” she said. And she gazed before her with parted lips and dreamy eyes. But the breeze, cold with dew, soon made her shiver.

“Let me bring you a shawl,” said Hiram. And he returned to the house for a shawl of heavy silk, dyed in Tyrian purple, with a holy fringe, which he had brought along with him as a gift to Judith. When he was gone, Sarah remarked,

“That is the sort of man I like; one who has made a success in the world and who says right out what he means.

“What a wonderful life he leads. You can see that he knows how to live. A merchant--yes; that’s the life for a person.”

Judith did not answer. When the Phœnician returned with the shawl, and drew it around her shoulders, she thanked him faintly; she would not even have noticed how beautiful it was, if it had not been for Sarah. The last birds were singing before night; the sky shone with the blue of evening. Far off beyond the hills lay the great ocean, wide as the world, with its sails, like orange moons, blowing home from barbarous lands. And over it, terrace on terrace, the queenly city with its laughing festivals, its temples, its sacred pools.... She closed her eyes ... such beauty, such dignity to life, so much to see and hear of; her young heart, dry with curiosity, filled like a pool with longing and despair; her pure and ignorant mind gave itself up in abandon to excitement, to happiness, to festivals with music, to syrup on the terraces as the sun went down ... to ships and wonder....

“Oh, how I should like to be a merchant,” she cried.

Hiram of Tyre bent his dark head humbly upon her hand.

XII

With a heavy heart Jonah climbed the hill to the garden. He wore his old coat, and his face was weary and gloomy. He had come to say to Judith, “We cannot be married because I am poor, and cannot get anything to do.” But as he drew near the garden, he forgot what he had come to say, and thought only of seeing her again.