University of Virginia Library

3. III.

In a few moments, and a door curiously wrought in
the tapestry of the chamber, for the purposes of flight
and concealment, was silently thrown open; and a venerable
man, not less aged than Melchior, though without
any appearance of his elasticity and strength, now
entered the apartment. He came forward with a slow
and stealthy movement, as if fearing to break the slumbers
of the sleeping youth. In silence he approached
his guest, and the two, as if long and dearly known,
embraced each other without uttering a word. In a
whisper, the new-comer instructed Melchior to resume
his seat upon the edge of the couch from which he had
arisen. The other occupied a place beside him, giving,
as he did so, a glance to the sleeping youth, which, to
the eye of Melchior, was full of an unadvised and mistaken
fondness. The thought of his mind at that moment
gave to the venerable man occasion for a remark,
which, though strong, and delivered with emphasis, was
yet uttered in a whisper.

“The boy is a boy no longer, Adoniakim: he has
advanced in growth and strength, and is a goodly youth
to look upon.”

“Very—very goodly, indeed, to look upon,” said the
other, with a sigh, at the same time that his eye dwelt
with fondness upon the features of the youth. Melchior
proceeded:

“Goodly to the sight is he, but I fear me, Adoniakim,
that the evil spirit of self is still the master within
him. He heeds thee not, Adoniakim, as a child should
heed his father. The stubbornness of boyhood, of which
I warned thee, has grown stronger in his years, and,
with his growth, has become too vigorous for thee now
to restrain. Alas! brother, thou hast been erringly and
sadly fond of thy firstborn.”

“My only one, Melchior. True,—thou hast said
but truly. I have greatly erred in my teaching. The
boy is wilful, and heeds not much the commands of his
father or the counsels of his friends: he inclines but too
much to serve the devices and desires of his own heart.”

“I knew it, Adoniakim. I knew that the nature
within him was wayward and wilful from the first, and
greatly did I fear that thine was not the spirit to subdue the
evil temper. Thou hast smiled when thou shouldst have
looked sadly, and been but sad when thou shouldst have
been stern. He has been too dear to thee in thy loneliness,
and thou hast been too much a dependant upon
him to do him and thyself that justice which would have
reproved his error and punished his disobedience. I
fear me thou wilt have much sorrow yet from his wild
nature and vicious mood.”

“And yet, Melchior, I have not forborne to punish
and restrain. Many stripes have I given him while he
was yet a boy; and, since he has grown up, as thou
seest, into a youth seemly to look upon, much sage and
solemn counsel have I bestowed upon him.”

“Alas, Adoniakim, I fear me thou hast not punished
wisely nor counselled prudently. The guidance must
be habitual, and the punishment in season, or they
are equally bestowed in vain. Thou hast punished

when too much provocation has chafed thy heart, and
not because thou wouldst chasten to improve. Thy
stripes have been given in thy anger, and not for his
good; it was thy passion, and not his deserts, that
prompted thee to punish; and we may not wonder that
thou hast pacified thyself without improving him. It is
a sad thing for the young and erring spirit when the
father loves unwisely, for then the strong feelings of the
heart rise up against the sober thoughts of the head, and
the eyes of a calm reflection are blinded by the rushing
impulses from within. I warned thee of this danger,
Adoniakim, when last we took counsel of the youth. He
is soon to be a man,—goodly to the sight, my brother,
but greatly I fear me, Adoniakim, not goodly to the
thought. He will vex thy old heart sadly ere thou goest
down to the tomb of thy fathers.”

“Alas, Melchior, I tremble at what thou sayest.
Tell me, whence come these apprehensions?—what hast
thou heard?—what hast thou seen? Thou hast not
spoken with the boy,—thou hast only beheld him as he
slept. Thou hast had no word with him or with me
that could teach thee of his erring. What, then, is the
art that so informs thee? How is it that thou so quickly
dost dive into the deep soul for its secrets?”

And, as he spoke, the aged parent turned fondly and
gazed upon the sleeping subject of their deliberations.

“Even while he slept I judged him,” said Melchior,
solemnly. “Even while he slept, my brother, evil
thoughts were busy in his mind, and a foul oath and
many dark threats gathered upon his lips. Behold,
even now, the big, swollen vein upon the ruffled brow!
—see to the lips which are now compressed as if in
strife, only to part in bitterness!”

“Stay—he wakes!” said the other, and his hand
rested upon that of Melchior while he spoke, and they
both paused from speech, as a repeated movement of
the youth's person led them to apprehend his awakening.

But the limbs were once more composed, as if in
slumber, and the youth lay again in silence as before.

“Thou misjudgest him, Melchior,” said the father,
deprecatingly: “the boy is rash and wilful, but thou
errest when thou thinkest him vicious. The spirit is
wild, but, I trust, not evil. There is, indeed, much
truth in what thou sayest, but it is not all truth,—not all
—not all: it would be a dreadful sorrow, Melchior,
could I think it so.”

“Is it not now thy sorrow, Adoniakim?” demanded
Melchior. “Dost thou not even now mourn ever with
fears of thy son's wilfulness,—fears that come to thee
unbidden? Deceive not thyself, my brother. This is
always the error of the father. Declare to thyself—to
me—what is thy thought, and thou wilt say that what I
have said to thee of the boy has been long thy sorrow—
thy deep sorrow. Hast thou any care on thy heart but
this, unless it be for thy trodden and thy trampled people?
Does not the boy afflict thee by his profligacy
and his profusion—by his wilfulness and scorn of all the
checks thou wouldst put upon him? Is he not licentious
and wanton? Does he not debauch after the
fashion of the Gothic nobles, and ape their miserable
vices, not having even their freedom? I have heard no
one speak of this—I have seen none of it myself; and
yet, Adoniakim, from thy heart unfold to me, speak I
not the truth?”

“No more, Melchior, I pray thee. Spare me: thou
hast said enough. Let us now speak of our people, for,
if I err not, this is the concern upon which thou comest.
Thou hast been waited for. Tell me of thy hope—of
thy success among the tribes.”

“Not here, Adoniakim—the youth sleeps not soundly.”

“But fear not for him,—is he not a Hebrew like
ourselves?”

“No!” exclaimed the other, sternly. “He feels not

with us. He is not prepared to deny himself for the
goodly cause of his people, and only such are with us.
Leave the boy,—better that he should sleep on. He
would but take thy thought from my tidings, for thou
hast more pleasure in beholding him than in aught else.”

And truly might Melchior say that the aged Adoniakim
had more pleasure at such a moment, and in the
survey of his son, than in any thing beside. The look
was long and lingering which he cast behind him, as he
led the way for Melchior from the apartment through the
secret panel out of which he came at first.

Scarcely had the door been closed behind them when
the youth leaped to his feet.

“I thank thee, good Melchior, for thy friendly thought,
and thy brotherly labour to hurt me with Adoniakim. I
will requite thee yet for thy toil, or I deserve to sleep.
Now, what does the old goat seek with my father, that I
must needs not hear? But I will hear. I love not to be
shut out from the truth; and, by the beard of Samuel! I
will share in this conference, though mayhap I say nothing
myself. I will but give other ears to the eloquence
of Melchior; and he who so loves to hear his own language
may scarce complain of an addition to his audience.
So!”

Thus did the youth mutter to himself, as he approached
the aperture in the tapestry through which the
aged men had gone. This he slightly unfastened, and,
placing his ears upon the opening, the sounds of voices
from within were borne distinctly to them. Gradually
his knee sank to the floor; and it soon seemed that
he heard and understood, for his action was quiet and
patient, like that of a satisfied listener.