11. XI.
“Wherefore hast thou lingered from thy couch so
long, Thyrza, my beloved? Why hast thou not gone to
thy slumbers?”
“Thou didst not bid me, my father; but I will go
now. Thy blessing, father.”
And she sank upon her knee before him as she spoke;
and fervently and fondly, though in silence, did the aged
Hebrew invoke God's blessing on his child.
“And thine, Adoniakim,” said the maiden.
“May the God of Israel be thy God, Thyrza,—may
his good angels watch thee, beloved one!” was the kind
prayer of Adoniakim, and the maid retired with no other
word from the presence. Her absence gave an opportunity,
as her appearance had furnished an occasion, to
Adoniakim, which the good old man earnestly desired.
“Melchior,” said he, “thou hast a blessed and a
blessing creature in that child of thine.”
The eyes of Melchior were full of tears, and he replied
in no other language.
“Thou mayst well love her, for she is worthy of all
love in herself; and to thee, Melchior, she must bring
ever back the memory of a time when life was a thing
of love, and all its creatures, and all its objects and desires,
were sought for and beloved. How like is she,
even in my eye, to her gracious mother.”
“Speak not of this, Adoniakim. I would not, my
brother, that the weakness of my heart should be beheld,
even by thee.”
“It is the strength, and not the weakness of the heart,
Melchior, which I behold in these tears of thine eyes.
Weep on, my brother, for the tears that flow from affection
are sweet, even though they fall only upon its grave.
They hallow love, they embalm memory, they consecrate
mortal things, and make them eternal as thought, and
lovely as the first look of innocence. They are blessed,
my brother, and sweetly do they bless the heart from
whose deep and silent fountains they flow.”
“Truly hast thou spoken, Adoniakim. The tears of
mine eyes are grateful to my heart. Yet I would not
that men should see me weep; for it is the wont always
with men to scorn the suffering which they do not feel.”
“I have spoken to thee of Thyrza, my brother, as of
one dear to thee from old memories, and not less dear to
thee from her own loveliness and worth. She is dear to
me the same, and it has been my thought and prayer,
Melchior, that our own hearts should be more closely
joined together in the pleasant bonds which we might
behold our two children weave around the hearts of one
another. Amri—”
“Say not, Adoniakim. I know thy thought and thy
prayer, but speak not again of this.”
“The youth is erring, but not vicious.”
“I pray thee, Adoniakim, forbear. What is it to us
—we who are toiling for Israel—for our people, and our
people's liberties—to bend ourselves to the fruitless employ
of teaching young hearts to commune in love?
Thy son is dear to thee, and my daughter is dear; but
what to us should be their mortal happiness at a season
of trial and storm like that which is impending? The
bird sings not a love-ditty when the tempest clamours in
the air, but sinks secure into his cover, and waits the
moment of repose.”
“I speak not of the present season, Melchior, when
I speak to thee of these hopes upon which my heart has
been set. There will come a time when the storm is
ended—when the strife is over—when the danger is
gone by;—there will come the time, and then, my brother,
how greatly would it rejoice my spirit to behold thy
Thyrza the beloved wife of Amri.”
“Never—never!” was the energetic response of
Melchior. “Amri the lord of Thyrza—the master of
her fate—the dictator of her movements—the arbiter of
her affections and her hopes? Never—never! Speak
to me no more of this, Adoniakim, for I may not hear
thee with patience. God crush me with a bolt when I
give my child up to a tyranny like that of Amri! She,
the dependant, the humble, the uncomplaining, the gentle—meek
as the night-dews—fond like her blessed
mother—giving all her heart, and devoted to the death
for him she is bound to:—shall I give such as she to
Amri? To Amri, the impatient, the capricious, the
wanton profligate—having his own will and vicious mood
for his master, and owning no authority besides! I tell
thee, Adoniakim, I will not hear thee speak of this.
Thou knowest not my daughter, or thou lovest her not;
and still less dost thou know thy son, however thou lovest
him. I know him better than thou. I see into his heart
—I trace his thoughts—and I tell thee, Adoniakim—in
grief but in truth I tell thee—thy tenderness is blindness,
and thy misused love is a very madness of the heart,
which will one day wither it as with fire. Forgive me,
Adoniakim, that I speak thus of one that is so dear to
thee; but I may not speak else. He honours thee not,
Adoniakim, and his days in the land will be short; and
he will scatter sorrow and evil, like a pernicious and fast-growing
seed, all around him. Let us part now, for we
have both much to do ere the gray light of morning shall
cheer us.”
The language of Melchior fell chillingly upon the
heart of Adoniakim. He had been wont to regard the
Hebrew of the Desert as one wise beyond men, and a
reader of the stars. He bowed his head in acquiescence,
and without a murmur, to the words of his companion,
even as to an oracle; but his eyes were full of tears, and
there was a heavy sadness upon his spirit. They parted
for the night, and the gray dawn streamed through the
casement ere Melchior sought his couch.
