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.”