“But, my boy, if what we wish for is not for our good, is it not more merciful and kind to deny than to grant it? Remember, God knows us better than we know ourselves; and we may ask what would lead us to evil temporally and eternally. If, for a wise and merciful purpose, even our good desires are not granted, be assured that peace, strength, and healing will be given in their stead.”
The little circle looked very thoughtful as the impressive voice of the widow ceased.
Sarah seemed more than usually moved; for, as she bent over her little Bible, which she had opened at the verse, tears one by one fell silently upon the page. Whether Ruth heard them drop, or from her seat close by her cousin felt that the hand she caressingly held trembled, we know not, but the child rose and threw her little arms around her neck.
“Do you remember who it was wrote the verse we are considering?” said the widow, after a pause.
“King David,” answered Joseph and Simeon together.
“Then you see it was no prosperous monarch, no peaceful lawgiver, but one whose life had passed in trials, compared to which our severest misfortunes must seem trifling. Hunted from place to place, in daily danger of his life, compelled even to feign madness, separated from all whom he loved, from all of happiness or peace, even debarred from the public exercise of his faith, his very prayers at times seemingly unheeded—yet it is this faithful servant of God who exclaims, ‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he will bring it to pass.’ We know not the exact time he wrote these words; but we know he wrote from experience, for did not God indeed bring happiness to pass for him? If we think of the life of him who wrote these blessed words, as well as the words themselves, we must derive strength and comfort from the reflection.”
“Yes, yes; I see and feel it all now,” exclaimed Joseph, eagerly as before. “Oh, mother, I can think about it now without any puzzling at all. I am so glad. Cannot you, Ruth?”
“Hush!” answered the child, as she suddenly started up in an attitude of attentive listening. “Hush! I am sure that is Reuben’s step: he is coming, he is coming. Oh, what joy for me!”
“You are wrong, dear; and it only disappoints mother,” said Leah, gently.
“No, no! I know I am not. There listen; do you not hear steps now?”
“Yes: but how can you be sure they are his?” answered Simeon. “It is so very unlikely, I should have thought of everybody else first?”
Ruth made no answer; but she bounded from the room, and had opened the street-door, regardless of Leah’s entreaties to wait at least till the steps came nearer. A very few minutes more, and all doubts were solved by the entrance of Ruth, not walking, but clinging round her brother Reuben’s neck and almost stifling him with kisses, only interrupting herself to say, “Who was right, Miss Leah and Master Simeon? Ah, you did not have Reuben for long weeks to attend and nurse, as I had, or you would have known his step too.”
“You can love me still, then?” murmured her brother, as only to be heard by her; then added aloud, “my mother should have had the first kiss, dearest; let me ask her blessing, Ruth?”
She released him, though she still held his hand; and hastening to his mother, he bent his head before her.
“Is it too late to ask my mother’s Sabbath blessing?” he said, and his voice was strangely choked. “Bless me, dearest mother, as you used to do.”
The widow rose and, laying her hands upon his head, repeated the customary Hebrew blessing, and then folded him to her heart.
“It is never, never too late for a mother’s blessing—a mother’s love, my Reuben,” she said, her voice quivering with the efforts she made to restrain her emotion. “I could have wished it oftener and earlier asked on the Sabbath eve; but it is yours, my boy, each night and morning, though you hear it not.”
“And will it always be? Mother! mother! will you never withdraw it from me? No, no, you will not. You love me only too, too well,” and abruptly breaking from her, after kissing her passionately, he turned to greet his brothers and sisters.
All met him cordially and affectionately, except perhaps that there was a stern look of inquiry in Simeon’s eyes, which Reuben, from some unexpressed feeling, could not meet; and, looking from him, he exclaimed—
“Sarah! where is my kind cousin Sarah? will she not give me welcome?”
“She was here this moment,” said Leah; “where can she have vanished?”
“Not very far, dear cousin: I am here. Reuben, can you believe one moment that I do not rejoice to see you once again at home?” said Sarah, advancing from the farther side of the room and placing her hand frankly in her cousin’s, looking up in his face with her clear, pensive eyes, but cheeks as pale as marble.
Reuben pressed her hand within his own, tried to meet smilingly her glance and speak as usual, but both efforts failed, and again he turned away.
“And he has come to stay with us—he will not leave us in a hurry again,” said the affectionate little Ruth, keeping her seat on his knee, and nestling her head in his bosom. “I wanted but you to make this evening quite, quite happy.”
Reuben kissed her to conceal a sigh, and controlling himself, he entered cheerfully and caressingly into all Ruth and Joseph had to tell, called for all interesting conversation from the other members of his family, and imparted many particulars of himself. He was rising high in the world, had been the fortunate means of preventing a great loss to the firm of which he was a servant, and so raised his salary, and himself in the estimation of his employers. Fortune smiled on him, he said, in many ways, and he had had the happiness of securing a trifling fund for his mother, which though small was sure, and would provide her yearly with a moderate sum. He had something else to propose, but there would be time enough for that. His mother blessed and thanked him; but her heart was not at rest. Cheerful as the conversation was, happy as the last hour ought to have been, there was a dim foreboding on her spirit which she could not conquer. Something was yet to be told, Reuben was not at peace, and when indeed he did speak that something, it was with a confused more than a joyous tone.
“I do not know why I should delay telling you of my intention, mother,” he said at length; “I have had too many proofs of your affection to doubt of your rejoicing in anything that will make my happiness—I am going to be married.”
There was a general start and exclamation from all but two in the group—his mother and cousin.
“If it will make your happiness, my son, I do indeed rejoice,” the former said very calmly. “Whom do you give me for another daughter?”
“You do not know her yet, mother; but I am sure you will learn to love her dearly: it is Jeanie Wilson, the only child of my fellow-clerk.”
“Jeanie Wilson!—a Christian! Reuben, Reuben, how have you fallen!” burst angrily, almost fiercely, from Simeon; “but it is folly to be surprised—I knew it would be so.”
“Indeed! wonderfully clear-sighted as you were then, if you consider such a union humiliation, it would have been more brotherly, perhaps, to have warned me of the precipice on which I stood,” answered Reuben, sarcastically.
“Yes! you gave me so fair an opportunity to act a brother’s part; never seeking me, or permitting me to seek you, for weeks together; herding with strangers alone—following them alike in the store and in the mart—loving what they love, doing as they do—and, like them, scorning, despising, and persecuting that holy people who once called you son—forgetting your birthright, your sainted heritage—throwing dishonour on the dead as on the living, to link yourself with those who assuredly will, if they do not now, despise you. Shame, foul shame upon you!”
“Have you done?” calmly inquired Reuben, though the red spot was on his cheek. “It is something for the elder to be bearded thus by the younger. Yet be it so. I have done nothing for which to feel shame—nothing to dishonour those with whom I am related. If they feel themselves dishonoured, let them leave me; I can meet the world alone.”
“Aye, so far alone, that you will rejoice that others have cast aside the chains of nature, and given you freedom to follow your own apostate path unquestioned and unrebuked.”
“Peace, I command you!” exclaimed the widow, with a tone and gesture of authority which awed Simeon into silence, and checked the wrathful reply on Reuben’s lips. “My sons, profane not the Sabbath of your God with this wild and wicked contention. Simeon, however you may lament what Reuben has disclosed, it is not your part to forget he is your brother—yes, an elder brother—still.”
“I will own no apostate for my brother!” muttered the still irritated young man. “Others may regard him as they list; if he have given up his faith, I will not call him brother.”
“I have neither the will nor occasion to forswear my faith,” replied Reuben calmly. “Mr. Wilson has made no condition in giving me his daughter, except that she may follow her own faith, which I were indeed prejudiced and foolish to deny. He believes as I do; to believe in God is enough—all religions are the same before Him.”
“That is to say, he is, like yourself, of no religion at all,” rejoined Simeon, bitterly. “Better he had been prejudiced, rigid, even despising us as others do; then this misfortune would not have befallen us.”
“Is it a misfortune to you, mother? Leah—Ruth—Joseph, will you all refuse to love my wife? You will not, cannot, when you see and know her.”
“As your wife, Reuben, we cannot feel indifference towards her,” replied Leah, tears standing in her eyes; “yet if you had brought us one of our own people, oh, how much happier it would have made us!”
“And why should it, my dear sister? Mother why should it be such a source of grief? I do not turn from the faith of my fathers: I may neglect, disregard those forms and ordinances which I do not feel at all incumbent on me to obey, but I must be a Jew—I cannot believe with the Christian, and I cannot feel how my marriage with a gentle, loving, and most amiable girl can make me other than I am. We are in no way commanded to marry only amongst ourselves.”
“You are mistaken; we are so commanded, my dear son. In very many parts of our Holy Law we are positively forbidden to intermarry with the stranger; and, as a proof that so to wed was considered criminal, one of the first and most important points on which Ezra and Nehemiah insisted, was the putting away of strange wives.”
“But they were idolaters, mother. Jeanie and I worship the same God.”
“But you do not believe in the same creed, and therefore is the belief in one God more dangerous. We ought to keep ourselves yet more distinct, now that we are mingled up amongst those who know God and serve Him, though not as we do. You do not think thus, my dear son; and therefore all we may do is but to pray that the happiness you expect may be realized.”
“And in praying for it, of course you doubt it, though I still cannot imagine why. Sarah, you have not spoken: do you believe me so terrible a reprobate that there is no chance for my happiness, temporally and eternally?”
He spoke bitterly, perhaps harshly, for he had longed for her to speak, and her silence strangely, painfully reproached him. He did not choose to know why, and so he vented in bitter words to her the anger he felt towards himself.
“My opinion can be of little value after my aunt’s,” she answered, meekly; “but this believe, dear cousin, if you and Jeanie are only as blessed and happy together as I wish you, you will be one of the happiest couples on earth.”
“I do believe it!” he said, passionately springing towards her, and seizing both her hands. “Sarah, dear Sarah, forgive me. I was harsh and bitter to you, who were always my better angel; say you forgive me!” He repeated the word, with a strong emphasis upon it.
“I did not know that you had given me anything to forgive, Reuben,” she replied, struggling to smile; “but if you think you have, I do forgive you from my very heart.”
“Bless you for the word!” he said, still gazing fixedly in her face, which calmly met his look.
“Thank God, one misery is spared me,” he muttered to himself; then added, “and you think I may be happy?”
“I trust you will; and if it please God to bless you with prosperity, I think you may.”
“How do you mean?”
“That while all things go smoothly, you will not feel the division, the barrier which your opposing creeds must silently erect between you. But if affliction, if death should happen, Reuben, dearest Reuben, may you never repent this engagement then.”
The young man actually trembled at the startling earnestness of her words.
“And will you, surely you will not, marry in church, brother?” timidly inquired Joseph.
“He must, he cannot help himself!” hoarsely interposed Simeon, who had remained sitting in moody silence for some time; “and yet he would say he is no apostate, no deserter from our faith.”
“You said you had something to ask mother, Reuben,” said Ruth, pressing close to his side, for she feared the painful altercation between her brothers might recommence.
“I had,” he answered, “but I fear it is useless now. Mother, Jeanie and I hoped to have offered you a home—to have entreated you to live with us, and return to the comforts which were yours; we should seek but to give you joy. But after what has passed this evening, I fear we have hoped in vain.”
“I wonder you dared hope it,” muttered Simeon. “Would our mother live with any one who lives not as a Jew, whose dearest pride is to seem in all points like the stranger with whom he lives?”
“Thank you for the kind will, my dear son,” replied the widow, affectionately, though sorrowfully; “but you are right in thinking it cannot be. I am too old and too ailing to mingle now with strangers. I cannot leave my own lowly dwelling; I cannot give up these forms and ordinances which I have learned to love, and believe obligatory upon me. Bring your wife to me, if indeed she does not scorn your poor Jewish mother; she will meet but love from me and mine.”
Reuben flung himself impetuously on her neck, and she felt his whole frame tremble as with choking sobs. His sister, Sarah, and Joseph reiterated their mothers words; Simeon alone was silent. Another half-hour passed—an interval painful to all parties, despite the exertions of Sarah and the widow to make it cheerful, and then Reuben rose to depart. His affectionate embrace, his warm “Good night, God bless you,” was welcomed and returned as warmly by all, and then he looked for Simeon. The youth was standing at the farther end of the apartment, in the deepest shadow, his arms folded on his breast, his lip compressed, and eyes fixed sternly on the ground.
“Simeon!” exclaimed Reuben, as he approached him with frankly extended hand, “Simeon! we are brothers; let us part friends.”
“Give up this intended marriage, come back to the faith you have deserted, and we are brothers,” answered Simeon, sternly. “If not, we are severed, and for ever.”
“Be it as you will, then,” answered Reuben, controlling anger with a violent effort. “Should you need a brother or a friend, you will find them both in me: the God of our fathers demands not violence like this.”
“He does not—He does not. Simeon, I beseech, COMMAND you, do not part thus with your brother; on your love, your duty to me, as your only remaining parent, I command this,” his mother said, mildly, but imperatively; but for once she spoke in vain. Leah, Sarah, Joseph, all according to their different characters, sought to soften him; but the dark cloud only thickened on his brow. At that moment a light form pressed through them all, and clasping his knees, looked up in that agitated face, as if those sightless orbs had more than common power—and Ruth it was that spoke.
“Brother,” she said, in her clear, sweet voice, “brother, our father bade us love our brother, even if he turned aside from all we hold most sacred and most dear. We stood around his death-bed, and we promised this—to love him to the end. Brother, you will not break this vow? No, no: our father looks upon us, hears us still!”
There was a strong and terrible struggle on the part of Simeon, and a heavy groan of repentant anguish broke from the very heart of Reuben.
“My father, my poor father! did he so love me? And will you still hate me, Simeon?” he gasped forth.
Another moment, and the brothers were clasped in each others arms.
CHAPTER III.
It had been with the most simple and heartfelt prayer, that the widow Perez had sought to instil the beautiful spirit breathing in the verse forming the subject of their Sabbath conversation in the hearts of her children. Yet ere the evening closed, how sadly and painfully had her faith been tried, and how bitterly did she feel that to her prayers there seemed indeed no answer. It was her firstborn whom she had daily, almost hourly “committed to the Lord;” for him she sought with her whole heart, “to trust” that He would, in His deep mercy, awaken her boy to the error of his ways; but did it appear as if indeed the gracious promise would be fulfilled, and the Lord would indeed “bring it to pass?” Alas! farther and farther did it now seem removed from fulfilment. By his marriage with a Gentile what must ensue?—a yet more complete estrangement from his father’s faith.
The mother’s heart indeed felt breaking; but quiet and ever gentle, who but her loving children might trace this bitter grief? And there were not wanting very many to give the mother all the blame of the son’s course of acting. “What else could she expect by her weak indulgence?” was almost universally said. “Why did she not threaten to cast him off, if he persisted in this sinful connection, instead of encouraging such things in her other children, which of course she did, by receiving Reuben as usual? Why had she not commanded him, on peril of a parent’s curse, to break off the intended match? Then she would have done her duty; as it was, it would be something very extraordinary if all her other children did not follow their elder brother’s example.”
The widow might have heard their unkind remarks, but she heeded them little; for she had long learned that the spirit guiding the blessed religion which she and her husband had felt and practised was too often misunderstood and undervalued by many of her co-religionists; the idea of love bringing back a wanderer was, by the many, thought too perfectly ridiculous ever to be counted upon. But her conscience was at rest. None but her own heart and her God knew how she had striven to bring up her firstborn as he should go, or how agonizing she had ever felt this failure of her struggles and prayers in the conduct of her son, and this last act more agonizing than all. She knew, aye, felt secure, that neither of her other children needed severity towards Reuben to prevent their following his example. In them she saw the fruits of her efforts in their education, and she knew that they felt their brother’s wanderings from their beloved faith too sorrowfully ever to walk in his ways. They saw enough of their poor mother’s silent, uncomplaining grief, to suppose for a moment that her absence of all harshness towards Reuben proceeded from her approval of his marriage; and each and all lifted up the fervent cry for strength always to resist such fearful temptation, and to adhere to the faith of their fathers, even until death.
We are quite aware that, by far the greater number of our readers, widow Perez will be either violently condemned or contemptuously scorned as a weak, mean-spirited, foolish woman. We can only say that if so, we are sorry so few have the power of understanding her, and that the loving piety, the spiritual religion of her character should find so faint an echo in the Jewish heart. The consequences of her forbearance will be too clearly traced in our simple tale, to demand any further notice on our own part. We would only ask, with all humility, our readers of every class and grade, to recall any one single instance in which parental violence and severity, even coupled with malediction, have ever succeeded in bringing back a wanderer to his fold; if so, we will grant that our idea of love and forbearance effecting more than hate and violence is both dangerous and false. But to return to our tale:—
There was another in that little household bowed like the mother in grief. Sarah had believed that it was her care for Reuben’s spiritual welfare which had engrossed her so much—that it was as distinct from him temporally as from herself. A rude shock awakened her from this dream, and oh, so fearfully! The wild tumult of thought pressing on her heart and brain needs no description. From the first year of her residence with her aunt, Reuben had been dear to her; affection so strengthening, increasing with her growth, so mingled with her being, that she was unconscious of its power. And now that consciousness had come—the prayers, the wishes of a lifetime were dashed down unheard and unregarded—could she believe in the soothing comfort of that inspired promise? Had she not committed her ways? had she not trusted? and had it not proved in vain? Sarah was young, had all the inexperience, the elasticity, and consequent impatience of early life; and so it was, that while the mother trusted and believed, despite of all, aye, trusted her boy would yet be saved, to Sarah life was one cheerless blank; her heart so chilled and stagnant, it seemed as it were, the power of prayer was gone—there could be no darker woes in store. Perhaps her very determination to conceal these feelings from every eye increased the difficulties of self-conquest.
Day after day passed, and her aunt and cousins saw nothing different from her usually quiet, cheerful ways. It might be that they suspected nothing—that even the widow knew not Sarah’s trial was yet greater than her own. But at night it was that the effects of the day’s control were felt; and weeks passed, and time seemed to bring no respite.
“You can trust, if you cannot pray,” the clear still voice of conscience one night breathed in the ear of the poor sufferer, so strangely distinct it seemed as if some spiritual voice had spoken. “Come back to the Father, the God, who has love and tenderness for all—who loves, despite of indifference and neglect—who has balm for every wound, even such as thine. Doth He not say, ‘Cast your burden on Him, and he will sustain you; trust in His word, and sin no more?’” It was strange, almost awful in the dead stillness of night, that low piercing whisper; but it had effect, for the hot tears streamed down like rain upon the deathlike cheek; the words of prayer, faint, broken, yet still trustful, burst from that sorrowing heart, and brought their balm: from that hour the stagnant misery was at an end. Sarah awoke to duty, alike to her God as to herself; and then it was she felt to the full how unutterably precious was the close commune with the Father in heaven, which her aunt’s counsels had infused. Where could she have turned for comfort had she been taught to regard Him as too far removed from earth and earthly things to love and be approached?
Time passed. Reuben’s marriage took place at the time appointed, and still with him all seemed prosperity. It was impossible to see and not to love his gentle wife. Still in seeming a mere child, so delicate in appearance, one could scarcely believe her healthy, as she said she was. It was, however, only with his mother and sisters that Reuben permitted her to associate.
He called himself, at least to his mother, a son of Israel; but all real feeling of nationality was dead within him—yet he was not a Christian, nor was his wife, except in name. They believed there was a God, at least they said they did; but life smiled on them. He was not needed, and so they lived without Him.
Simeon, true to his prejudices, would not meet his brother’s wife, nor did his mother demand such from him. It was enough that with Reuben himself, when they chanced to meet, he was on kindly terms. Ruth’s appeal had touched his heart, for the remembrance of his father was as omnipotent as his wishes had been during his lifetime. The interests of the brothers, alike temporal as eternal, were, however, too widely severed to permit confidence between them, and so they passed on their separate ways; loving perhaps in their inward hearts, but each year apparently more and more divided.
About six months after Reuben’s wedding, Sarah received a letter which caused her great uneasiness. Our readers may remember, at the conclusion of our first chapter, we mentioned Isaac Levison having written to his daughter, stating he was again well to do in the world, and offering her affluence and a cessation from all labour, if she liked to join him. We know also that Sarah refused those offers, feeling that both inclination and duty bade her remain with the benefactors of her youth, when they were in affliction and needed her; and that, irritated at her reply, her father had cast her off, and from that time to the present, nearly three years, she had never heard anything of him. The letter she now received told her that Levison was in the greatest distress, and seriously ill. His suspiciously-amassed riches had been, like his former, partly squandered away in unnecessary luxuries for house and palate, and partly sunk in large speculations, which had all failed; that he was now too ill to do anything, or even to write to her himself, but that he desired his daughter to come to him at once. She had been ready enough to labour for others, and therefore she could not hesitate for him, who was the only one who had any real claim upon her.
“The only one who can claim my labour,” thought the poor girl, as she read the harsh epistle, again and again. “What should I have been without the beloved friends whom he thus commands me to leave? Yet he is my father; he sent for me in prosperity—I could, I did refuse him then, but not now. No, no, I must go to him now, and leave all, all I so dearly love;” and letting the paper fall, she covered her face with her hands, and wept bitterly.
“Yet perhaps it is better,” she thought, after a brief interval of bitter sorrow; “I can never conquer this one consuming grief while I am here, and so constantly liable to see its cause. My heavenly Father may have ordained this in love; and even if it brings new trials, I can look up to Him, trust in Him still. I do not leave Him behind me—He will not leave me, nor forsake me, whatever I may be called upon to bear,” and inexpressibly strengthened by this thought, she was enabled, without much emotion, to seek her much-loved aunt, to show her the letter and its mandate. The widow saw at a glance the duty of her adopted child, and though to part with her was a real source of grief, she loved her too well to increase the difficulty of her trial by endeavouring to dissuade her from it.
“You must go, my beloved girl,” she said, folding her to her heart; “but I trust it will be but for a short time. My home is yours, remember—always your home, wherever else you may be, as only a passing sojourn. Your duty is indeed trying, but fear not, you will be strengthened to perform it.”
Yet however determined were the widow and her family to control all weakening sorrow and regret, there was not one who did not feel the unexpected departure of Sarah as an individual misfortune. Each was in some way or other so connected with her, that separation caused a blank in their affections; and what then must have been her own feelings? They parted with but one dear friend; she from them all, to go amongst those with whom she had not one thought or feeling in common.
But she who had worked so perseveringly for them, who had felt herself a child in blood as well in heart of the widow’s, that she had never thought of making a distinct provision for herself, this unselfish one was not to leave them portionless; and with so much attention to her feelings did her aunt and cousins proffer their gifts, it was impossible, pained as she was, to refuse. They said, it would be long perhaps before she could find employment in her new home, and she might need it: besides, it was not a gift, it was her due; her earnings had all gone for them, and they offered but her rightful share. Reuben and his wife were not at Liverpool when Sarah was compelled to leave it; and she rejoiced that it was so.
We will not linger either on the day of parting or the poor girl’s sad and solitary journey. Simeon went with her as far as Birmingham, and when he left her, the scene of loneliness, of foreboding sorrow, pressed so heavily upon her that her tears fell unrestrainedly; but though her heart did feel desolate, she knew she was not forsaken. Her God was with her still, and He would in His own good time bring peace. She was obeying His call, by discharging her duty, and He would lead her through her dreary path.
“Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and exceeding great reward,” were the words in her little Bible, on which her eyes had that morning glanced, dim with tears—they could see but those; again and yet again she read them, till they seemed to fix themselves upon her heart, as peculiarly and strangely appropriate to herself. Like Abraham, she was leaving home and friends, to dwell in what was to her a strange land, and the same God who had been with him the God of Abraham and Israel, was her God also. “His arm was not shortened, nor his ear heavy, that he could not save.” And oh, what unspeakable comfort came in such thoughts. Century on century had passed; but the descendants of Abraham were still the favoured of the Lord, having, in the simple fact of their existence, evidence of the Bible truth. Sarah had often gloried in being a daughter of Israel, but never felt so truly, so gratefully thankful for that holy privilege as she did when thinking over the history of Abraham, and the promise made to him and his descendants, in her lonely journey, and feeling to the full the comfort of the conviction that Abraham’s God was hers.
It was a dull and dreary evening when Sarah entered the great city of London. The stage put her down about half an hour’s walk from her destination, and she proceeded on foot, followed by a boy conveying her little luggage. She struggled hard to subdue the despondency again creeping over her, as she traversed the crowded streets, in which there was not one to extend the hand of kindly greeting. She felt almost ashamed, though she could not define why, that the boy should see the low dark alleys which she was obliged to tread before she could discover where her father now lived, and when she did reach it, she stood and hesitated before the door, as if the house she sought could scarcely be there, it was such a wretched-looking place.
Her timid knock was unheard, and the impatient porter volunteered a tap, loud enough to bring many a curious head to the other doors in the alley, and hastily to open the one wanted. A long curious stare greeted Sarah, from an old woman, repulsive in feature and slovenly and dirty in dress, who to Sarah’s faltering question if Mr. Levison lived there, somewhat harshly replied—
“Yes, to be sure he does; and who may you be that wants him? He is not at home, whatever your business is.”
“Did he not expect me, then? I wrote to say I should be with him to-night,” answered Sarah, trying to conquer the painful choking in her throat. “I thought he was too ill to go out.”
“Why, sure now, you cannot be his daughter!” was the reply, in a softened tone, and the woman looked at her with something very like pity. “Come in with you, then, if you really are Sarah Levison; send the boy away and come in.”
Trembling from a variety of feelings, Sarah mechanically obeyed, giving the boy the customary fee ere she discharged him; a proceeding which caused the woman to look at her with increasing astonishment, and to exclaim, when Sarah was fairly in the dirty miserable room called a parlour, “She can do that too, and yet she comes here. Sarah Levison, are you not a great fool?”
The poor girl started, fairly bewildered by the question, and looked at her companion very much as if she thought she had lost her wits. “A fool!” she repeated.
“My good girl, yes. What have you left a comfortable house and kind friends, and perhaps a good business, for?”
“To obey my father,” replied Sarah, simply. “Did he not send to tell me he was ill, and wanted me; that he was no longer the wealthy, prosperous man that he was, and I must labour for him now? or have I been deceived, and is it all false,” she added, in accents of terror, as she grasped old Esther’s arm, “and has some one only decoyed me here?”
“No, child, no; folks about here are bad enough, but not as bad as that. Levison is poor enough, both in health and pocket, and wrote as you say; but for all that, I say you are a fool for coming.”
“Was it not my duty?” asked Sarah. “Oh, it was sad enough to leave all I love!”
“I dare say it was, dear, I dare say it was,” and the old woman’s face actually lost its repulsiveness, in such a strong expression of pity, that the desolate girl drew closer to her, and clasped her hand. “And more’s the pity you should have left them at all. Duty—it is a fine sounding word; but I don’t know what duty Levison can claim—he has never acted like a father, never done anything for you; how can he expect you should for him?”
“Still he is my father,” repeated Sarah. “He sent for me when he was prosperous; and though I did not come, his kind wish was the same, and proved he did not forget me. Besides, even if he had, God’s plain command is, to honour your father and mother. We can scarcely imagine any case when this command is not to be obeyed; and surely not when a parent is in distress.”
“You have learned fine feelings, my poor child. I hope you will be able to keep them; but I don’t know, I tried to do my duty, God knows, when I was young and hearty, but now poverty and old age have come upon me, and I have left off caring for anybody or anything. It is better to take life as we find it, and hard enough it is.”
“Not if we believe and feel that God is with us, and will lead us in the end to joy and peace,” rejoined Sarah, timidly.
“Why, you cannot be so silly, child, as to believe that God,” her voice deepened into awe, “cares for such miserable worms as we are, and would lead us as you say?”
“We are taught so, and I do believe and feel it,” replied Sarah, earnestly.
“Taught so; where, child, where?” reiterated old Esther eagerly.
“In God’s own book, the Bible,” answered Sarah. The old woman’s countenance fell.
“The Bible, child! now that must be your own fancy. I never found it there, and I think I must have read it more than you have.”
“Have you looked for it?” inquired Sarah, timidly, for she feared to be thought presumptuous.
“Looked for it—I don’t know what you mean. I read it every Saturday, the parts they tell us to read; and I do not find much comfort in them, for they seem to tell me God is too far off to care for such as us.”
“Oh, do not, do not say so,” replied Sarah, with unaffected earnestness. “Every word of that blessed book brings our God near us as a tender and loving father—tells us we are His children. He loves us, cares for us, bears all our sorrow, feels for us more deeply than any earthly friend. I am not very old, but I have learned this from His holy book; and so, I am sure, will you. Forgive me,” she added, meekly, taking the old woman’s withered hand, “I am too young perhaps to speak so to one old and experienced as you are.”
“Forgive you—you are a sweet angel!” hastily replied Esther, suddenly rising and pressing Sarah in her arms. “Too good, too good to come to such a house as this. God forbid you should have such trials as to make you doubt what you now so steadfastly believe; the more you talk the more I wish you had not come.”
“But why do you regret it? What is it I must expect? Pray tell me; be my friend, I have none on earth near me to love me now.”
“I wish I could be a friend to you, poor child, but I am of little service now, and you can better tutor me than I can you. It is a hard thing to say to a child of her own father, but you are too good for such as he.”
“Oh no, no; pray do not say so. Tell me, only tell me I may love my father!” entreated Sarah.
“You cannot, child; you have been used to kindness and love, you will find harshness and anger; you have only associated with religion and virtue, you have come to misery and vice. As the niece of the worthy widow Perez you have been respected, and always found employment; as the daughter of Isaac Levison you will be shunned, and may be left to starve. It is hard enough to find employment for children of respectable parents amongst us poor Jews; and so how can we expect it for others? Don’t cry, dear; it is sad enough, but it is only too true; and so I grieve you have given up even your character to come here.”
“But what can I do—what can I do?” repeated Sarah, lifting up her streaming eyes with an expression which almost brought tears to those of Esther. “Could I desert my own father, and I heard he needed me? Is he not in poverty and distress? And is his own child to forsake him because others do?”
“Poor he is, child, and so are most of us. But how can you help him?”
“Can I not work for him as I did for my aunt?”
“Yes; if you can get employment, which will not be very easy. You are known in Liverpool, and you are not in London; and the few trades in which we poor Jews can work are overstocked. Take old Esther’s advice—return as you came; your father will never know you have been here, and you may be sure I will not betray you. Go back to your happy home and kind friends, it cannot be your duty to give up happiness for misery; and as he forsook you, your conscience can be quite at rest in your leaving him. Do not hesitate, my good child, go at once; he has no claim upon you.”
There are some who doubt the necessity of daily prayer; that we need not pray against temptation, there being so few times in which any great temptation is likely to assail us. Great temptations to sin perhaps we seldom have, but small—oh, of what hour can we be secure? Little did poor Sarah imagine when she entered that lowly roof, the almost overpowering temptation which was to assail her. The home of peace, cleanliness, and comfort which she had deserted; the beloved friends of her youth; the happy hours that were gone; all rose so vividly before her, conjuring her to return to them, not to devote herself to misery—which, after all, was but a doubtful duty—that her first impulse was indeed to fly from a scene where everything around her confirmed old Esther’s ominous words. But Sarah was no weak, wavering child of impulse; her principles were steady, her faith was fixed, and the inward petition arose, with a fervour and faith which gave it power to penetrate the skies—
“Save me from myself, O God? Do not forsake me now. Teach me my duty, the one straight path, and whatever may befall, let me abide by it.”
The brief orison was heard, for the God of Israel has love and mercy for the lowest of his creatures, and strength was given.
“No, Esther, no,” she answered mildly, yet firmly; “I will not turn aside, whatever may await me. God sees my heart, knows that I am here to do my duty, even if I be mistaken in the means. He will strengthen me for its performance. Do not try to frighten me away,” she added, trying to smile. “I dare say all you tell me may be very true, and it will be difficult to bear, but a good heart and a firm faith may make it lighter, you know. I want a friend sadly, and I feel as if you would be a kind one; your experience may smooth my way.”
“Blessings on your sweet face for such words, my darling!” murmured the old woman; “it is long since old Esther has heard anything but abuse and unkindness. I wish I could do for you all my heart tells me, but, deary me, that is a vain wish; for I would take away all sorrow from you, and how can a poor creature like me do that?”
Esther would have run on much more in the same strain, and Sarah felt much too grateful for the kind feeling, however rudely expressed, to check her, had not the old woman suddenly recollected the poor traveller might like some tea, which she hastened to prepare. It was, indeed, a different meal, both in quality and comfort, to that which, even in her uncle’s poorest days, she had been accustomed to; but Sarah was too much engrossed in anxiety for her father to heed it, and only made the effort to partake of it, in gratitude to her companion. She had time to conclude her meal and hear much concerning her father, before he appeared. Esther said he had been ill, but never seriously so; that he could often have procured employment in various humble ways; but for some of them he was too proud, and in others behaved so as to disgust those who would have befriended him, and that now he literally had not a friend in the world, either amongst his superiors or his equals. It was a sad, sad tale, and Sarah’s feelings, as she listened, may easily be imagined. But how could he live? Old Esther really did not know. She lodged in the same house with him, but she knew little of his private concerns; she only knew he was a wretched temper, which, of course, daily grew worse and worse. He went to the synagogue regularly, that he did, but it did not seem to benefit him much. How could it, when his actions denied his prayers?
It was late before Levison returned. He was still a good looking man, but miserably attired, and pale from recent illness. He greeted his daughter with affection, for in the lowest and most debased amongst Israel that redeeming virtue is seldom found wanting; and Sarah felt, as she looked on him, all the daughter glowing in her heart: that she could love, work for, do anything for him. Little sleep had she that night; not because her bed was hard, its covering coarse and unseemly, but from the many thoughts pressing on her mind. Her path was all dark; nothing but the unexpected warmth of her father’s welcome and old Esther’s kindness to make it light. She could but trust and pray not only for strength to meet her trials, but that she might so be blessed as to erase from her heart the pang which lingered in it still.
Weary days passed; often and often did Sarah’s spirit so sink within her, that she felt as if it could never rise again. Her father’s moroseness returned; affection, in a character like his could not obtain effective power over the evil habits of long years. Sarah could not realize that he loved her, and had it not been for her firm confidence in the love which was unending, pitying, strengthening, as the gracious Lord from whom it comes, her every energy must have failed. She exerted herself to effect a reformation in their dwelling and in her father’s slender wardrobe. To look on him, any one would have believed him a very mendicant; yet there were some few articles of clothing easily to be repaired, and so made decent, and this Sarah did. Struck by her method, her perseverance, and the quiet easy way in which she did everything, Esther Cardoza, old, and often ailing as she was, did not disdain to profit by her example; she became more tidy, more careful, and was surprised to find that it was just as easy to be clean and neat, however poor her apparel, as the contrary, and for comfort the one could not be mentioned with the other. One sweet source of pleasure Sarah indeed had. She had excited an ardent desire in the old woman’s mind to become thoroughly acquainted with God’s holy volume, and many an evening did they sit together, and Esther listened to the sweet pleading voice of her young companion, till she felt with her whole heart that God must be with Sarah; she could not be the good, gentle, yet strong-minded creature she was without His help: and then came the thought and belief, that if she sought Him, He would be found too of her, unworthy and lowly as she was. Such a rich treasury of promises did Sarah open to her longing heart and eyes, that she often wondered how she could have been blind so long; and she would thank and bless her with such strong feeling, that Sarah would feel with thankfulness, and chastened joy, in the midst of her own sorrows, that she had not left her own dear home in vain.
“I begin to think, dearie,” Esther one day said, “that I must have been cross and harsh myself, which made folks abuse me as they did; since you have been here, I feel an altered creature, and now meet with kindness instead of wrong.”
“Perhaps you are more inclined to think it kindness,” said Sarah, smiling.
“Perhaps so, dear; but that is all your doing. Since you have read to me, and proved to me that God, even Abraham’s God, cares for and loves me, I am as happy again, and I think if He can love me, why, surely some of my fellow-creatures can too. They cannot be as unjust and harsh as I once thought them. What would have become of me if you had taken my advice, and gone home again?”
“Then you see, Esther, I was not sent here for nothing; humble as I am, I have made one fellow-creature happy.”
“You must make every one happy who talks with you, darling; but I want you to be happy yourself, and you have not come here to be that, I’m thinking.”
“It is better for me that I should not be happy yet, Esther, or our Father would make me so. You know He could, with a word, and He will in His own good time. I did not think I should find one friend, but His love provided you.” Her voice quivered, and she threw her arms round old Esther’s neck, to hide and subdue her emotion, which kindness alone had power to excite.
But though for Esther she had been permitted to do so much, her father seemed neither to understand nor appreciate her; and to change the opinions to which he so often gave vent, and which, from their strangeness and laxity, often actually appalled her, seemed to her utterly impossible. The sacred name of God was with him a common interjection, introduced in every phrase; it mattered not whether called for by anger or vexation, or any other feeling. Sarah shuddered with agony as she heard it—that awful name, which she never dared pronounce save with reverence and love, which should be kept far from all moods and tempers of sin—that name, the holiness of which was enjoined as strictly, as solemnly, as “thou shalt not kill,” and “thou shalt not steal.” She could not conquer the feeling which its constant and sinful use excited, and once so horror-struck was her countenance, that her father marked it and demanded its cause. Tremblingly she told him, and a rude laugh was his reply, coupled with an injunction not to preach to him—words which ever checked her when, in his moments of irritation against the whole world and his own fate, she sought to comfort him by the religion of her own pure mind; she gave up the effort at length, but she did not give up prayer. She would not listen to the agonized supposition that for such as he even the long suffering of an infinitely compassionate God would be of no avail. She prayed and wept for those who prayed not for themselves, and there was comfort in her prayer.
But to pass her life in idleness was impossible. From the first week of her residence in London, she had sought for employment. Her father would not hear of her living out, and so she endeavoured to find daily occupation, or to work at home. In both of these wishes, as old Esther had foreboded, she failed.
In the low neighbourhood where her father dwelt there was no one to employ her, and she had no friend to speak for her in the higher classes. In vain she had at first urged she must seek for a situation in a private family, as upper housemaid, lady’s maid, or nurse. Levison so raged and stormed at the first mention of the plan, that Sarah felt as if she never dared resume it. Yet as weeks passed and the little fund she had brought from Liverpool would very soon be exhausted, something must be done. Our readers, perhaps, think that her idea of the duty she owed her father went so far as even in this to obey him; they are wrong if they do. Sarah’s mind was not of that weak cast which could not discern right from wrong. She knew it was a false and sinful pride which actuated Levison’s refusal. “Jews were Jews,” he declared, “and one class should not serve the other; his daughter was as good as any in the land, and she should not call any one mistress.” Mildly, yet firmly, Sarah resisted his arguments. We have not space to repeat all she said, but her father at length yielded, with an ill grace indeed, and vowing she should go nowhere unless they would let her come to him when he wanted her. But still he yielded, and Sarah thankfully pursued her plan. But, alas! she encountered only disappointment; there were no Jewesses established as milliners, dressmakers, or similar trades in London, and therefore no possibility of her getting occupation with them as she wished. She would not heed old Esther’s assurances that no one would take Jewish servants. Unsophisticated and guileless herself, she could not believe that her nation would refuse their aid and patronage to those of their own faith; and she strained every energy, she conquered her own shrinking diffidence, but all without effect. Again and again the fact of her being a Jewess completed the conference at once. One said that Jewish servants were more plague than enough, they should never enter her house. Another, that their pride and ignorance were beyond all bounds, and as for a proper deference towards their superiors, a willingness to be taught or guided, it was not in their nature. Another, that a Jewish cook might be all very well, but for anything else it was quite out of the question; they knew the low habits, the laziness and insolence that characterised such kind of people, and they certainly would not expose themselves to it with their eyes open. In vain Sarah pleaded for a trial—that she was willing, most willing to be taught her duty; that she was not wholly ignorant, and humbly yet earnestly trusted she was not proud. Her duty to her God had, she hoped, taught her proper deference towards her superiors on earth. Some there were who, only her superiors in point of fortune, stared at her with stupid surprise, and utterly unable to understand such pure and truthful feelings, sharply terminated their conference at once. Others would not even hear her. Some there were really superior in something more than fortune, and anxiously desirous to alleviate distress and aid their poorer brethren, but they shrank from being the first to engage a Jewess as lady’s maid or nurse. Some, touched by her respectful, and gentle manner, would have waived this, but when the question who was her father, was asked and answered, the most kindly intentioned shrank back—it could not be. In vain she told them she had never been under his care, and offered references to many respectable families in Liverpool. A daughter of Levison was no fit servant for any respectable family; they were sorry, but they could do nothing for her.
Day after day, week after week thus passed, till even months had elapsed, and, despite her unwavering faith, Sarah’s weary spirit flagged.
“But why should it be?” she asked one day, as she sat by the rude bed to which poor old Esther was confined, and in answer to her observation, it was only what she had feared; “but why should it be? there must be some reason for our being so shunned. Those of the stranger faith, of course, could not employ us; but our own?—how much better and happier we might be if they would take us into their families, and unite us by kindness on the one hand, and obedience and faithfulness on the other.”
“It certainly would make us happier, but we must be better fitted for it, Sarah, dear, before it can be accomplished,” replied the old woman. “You don’t know anything of the majority of us here; how many of us hate the very idea of going into service. What a dreadful deal of pride is amongst us, and such false pride; we very often throw away those that would be our friends, and repay sometimes with abuse any kindness. Then, again, we want to be taught our proper duties. It is not enough to read our Bibles and prayer-books, because a great many are blinded to what they tell us. We want some one to explain them, and tell us plainly what we ought to do, and may do, without breaking our religion. Because you see, dear, when we were in Jerusalem, some things must have been different to what they can be now; and, as servants, we might be called upon to do some things which we think we ought not. Then, it is all very true about being lazy and sometimes insolent. We must set about doing all we can to be kinder to ourselves, before we can expect anybody to be kinder to us. I see that now quite clearly, though I did not once; but for you, darling, you are good enough for anybody to find a treasure in you. I wish I could help you; there is one good, kind, charitable lady that I would send you to, but a sister of mine behaved so ungratefully to her, that I do not like intruding on her again. She nearly clothed my sister’s little girl, and, would you believe it, Becky went to her house and abused her. What right, forsooth, had she to know that her child wanted clothes.”
Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Indeed, and yes, dear; and so you see, though I had nothing to do with it, I don’t much like to go to Miss Leon again; but you might, though. I am sure she would do what she could for you.”
Sarah eagerly inquired who this Miss Leon was.
“None of your very rich carriage people, dear; indeed I don’t know how she contrives to do all the good she does, for she is not half as rich as many who think themselves poor. She finds out those who want help; she employs all she possibly can; she gets us work from others; makes our interests hers; teaches our girls all sorts of useful knowledge; gives many a poor family the meal on which they break their fast, and all such good acts; comes amongst us, and, somehow or other, always does us good. I don’t know how many people she cured of rheumatism last winter, by supplying them with some doctor’s stuff and warm clothing. Then, as for the girl’s schools, I don’t know what would become of them without her; she gets them work, cuts out all they want, and teaches them often herself. She is a good creature, God bless her! I lost a kind friend by Becky’s behaving as she did, for I never had the face to go to her again, and I would not have her come to this low place; but that she would not mind, as she does not care for the world in doing good.”
Sarah listened eagerly; had she indeed found a friend? yet she checked her rising hopes. Miss Leon might do her service, but might not have the power. Before she could make up her mind to seek her, she received, as was her custom every month at least, a long letter from the dear home she had left; she had stated her many disappointments to her aunt, and that beloved relative entreated her to return.
“Tell your father,” she wrote, “two-thirds you earn shall be honestly sent to him; and you can better, much better, support him here than in London. Entreat him to let you return to us—all our happiness is damped when we think of your heavy trials. Come to us, my love; it can scarcely be your duty to remain any longer where you are.”
Sarah read this letter to her father, hoping more than she dared acknowledge to herself, that he would see how much better it would be for her to return. But for this he was far too selfish. Sarah had so rivetted all the affection which he was capable of feeling, that he would not let her leave him. He was jealous and angry that she should so love her absent friends, and swore that they should not take any more of her heart from him; he would rather remain as he was, than she should work for him at Liverpool; he did not want her labour, he wanted her love, and that she would not give him. Sarah submitted with a strange feeling of consolation amidst her sorrow—did he indeed want her love? Oh, if she could but believe it, she might have some influence over him yet.
Not long after this, as she was sitting reading one morning to poor old Esther that holy book, which was now as great a comfort to Esther as to herself, a lady unexpectedly entered, and before even she heard her name, Sarah guessed who she was. There was the decided manner and kind speech of which Esther had spoken; the plain attire with which, to avert notice, she ever went her rounds of charity; and even had there been none of these peculiarities, the very fact of her coming to that poor place at all proclaimed Miss Leon. She gently upbraided the poor old woman for not letting her know she was ill and needed kindness; would not accept her plea that after her sister’s ungrateful conduct she could have no right to appeal to her, and by a very few judicious words set Esther’s heart at rest. She inquired what her ailing was, seemed to understand it at once, and promised soon to get her about again.
“God bless you, lady dear!” exclaimed the grateful creature, fervently; “only the other day was I talking about you and all you did; not that I wanted you—for you see my threescore and ten years are almost run out, and it signifies little now if I suffer more or less—but for this poor girl, bless you, lady, you could do so much for her. I ought not to call her poor though, for in one sense God has made her rich enough, and she has been a good angel to me.”
With a vivid blush of true modest feeling, that attracted Miss Leon’s penetrative eye at once, Sarah tried to check the old woman’s garrulity, but in vain. She would pour out all that Sarah had done for her, and wanted and suffered for herself, and who she was, and how brought up, and where she came from. Miss Leon meanwhile had quietly taken a seat, and without the smallest symptom of impatience or failing interest, listened to the tale. When it was concluded, she put some questions to Sarah, the answers to which appeared much to please and satisfy her. She promised to do what she could, making, however, no professions that could excite delusive hopes, yet somehow leaving such comfort behind her, that on her departure Sarah sought her own room to pour forth her swelling thanksgiving to God.
Miss Leon never made professions, but she always acted. When it was known amongst her friends where she had been, and whose daughter she intended, if possible, to befriend, a complete storm of advice and warning and censure had to be encountered, but Adelaide Leon was not to be daunted; for advice she was grateful, but timidity and selfish consideration never entered her code of charity. She felt no fear of consequences whatever; even had she to come in contact with Levison himself, she saw nothing very dreadful in it, and as for the censure, she smiled very quietly at the idea; but when her conscience told her she was right, it mattered little what other people said. In a word, she did as most strong-minded, right people do—finally carried her point. She went to see Esther three times that week, and before a month had passed the old woman was able to sit up, doing a little knitting, which Miss Leon herself had taught her; and Sarah went sometimes four days in the week to work at the Square.
A very brief period of intercourse convinced Miss Leon that Sarah certainly was a superior person, and her benevolent intentions did not terminate in merely getting her daily work. She had not enough in her own family to occupy her sufficiently, and many in her circle were too prejudiced to follow her good example.
Now it so happened Miss Leon had a widowed sister, a Mrs. Corea, who had four little girls, and was in want of a young woman to attend on and work for them, and take care of them when they were not with her or their governess. Genteel and modest in her manners, without a portion of pride or insolence, truly and unostentatiously pious, and withal better informed on many subjects than very many who profess a great deal, Sarah was just the very person whom Miss Leon could desire to be with her nieces; but the difficulties she had to contend with, before she accomplished the end, we have no space to dilate on. Mrs. Corea was about as weak-minded, prejudiced, and foolish, as Miss Leon was the contrary. First she had a horror of all low-born people, however they might be brought up; and no one could say but that, if Sarah was Levison’s child, she was the very lowest of the low. Secondly she could not have a Jewess; she would give the children all sorts of superstitious ignorant ideas, and was as helpless and exacting as any fine lady. And thirdly, and most convincing of all, in her own ideas, she did not like the plan, and would not have her; what would people say too—doing what no one else did?
Fortunately for our poor Sarah, Miss Leon never desponded when determined to do good; the more difficulties she had to contend with, the more determined was she to carry her point, and, to the surprise of everybody, even in this she succeeded. Mrs. Corea yielded to perseverance. It was too much trouble to say “no” any longer. She had seen no one that would do, and Adelaide had promised she would take all the blame, and answer everybody who meddled and found fault; and if Sarah did not suit, why Adelaide would take the blame for that too, and never torment her to take a Jewess again.
Sarah did not know all that Miss Leon had encountered in her cause, but she knew it was to her she owed the comfortable situation in which she was at length installed; and the grateful girl not only prayed God to bless her benefactress, but to bless her own efforts, that she might do her duty to her young charge, and, in serving them, prove her gratitude to their aunt.
With her father she had at first a difficult part to play. He, of course, could not be allowed to come to the house to see her, and he had sworn she should go nowhere, where he might not be admitted. A voiceless prayer that his heart might be changed rose from Sarah’s heart, as she attempted to tell him of her plans; and the prayer was heard, for, to her own astonishment, her gentle arguments and meek persuasions were successful. His anger subsided at first into sullenness, then he seemed endeavouring to conceal some strong emotion, and at last, as she drew closer to him, trembling and fearful, conjuring his reply, he caught her in his arms, kissed her again and again, bade God bless her and spare her till he was a better man, when she would love him more. He knew she could not as he was; but for her sake there was nothing she could not persuade him to do; she did not know how much he loved her, and, as Sarah sobbed from many varied feelings on his bosom, she thanked God that He had called her to her father, and permitted her even in the midst of sorrow and sin to cling to him still.
CHAPTER IV.
Our readers must imagine a period of eighteen months since we bade them farewell. But few changes had taken place, Leah, Simeon, and Joseph continued in their respective situations, every year increasing their wages, and riveting the esteem and goodwill of their employers.
The widow might have had another home in a gayer part of the town, but she refused to leave the lowly dwelling she had so dearly loved, until Leah or one of her sons had a home, to keep which she was needed. One change in the widow’s household had indeed taken place, for Ruth was in London. Sarah’s excellent conduct had interested Miss Leon not only in herself, but in her family. As they were all comfortably providing for themselves, Miss Leon could find no object for her active benevolence but the little Ruth. The poor child had not indeed so many resources as many similarly afflicted, for though all were desirous, none knew how to teach her. It so happened Miss Leon was peculiarly interested in Ruth, because she had once had a sister who was blind; one whom she had so dearly loved, that she had learned the whole method of tuition for the blind simply for that sister’s sake. She died just when she was of an age to know all that affection had done for her; and Miss Leon now offered to impart all she knew to Ruth, to give her board and lodging at her house till she was enabled to earn something for herself, when she herself would send her to her mother.
It was a hard struggle before the widow could consent to part with her darling; but the representations of Leah and Simeon, and Ruth’s own yearnings to be able to do something for herself, overcame all selfish considerations. She could not feel Miss Leon a stranger, for her kindness to Sarah had made her name never spoken without a blessing, and Sarah would always be near Ruth to watch over and write of her; and so with tears of thankfulness the widow consented. Leah was often permitted to take her work to the widow’s cottage and pursue it there; and the little Christian girl, to whom Ruth and Sarah had been so kind, was delighted to come and do any cleaning or scouring in the house, or sit with the widow and work and read for her, to prove how grateful she was.
And where was Reuben Perez all this while? Were his mother’s prayers for him still unanswered? Alas! farther and farther did they seem from fulfilment. He had left Liverpool to accept, in conjunction with his father-in-law, the management of a bank, in one of the smaller towns of Yorkshire, and, of course, even his casual visits were discontinued. Not that they were of much avail, going as he did; but still his mother had hoped, against her better reason, that while near her he would never entirely take himself away. Now that hope was at an end. He was thrown entirely amongst Gentiles, and Sabbaths and holidays seemed wholly given up. He did not often write home, but when he did, always affectionately; and his mother’s allowance was regularly paid. She yearned to see and bless him once again, but months, above a year passed, and his foot had never passed her threshold.
With regard to Sarah, a very few months’ association with her, though only in the relative positions of mistress and servant, had completely conquered Mrs. Corea’s prejudices; and the very indolence and foolishness, which had originally been so difficult to overcome, was now as likely to ruin as they formerly had been to oppose. But fortunately Sarah was not one for indulgence and confidence to spoil; indeed she often regretted her mistress’s indolence, from the responsibility it devolved on her. Mrs. Corea had repeatedly allowed herself to be cheated and deceived, because it was too much trouble to find fault. She often permitted the most serious annoyances in her establishment—keys and even money repeatedly lying about, her children neglected, their clothes often thrown aside long before they were worn out. In a very few months Sarah’s ready mind discovered this state of things. One only she had the power of herself to remedy—the neglect of her charge; and so admirably did she do her duty by them, that Miss Leon felt herself amply rewarded. Finding it was of no use to entreat Mrs. Corea to have more regard to her own interest, and not allow herself so repeatedly to be deceived, Sarah in distress appealed to Miss Leon, who quietly smiled, and assured her she would soon settle matters entirely to Mrs. Corea’s satisfaction. She did so, by giving to Sarah’s care almost the entire charge of the housekeeping, with strict injunctions to take care of her mistress’s keys and purse, whenever she saw them lying about. Sarah at first painfully shrunk from the responsibility, knowing well it would expose her yet more to the dislike of her fellow-servants, who, as a Jewess, already regarded her with prejudice. Mrs. Corea was charmed that such a vast amount of trouble was spared her; telling everybody Sarah was a treasure, and she only wondered there were not more Jewish servants.
But our readers must not imagine that Sarah’s situation was all delightful. She had many painful prejudices to bear with, many slights and unkindness in her fellow-servants to forgive and forget, many jests at her peculiar religion, and ridicule at its forms—much that, to a character less gently firm and forbearing, would have led to such domestic bickering and misery, that she would have been compelled to leave her place, or perhaps have been induced weakly to hide, if it did not shake her reverence for, the observance of her ancient faith. But Sarah had not read her Bible in vain. She had not now to learn that such prejudice and scorn were of God, not of man. That He permitted these things, in His wisdom, to teach His people, though they were still His own, still His beloved, their sins had demanded chastisement, and thus received it. That the very prejudice in which by the ignorant they were held, was proof of the Bible’s truth—proof that they were His chosen and His firstborn; and more consolatory still, that as the threatenings were thus fulfilled, so, in His own good time, would be His promises. Sarah never wavered in the line of duty which she had marked out for herself—to make manifest that her faith was of God by actions, not by words; and she so far succeeded, that after a while peace was established between her and her fellow-servants. They began to think, even if she were a heathen, she was a very harmless and often a very kind one, and there was not so much difference between them as at first they had fancied.
These are but trifling things to mention; but we most particularly wish our readers to understand that though good conduct will inevitably find reward even on earth, it is not to be expected that it will have no trials. Virtue and religion will not exempt us from suffering, but they teach us so to bear them, that we can derive consolation and unfailing hope even in the darkest hours; and, instead of raising a barrier between us and our God, they draw us nearer and nearer to Him, till we can realize His immeasurable love towards us; and tracing every suffering from His hand sent for our good, to love Him more and more, and in that very love find comfort. Do not then let us practise religion and virtue because we think they have power to shield us from all trial and sorrow, but simply for the love of Him who bids us practise them, and who has promised, if we seek Him, He will heal our sorrows and heighten our joys.
One unspeakable source of comfort Sarah had: it was that her influence with her father rather increased than lessened with him. Once every month she spent the Sabbath evening with him, and she felt that indeed he loved her. Old Esther told her, even that when she was absent he was an altered man. He sought employment, and after some difficulty found it, though it was of a kind so humble, that before Sarah came to town he would have spurned it as so derogatory to his pride, he would rather starve than have it; but now it was welcome, because he would not be a burden on his Sarah. His Sarah!—every dormant virtue seemed to spring into life with those dear precious words. The very interjections of that sacred name of God, which had been once ever on his lips, were now constantly checked. “She does not like it, my angel Sarah, and I will not say it,” Esther heard him mutter when the accustomed phrase broke from him; and many other evil habits, that thought—“my angel Sarah”—had equal power to remove. The bad man seemed fast breaking from his sins, and it was from the influence of his gentle pious child. The father was at work within him, and God blessed him through that feeling, and through his daughter’s unceasing prayers. Every time Sarah visited him she saw more to hope, more for which with grateful tears to bless her God; and each time to love him more, and feel she was yet more beloved.