"I see how it is, my daughter. You are suffering, and those you love are
suffering too. But must you surrender your faith on that account? Look
round at the pictures on these walls [the Stations of the Cross]. Think
of the Great Sufferer, the Great Martyr, who in the hour of His death,
at the malicious power of the world, cried, '_Eloi, Eloi, lama
sabachthani_: My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?'"
I had dropped to my knees by now, my head was down, and my hands were
clasped together.
"You are wrong, my child, if you think God does not care for you because
He allows you to suffer. Are you rich? Are you prosperous? Have you
every earthly blessing? Then beware, for Satan is watching for your
soul. But are you poor? Are you going through unmerited trouble? Have
you lost some one who was dearer to you than your heart of hearts? Then
take courage, for our holy and blessed Saviour has marked you for His
own."
I know nothing of that priest except his whispering voice, which, coming
through the grating of the confessional, produced the effect of the
supernatural, but I thought then, and I think now, that he must have
been a great as well as a good man.
I perfectly recollect that, when I left the church and passed into the
streets, it seemed as if his spirit went with me and built up in my soul
a resolution that was bright with heavenly tears and sunshine.
Work! Work! Work! I should work still harder than before. No matter how
mean, ill-paid, and uncongenial my work might be, I should work all day
and all night if necessary. And since I had failed to get my child into
an orphanage, it was clearly intended that I should keep her with me,
for my own charge and care and joy.
This was the mood in which I returned to the house of the Jew.
It was Saturday morning, and though the broader thoroughfares of the
East End were crowded and the narrower streets full of life, the Jew's
house was silent, for it was the Jewish Sabbath.
As I went hurriedly upstairs I heard the Jew himself, who was dressing
for the synagogue, singing his Sabbath hymn: _Lerho daudee likras
kollo_--"Come, O friend, let us go forth to meet the Bride, let us
receive the Sabbath with joy!"
Then came a shock.
When I reached my room I found, to my dismay, that the pile of vests
which I had left on my bed on going out the day before had been removed;
and just as I was telling myself that no one else except Mrs.
Abramovitch had a key to my door I heard shuffling footsteps on the
stair, and knew that her husband was coming up to me.
A moment afterwards the Jew stood in my doorway. He was dressed in his
Sabbath suit and, free from the incongruous indications of his homely
calling, the patriarchal appearance which had first struck me was even
more marked than before. His face was pale, his expression was severe,
and if his tongue betrayed the broken English of the Polish Jew, I, in
my confusion and fear, did not notice it then.
My first thought was that he had come to reprove me for neglecting my
work, and I was prepared to promise to make up for my absence. But at a
second glance I saw that something had happened, something had become
known, and that he was there to condemn and denounce me.
"You have been out all night," he said. "Can you tell me where you have
been?"
I knew I could not, and though it flashed upon me to say that I had
slept at the house of a friend, I saw that, if he asked who my friend
was, and what, I should be speechless.
The Jew waited for my reply and then said:
"You have given us a name--can you say it is your true and right one?"
Again I made no answer, and after another moment the Jew said:
"Can you deny that you have a child whom you have hidden from our
knowledge?"