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HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES
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[Illustration: Frontispiece]
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HOME SCENES
AND
HEART STUDIES
By
Grace Aguilar
London:
GROOMBRIDGE AND SONS.
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HOME SCENES
AND
HEART STUDIES.
BY
GRACE AGUILAR,
AUTHOR OF “WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP;”
“THE DAYS OF BRUCE;” “THE VALE OF CEDARS;” ETC., ETC.
_Thirteenth Edition._
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
HYDE W. BRISCOE.
LONDON:
GROOMBRIDGE AND SONS
1876.
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HERTFORD:
SIMSON AND GROOMBRIDGE,
PRINTERS.
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CONTENTS.
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THE PEREZ FAMILY 1
THE STONE-CUTTER’S BOY OF 95
POSSAGNO
AMÊTE AND YAFÉH 104
THE FUGITIVE 109
THE EDICT: A TALE OF 1492 122
THE ESCAPE: A TALE OF 1755 162
RED ROSE VILLA 186
GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER 205
THE AUTHORESS 227
HELON 245
LUCY 253
THE SPIRIT’S ENTREATY 273
IDALIE 277
LADY GRESHAM’S FÊTE 303
THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE 319
THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT 369
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER 375
“CAST THY BREAD UPON THE 383
WATERS”
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 400
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HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES.
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_The Perez Family._
CHAPTER I.
LEADING out of one of those close, melancholy alleys in the environs of
Liverpool, was a small cottage, possessing little of comfort or beauty
in outward appearance, but much in the interior in favour of its
inhabitants; cleanliness and neatness were clearly visible, greatly in
contradistinction to the neighbouring dwellings. There were no heaps of
dirt and half-burnt ashes, no broken or even cracked panes in the
brightly shining windows, not a grain of unseemly dust or stains either
on door or ledge,—so that even poverty itself looked respectable. The
cottage stood apart from the others, with a good piece of ground for a
garden, which, stretching from the back, led through a narrow lane, to
the banks of the Mersey, and thus permitted a fresher current of air.
The garden was carefully and prettily laid out, and planted with the
sweetest flowers; the small parlour and kitchen of the cottage opened
into it, and so, greatly to the disappointment and vexation of the
gossips of the alley, nothing could be gleaned of the sayings and doings
of its inmates. Within the cottage the same refinement was visible; the
furniture, though old and poor, was always clean and neatly arranged.
The _Mezzuzot_ (Deut. vi. 9, 20) were carefully secured to every
door-post, and altogether there was an indescribable something pervading
the dwelling, that in the very midst of present poverty seemed to tell
of former and more prosperous days.
Simeon and Rachel Perez had married with every prospect of getting on
well in the world. Neither were very young; for though they had been
many years truly devoted to each other, they were prudent, and had
waited till mutual industry had removed many of the difficulties and
obstacles to their union. All which might have been irksome was
persevered in through the strength of this honest, unchanging affection;
and when the goal was gained, and they were married, all the period of
their mutual labour seemed but as a watch in the night, compared to the
happiness they then enjoyed.
Simeon had been for several years foreman to a watchmaker, and was
remarkably skilful in the business. Rachel had been principal assistant
to a mantua-maker, and all her leisure hours were employed in plaiting
straw and various fancy works, which greatly increased her little store.
Never forgetting the end they had in view, their mutual savings had so
accumulated, that on their marriage, Perez was enabled to set up a small
shop, which, conducted with honesty and economy, soon flourished, and
every year brought in something to lay aside, besides amply providing
for their fast-increasing family.
The precepts of their God were obeyed by this worthy couple, not only in
word but in deed. They proved their love for their heavenly Father, not
only in their social and domestic conduct, but in such acts of charity
and kindness, that many wondered how they could do so much for others
without wronging their own. Perez and his wife were, however, if
possible, yet more industrious and economical after their marriage than
before, and many a time preferred to sacrifice a personal indulgence for
the purer pleasure of doing good to others; and never did they do so
without feeling that God blessed them in the deed.
A painful event calling Perez to London was the first alloy to their
happiness. A younger sister of his wife, less prudent because, perhaps,
possessed of somewhat more personal attraction, had won the attentions
of a young man who had come down to Liverpool, he said, for a week’s
pleasure. No one knew anything about Isaac Levison. As a companion,
Perez himself owned he was very entertaining, but that was not quite
sufficient to make him a good husband. Assurances that he was well able
to support a wife and family, with Perez and Rachel (they were not then
married), went for nothing; they wanted proofs, and these he either
could not or would not bring; but in vain they remonstrated. Leah had
never liked their authority or good example, and in this point
determined to have her own way.
They were married, and left Liverpool to reside in London, and Leah’s
communications were too few and far between to betray much concerning
their circumstances. At length came a letter, stating that Leah was a
mother, but telling also that poverty and privation had stolen upon
them. Their substance in a few troubled years had made itself wings, and
flown away when most needed, and Leah now applied for assistance to
those very friends whose kindness and virtues she had so often treated
with contempt. The fact was, Levison had embarked all his little capital
(collected no one knew how) in an establishment dashing in appearance,
but wanting the basis of honesty and religion. After seeming to flourish
for a few years, it, of course, failed at last, exposing its proprietors
to deserved odium and distrust, and their families to irretrievable
distress.
For seven years Perez and his wife almost supported Leah and her child
(secretly indeed, for no one in Liverpool imagined they had need to do
so). Leah was still too dear, for the faults and follies of her husband,
and perhaps her own imprudences, to form any subject of conversation
with her relatives.
At length Leah wrote that she was ill, very ill. She thought the hand of
death was on her; and she feared it for her child, her darling Sarah,
whom she had striven to preserve pure amidst the scenes of misery and
sin which she now confessed but too often neared her dwelling. What
would become of her? Who would protect her? How dared she appeal to the
God of the orphan, when her earthly father yet lived, seeming to forget
there was a God? Perez and his wife perused that sad letter together;
but ere it was completed, Rachel had sunk in bitter tears upon his
bosom, seeking to speak the boon which was in her heart; but, though it
found no words, Perez answered—
“You are right, dear wife; one more will make little difference in our
household. Providence blessed us with four children, and has been
pleased to deprive us of one. Sarah shall take her place: and in
snatching her from the infection of vice and shame, may we not ask and
hope a blessing? Do not weep then, my Rachel; Leah may not be so ill as
she thinks. I will go and bring her and her child; and there may be
happy days in store for them yet.”
Perez departed that same night by the mail to London; but, prompt as he
was, poor Leah’s sufferings were terminated before his arrival. Her
death, though in itself a painful shock, was less a subject of misery
and depression to a mind almost rigid in its notions of integrity and
honour as that of Perez, than the fearful state of wretchedness and
shame into which Isaac Levison had fallen. Perez soon perceived that all
hope of effecting a reformation was absolute folly. His poor child had
been so repeatedly prevented attending school, by his intemperate or
violent conduct, that she was at length excluded. Levison could give no
good reason for depriving his little girl of these advantages, except
that he hated the elders who were in office; that he did not see why
some should be rich and some should be poor, and why the former should
lord it over the latter. He was as good as they were any day, and his
daughter should not be browbeaten or governed by any one, however she
might call herself a lady. To reason with folly, Perez felt was
foolishness, and so he contented himself with entreating Levison to
permit his taking the little Sarah, at least for a time, into his
family. Levison imagined Perez was the same rank as himself, and,
therefore, that his pride could not be injured by his consenting. Equal
in _birth_ perhaps they were, but as far removed in their present ranks
as vice from virtue, dishonesty from truth.
Perez, however, glad and grateful for having gained his point, made no
comment on the many muttered remarks of his brother-in-law, as to his
_conferring_, not _receiving_ an obligation, by giving his child to the
care of her aunt, but hastened home, longing to offer the best comfort
to his wife’s sorrow by placing the rescued Sarah in her arms. And it
was a comfort, for gradually Rachel traced a hand of love even in this
affliction; the loss of her mother, under such circumstances, proving
perhaps, in the end, a blessing to the child, if her father would but
leave her with them. She feared that he would not at first; but Perez
smiled at the fear as foolishness, and it gradually dwindled away; for
years passed, and the little Sarah grew from childhood into womanhood,
still an inmate of her uncle’s family, almost forgetting she had any
father but himself.
But it is not to the unrighteous or the irreligious only that
misfortunes come. Nay, _they_ may flourish for a time, and give no
evidence that there is a just and merciful God who ruleth. But even
those who have loved and served Him through long years of probity and
justice, and who, according to frail human perceptions, would look for
nothing but favour at His hand, are yet afflicted with many sorrows; and
our feeble and insufficient wisdom would complain that such things are.
If this world were all, then indeed we might murmur and rebel; but our
God himself has assured us, “There will come a day when He will discern
between the righteous and the wicked; between those who serve God and
those who serve Him not.” And it is our part to wait patiently for that
day, and that better world where that word will be fulfilled.
Perez had now five children. Reuben, his eldest son, was full five years
older than the rest, a circumstance of rejoicing to Perez, as he hoped
his son would supply his place to his family, should he be called away
before the threescore and ten years allotted as the age of man.
To do all he could towards obtaining this end, Perez early associated
his son with him in his own business of watch-making; but too soon,
unhappily, the parents discovered that a heavy grief awaited them, from
him to whom they had most fondly looked for joy. They had indeed striven
and prayed to train up their child in the way he should go, but it
seemed as if his after years would not confirm the sage monarch’s
concluding words. Wild, thoughtless, and headstrong, Reuben, after a
very brief trial, determined that his father’s business was not
according to his taste, and he could not follow it. His father’s
authority indeed kept him steady for a few years, but it was continued
rebellion and reproof: and often and often the father’s hard-earned
savings were sacrificed for the wild freaks and extravagance of the son.
Perez trembled lest the other members of his family, equally dear,
should suffer eventual loss; but there is something in the hearts of
Jewish parents towards an eldest son, which calls imperatively for
indulgence towards, and concealment of his failings. Again and again
Perez expended sums much larger than he could conveniently afford, in
endeavouring to fix his son in business according to his inclinations;
but no sooner was he apparently settled and comfortable, and his really
excellent abilities fairly drawn forth, than, by negligence or
inattention, or some graver misdemeanour, he disgusted his employers,
and, after a little longer trial, was returned on his father’s hands.
Deeply and bitterly his parents grieved, using every affectionate
argument to convince him of the evil of his ways, and bring him back
again to the paths of joy. They did not desist, however their efforts
and prayers seemed alike unanswered; they did not fail in faith, though
often it was trembling and faint within them. One hope they had; Reuben
was not hardened. Often he would repent in tears and agony of spirit and
deplore his own ill fate, that he was destined to bring misery to
parents he so dearly loved. But he refused to believe that it only
needed energy to rouse himself from his folly, for as yet it was
scarcely more. He said he could not help himself, could not effect any
change, and therefore made no effort to do so. But that which grieved
his parents far more than all else, was his total indifference to the
religion of his forefathers. His ears, even as his heart and mind, were
closed to those divine truths his parents had so carefully inculcated.
He knew his duty too well to betray infidelity and indifference in their
presence, but they loved him too well to be blind to their existence.
“What is it to be a Jew,” they heard him once say to a companion, “but
to be cut off from every honourable and manly employment? To be bound,
fettered to an obsolete belief, which does but cramp our energies, and
bind us to detestable trade. No wonder we are looked upon with contempt,
believed to be bowed, crushed to the very earth, as void of all spirit
or energy, only because we have no opportunity of showing them.”
Little did he know the bitter tears these words wrung from his poor
mother, that no sleep visited his father’s eyes that night. Was this an
answer to their anxious prayer? Yet they trusted still.
Anxiety and grief did not prevent Perez attending to his business; but
either from the many drains upon his little capital, or that trade was
just at that time in a very low state, his prosperity had begun visibly
to decrease. And not long afterwards a misfortune occurred productive of
much more painful affliction than even the loss of property which it so
seriously involved. A dreadful fire broke out in the neighbourhood,
gaining such an alarming height ere it was discovered, that assistance
was almost useless. Amongst the greatest sufferers were Perez and his
family. Their happy home was entirely consumed, and all the little
valuables it had contained completely destroyed. Perez gazed on ruin.
For one brief moment he stood as thunderstricken, but then a terrible
shriek aroused him. He looked around. He thought he had seen all whom he
loved in safety, but at one glance he saw his little Ruth was not there.
His wife had caught a glimpse of the child in a part of the building
which the flames had not yet reached, and with that wild shriek had
flown to save her. He saw her as she made her way through falling
rafters and blazing walls; he made a rush forward to join and rescue or
die with her; but his children clung round him in speechless terror; his
friends and neighbours seconded them, and before he could effectually
break from them, a loud congratulatory shout proclaimed that the daring
mother had reached her child. A dozen ladders were hurried forward,
their bearers all eager to be the first to plant the means of effectual
escape; and clasping her Ruth closely to her breast, regardless of her
increasing weight (for terror had rendered the poor child utterly
powerless), the mother’s step was on the ladder, and a hush fell upon
the assembled hundreds. There was no sound save the roar of the
devouring element and the play of the engines. The flames were just
nearing the beam on which the ladder leaned, but hope was strong that
Rachel would reach the ground ere this frail support gave way; and
numbers pressed round, regardless of the suffocating smoke and heat, in
the vain hope of speeding her descent.
Perez had ceased his struggles the moment his wife appeared. With
clasped hands, and cheeks and lips so blanched, as even in that lurid
light to startle by their ghastliness, he remained, his eyes starting
from their sockets in their intense and agonized gaze. He saw only his
wife and child; but his children, with horror which froze their very
blood, could only look on the fast-approaching flames. A wild cry of
terror was bursting from young Joseph, Ruth’s twin brother, but Sarah,
with instinctive feeling, dreading lest that cry should reach his
mother’s ears and awaken her to her danger, caught him in her arms, and
soothed him into silence.
Carefully and slowly Rachel descended. She gave no look around her. No
one knew if she were conscious of her danger, which was becoming more
and more imminent. Then came a smothered groan from all, all save the
husband and the father. The flame had reached the beam,—it
cracked—caught—the top of the ladder was wreathed with smoke and fire.
Was there faltering in her step, or did the frail support fail beneath
her weight? The half was past, but one-third to the ground remained;
fiercer and fiercer the flames roared and rose above her, but yet there
was hope. It failed, the beam gave way, the ladder fell, and Rachel and
her child were precipitated to the ground. A heavy groan mingled with
the wild shriek of horror which burst around. Perez rushed like a maniac
forward; but louder, shriller above it all a cry resounded “Mother!
mother! oh God, my mother! why was I not beside you, to save Ruth in
your stead? Mother, speak; oh speak to me again!” And the father and
son, each unconscious of the others presence, met beside what seemed the
lifeless body of one to both so dear.
But Rachel was not dead, though fearfully injured; and it was in the
long serious illness that followed, Reuben proved that despite his many
faults and follies, affection was not all extinguished; love for his
mother remained in its full force, and in his devotion to her, his
almost woman’s tenderness, not only towards her, but towards his little
sister Ruth, whose eyes had been so injured by the heat and smoke as to
occasion total blindness, he demonstrated qualities only too likely so
to gain a woman’s heart, as to shut her eyes to all other points of
character save them.
A subscription had indeed been made for the sufferers by the fire, but
they were so numerous, that the portion of individuals was of course but
small; and even this Perez’ honest nature shrunk in suffering from
accepting. Religious and energetic as he was, determined not to evince
by word or sign how completely his spirit was crushed, and thus give the
prejudiced of other faiths room to say, “the Jew has no resource, no
comfort,” he yet felt that he himself would never be enabled to hold up
his head again, felt it at the very moment friends and neighbours were
congratulating him on the equanimity, the cheerfulness with which he met
and bore up against affliction.
Yet even now, when the sceptic and unbeliever would have said, surely
the God he has so faithfully served had deserted him, Perez felt he was
not deserted, that he had not laboured honestly and religiously so long
in vain. The wild and wayward conduct of the son could not, in candid
and liberal minds, tarnish the character of the father; and thus he was
enabled easily and pleasantly to obtain advantageous situations for his
two elder children.
The dwelling to which we originally introduced our reader was then to
let; and from its miserably dilapidated condition (for when Perez first
saw it, it was not as we described), at a remarkably low rent. An
influential friend made it habitable, and thither, some three months
after the fire, the family removed.
And where was Sarah Levison in the midst of these changes and
affliction? In their heavy trial, did Rachel and Perez never regret they
had made her as their own? nor permit the murmuring thought to enter
that, as the girl had a father, they had surely no need to support an
additional burden? To such questions we think our readers will scarcely
need an answer. As their own daughter Leah, they loved and cherished
their niece, whose affection and gratitude towards them was yet stronger
and more devoted than that of their own child, affectionate as she was.
Leah had never known other than kind untiring parents, never, even in
dreams, imagined the misery in which her cousin’s early years had
passed. To Sarah, life had been a strange dark stream of grief and
wrath, until she became an inmate of her uncle’s house. Though only just
seventeen when these heavy sorrows took place, her peculiarly quiet and
reflective character and strong affections endowed her with the
experience of more advanced age. She not only felt, but acted. Entering
into the feelings alike of her uncle and aunt, she unconsciously soothed
and strengthened both. She taught Leah’s young and, from its high and
joyous temperament, somewhat rebellious spirit, submission and
self-control. She strengthened in the young Simeon the ardent desire to
work, and not only assist his father now, but to raise him again to his
former station in life. She found time to impart to the little Joseph
such instruction as she thought might aid in gaining him employment.
Untiringly, caressingly, she nursed both her aunt and the poor little
patient sufferer Ruth, telling such sweet tales of heaven and its
beautiful angels, and earth and its pleasant places, and kind deeds,
that the child would forget her sorrow as she listened, and fancy the
sweet music of that gentle voice had never seemed so sweet before; and
while it spoke she could forget to wish to look once more on the flowers
and trees and sky. And Reuben, what was his cousin Sarah not to him in
these months of remorseful agony, when he felt as if he could never more
displease or grieve his parents; when again and again he cursed himself
as the real cause of his father’s ruin; for had not such large sums been
wasted upon him, there might have been still capital enough to have set
him afloat again? For several days and nights Sarah and Reuben had been
joint-watchers beside the beds of suffering; and the gentle voice of the
former consoled, even while to the divine comfort and hope which she
proffered Reuben felt his heart was closed. He bade her speak on; he
seemed, in those still silent hours, to feel that without her gentle
influence his very senses must have wandered; and that heart must have
been colder and harsher than Sarah’s which could have done other than
believe she was not indifferent to him. Sarah did not think of many
little proofs of affection at the time; she was only conscious that, at
the very period heavy affliction had visited her uncle’s family, a new
feeling, a new energy had awakened within her heart, and she was
happy—oh, so happy!
It was to Sarah’s exertions their new dwelling owed the comfort,
cleanliness, and almost luxury of its interior arrangements; her example
inspired Leah to throw aside the proud disdain with which she at first
regarded their new home—to conquer the rebellious feeling which prompted
her to entreat her father to apprentice her anywhere, so she need not
live so differently at home, and not only to conquer that sinful pride,
but use her every energy to rouse her natural spirits, and make her
parents forget how their lot was changed: and the girl did so; for, in
spite of youthful follies, there was good solid sense and warm feelings
on which to work.
Sarah and Leah, then, worked in the interior, and Perez and Simeon
improved the exterior of the house, so that when the little family
assembled, there was comfort and peace around them, and thus their song
of praise and thanksgiving mingled with and hallowed the customary
prayer, with which the son of Israel ever sanctifies his newly-appointed
dwelling.
Rachel could no longer work as she had done; her right arm had been so
severely injured as to be nearly useless, but Sarah supplied her place
so actively, so happily, that Rachel felt she had no right to murmur at
her own uselessness: the poor motherless girl she had taken to her heart
and home returned tenfold all that had been bestowed. She could have
entered into more than one lucrative situation, but she would not hear
of leaving that home which she knew needed her presence and her
services; and this was not the mere impulse of the moment—week after
week, month after month, found her active, affectionate, persevering as
at first.
The most painful circumstance in their present dwelling was its low
neighbourhood; and partially to remedy this evil, Sarah prevailed on her
uncle to employ his leisure in cultivating the little garden behind the
house, making their sitting-room and kitchen open into it, and
contriving an entrance through them, so as scarcely to use the front,
except for ingress and egress which necessity compelled. This
arrangement was productive of a twofold good; it prevented all gossiping
intercourse, which their neighbours had done all they could to
introduce, and gave Perez an occupation which interested him, although
he might never have thought of it himself. Both local and national
disadvantages often unite to debar the Jews from agriculture, and
therefore it is a branch in which they are seldom, if ever, employed.
Their scattered state among the nations, the occupations which misery
and persecution compel them to adopt, are alone to blame for those
peculiar characteristics which cause them to herd in the most miserable
alleys of crowded cities, rather than the pure air and cheaper living of
the country. Perez found pleasure and a degree of health in his new
employment; the delight which it was to his poor little blind Ruth to
sit by his side while he worked, and inhale the reviving scent of the
newly-turned earth or budding flowers, would of itself have inspired
him, but his wife too shared the enjoyment. It was a pleasure to her to
take the twins by her side, and teach them their God was a God of love,
alike through His inspired word and through His works; and Joseph and
Ruth learned to love their new house better than their last, because it
had a garden and flowers, and they learned from that much more than they
had ever learned before.
For nine months all was cheerfulness and joy in that lowly dwelling. The
heavy sorrow and disquiet had partially subsided. Reuben was more often
at home, and seemed more steadily and honourably employed. Twice in six
months he had poured his earnings in his mothers lap, and while he
lingered caressingly by her side, how might she doubt or fear for him?
though when absent, his non-attendance at the synagogue, his too evident
indifference to his faith, his visible impatience at all its enjoyments,
caused many an anxious hour. Simeon and Leah gave satisfaction to their
employers, and Sarah earned sufficient to make her aunt’s compelled
idleness of little consequence. Perez himself had been gladly received
by his former master, as his principal journeyman, at excellent wages;
and could he have felt less painfully the bitter change in his lot, all
might have been well. Pride, however, was unhappily his heirloom, as
well as that of Levison. With Perez it had always acted as a good
spirit—with Levison as a bad; inciting the former to all honourable
deeds and thoughts, and acting as religion’s best agent in guarding him
from wrong. Now, however, it was to enact a different part. In vain his
solid good sense argued misfortune was no shame, and that he was as
high, in a moral point of view, as he had ever been. Equally vain was
the milder, more consoling voice of religion, in assuring him a Father’s
hand had sent the affliction, and therefore it was love; that he failed
in submission if he could not bear up against it. In vain conscience
told him, while she was at rest and glad, all outward things should be
the same; that while his wife and children had been so mercifully
preserved, thankfulness, not grief, should be his portion. Pride, that
dark failing which will cling to Judaism, bore all other argument away,
and crushed him. Had he complained or given way to temper, his health
perhaps would not have been injured; but he was silent on his own
griefs, even to his wife, for he knew their encouragement was wrong.
There was no outward change in his appearance or physical power, and had
he not been attacked by a cold and fever, occasioned by a very inclement
winter, the wreck of his constitution might never have been discovered.
But trifling as his ailments at first appeared, it was but too soon
evident that he had no strength to rally from them. Gradually, yet
surely, he sunk, and with a grief which, demonstrating itself in each
according to their different characters, was equally violent in all, his
afflicted family felt they dared not hope, the husband and the father
was passing to his home above, and they would soon indeed be desolate.
It was verging towards the early spring, when one evening Perez lay on
his lowly pallet surrounded by his family; his hand was clasped in that
of his wife, whose eyes were fixed on him with a look of such deep love,
it was scarcely possible to gaze on her without tears; the other rested
lightly on the beautiful curls of his little Ruth, who, resting on a
wooden stool close beside his bed, sometimes lifted up her sightless
orbs, as if, in listening to the dear though now, alas! but too faint
voice, she could see his beloved face once more. One alone was
absent—one for whom the father yearned as the patriarch Jacob for his
Joseph. Reuben had been sent by his employer to Manchester, and though
it was more than time for him to return, and tidings of his father’s
illness had been faithfully transmitted, he was still away. No one spoke
of him, yet he was thought of by all; so little had his conduct
alienated the affections of his family, that no one would utter aloud
the wish for his presence, lest it should seem reproach; but the eyes of
his mother, when they could turn from her husband, ever sought the door,
and once, as an eager step seemed to approach, she had risen hastily and
descended breathlessly, but it passed on, and she returned to her
husband’s pallet with large tears stealing down her cheeks.
“Rachel, my own dear wife, do not weep thus; he will come yet,”
whispered Perez, clasping her hands in both his; “and if he do not, oh,
may God bless him still! Tell him there was no thought of anger or
reproach within me. My firstborn, first beloved, beloved through all—for
wayward, indifferent as he is, he is still my son—perhaps if he tarry
till too late, remorse may work upon him for good, may awaken him to
better thoughts, and if our God in His mercy detain him for this, we
must not grieve that he is absent.”
For a moment he paused; then he added, mournfully, “I had hoped he would
have supplied my place—would have been to you, my Rachel, to his
brothers and sisters, all that a firstborn should; but it may not be.
God’s will be done!”
“Oh, no, no; do not say it may not be, dear uncle! Think how young he
is! Is there not hope still?” interposed Sarah, so earnestly, that the
colour rose to her cheeks. “He will be here, I know he will, or the
letter has not reached him. You cannot doubt his love; and whilst there
is love, is there not, must there not be hope?”
The dying man looked on her with a faint, sad smile. “I do not doubt his
love, my child; but oh, if he love not his God, his love for a mortal
will not keep him from the evil path. His youth is but a vain plea, my
Sarah; if he see not his duty as a son and brother in Israel now, when
may we hope he will? but you are right in bidding me not despond. He is
my heaviest care in death; but my God can lighten even that.”
“Death,” sobbed Leah, suddenly flinging herself on her knees beside the
bed and covering her father’s hand with tears and kisses, “death!
Father, dear, dear father, do not say that dreadful word! You will live,
you must live—God will not take you from us!”
“My child, call not death a dreadful word, it is only such to the evil
doers, to the proud and wicked men, of whom David tells us, ‘They shall
not stand in the judgment, nor enter the congregation of the righteous,
but shall be as chaff which the wind driveth away.’ For them death is
fearful, for it is an end of all things; but not to me is it thus, my
beloved ones. I have sought to love and serve my God in health and life,
and His deep love and fathomless mercy is guiding me now, holding me up
here through the dark shadows of death. His compassion is upon my soul
whispering my sins are all forgiven, that he has called me unto Him in
love, and not in wrath. There was a time I feared and trembled at the
bare dream of death; but now, oh, it seems but as the herald of joy, of
bliss which will never, never change. My children, think that I go to
God, and do not grieve for me.”
“If not for you, my father, chide us not that we weep for ourselves,”
answered Simeon, struggling with the rising sob; “what have you not been
to all of us? and how may we bear to feel that to us you are lost for
ever, that the voice whose accents of love never failed to thrill our
hearts with joy, and when in reproach ever brought the most obdurate in
repentant sorrow to your feet, that dear, dear voice we may never—” he
could not go on for his own voice was choked.
“My boy, we shall all meet again; follow on in that path of good in
which I have humbly sought to lead you; forget not your God, and the
duties of your faith; obey those commands and behests which to Israel
are enjoined; never forget that, as children of Israel, ye are the
firstborn and beloved of the Lord; serve Him, trust Him, wait for Him,
and oh, believe the words of the dying! We shall meet again never more
to part. I do but go before you, my beloved ones, and you will come to
me; there are many homes in heaven where the loved of the Lord shall
meet.”
“And I and Ruth—father, dear father, how may we so love the Lord, as to
be so loved by him?” tearfully inquired the young Joseph, drawing back
the curtain at the head of the bed, which had before concealed him, for
he did not like his father to see his tears. “Does he look upon us with
the same love as upon you, who have served him so faithfully and well?
Oh, what would I not do, that I may look upon death as you do, and feel
that I may come to you in heaven, written amongst those He loves.”
“And our God does love you, my little Joseph, child as you are, or you
would not think and wish this; my works are not more in His sight than
yours. Miserable indeed should I now be, if I had trusted in them alone
for my salvation and comfort now. No, my sweet boy, you must not look to
deeds alone; study the word of your God to know and love Him, and then
will you obey His commandments and statutes with rejoicing, and glory
that He has given you tests by which you may prove the love you bear
Him: and in death, though the imperfection and insufficiency of your
best deeds be then revealed, you will feel and know you have not loved
your God in vain. His infinite mercy will purify and pardon.”
His voice sunk from exhaustion; and Rachel, bending over him to wipe the
moisture from his brow, tenderly entreated him not to speak any more
then, despite the comfort of his simplest word.
“It will not hurt me, love,” he answered, fondly, after a pause. “I
bless God that He permits me thus to speak, before I pass from earth for
ever. When we meet again, there will be no need for me to bid my
children to know and love the Lord; for we shall all know Him, from the
smallest to the greatest of us. But to you, my own faithful wife, oh,
what shall I say to you in this sad moment? I can but give you to His
care, the God of the widow and the fatherless, and feel and know He will
not leave you nor forsake you, but bless you with exceeding blessing.
And in that heavy care—which, alas! I must leave you to bear alone—care
for our precious Reuben, oh, my beloved wife, remember those treasured
words, which were our mutual strength and comfort, when we laboured in
our youth. How well do I remember that blessed evening, when we first
spoke our love, and in our momentary despondence that long years must
pass ere we could hope for our union, we opened the hallowed word of
God, and could only see this verse: ‘Commit thy ways unto the Lord,
trust also in him and he will bring it to pass.’ And did He not bring it
to pass, dear wife? Did He not bless our efforts, and oh, will He not
still? Yes, trust in Him; commit our Reuben unto Him, and all shall yet
be well!”
“Yes, yes, I know it will; but oh, my husband, pray for me, that I may
realize this blessed trust when you are gone. You have been my support,
my aid, till now, cheering my despondence, soothing my fears; and now—”
“Rachel, my own wife, I have not been to you more than you have to me;
it is our God who has been to us more—oh, how much more!—than we have
been to each other, and He is with you still. He will heal the wound His
love inflicts. But for our erring, yet our much-loved boy, I need not
bid you love him, forgive him to the end—and his brothers and sisters.
Oh, listen to me, my children.” He half-raised himself in the energy of
his supplication. “Promise me but this, throw him not off from your
love, your kindness, however he may turn aside, however he may fall;
even if that fearful indifference increase, and in faith he scarcely
seems your brother, my children, my blessed children, oh, love him
still. Seek by kindness and affection to bring him back to his deserted
fold. Promise me to love him, to bear with him; forget not that he is
your brother, even to the last. Many a wanderer would return if love
welcomed him back, many a one who will not bear reproach. Do not cast
him from your hearts, my children, for your dead father’s sake.”
“Father, father, can you doubt us?” burst at once from all, and rising
from their varied postures, they joined hands around him. “Love him!
yes. However he may forget and desert us, he is still our brother and
your son. We will love him, bear with him. Oh, do not fear us, father.
There needed not this promise, but we will give it. We will never cease
to love him.”
“Bless you, my children,” murmured the exhausted man, as he sunk back.
“Sarah, you have not spoken. Are you not our child?”
She flung down her work and darted to his side. She struggled to speak,
but no words came, and throwing her arms round his neck, she fixed on
his face one long, piercing look, and burst into passionate tears.
“It is enough, my child. I need not bid you love him,” whispered Perez,
so as to be heard only by her. “Would you were indeed our own; there
would be less grief in store.”
“And am I not your own?” she answered, disregarding his last words,
which seemed, however, to have restored her to calmness. “Have you not
been to me a true and tender father, and my aunt as kind a mother? Whose
am I if I am not yours? Where shall I find another such home?”
“Yet you have a father, my gentle girl; one whom I have lately feared
would claim you, because they told me he was once more a wealthy man.
And if he should, if he would offer you the rest and comfort of
competence, why should you labour throughout your young years for us? If
he be rich, he surely will not forget he has a child, and therefore
claim you.”
“He has done so,” replied Sarah, calmly, regardless of the various
intonations of surprise in which her words were repeated. “My father did
write for me to join him. He told me he was rich; would make me cease
entirely from labour, and many similar kind offers.”
“And you refused them! Sarah, my dear child, why have you done this?”
“Why,” she repeated, pressing the trembling hand her aunt held out to
her between both hers; “why, because now, only now, can I even in part
return all you have done for me; because I cannot live apart from all
whom I so love. I cannot exchange for short-lived riches all that makes
life dear. Had my father sent for me in sickness or in woe, I should fly
to him without an hour’s pause. But it is he who is in affluence, in
peace; and you, my best, kindest friends, in sorrow. No, no; my duty was
to stay with you, to work for you, to love you; and I wrote to beseech
his permission to remain, even if it were still to labour. I did not
feel it labour when with you; and I have permission. I am still your
child; he will not take me from you.”
“God’s blessing be upon him!” murmured Rachel, as she folded the weeping
girl to her bosom.
A pause of deep emotion fell upon the group. Perez drew her faintly to
him, and kissed her cheek; then saying he felt exhausted, and should
wish to be left alone a brief while, Sarah led the twins away, and,
followed by Leah, softly left the apartment. Simeon and his mother still
remained beside his couch.
The night passed quietly. Sarah put the twins to bed, and persuaded Leah
to follow their example, and, exhausted by sorrow, she was soon asleep,
leaving Sarah to watch and pray alone; and the poor girl did pray, and
think and weep, till it seemed strange the night could so soon pass, and
morning smile again. She had not told that permission to remain with her
aunt had been scornfully and painfully given; that her father had
derided her, as mean-spirited and degraded; that as she had chosen to
remain with her poor relations, she was no longer his daughter. Nor did
she pray and weep for the dying, or for those around him. One alone was
in that heart! Why was he not there at such a moment? and she shuddered
as she pictured the violence of the self-accusing agony which would be
upon him when he discovered he had lingered until too late. Hour after
hour passed, and there was no footstep. She thought the chimes must have
rung too near each other; for as one struck, she believed he must be at
home ere it struck another, and yet he came not: she watched in vain.
Day dawned, and as light gleamed in upon the dying, there was a change
upon his face. He had not suffered throughout the night, seeming to
sleep at intervals, and then lay calmly without speaking; but as the day
gradually brightened, he reopened his eyes and looked towards the richly
glowing east.
“Another sun!” he said, in a changed and hollow voice. “Blessed be the
God who sets him in the heavens, strong and rejoicing as a young man to
run a race: my race is over—my light will pass before his. I prayed one
night’s delay, but still he does not come; and now it will soon be over.
Rachel, my true wife, call the children; let me bless them each once
more.”
They were called, and, awestruck even to silence at the fearful change
in that loved face, they one by one drew near and bowed down their
bright heads before him. Faintly yet distinctly, he spoke a blessing
upon each; then murmured, “The God of my Fathers bless you all, all as
you love Him and each other. Never deny him: acknowledge Him as One!
Hear, O Israel! the Lord our God, the Lord is one!”
The words were repeated in tears and sobs by all; he fell back, and they
thought his spirit gone. Minutes rolled by, and then there was a rapid
step without; it neared the door, one moment paused, and entered.
“My son, my son! O God, I thank thee! Reuben, my firstborn, in time, I
bless, bless—” the words were lost in a fearful gurgling sound, but the
father’s arms were flung wildly, strongly round the son, who, with
bitter tears, had thrown himself upon his neck—and there was silence.
“Father! oh, my father, speak—bless, forgive me!” at length Reuben
wildly exclaimed, breaking from that convulsive hold to sink as a
penitent upon the earth. He spoke in vain; the spirit had lingered to
gaze once more upon the firstborn of his love, then fled from earth for
ever.
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