IT is two years after the mournful event recorded in our last chapter
that we recommence our simple narrative. When time and prayer had
softened the first deep affliction, the widow and her family indeed
proved the fulfilment of that blessed promise, “Leave thy fatherless
children to me, and I will keep them alive, and let thy widows trust in
me;” for they prospered and were happy. Affliction, either of failing
health in those compelled to labour, or in want of employment, was kept
far from them. The widow, indeed, herself often suffered; but she
thanked God, in the midst even of pain, as she compared the blessings of
her lot with those of others. Little Ruth, too, from her affliction and
very delicate health, was often an object of anxiety; but so tenderly
was she beloved, that anxiety was scarcely pain in the delight her
presence ever caused. Sweet-tempered, loving, and joyous, with a voice
of song like a bird’s, and a laugh of child-like glee, and yet such
strong affections, such deep reverence for all things holy, that who
might grieve for her afflictions when she was so happy, so gratified
herself? She was the star of that lowly little dwelling, for sorrow, or
discord, or care could not come near her.
Joseph, her twin brother, had attracted the notice of a respectable
jeweller, who, though he could not take the boy into his house as a
regular apprentice till he was thirteen, not only employed him several
hours in the day in cleaning jewels, etc., but allowed him small
wages—an act of real benevolence, felt by the widow as an especial
blessing, rendered perhaps the dearer from the fact that it was the high
character her husband had borne which gave his youngest son so
responsible an office, intrusted as it was to none but the strictly
honest.
Simeon, now nearly seventeen, was with the same watchmaker who had
formerly brought forward his father. It was not a trade he liked; nay,
the delicate machinery required was peculiarly annoying to him, but it
was the only opening for him, and he conquered his disinclination. He
had long since made a vow to use his every effort to restore his parents
to the comfortable estate from which they had unfortunately fallen, and
no thought of himself or his own wishes should interfere with its
accomplishment. Persevering and resolute, he took a good heart with him
to the business; and though his first attempts were awkward, and the
laughter of his companions most discouraging, the praise of his master
and his own conscience urged him on, and before the two years which we
have passed over had elapsed, he had conquered every difficulty, and
promised in time to be quite as good a workman as his father.
The extent of suffering which his father’s death had been to him no one
knew, but he had felt at first as if he could not rouse himself again.
It was useless to struggle on; for the beloved parent, for whose sake he
had made this solemn vow, was gone for ever. His mother indeed was
spared him; but much as he loved and reverenced her, his father had
been, if possible, first in his affections. Perhaps it was that his own
feelings, his own character, gave him a clue to all that his father had
done and endured. He had all his honesty and honour, all his energy, and
love for his ancient faith. One difference there was: Perez could bear
with, nay, love all mankind—could find excuse for the erring, even for
the apostate, much as he abhorred the deed; could believe in the
sincerity and piety of others, though their faith differed from his own;
but Simeon could not feel this. Often, even in his childhood, his father
had to reprove him for prejudice; and as he grew older, his hatred
against all those who left the faith, or united themselves in any way
with other than Israelites, continued violent. Prejudice is almost the
only feeling which reason cannot conquer—religion may, and Simeon was
truly and sincerely religious; but he _loved his faith_ better than he
_loved his God_. He would have started and denied it, had any one told
him so, and declared it was impossible—one feeling could not be distinct
or divided from the other; yet so it was. An earnest and heartfelt love
of God can never permit an emotion so violent as hatred to any of God’s
creatures. It is no test of our own sincerity to condemn or disbelieve
in that of others; and those who do—who prejudiced and violent against
all who differ from them—may be, no doubt are, sincerely religious and
well intentioned, but they love their faith better than they love their
God.
These peculiar feelings occasioned a degree of coldness in Simeon’s
sentiments towards his brother Reuben, of whom we have little more to
say than we know already.
The death of his father was indeed a fearful shock; yet, from a few
words which fell from him during some of his interviews with Sarah, she
fancied that he almost rejoiced that he was bound by no promise to the
dying. In the midst of repentant agony that he had arrived too late for
his parent’s blessing, he would break off with a half shudder, and
mutter, “If he had spoken that, he might have spoken more, and I could
not have disobeyed him on his death-bed. Whatever he bade me promise I
must have promised; and then, then, after a few brief months, been
perjured. Oh, my father, my father! why is it my fate to be the wretch I
am?”
This grief was violent, but it did not produce the good effect which his
parents had so fondly hoped. Even in the days of mourning, it was
evident that the peculiar forms which his faith enjoined, as the son of
the deceased, chafed and irritated him; and had it not been for the
deep, silent suffering of his mother, which he could not bear to
increase, he would have neglected them altogether. When he mixed with
the world again, he followed his own course and his own will, scarcely
ever mixing with those of his own race, but seeking, and at last finding
employment with the stranger. He had excellent abilities; and from his
having received a better education than most youths of his race,
obtained at length a lucrative situation in an establishment which,
trading to many different parts of the British Isles, often required an
active agent to travel for them. His peculiar creed had been at first
against him; but when his abilities were put to the proof, and it was
discovered he was in truth only _nominally_ a Jew, that he cared not to
sacrifice the Sabbath, and that no part of his religion was permitted to
interfere with his employments, his services were accepted and well
paid.
Had then Reuben Perez, the beloved and cherished son of such good and
pious parents, indeed deserted the religion of his forefathers? Not in
semblance, for there were times when he still visited the synagogue; and
as he did so, he was by many still conceived a good Jew. The flagrant
follies of his youth had subsided; he was no longer wild, wavering, and
extravagant. Not a word could be spoken against his moral principles;
his public, even his domestic conduct was unexceptionable, and therefore
he bore a high character in the estimation alike of the Jewish and
Christian world. What cause had his mother, then, for the grief and pain
which swelled her heart almost to bursting, when she thought upon her
firstborn? Alas! it was because she felt there was One who saw deeper
than the world—One, between whom and himself Reuben had raised up a dark
barrier of wrath—One who loved him, erring and sinful as he was, with an
immeasurable love, but whose deep love was rejected and abused—even his
God, that God who had been the Saviour of his forefathers through so
many thousand ages. The mother would have preferred seeing him poor,
dependent, obtaining but his daily bread, yet faithful to his faith and
to his God, than prosperous, courted, and an alien.
The brothers seldom met, and therefore Simeon was ignorant how
powerfully coldness was creeping over his affections for Reuben; how, in
violently condemning his indifference and union with the stranger, he
was rendering the observance of his promise to his dying father (to bear
with and love his brother) a matter of difficulty and pain. Faithful and
earnest himself, he could not understand a want of earnestness and
fidelity in others. But, however the world might flatter and appear to
honour his exemplary moral conduct, one truth it is our duty to
record—Reuben was not happy. It was not the mere fancy of his mother and
cousin, it was truth; they knew not wherefore—for if he neglected and
contemned his religion, he could scarcely feel the want of it—but that
he was unhappy, perhaps was the secret cause which held the love of his
mother and Sarah so immovably enchained, bidding them hope sometimes in
the very midst of gloom.
Of the female members of Perez’ family we have little to remark. Leah’s
good conduct had not only made her the favourite of her mistress, but
her liveliness and happy temper had actually triumphed over the
sometimes harsh disposition she had at first to encounter. There was no
withstanding her good humour. She had the happy knack of making people
good friends with themselves, as well as with each other, and was so
happy herself, that, except when she thought of her dear father, and
wished that he could but see her and hear her sing over her work, sorrow
was unknown. Every Friday evening she went home to remain till the
Sunday morning, and that was superlative enjoyment, not only to herself,
for her mother looked to the visit of her merry, affectionate daughter
as a source of pure feeling, delight, and recreation.
In Sarah there was no change. Still pensive, modest, and industrious,
she continued quietly to retain the most devoted affections of her
relatives, and the goodwill and respect of her employers. Of her own
individual feelings we must not now speak, save to say that few even of
her domestic circle imagined how strong and deep was the under-current
of character which her quiet mien concealed.
It was the evening of the Sabbath, and the widow and her daughters were
assembled in their pretty little parlour. Simeon and Joseph were not yet
returned from synagogue. Reuben, alas! was seldom there on the Sabbath
eve. The table was covered with a cloth, which, though not of the finest
description, was white as the driven snow; and the Sabbath lamp was
lighted, for in their greatest poverty this ceremony had never been
omitted. When they had no lamp, and could not have afforded oil, they
burnt a wax candle, frequently depriving themselves of some week-day
necessary to procure this indulgence. The first earnings of Sarah, Leah,
and Simeon had been used to repurchase the ancient Sabbath lamp, the
heirloom in their family for many generations. It was silver and very
antique, and by a strange chance had escaped the fire, which rendered
perhaps the sale of it the more painful to Perez. His gratification on
beholding it again had amply repaid his affectionate children. Never
being used but on Sabbaths, it seemed to partake of the sanctity of that
holy day.
Bread and salt were also upon the table, and the large Bible and its
attendant prayer-books there also, open, as if they had just been used.
Ruth had plucked some sweet flowers just before Sabbath, and arranged
them tastefully in a china cup, and Leah had playfully removed a sprig
of rosebuds and wreathed it in the long glossy curls which hung round
Ruth’s sweet face and over her shoulders. The dresses of all were neat
and clean, for they loved to make a distinction between the seventh day
and the six days of labour.
“If we were about to pass a day in the presence of an earthly sovereign,
my dear children,” the widow had often been wont to say, “should we not
deserve to be excluded if we appeared rudely and slovenly and dirtily
attired? You think we could not possibly do so; it would not only be
such marked disrespect, but we should not be admitted. How, then, dare
we seek the presence of our heavenly sovereign in such rude and sinful
disarray? The seventh day is His day. He calls upon us to throw aside
all worldly thoughts and cares, and come to Him, and give our thoughts
and hearts to His holy service. If an earthly king so called us, how
anxious should we be to accept the invitation—shall we do less for God?”
“But, dear mother,” Leah would answer, “will God regard that? Is He not
too holy, too far removed from us, too pure to mark such little things?”
“Nothing is too small for Him to remark, if done in love and faith, my
child. The heart anxious to mark the Sabbath by increase of cleanliness
and neatness in personal attire, as well as household arrangements, must
conceive it God’s own day, and observing it as such will receive His
blessing. It is not the _act_ of dressing or the dress He observes. He
only marks it as a proof His holy day is welcomed with love and
rejoicing, as He commanded; and the smallest offering of OBEDIENCE is
acceptable to Him.”
“But I have heard you remark with regret, mother, that some of our
neighbours are dressed so very smart on Sabbath. If it be to mark the
holy difference between that day and the others, why should you regret
it?”
“Because, love, there ought to be moderation in all things, and when I
see very smart showy dresses, which, if not in material, in appearance
are much too fine and smart for our station, I fear it is less a
religious than a worldly feeling which dictates them. Have you not
noticed that those who dress so gaily generally spend their Sabbath in
walking about the streets and exchanging visits, conversing, of course,
on the most frivolous topics? I do not think this the proper method of
spending our Sabbath day, and therefore I regret to see them devote so
much time and thought on mere outward decoration, which is so widely
different from obedience to their God.”
Leah thought of this little conversation many times. From
thoughtlessness and dislike to trouble, she had hitherto been rather
negligent than otherwise in her dress; then going to a contrary extreme,
felt very much inclined to imitate some young companions in their
finery. Her mother’s word saved her from the one, and their subsequent
misfortunes effectually from the other, as all her earnings were hoarded
for one holy purpose, simply to assist her parents; and she would have
thought it sacrilege to have spent any portion on herself, except on
things which she absolutely needed. But so neat and clean was she
invariably in her dress, that her mistress always sent her to receive
orders, and, trifling as appearance may seem, it repeatedly gained
customers.
“They are coming—I hear their footsteps,” said the little Ruth,
springing up to open the parlour door. “Oh! I do so love the Sabbath
eve, for it brings us all together again so happily.”
“Is it only Simeon and Joseph, my child?” inquired the widow,
mournfully; for there was one expectation on her heart and that of
Sarah, which, alas! was seldom to be fulfilled.
Ruth listened attentively.
“Only they, mother!” she said, checking her voice of glee, and returning
to her mother’s side, for she knew the cause of that saddened tone, and
she laid her little head caressingly on her mother’s breast.
Simeon and Joseph at that moment entered, and each advancing, bent lowly
before their mother, who, laying her hand upon each dear head, blessed
them in a voice faltering from its emotion, and kissed them both. The
kiss of love and peace went round, and gaily the brothers and sisters
drew round the table, which Sarah’s provident love speedily covered with
the welcome evening meal. The happy laugh and affectionate interchange
of the individual cares and pleasures, vexations and enjoyments of the
past week, occupied them delightfully during tea. Sarah had to tell of a
new kind of work which had diversified her usual employment, and been
most successful; a kind of wadded slipper, which, after many trials, she
had completed to her satisfaction, in the intervals of other work; and
which not only sold well, but gave her dear aunt an occupation which she
could accomplish without pain, in wadding and binding the silk. Leah
told of a pretty dress and bonnet which her mistress had presented to
her, in token of her approbation of her steadiness in refusing to
accompany her companions to some place of amusement, which, from its
respectability being doubted, she knew her mother would not approve;
and, by staying at home, enabled Mrs. Magnus to finish an expensive
order a day sooner than had been expected, and so gained her a new and
wealthy customer.
“Dearest mother, you told me how to resist temptation even in trifles,”
continued the affectionate girl, with tears of feeling in her bright
dark eyes. “You taught me from my earliest childhood there was purer and
more lasting pleasure in conquering my own wishes than any doubtful
recreation could bestow; and that in that inward pleasure our heavenly
Father’s approval was made manifest. And so, you see, though you were
not near me and I could not, as I wished, ask your advice and
permission, it was you who enabled me to conquer myself, and resist this
temptation. I did want to go, and felt very, very lonely when all went;
but when Mrs. Magnus thanked me for enabling her to give so much
satisfaction, and said I had gained her a new customer, oh, no _circus_
or _play_ could have given me such happiness as that; and it was all
through you, mother, and so I told her.”
The happy mother smiled on her animated girl; but her heart did not
glorify itself, it thanked God that her early efforts had been so
blessed. “And Ruth!” some of our readers may exclaim, “poor blind Ruth,
what can she have to say?” And we answer, happy little Ruth had much of
industry and enjoyment to dilate on. The straw she had plaited, the
hymns she had learnt through Sarah’s kindly teaching, the dead leaves
she had plucked from the shrubs and flowers, for so delicate had her
sense of touch become, she could follow this occupation in perfect
security to the plants, distinguishing the dead and dying from the
perfect leaves at a touch. Then she told of a poor little orphan beggar
girl, whom Sarah had one day brought in cold and crying, because she had
been begging all day and had received nothing, and she knew she should
be beaten when she went home; and how she had said she hated begging;
but she could do nothing else; and little Ruth had asked her if she
would like to sell flowers; and poor Mary had told her she should like
it very very much, but she could not get any. She knew no one who would
let her take them from the garden. How she (Ruth) had promised to make
her some little nosegays, and Sarah and her mother said they would make
her some little nick-nacks, pincushions, and housewives to put with her
flowers.
“Ah, we made her so happy!” continued the child, clasping her little
hands in delight. “Mother gave her some of my old things, which were
quite good to her, and it is quite a pleasure to me to make her
nosegays, and feel they give her a few pence better than begging; and
Sarah is going to try if I can make her some little fancy things when
winter comes. You know I am quite rich to her, for God has given me a
home, and such a kind mother, and dear brothers and sisters, and she has
neither home nor mother, nor any one to love her. Poor, poor Mary! and
then, too, some say the Christians do not like the Jews, and I know she
will and does like us, and she may make others of her people like us
too.”
“Ruth,” said her brother Simeon, in a very strange husky voice, “Ruth,
darling, come here and kiss me. I wish you would make me as good as
you.”
“As good!” exclaimed the child, springing on his knee, and throwing her
arms round his neck; “dear naughty Simeon, to say such a thing. How much
more you can do than I. Do you not work so very much, that dear mother
sometimes fears for your health? and it is all for us, to help to
support us, mother and me, because we cannot work for ourselves. Ah, I
am blind, and can only do little things, and try to make every one
happy, that they may love me; but I am only a little girl; I cannot be
as good as you.”
“Ruth, darling, I could not do as you have done. I cannot love and serve
those who hate and persecute us as Israelites.”
“They do not persecute us now, brother. Sarah told me sad tales of what
we suffered once; but God was angry with us then, and he made the
nations punish us. But now, if they still dislike us we ought not to
dislike them, but do all we can to make them love us.”
Simeon bent his head upon his sister’s; her artless words had rebuked
and shamed him. But prejudice might not even then be overcome. He knew
she was right and he was wrong, so he would not answer, glad to hear
Leah gaily demand a history of his weekly proceedings, as he had not yet
spoken. He had little to relate, except that he was now beginning really
to understand his business. His master had said that he should soon be
obliged to raise his salary; and, what was a real source of happiness,
from the care and quickness with which he now accomplished his tasks, he
found time for his favourite amusement of modelling, which circumstances
had compelled him so long to neglect. Joseph had to tell of similar
kindness on the part of his master and industry on his own. He told,
too, with great glee, that Mr. Bennet had promised to give him some
lessons in the evenings, in the language which of all others he wished
most particularly to understand. He knew many were satisfied merely to
read their prayers in Hebrew, whether they understood them or not, but
he wished to understand it thoroughly, and all the time he was cleaning
jewels, for he was now quite expert, he thought over what his master had
so kindly taught him; perhaps one day he might be able to know Hebrew
thoroughly himself, and oh, what a delight that would be!
By the time Joseph had finished his tale, the table had been cleared;
and then the widow opened the large Bible, and after fervently blessing
God for His mercy in permitting them all to see the close of another
week in health and peace, read aloud a chapter and psalm. Varied as were
the characters and wishes of all present, every heart united in
reverence and love towards this weekly service—in, if possible,
increased devotion towards that beloved parent, who so faithfully
endeavoured to support not alone her own duties towards her offspring,
but those of their departed father. She had not lost those hours and
days, aye, and sometimes long weeks of suffering, with which it had
pleased God to afflict her. When confined to her bed, the Bible had been
her sole companion, and she so communed with it and her own heart, that
many passages, which had before been veiled, were now made clear and
light, and her constant prayer for wisdom and religion to lead her
offspring in its paths of pleasantness and peace granted to the full.
Yet Rachel was no great scholar. Let it not be imagined amongst those
who read this little tale, that she was unusually gifted. She was indeed
so far gifted that she had a _trusting spirit and a most humble and
child-like mind_, and of worldly ways was most entirely ignorant; and it
was these feelings which kept her so persevering in the path of duty,
and, leading her to the footstool of her God, gave her the strength of
wisdom that she needed; and to every mother in Israel these powers are
given.
“Well, my dear children, to whom must I look for the text which is to
occupy us this evening?” said the widow, glancing affectionately round
as she ceased to read.
“To me and Ruth, mother; for you know we always think together,”
answered Joseph, eagerly. “And you don’t know how we have both been
longing for this evening, for the verse we have chosen has made us think
so much, and with all our thinking, we cannot quite satisfy ourselves.”
“But what is it, my boy?”
“It is the one our dear father repeated on his death-bed, mother. I have
often thought of it since, but feared it would make you sorrowful, if we
spoke of it for the first year or two; but as I found Ruth had thought
of it and wished it explained also, we said we would ask you to talk
about it to-night. You repeat it, Ruth; you pronounce the Hebrew so
prettily!”
And timidly, but sweetly, Ruth said, first in Hebrew and then in
English, “‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he
will bring it to pass.’ _Ways_,” continued the child, “was the word
which first puzzled us, but Sarah has explained it to me so plainly, I
understand it better now.”
“Tell us then, Sarah dear,” said her aunt.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that the word _ways_ has many meanings. In
the verse, ‘Show me thy ways, O Lord,’ I think it means actions. In
another verse, ‘The Lord made known his _ways_ unto Moses, his acts unto
the children of Israel,’ I think ways mean _thoughts_!”
“And there are several in Proverbs,” interposed Simeon, “which would
make us regard _ways_ as the path we are to tread; as for instance, ‘Who
leaveth the _path_ of righteousness, to _walk_ in the _ways_ of
darkness.’”
“But Ruth and I want to know in which of these ways we are to regard it
in our verse,” persisted Joseph.
“As meaning both _outward actions_ and _inward thoughts_, my dear
children,” replied his mother. “I have thought long on this verse, and I
am glad you have chosen it for discussion. Perhaps you do not know, my
little Joseph, that we _must think to act_; that it is very seldom any
good or bad action is performed without previous thought; and,
consequently, if we would be pure in act, we must commit our thoughts
unto the Lord.”
“But how are we to do this, mother?” asked Leah.
“By constant prayer, my love; by endeavouring, wherever we are, or
whatever we may be doing, to remember God knows our every thought before
it has words, and long before it becomes action. We are apt, perhaps, to
indulge in the wildest thoughts, simply because we imagine ourselves
secure from all observation. From _human_ observation we are secure, but
not from our Father who is in heaven; and therefore we should endeavour
so to train our thoughts as to banish all which we dare not commit unto
our God.”
“But are there not some things, dear aunt, too trivial, too much mingled
with earthly feelings, to bring before a Being of such ineffable
holiness and purity?” inquired Sarah, in a voice which, notwithstanding
all her efforts, audibly faltered.
“Ah, that is what I want so much to know,” added Joseph.
“You must not forget, my dear Sarah,” resumed Mrs. Perez, “that our God
is a God of love and compassion, as infinite as His holiness; that every
throb of pain or joy in the creature His love has formed, is _felt_ as
well as _ordained_ by Him. No nation has a God so near to them as
Israel; and we, of all others, ought to derive and realize comfort from
the belief that He knows our nature in its strivings after
righteousness, as well as in its sin. He knows all our temptations, all
our struggles, far better than our dearest earthly friends, and His
loving mercy towards us is infinitely stronger. Therefore we can better
commit our secret thoughts and feelings unto His keeping, than to that
of our nearest friends on earth.”
“And may children do this, mother?”
“Yes, dear boy; our Father has children in His tender care and guiding,
even as those of more experienced age. Accustom yourselves, while
engaged in thought, to ask, ‘Can I ask my Father’s blessing on these
thoughts, and on the actions they lead to?’ and rest assured conscience
will give you a true answer. If it say, ‘No,’ dismiss the trifling or
sinful meditations on the instant; send up a brief prayer to God for
help, and He will hear you. If, on the contrary, conscience approve your
thought, encourage it, as leading you nearer, closer, and more lovingly
to God.”
“But is not this close communion more necessary for women than for men,
mother?” inquired Simeon.
“Women may need it more, my dear boy; but, believe me, it is equally, if
not more necessary for man. Think of the many temptations to evil which
men have in their intercourse with the world; the daily, almost hourly
call for the conquest of inclination and passion, which, without some
very strong incentive, can never be subdued. One unguarded moment, and
the labour of years after righteousness may be annihilated. Man may not
need the _comfort_ of this close communion so much as women, but he yet
more requires its _strength_. Nothing is so likely to keep him from sin,
as committing his thoughts even as his actions unto the Lord.”
“Thank you, my dear mother; that first bit is clear,” said Joseph. “Now
I want the second: the third is the most puzzling of all, but we shall
come to that by and bye.”
“You surely know what it means by to ‘trust in Him,’ Joseph?” said Leah.
“I think I do, sister mine, for it was mother’s humble trust in the Lord
that supported her in her sorrows: _that_ I saw, I felt, though I was a
child; but—” he hesitated.
“Well, my boy?”
“To _trust_, I think, means to have faith. Now, Henry Stevens said the
other day, Jews have no faith—and how can we trust, then?”
“My dearest Joseph, do not let your companions so mislead you,” answered
his mother, earnestly. “I know that is a charge often brought against
us; but it is always from those who do not know our religion, and who
judge us only from those who, by their words and actions, condemn it
themselves. The Jew must have faith, not only in the existence of God,
but in the sacred history our God inspired, or he is _no_ Jew. He must
feel faith—believe God hears and will answer, or his prayers, however
fervent, are of no avail. Without faith, his very existence must be an
enigma, and his whole life misery. Oh, believe me, my dear children, as
no nation has God so near them, so no nation has so much need of faith,
and no nation has so experienced the strength, and peace, and fulness
which it brings.”
“But how does our verse mean that we are to trust in the Lord, mother?”
asked Ruth.
“It belongs both to the first and last division of the verse, my love.
If we commit our ways unto the Lord, and _trust also in Him_ (remember
one is of no avail without the other), then He will bring it to pass.”
“Ah! that is it. I am so glad we have come to that,” eagerly exclaimed
Joseph. “Mother, does it mean, _can_ it mean that our Father will grant
our prayers, will give us what we most wish?”
“If it be for our good, my boy; if our wishes be acceptable in His
sight; if they will tend to our eternal as well as our temporal welfare;
and we bring them before Him in unfailing confidence, believing firmly
that He will answer in His own good time—we may rest assured that He
will answer us, that He will grant our prayers.”
“But that which is for our good may not be what we most wish for,”
resumed Joseph, despondingly.
“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.
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