IT had been with the most simple and heartfelt prayer, that the widow
Perez had sought to instil the beautiful spirit breathing in the verse
forming the subject of their Sabbath conversation in the hearts of her
children. Yet ere the evening closed, how sadly and painfully had her
faith been tried, and how bitterly did she feel that to her prayers
there seemed indeed no answer. It was her firstborn whom she had daily,
almost hourly “committed to the Lord;” for him she sought with her whole
heart, “to trust” that He would, in His deep mercy, awaken her boy to
the error of his ways; but did it appear as if indeed the gracious
promise would be fulfilled, and the Lord would indeed “bring it to
pass?” Alas! farther and farther did it now seem removed from
fulfilment. By his marriage with a Gentile what must ensue?—a yet more
complete estrangement from his father’s faith.
The mother’s heart indeed felt breaking; but quiet and ever gentle, who
but her loving children might trace this bitter grief? And there were
not wanting very many to give the mother all the blame of the son’s
course of acting. “What else could she expect by her weak indulgence?”
was almost universally said. “Why did she not threaten to cast him off,
if he persisted in this sinful connection, instead of encouraging such
things in her other children, which of course she did, by receiving
Reuben as usual? Why had she not commanded him, on peril of a parent’s
curse, to break off the intended match? Then she would have done her
duty; as it was, it would be something very extraordinary if all her
other children did not follow their elder brother’s example.”
The widow might have heard their unkind remarks, but she heeded them
little; for she had long learned that the spirit guiding the blessed
religion which she and her husband had felt and practised was too often
misunderstood and undervalued by many of her co-religionists; the idea
of love bringing back a wanderer was, by the many, thought too perfectly
ridiculous ever to be counted upon. But her conscience was at rest. None
but her own heart and her God knew how she had striven to bring up her
firstborn as he should go, or how agonizing she had ever felt this
failure of her struggles and prayers in the conduct of her son, and this
last act more agonizing than all. She knew, aye, felt secure, that
neither of her other children needed severity towards Reuben to prevent
their following his example. In them she saw the fruits of her efforts
in their education, and she knew that they felt their brother’s
wanderings from their beloved faith too sorrowfully ever to walk in his
ways. They saw enough of their poor mother’s silent, uncomplaining
grief, to suppose for a moment that her absence of all harshness towards
Reuben proceeded from her _approval_ of his marriage; and each and all
lifted up the fervent cry for strength always to resist such fearful
temptation, and to adhere to the faith of their fathers, even until
death.
We are quite aware that, by far the greater number of our readers, widow
Perez will be either violently condemned or contemptuously scorned as a
weak, mean-spirited, foolish woman. We can only say that if so, we are
sorry so few have the power of understanding her, and that the loving
piety, the spiritual religion of her character should find so faint an
echo in the Jewish heart. The _consequences_ of her forbearance will be
too clearly traced in our simple tale, to demand any further notice on
our own part. We would only ask, with all humility, our readers of every
class and grade, to recall any one single instance in which parental
violence and severity, even coupled with malediction, have ever
succeeded in bringing back a wanderer to his fold; if so, we will grant
that our idea of love and forbearance effecting more than hate and
violence is both dangerous and false. But to return to our tale:—
There was another in that little household bowed like the mother in
grief. Sarah had believed that it was her care for Reuben’s spiritual
welfare which had engrossed her so much—that it was as distinct from him
temporally as from herself. A rude shock awakened her from this dream,
and oh, so fearfully! The wild tumult of thought pressing on her heart
and brain needs no description. From the first year of her residence
with her aunt, Reuben had been dear to her; affection so strengthening,
increasing with her growth, so mingled with her being, that she was
unconscious of its power. And now that consciousness had come—the
prayers, the wishes of a lifetime were dashed down unheard and
unregarded—could she believe in the soothing comfort of that inspired
promise? Had she not committed her ways? had she not trusted? and had it
not proved in vain? Sarah was young, had all the inexperience, the
elasticity, and consequent impatience of early life; and so it was, that
while the mother trusted and believed, despite of all, aye, trusted her
boy would yet be saved, to Sarah life was one cheerless blank; her heart
so chilled and stagnant, it seemed as it were, the power of prayer was
gone—there could be no darker woes in store. Perhaps her very
determination to conceal these feelings from every eye increased the
difficulties of self-conquest.
Day after day passed, and her aunt and cousins saw nothing different
from her usually quiet, cheerful ways. It might be that they suspected
nothing—that even the widow knew not Sarah’s trial was yet greater than
her own. But at night it was that the effects of the day’s control were
felt; and weeks passed, and time seemed to bring no respite.
“You can trust, if you cannot pray,” the clear still voice of conscience
one night breathed in the ear of the poor sufferer, so strangely
distinct it seemed as if some spiritual voice had spoken. “Come back to
the Father, the God, who has love and tenderness for all—who loves,
despite of indifference and neglect—who has balm for every wound, even
such as thine. Doth He not say, ‘Cast your burden on Him, and he will
sustain you; trust in His word, and sin no more?’” It was strange,
almost awful in the dead stillness of night, that low piercing whisper;
but it had effect, for the hot tears streamed down like rain upon the
deathlike cheek; the words of prayer, faint, broken, yet still trustful,
burst from that sorrowing heart, and brought their balm: from that hour
the stagnant misery was at an end. Sarah awoke to duty, alike to her God
as to herself; and then it was she felt to the full how unutterably
precious was the close commune with the Father in heaven, which her
aunt’s counsels had infused. Where could she have turned for comfort had
she been taught to regard Him as too far removed from earth and earthly
things to love and be approached?
Time passed. Reuben’s marriage took place at the time appointed, and
still with him all seemed prosperity. It was impossible to see and not
to love his gentle wife. Still in seeming a mere child, so delicate in
appearance, one could scarcely believe her healthy, as she said she was.
It was, however, only with his mother and sisters that Reuben permitted
her to associate.
He called himself, at least to his mother, a son of Israel; but all real
feeling of nationality was dead within him—yet he was not a Christian,
nor was his wife, except in name. They believed there was a God, at
least they said they did; but life smiled on them. He was not needed,
and so they lived without Him.
Simeon, true to his prejudices, would not meet his brother’s wife, nor
did his mother demand such from him. It was enough that with Reuben
himself, when they chanced to meet, he was on kindly terms. Ruth’s
appeal had touched his heart, for the remembrance of his father was as
omnipotent as his wishes had been during his lifetime. The interests of
the brothers, alike temporal as eternal, were, however, too widely
severed to permit confidence between them, and so they passed on their
separate ways; loving perhaps in their inward hearts, but each year
apparently more and more divided.
About six months after Reuben’s wedding, Sarah received a letter which
caused her great uneasiness. Our readers may remember, at the conclusion
of our first chapter, we mentioned Isaac Levison having written to his
daughter, stating he was again well to do in the world, and offering her
affluence and a cessation from all labour, if she liked to join him. We
know also that Sarah refused those offers, feeling that both inclination
and duty bade her remain with the benefactors of her youth, when they
were in affliction and needed her; and that, irritated at her reply, her
father had cast her off, and from that time to the present, nearly three
years, she had never heard anything of him. The letter she now received
told her that Levison was in the greatest distress, and seriously ill.
His suspiciously-amassed riches had been, like his former, partly
squandered away in unnecessary luxuries for house and palate, and partly
sunk in large speculations, which had all failed; that he was now too
ill to do anything, or even to write to her himself, but that he desired
his daughter to come to him at once. She had been ready enough to labour
for others, and therefore she could not hesitate for him, who was the
only one who had any real claim upon her.
“The only one who can claim my labour,” thought the poor girl, as she
read the harsh epistle, again and again. “What should I have been
without the beloved friends whom he thus commands me to leave? Yet he is
my father; he sent for me in prosperity—I could, I did refuse him then,
but not now. No, no, I must go to him now, and leave all, all I so
dearly love;” and letting the paper fall, she covered her face with her
hands, and wept bitterly.
“Yet perhaps it is better,” she thought, after a brief interval of
bitter sorrow; “I can never conquer this one consuming grief while I am
here, and so constantly liable to see its cause. My heavenly Father may
have ordained this in love; and even if it brings new trials, I can look
up to Him, trust in Him still. I do not leave Him behind me—He will not
leave me, nor forsake me, whatever I may be called upon to bear,” and
inexpressibly strengthened by this thought, she was enabled, without
much emotion, to seek her much-loved aunt, to show her the letter and
its mandate. The widow saw at a glance the duty of her adopted child,
and though to part with her was a real source of grief, she loved her
too well to increase the difficulty of her trial by endeavouring to
dissuade her from it.
“You must go, my beloved girl,” she said, folding her to her heart; “but
I trust it will be but for a short time. My _home_ is yours,
remember—always your _home_, wherever else you may be, as only a passing
sojourn. Your duty is indeed trying, but fear not, you will be
strengthened to perform it.”
Yet however determined were the widow and her family to control all
weakening sorrow and regret, there was not one who did not feel the
unexpected departure of Sarah as an individual misfortune. Each was in
some way or other so connected with her, that separation caused a blank
in their affections; and what then must have been her own feelings? They
parted with but _one_ dear friend; she from them all, to go amongst
those with whom she had not one thought or feeling in common.
But she who had worked so perseveringly for them, who had felt herself a
child in blood as well in heart of the widow’s, that she had never
thought of making a distinct provision for herself, this unselfish one
was not to leave them portionless; and with so much attention to her
feelings did her aunt and cousins proffer their gifts, it was
impossible, pained as she was, to refuse. They said, it would be long
perhaps before she could find employment in her new home, and she might
need it: besides, it was not a gift, it was her due; her earnings had
all gone for them, and they offered but her rightful share. Reuben and
his wife were not at Liverpool when Sarah was compelled to leave it; and
she rejoiced that it was so.
We will not linger either on the day of parting or the poor girl’s sad
and solitary journey. Simeon went with her as far as Birmingham, and
when he left her, the scene of loneliness, of foreboding sorrow, pressed
so heavily upon her that her tears fell unrestrainedly; but though her
heart did feel desolate, she knew she was not forsaken. Her God was with
her still, and He would in His own good time bring peace. She was
obeying His call, by discharging her duty, and He would lead her through
her dreary path.
“Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and exceeding great reward,” were
the words in her little Bible, on which her eyes had that morning
glanced, dim with tears—they could see but those; again and yet again
she read them, till they seemed to fix themselves upon her heart, as
peculiarly and strangely appropriate to herself. Like Abraham, she was
leaving home and friends, to dwell in what was to her a strange land,
and the same God who had been with him the God of Abraham and Israel,
was her God also. “His arm was not shortened, nor his ear heavy, that he
could not save.” And oh, what unspeakable comfort came in such thoughts.
Century on century had passed; but the descendants of Abraham were still
the favoured of the Lord, having, in the simple fact of their existence,
evidence of the Bible truth. Sarah had often gloried in being a daughter
of Israel, but never felt so truly, so gratefully thankful for that holy
privilege as she did when thinking over the history of Abraham, and the
promise made to him and his descendants, in her lonely journey, and
feeling to the full the comfort of the conviction that Abraham’s God was
hers.
It was a dull and dreary evening when Sarah entered the great city of
London. The stage put her down about half an hour’s walk from her
destination, and she proceeded on foot, followed by a boy conveying her
little luggage. She struggled hard to subdue the despondency again
creeping over her, as she traversed the crowded streets, in which there
was not one to extend the hand of kindly greeting. She felt almost
ashamed, though she could not define why, that the boy should see the
low dark alleys which she was obliged to tread before she could discover
where her father now lived, and when she did reach it, she stood and
hesitated before the door, as if the house she sought could scarcely be
there, it was such a wretched-looking place.
Her timid knock was unheard, and the impatient porter volunteered a tap,
loud enough to bring many a curious head to the other doors in the
alley, and hastily to open the one wanted. A long curious stare greeted
Sarah, from an old woman, repulsive in feature and slovenly and dirty in
dress, who to Sarah’s faltering question if Mr. Levison lived there,
somewhat harshly replied—
“Yes, to be sure he does; and who may you be that wants him? He is not
at home, whatever your business is.”
“Did he not expect me, then? I wrote to say I should be with him
to-night,” answered Sarah, trying to conquer the painful choking in her
throat. “I thought he was too ill to go out.”
“Why, sure now, you cannot be his daughter!” was the reply, in a
softened tone, and the woman looked at her with something very like
pity. “Come in with you, then, if you really are Sarah Levison; send the
boy away and come in.”
Trembling from a variety of feelings, Sarah mechanically obeyed, giving
the boy the customary fee ere she discharged him; a proceeding which
caused the woman to look at her with increasing astonishment, and to
exclaim, when Sarah was fairly in the dirty miserable room called a
parlour, “She can do that too, and yet she comes here. Sarah Levison,
are you not a great fool?”
The poor girl started, fairly bewildered by the question, and looked at
her companion very much as if she thought she had lost her wits. “A
fool!” she repeated.
“My good girl, yes. What have you left a comfortable house and kind
friends, and perhaps a good business, for?”
“To obey my father,” replied Sarah, simply. “Did he not send to tell me
he was ill, and wanted me; that he was no longer the wealthy, prosperous
man that he was, and I must labour for him now? or have I been deceived,
and is it all false,” she added, in accents of terror, as she grasped
old Esther’s arm, “and has some one only decoyed me here?”
“No, child, no; folks about here are bad enough, but not as bad as that.
Levison is poor enough, both in health and pocket, and wrote as you say;
but for all that, I say you are a fool for coming.”
“Was it not my duty?” asked Sarah. “Oh, it was sad enough to leave all I
love!”
“I dare say it was, dear, I dare say it was,” and the old woman’s face
actually lost its repulsiveness, in such a strong expression of pity,
that the desolate girl drew closer to her, and clasped her hand. “And
more’s the pity you should have left them at all. Duty—it is a fine
sounding word; but I don’t know what duty Levison can claim—he has never
acted like a father, never done anything for you; how can he expect you
should for him?”
“Still he is my father,” repeated Sarah. “He sent for me when he was
prosperous; and though I did not come, his kind wish was the same, and
proved he did not forget me. Besides, even if he had, God’s plain
command is, to honour your father and mother. We can scarcely imagine
any case when this command is not to be obeyed; and surely not when a
parent is in distress.”
“You have learned fine feelings, my poor child. I hope you will be able
to keep them; but I don’t know, I tried to do my duty, God knows, when I
was young and hearty, but now poverty and old age have come upon me, and
I have left off caring for anybody or anything. It is better to take
life as we find it, and hard enough it is.”
“Not if we believe and feel that God is with us, and will lead us in the
end to joy and peace,” rejoined Sarah, timidly.
“Why, you cannot be so silly, child, as to believe that God,” her voice
deepened into awe, “cares for such miserable worms as we are, and would
lead us as you say?”
“We are taught so, and I do believe and feel it,” replied Sarah,
earnestly.
“Taught so; where, child, where?” reiterated old Esther eagerly.
“In God’s own book, the Bible,” answered Sarah. The old woman’s
countenance fell.
“The Bible, child! now that must be your own fancy. I never found it
there, and I think I must have read it more than you have.”
“Have you looked for it?” inquired Sarah, timidly, for she feared to be
thought presumptuous.
“Looked for it—I don’t know what you mean. I read it every Saturday, the
parts they tell us to read; and I do not find much comfort in them, for
they seem to tell me God is too far off to care for such as us.”
“Oh, do not, do not say so,” replied Sarah, with unaffected earnestness.
“Every word of that blessed book brings our God near us as a tender and
loving father—tells us we are His children. He loves us, cares for us,
bears all our sorrow, feels for us more deeply than any earthly friend.
I am not very old, but I have learned this from His holy book; and so, I
am sure, will you. Forgive me,” she added, meekly, taking the old
woman’s withered hand, “I am too young perhaps to speak so to one old
and experienced as you are.”
“Forgive you—you are a sweet angel!” hastily replied Esther, suddenly
rising and pressing Sarah in her arms. “Too good, too good to come to
such a house as this. God forbid you should have such trials as to make
you doubt what you now so steadfastly believe; the more you talk the
more I wish you had not come.”
“But why do you regret it? What is it I must expect? Pray tell me; be my
friend, I have none on earth near me to love me now.”
“I wish I could be a friend to you, poor child, but I am of little
service now, and you can better tutor me than I can you. It is a hard
thing to say to a child of her own father, but you are too good for such
as he.”
“Oh no, no; pray do not say so. Tell me, only tell me I may love my
father!” entreated Sarah.
“You cannot, child; you have been used to kindness and love, you will
find harshness and anger; you have only associated with religion and
virtue, you have come to misery and vice. As the niece of the worthy
widow Perez you have been respected, and always found employment; as the
daughter of Isaac Levison you will be shunned, and may be left to
starve. It is hard enough to find employment for children of respectable
parents amongst us poor Jews; and so how can we expect it for others?
Don’t cry, dear; it is sad enough, but it is only too true; and so I
grieve you have given up even your character to come here.”
“But what can I do—what can I do?” repeated Sarah, lifting up her
streaming eyes with an expression which almost brought tears to those of
Esther. “Could I desert my own father, and I heard he needed me? Is he
not in poverty and distress? And is his own child to forsake him because
others do?”
“Poor he is, child, and so are most of us. But how can you help him?”
“Can I not work for him as I did for my aunt?”
“Yes; if you can get employment, which will not be very easy. You are
known in Liverpool, and you are not in London; and the few trades in
which we poor Jews can work are overstocked. Take old Esther’s
advice—return as you came; your father will never know you have been
here, and you may be sure I will not betray you. Go back to your happy
home and kind friends, it cannot be your duty to give up happiness for
misery; and as he forsook you, your conscience can be quite at rest in
your leaving him. Do not hesitate, my good child, go at once; he has no
claim upon you.”
There are some who doubt the necessity of daily prayer; that we need not
pray against temptation, there being so few times in which any great
temptation is likely to assail us. Great temptations to sin perhaps we
seldom have, but small—oh, of what hour can we be secure? Little did
poor Sarah imagine when she entered that lowly roof, the almost
overpowering temptation which was to assail her. The home of peace,
cleanliness, and comfort which she had deserted; the beloved friends of
her youth; the happy hours that were gone; all rose so vividly before
her, conjuring her to return to them, not to devote herself to
misery—which, after all, was but a doubtful duty—that her first impulse
was indeed to fly from a scene where everything around her confirmed old
Esther’s ominous words. But Sarah was no weak, wavering child of
impulse; her principles were steady, her faith was fixed, and the inward
petition arose, with a _fervour_ and _faith_ which gave it power to
penetrate the skies—
“Save me from myself, O God? Do not forsake me now. Teach me my duty,
the one straight path, and whatever may befall, let me abide by it.”
The brief orison was heard, for the God of Israel has love and mercy for
the lowest of his creatures, and strength was given.
“No, Esther, no,” she answered mildly, yet firmly; “I will not turn
aside, whatever may await me. God sees my heart, knows that I am here to
do my duty, even if I be mistaken in the means. He will strengthen me
for its performance. Do not try to frighten me away,” she added, trying
to smile. “I dare say all you tell me may be very true, and it will be
difficult to bear, but a good heart and a firm faith may make it
lighter, you know. I want a friend sadly, and I feel as if you would be
a kind one; your experience may smooth my way.”
“Blessings on your sweet face for such words, my darling!” murmured the
old woman; “it is long since old Esther has heard anything but abuse and
unkindness. I wish I could do for you all my heart tells me, but, deary
me, that is a vain wish; for I would take away all sorrow from you, and
how can a poor creature like me do that?”
Esther would have run on much more in the same strain, and Sarah felt
much too grateful for the kind feeling, however rudely expressed, to
check her, had not the old woman suddenly recollected the poor traveller
might like some tea, which she hastened to prepare. It was, indeed, a
different meal, both in quality and comfort, to that which, even in her
uncle’s poorest days, she had been accustomed to; but Sarah was too much
engrossed in anxiety for her father to heed it, and only made the effort
to partake of it, in gratitude to her companion. She had time to
conclude her meal and hear much concerning her father, before he
appeared. Esther said he had been ill, but never seriously so; that he
could often have procured employment in various humble ways; but for
some of them he was too proud, and in others behaved so as to disgust
those who would have befriended him, and that now he literally had not a
friend in the world, either amongst his superiors or his equals. It was
a sad, sad tale, and Sarah’s feelings, as she listened, may easily be
imagined. But how could he live? Old Esther really did not know. She
lodged in the same house with him, but she knew little of his private
concerns; she only knew he was a wretched temper, which, of course,
daily grew worse and worse. He went to the synagogue regularly, that he
did, but it did not seem to benefit him much. How could it, when his
actions denied his prayers?
It was late before Levison returned. He was still a good looking man,
but miserably attired, and pale from recent illness. He greeted his
daughter with affection, for in the lowest and most debased amongst
Israel that redeeming virtue is seldom found wanting; and Sarah felt, as
she looked on him, all the daughter glowing in her heart: that she could
love, work for, do anything for him. Little sleep had she that night;
not because her bed was hard, its covering coarse and unseemly, but from
the many thoughts pressing on her mind. Her path was all dark; nothing
but the unexpected warmth of her father’s welcome and old Esther’s
kindness to make it light. She could but trust and pray not only for
strength to meet her trials, but that she might so be blessed as to
erase from her heart the pang which lingered in it still.
Weary days passed; often and often did Sarah’s spirit so sink within
her, that she felt as if it could never rise again. Her father’s
moroseness returned; affection, in a character like his could not obtain
effective power over the evil habits of long years. Sarah could not
realize that he loved her, and had it not been for her firm confidence
in the love which was unending, pitying, strengthening, as the gracious
Lord from whom it comes, her every energy must have failed. She exerted
herself to effect a reformation in their dwelling and in her father’s
slender wardrobe. To look on him, any one would have believed him a very
mendicant; yet there were some few articles of clothing easily to be
repaired, and so made decent, and this Sarah did. Struck by her method,
her perseverance, and the quiet easy way in which she did everything,
Esther Cardoza, old, and often ailing as she was, did not disdain to
profit by her example; she became more tidy, more careful, and was
surprised to find that it was just as easy to be clean and neat, however
poor her apparel, as the contrary, and for comfort the one could not be
mentioned with the other. One sweet source of pleasure Sarah indeed had.
She had excited an ardent desire in the old woman’s mind to become
thoroughly acquainted with God’s holy volume, and many an evening did
they sit together, and Esther listened to the sweet pleading voice of
her young companion, till she felt with her whole heart that God must be
with Sarah; she could not be the good, gentle, yet strong-minded
creature she was without His help: and then came the thought and belief,
that if she sought Him, He would be found too of her, unworthy and lowly
as she was. Such a rich treasury of promises did Sarah open to her
longing heart and eyes, that she often wondered how she could have been
blind so long; and she would thank and bless her with such strong
feeling, that Sarah would feel with thankfulness, and chastened joy, in
the midst of her own sorrows, that she had not left her own dear home in
vain.
“I begin to think, dearie,” Esther one day said, “that I must have been
cross and harsh myself, which made folks abuse me as they did; since you
have been here, I feel an altered creature, and now meet with kindness
instead of wrong.”
“Perhaps you are more inclined to think it kindness,” said Sarah,
smiling.
“Perhaps so, dear; but that is all your doing. Since you have read to
me, and proved to me that God, even Abraham’s God, cares for and loves
me, I am as happy again, and I think if _He_ can love me, why, surely
some of my fellow-creatures can too. They cannot be as unjust and harsh
as I once thought them. What would have become of me if you had taken my
advice, and gone home again?”
“Then you see, Esther, I was not sent here for nothing; humble as I am,
I have made one fellow-creature happy.”
“You must make every one happy who talks with you, darling; but I want
you to be happy yourself, and you have not come here to be that, I’m
thinking.”
“It is better for me that I should not be happy yet, Esther, or our
Father would make me so. You know He could, with a word, and He will in
His own good time. I did not think I should find one friend, but His
love provided you.” Her voice quivered, and she threw her arms round old
Esther’s neck, to hide and subdue her emotion, which kindness alone had
power to excite.
But though for Esther she had been permitted to do so much, her father
seemed neither to understand nor appreciate her; and to change the
opinions to which he so often gave vent, and which, from their
strangeness and laxity, often actually appalled her, seemed to her
utterly impossible. The sacred name of God was with him a common
interjection, introduced in every phrase; it mattered not whether called
for by anger or vexation, or any other feeling. Sarah shuddered with
agony as she heard it—that awful name, which she never dared pronounce
save with reverence and love, which should be kept far from all moods
and tempers of sin—that name, the holiness of which was enjoined as
strictly, as solemnly, as “thou shalt not kill,” and “thou shalt not
steal.” She could not conquer the feeling which its constant and sinful
use excited, and once so horror-struck was her countenance, that her
father marked it and demanded its cause. Tremblingly she told him, and a
rude laugh was his reply, coupled with an injunction not to preach to
him—words which ever checked her when, in his moments of irritation
against the whole world and his own fate, she sought to comfort him by
the religion of her own pure mind; she gave up the effort at length, but
she did not give up prayer. She would not listen to the agonized
supposition that for such as he even the long suffering of an infinitely
compassionate God would be of no avail. She prayed and wept for those
who prayed not for themselves, and there was comfort in her prayer.
But to pass her life in idleness was impossible. From the first week of
her residence in London, she had sought for employment. Her father would
not hear of her living out, and so she endeavoured to find daily
occupation, or to work at home. In both of these wishes, as old Esther
had foreboded, she failed.
In the low neighbourhood where her father dwelt there was no one to
employ her, and she had no friend to speak for her in the higher
classes. In vain she had at first urged she must seek for a situation in
a private family, as upper housemaid, lady’s maid, or nurse. Levison so
raged and stormed at the first mention of the plan, that Sarah felt as
if she never dared resume it. Yet as weeks passed and the little fund
she had brought from Liverpool would very soon be exhausted, something
must be done. Our readers, perhaps, think that her idea of the duty she
owed her father went so far as even in this to obey him; they are wrong
if they do. Sarah’s mind was not of that weak cast which could not
discern right from wrong. She knew it was a false and sinful pride which
actuated Levison’s refusal. “Jews were Jews,” he declared, “and one
class should not serve the other; his daughter was as good as any in the
land, and she should not call any one mistress.” Mildly, yet firmly,
Sarah resisted his arguments. We have not space to repeat all she said,
but her father at length yielded, with an ill grace indeed, and vowing
she should go nowhere unless they would let her come to him when he
wanted her. But still he yielded, and Sarah thankfully pursued her plan.
But, alas! she encountered only disappointment; there were no Jewesses
established as milliners, dressmakers, or similar trades in London, and
therefore no possibility of her getting occupation with them as she
wished. She would not heed old Esther’s assurances that no one would
take Jewish servants. Unsophisticated and guileless herself, she could
not believe that her nation would refuse their aid and patronage to
those of their own faith; and she strained every energy, she conquered
her own shrinking diffidence, but all without effect. Again and again
the fact of her being a Jewess completed the conference at once. One
said that Jewish servants were more plague than enough, they should
never enter her house. Another, that their pride and ignorance were
beyond all bounds, and as for a proper deference towards their
superiors, a willingness to be taught or guided, it was not in their
nature. Another, that a Jewish cook might be all very well, but for
anything else it was quite out of the question; they knew the low
habits, the laziness and insolence that characterised such kind of
people, and they certainly would not expose themselves to it with their
eyes open. In vain Sarah pleaded for a trial—that she was willing, most
willing to be taught her duty; that she was not wholly ignorant, and
humbly yet earnestly trusted she was not proud. Her duty to her God had,
she hoped, taught her proper deference towards her superiors on earth.
Some there were who, only her superiors in point of fortune, stared at
her with stupid surprise, and utterly unable to understand such pure and
truthful feelings, sharply terminated their conference at once. Others
would not even hear her. Some there were really superior in something
more than fortune, and anxiously desirous to alleviate distress and aid
their poorer brethren, but they shrank from being the _first_ to engage
a Jewess as lady’s maid or nurse. Some, touched by her respectful, and
gentle manner, would have waived this, but when the question who was her
father, was asked and answered, the most kindly intentioned shrank
back—it could not be. In vain she told them she had never been under his
care, and offered references to many respectable families in Liverpool.
A daughter of Levison was no fit servant for any respectable family;
they were sorry, but they could do nothing for her.
Day after day, week after week thus passed, till even months had
elapsed, and, despite her unwavering faith, Sarah’s weary spirit
flagged.
“But why should it be?” she asked one day, as she sat by the rude bed to
which poor old Esther was confined, and in answer to her observation, it
was only what she had feared; “but why should it be? there must be some
reason for our being so shunned. Those of the stranger faith, of course,
could not employ us; but our own?—how much better and happier we might
be if they would take us into their families, and unite us by kindness
on the one hand, and obedience and faithfulness on the other.”
“It certainly would make us happier, but we must be better fitted for
it, Sarah, dear, before it can be accomplished,” replied the old woman.
“You don’t know anything of the majority of us here; how many of us hate
the very idea of going into service. What a dreadful deal of pride is
amongst us, and such false pride; we very often throw away those that
would be our friends, and repay sometimes with abuse any kindness. Then,
again, we want to be taught our proper duties. It is not enough to read
our Bibles and prayer-books, because a great many are blinded to what
they tell us. We want some one to explain them, and tell us plainly what
we ought to do, and may do, without breaking our religion. Because you
see, dear, when we were in Jerusalem, some things must have been
different to what they can be now; and, as servants, we might be called
upon to do some things which we think we ought not. Then, it is all very
true about being lazy and sometimes insolent. We must set about doing
all we can to be _kinder to ourselves_, before we can expect anybody to
be kinder to us. I see that now quite clearly, though I did not once;
but for you, darling, you are good enough for anybody to find a treasure
in you. I wish I could help you; there is one good, kind, charitable
lady that I would send you to, but a sister of mine behaved so
ungratefully to her, that I do not like intruding on her again. She
nearly clothed my sister’s little girl, and, would you believe it, Becky
went to her house and abused her. What right, forsooth, had she to know
that her child wanted clothes.”
Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Indeed, and yes, dear; and so you see, though I had nothing to do with
it, I don’t much like to go to Miss Leon again; but you might, though. I
am sure she would do what she could for you.”
Sarah eagerly inquired who this Miss Leon was.
“None of your very rich carriage people, dear; indeed I don’t know how
she contrives to do all the good she does, for she is not half as rich
as many who think themselves poor. She finds out those who want help;
she employs all she possibly can; she gets us work from others; makes
our interests hers; teaches our girls all sorts of useful knowledge;
gives many a poor family the meal on which they break their fast, and
all such good acts; comes amongst us, and, somehow or other, always does
us good. I don’t know how many people she cured of rheumatism last
winter, by supplying them with some doctor’s stuff and warm clothing.
Then, as for the girl’s schools, I don’t know what would become of them
without her; she gets them work, cuts out all they want, and teaches
them often herself. She is a good creature, God bless her! I lost a kind
friend by Becky’s behaving as she did, for I never had the face to go to
her again, and I would not have her come to this low place; but that she
would not mind, as she does not care for the world in doing good.”
Sarah listened eagerly; had she indeed found a friend? yet she checked
her rising hopes. Miss Leon might do her service, but might not have the
power. Before she could make up her mind to seek her, she received, as
was her custom every month at least, a long letter from the dear home
she had left; she had stated her many disappointments to her aunt, and
that beloved relative entreated her to return.
“Tell your father,” she wrote, “two-thirds you earn shall be honestly
sent to him; and you can better, much better, support him here than in
London. Entreat him to let you return to us—all our happiness is damped
when we think of your heavy trials. Come to us, my love; it can scarcely
be your duty to remain any longer where you are.”
Sarah read this letter to her father, hoping more than she dared
acknowledge to herself, that he would see how much better it would be
for her to return. But for this he was far too selfish. Sarah had so
rivetted all the affection which he was capable of feeling, that he
would not let her leave him. He was jealous and angry that she should so
love her absent friends, and swore that they should not take any more of
her heart from him; he would rather remain as he was, than she should
work for him at Liverpool; he did not want her labour, he wanted her
love, and that she would not give him. Sarah submitted with a strange
feeling of consolation amidst her sorrow—did he indeed want her love?
Oh, if she could but believe it, she might have some influence over him
yet.
Not long after this, as she was sitting reading one morning to poor old
Esther that holy book, which was now as great a comfort to Esther as to
herself, a lady unexpectedly entered, and before even she heard her
name, Sarah guessed who she was. There was the decided manner and kind
speech of which Esther had spoken; the plain attire with which, to avert
notice, she ever went her rounds of charity; and even had there been
none of these peculiarities, the very fact of her coming to that poor
place at all proclaimed Miss Leon. She gently upbraided the poor old
woman for not letting her know she was ill and needed kindness; would
not accept her plea that after her sister’s ungrateful conduct she could
have no right to appeal to her, and by a very few judicious words set
Esther’s heart at rest. She inquired what her ailing was, seemed to
understand it at once, and promised soon to get her about again.
“God bless you, lady dear!” exclaimed the grateful creature, fervently;
“only the other day was I talking about you and all you did; not that I
wanted you—for you see my threescore and ten years are almost run out,
and it signifies little now if I suffer more or less—but for this poor
girl, bless you, lady, you could do so much for her. I ought not to call
her poor though, for in one sense God has made her rich enough, and she
has been a good angel to me.”
With a vivid blush of true modest feeling, that attracted Miss Leon’s
penetrative eye at once, Sarah tried to check the old woman’s garrulity,
but in vain. She would pour out all that Sarah had done for her, and
wanted and suffered for herself, and who she was, and how brought up,
and where she came from. Miss Leon meanwhile had quietly taken a seat,
and without the smallest symptom of impatience or failing interest,
listened to the tale. When it was concluded, she put some questions to
Sarah, the answers to which appeared much to please and satisfy her. She
promised to do what she could, making, however, no professions that
could excite delusive hopes, yet somehow leaving such comfort behind
her, that on her departure Sarah sought her own room to pour forth her
swelling thanksgiving to God.
Miss Leon never made professions, but she always acted. When it was
known amongst her friends where she had been, and whose daughter she
intended, if possible, to befriend, a complete storm of advice and
warning and censure had to be encountered, but Adelaide Leon was not to
be daunted; for advice she was grateful, but timidity and selfish
consideration never entered her code of charity. She felt no fear of
consequences whatever; even had she to come in contact with Levison
himself, she saw nothing very dreadful in it, and as for the censure,
she smiled very quietly at the idea; but when her conscience told her
she was right, it mattered little what other people said. In a word, she
did as most strong-minded, right people do—finally carried her point.
She went to see Esther three times that week, and before a month had
passed the old woman was able to sit up, doing a little knitting, which
Miss Leon herself had taught her; and Sarah went sometimes four days in
the week to work at the Square.
A very brief period of intercourse convinced Miss Leon that Sarah
certainly was a superior person, and her benevolent intentions did not
terminate in merely getting her daily work. She had not enough in her
own family to occupy her sufficiently, and many in her circle were too
prejudiced to follow her good example.
Now it so happened Miss Leon had a widowed sister, a Mrs. Corea, who had
four little girls, and was in want of a young woman to attend on and
work for them, and take care of them when they were not with her or
their governess. Genteel and modest in her manners, without a portion of
pride or insolence, truly and unostentatiously pious, and withal better
informed on many subjects than very many who profess a great deal, Sarah
was just the very person whom Miss Leon could desire to be with her
nieces; but the difficulties she had to contend with, before she
accomplished the end, we have no space to dilate on. Mrs. Corea was
about as weak-minded, prejudiced, and foolish, as Miss Leon was the
contrary. First she had a horror of all low-born people, however they
might be brought up; and no one could say but that, if Sarah was
Levison’s child, she was the very lowest of the low. Secondly she could
not have a Jewess; she would give the children all sorts of
superstitious ignorant ideas, and was as helpless and exacting as any
fine lady. And thirdly, and most convincing of all, in her own ideas,
she did not like the plan, and would not have her; what would people say
too—doing what no one else did?
Fortunately for our poor Sarah, Miss Leon never desponded when
determined to do good; the more difficulties she had to contend with,
the more determined was she to carry her point, and, to the surprise of
everybody, even in this she succeeded. Mrs. Corea yielded to
perseverance. It was too much trouble to say “no” any longer. She had
seen no one that would do, and Adelaide had promised she would take all
the blame, and answer everybody who meddled and found fault; and if
Sarah did not suit, why Adelaide would take the blame for that too, and
never torment her to take a Jewess again.
Sarah did not know all that Miss Leon had encountered in her cause, but
she knew it was to her she owed the comfortable situation in which she
was at length installed; and the grateful girl not only prayed God to
bless her benefactress, but to bless her own efforts, that she might do
her duty to her young charge, and, in serving them, prove her gratitude
to their aunt.
With her father she had at first a difficult part to play. He, of
course, could not be allowed to come to the house to see her, and he had
sworn she should go nowhere, where he might not be admitted. A voiceless
prayer that his heart might be changed rose from Sarah’s heart, as she
attempted to tell him of her plans; and the prayer was heard, for, to
her own astonishment, her gentle arguments and meek persuasions were
successful. His anger subsided at first into sullenness, then he seemed
endeavouring to conceal some strong emotion, and at last, as she drew
closer to him, trembling and fearful, conjuring his reply, he caught her
in his arms, kissed her again and again, bade God bless her and spare
her till he was a better man, when she would love him more. He knew she
could not as he was; but for her sake there was nothing she could not
persuade him to do; she did not know how much he loved her, and, as
Sarah sobbed from many varied feelings on his bosom, she thanked God
that He had called her to her father, and permitted her even in the
midst of sorrow and sin to cling to him still.
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