OUR readers must imagine a period of eighteen months since we bade them
farewell. But few changes had taken place, Leah, Simeon, and Joseph
continued in their respective situations, every year increasing their
wages, and riveting the esteem and goodwill of their employers.
The widow might have had another home in a gayer part of the town, but
she refused to leave the lowly dwelling she had so dearly loved, until
Leah or one of her sons had a home, to keep which she was needed. One
change in the widow’s household had indeed taken place, for Ruth was in
London. Sarah’s excellent conduct had interested Miss Leon not only in
herself, but in her family. As they were all comfortably providing for
themselves, Miss Leon could find no object for her active benevolence
but the little Ruth. The poor child had not indeed so many resources as
many similarly afflicted, for though all were desirous, none knew how to
teach her. It so happened Miss Leon was peculiarly interested in Ruth,
because she had once had a sister who was blind; one whom she had so
dearly loved, that she had learned the whole method of tuition for the
blind simply for that sister’s sake. She died just when she was of an
age to know all that affection had done for her; and Miss Leon now
offered to impart all she knew to Ruth, to give her board and lodging at
her house till she was enabled to earn something for herself, when she
herself would send her to her mother.
It was a hard struggle before the widow could consent to part with her
darling; but the representations of Leah and Simeon, and Ruth’s own
yearnings to be able to do something for herself, overcame all selfish
considerations. She could not feel Miss Leon a stranger, for her
kindness to Sarah had made her name never spoken without a blessing, and
Sarah would always be near Ruth to watch over and write of her; and so
with tears of thankfulness the widow consented. Leah was often permitted
to take her work to the widow’s cottage and pursue it there; and the
little Christian girl, to whom Ruth and Sarah had been so kind, was
delighted to come and do any cleaning or scouring in the house, or sit
with the widow and work and read for her, to prove how grateful she was.
And where was Reuben Perez all this while? Were his mother’s prayers for
him still unanswered? Alas! farther and farther did they seem from
fulfilment. He had left Liverpool to accept, in conjunction with his
father-in-law, the management of a bank, in one of the smaller towns of
Yorkshire, and, of course, even his casual visits were discontinued. Not
that they were of much avail, going as he did; but still his mother had
hoped, against her better reason, that while near her he would never
entirely take himself away. Now that hope was at an end. He was thrown
entirely amongst Gentiles, and Sabbaths and holidays seemed wholly given
up. He did not often write home, but when he did, always affectionately;
and his mother’s allowance was regularly paid. She yearned to see and
bless him once again, but months, above a year passed, and his foot had
never passed her threshold.
With regard to Sarah, a very few months’ association with her, though
only in the relative positions of mistress and servant, had completely
conquered Mrs. Corea’s prejudices; and the very indolence and
foolishness, which had originally been so difficult to overcome, was now
as likely to ruin as they formerly had been to oppose. But fortunately
Sarah was not one for indulgence and confidence to spoil; indeed she
often regretted her mistress’s indolence, from the responsibility it
devolved on her. Mrs. Corea had repeatedly allowed herself to be cheated
and deceived, because it was too much trouble to find fault. She often
permitted the most serious annoyances in her establishment—keys and even
money repeatedly lying about, her children neglected, their clothes
often thrown aside long before they were worn out. In a very few months
Sarah’s ready mind discovered this state of things. One only she had the
power of herself to remedy—the neglect of her charge; and so admirably
did she do her duty by them, that Miss Leon felt herself amply rewarded.
Finding it was of no use to entreat Mrs. Corea to have more regard to
her own interest, and not allow herself so repeatedly to be deceived,
Sarah in distress appealed to Miss Leon, who quietly smiled, and assured
her she would soon settle matters entirely to Mrs. Corea’s satisfaction.
She did so, by giving to Sarah’s care almost the entire charge of the
housekeeping, with strict injunctions to take care of her mistress’s
keys and purse, whenever she saw them lying about. Sarah at first
painfully shrunk from the responsibility, knowing well it would expose
her yet more to the dislike of her fellow-servants, who, as a Jewess,
already regarded her with prejudice. Mrs. Corea was charmed that such a
vast amount of trouble was spared her; telling everybody Sarah was a
treasure, and she only wondered there were not more Jewish servants.
But our readers must not imagine that Sarah’s situation was all
delightful. She had many painful prejudices to bear with, many slights
and unkindness in her fellow-servants to forgive and forget, many jests
at her peculiar religion, and ridicule at its forms—much that, to a
character less gently firm and forbearing, would have led to such
domestic bickering and misery, that she would have been compelled to
leave her place, or perhaps have been induced weakly to hide, if it did
not shake her reverence for, the observance of her ancient faith. But
Sarah had not read her Bible in vain. She had not now to learn that such
prejudice and scorn were of God, not of man. That He permitted these
things, in His wisdom, to teach His people, though they were still His
own, still His beloved, their sins had demanded chastisement, and thus
received it. That the very prejudice in which by the ignorant they were
held, was proof of the Bible’s truth—proof that they were His chosen and
His firstborn; and more consolatory still, that as the _threatenings_
were thus fulfilled, so, in His own good time, would be His _promises_.
Sarah never wavered in the line of duty which she had marked out for
herself—to make manifest that her faith was of God by _actions_, not by
_words_; and she so far succeeded, that after a while peace was
established between her and her fellow-servants. They began to think,
even if she were a heathen, she was a very harmless and often a very
kind one, and there was not so much difference between them as at first
they had fancied.
These are but trifling things to mention; but we most particularly wish
our readers to understand that though good conduct will inevitably find
reward even on earth, it is not to be expected that it will have no
trials. Virtue and religion will _not_ exempt us from suffering, but
they teach us so to bear them, that we can derive consolation and
unfailing hope even in the darkest hours; and, instead of raising a
barrier between us and our God, they draw us nearer and nearer to Him,
till we can realize His immeasurable love towards us; and tracing every
suffering from His hand sent for our good, to love Him more and more,
and in that very love find comfort. Do not then let us practise religion
and virtue because we think they have power to shield us from all trial
and sorrow, but simply for the love of Him who bids us practise them,
and who has promised, if we seek Him, He will heal our sorrows and
heighten our joys.
One unspeakable source of comfort Sarah had: it was that her influence
with her father rather increased than lessened with him. Once every
month she spent the Sabbath evening with him, and she felt that indeed
he loved her. Old Esther told her, even that when she was absent he was
an altered man. He sought employment, and after some difficulty found
it, though it was of a kind so humble, that before Sarah came to town he
would have spurned it as so derogatory to his pride, he would rather
starve than have it; but now it was welcome, because he would not be a
burden on his Sarah. His Sarah!—every dormant virtue seemed to spring
into life with those dear precious words. The very interjections of that
sacred name of God, which had been once ever on his lips, were now
constantly checked. “She does not like it, my angel Sarah, and I _will_
not say it,” Esther heard him mutter when the accustomed phrase broke
from him; and many other evil habits, that thought—“my angel Sarah”—had
equal power to remove. The bad man seemed fast breaking from his sins,
and it was from the influence of his gentle pious child. The father was
at work within him, and God blessed him through that feeling, and
through his daughter’s unceasing prayers. Every time Sarah visited him
she saw more to hope, more for which with grateful tears to bless her
God; and each time to love him more, and feel she was yet more beloved.
On Sarah’s returning home one afternoon, after a brief visit to old
Esther, who was not quite well, she was informed a young man had called
to see her, and stayed some time; but as she did not come as soon as
they expected, he had gone away, promising to return in the course of
the evening. He had not left his name, they added; but he seemed a
gentleman, quite a gentleman, though one of her own nation, and was in
the deepest mourning. Sarah was not one given to speculation or
curiosity, though she did wonder who this gentleman could be, but
quietly continued her usual employments. She had just finished dressing
her young ladies to go with their mother to the theatre, and ran down to
see them safely in the carriage, when the footman called out—
“Sarah, the gentleman has come again; he is waiting for you in the
housekeeper’s room.”
She went accordingly; but her self-possession almost deserted her when,
on looking up in the face of the stranger as she entered, she recognised
at once her cousin Reuben—pale, thin, and worn indeed, but still
himself, and it required a powerful effort, even in that strong and
simple mind, to evince no feeling but surprise and welcome.
Few words, however, at the first moment passed between them. Reuben
sprang forward as she entered, and clasped both her hands in his, which
were cold and trembling; and she saw his lip quiver painfully, and, to
her grief and almost terror, as she spoke to him he gradually let go her
hands, and, sinking on the nearest chair, covered his face with his
handkerchief, and wept like a child.
“I terrify you, dear cousin, do forgive me,” he said at length, as he
heard the gentle voice which sought to soothe him falter in spite of
herself. “Sarah, dear Sarah, I do not know why your kind voice should
affect me thus. I cannot tell you why I have come to grieve you with my
grief, except that when I least desired it, you were always kind and
good and feeling, and gave me comfort when I could not console myself;
and my heart has so yearned to you now—now, when your own word has come
to pass, to tell you you were right. In prosperity I might be happy,
though God knows it was but a strange unnatural happiness; but in
affliction—Sarah, do you remember your own words?”
She did remember them; but she had no voice to repeat them then, and her
quivering lip alone gave answer. Her cousin continued, almost choked
with many emotions—
“‘If affliction, if death—may you never repent your engagement then,’
These were the words you said; and oh, how often the last few months
have they returned to me. Affliction has come, my own cousin;
affliction, oh, such affliction that God alone could send—death, even
death!” The word was almost inaudible.
“Death!” repeated Sarah, startled at once into perfect consciousness.
She looked at his dress—the deepest mourning—and the words more fell
from her than were spoken. “Not Jeanie, your own Jeanie—tell me, it is
not she?” Then, as she read his answer in the tighter pressure of his
hand, the convulsive movement of his lips, she threw her arms round him,
and faintly exclaiming, “Reuben, my poor Reuben, may God grant you His
comfort!” burst into tears.
Nothing is so true a balm to the afflicted as unaffected sympathy; and
Reuben roused himself from his own sorrow, to bless his cousin for her
tears, yet bid her not weep for him.
“It is better thus, my gentle cousin. The God of my parents has revealed
Himself to their sinful offspring, even in His chastening. I cannot tell
you all now, dear Sarah; how, even when life seemed all prosperous
around me, there was still a void within—I was not happy. I had returned
to virtue, turned aside from all irregular and sinful pursuits, kept
steady to business, and in doing kind acts towards men; and more still,
I had a gentle being who so loved me, that she forced me into loving her
more than when I first sought her; for then, then—Sarah, do not hate
me—I did but seek her, because I thought a union with a Christian would
put a final barrier between me and the race I had taught myself to
hate—would mark me no more a Jew; and so for this, this dreadful sin, I
banished feelings which had once been mine. Sarah, do not ask me what
they were. Yet still, still, even when I did love my fair and gentle
wife, when she lavished on me such affection it ought to have brought
but joy, I was not happy. I was away from all who knew my birth and
race; the once hated name, a Jew, no longer hurt my ears; courted,
flattered, admired, Sarah, Sarah, was it not strange there was still
that gnawing void?”
She looked up with streaming eyes. “It was a void no man could fill,
dear cousin. You thought its cause was of earth, and sought with earth
to fill it; but now, oh, let us thank God, His image fills it now.”
“You have guessed aright, my Sarah, as you always do; but, oh, you know
not all I endured before it was so filled. I tried to believe with my
Jeanie and her father, but I could not. I attended their church at
times, I listened to their doctrines, I read their books; but no, no,
God’s finger was upon me. I could not believe in any Saviour, any
Redeemer, but Himself; and then that holy name, that sacred subject,
which should be the dearest link between those that love, never found
voice. We dared not read each other’s thoughts. When we married, you
know Jeanie thought little of those things; but she became acquainted
with a good and holy man, a pious minister of her own faith, and he made
her think more seriously: and what followed? She loved me more and more,
but she knew I did not believe in that Saviour whose recognition she
deemed necessary for my salvation, and so she drooped and drooped at the
very time when nature demanded greater sustenance and support. In a few
months I was a father. O God, the agony of that hour which should have
been all bliss! Then I felt in all its fulness there was a God, and I
had neglected Him. My innocent babe might be snatched from me, as
David’s was, for its father’s sin; and how was I to avert this
misery—how devote it to its God, as its mother believed? I shuddered.
From that hour my Jeanie sunk, even though they said she had recovered
all effects of her confinement. Month after month I watched over her. I
heard her clinging to a faith, a Saviour, which to me was mockery. I
heard her call aloud for help and mercy from Jesus, not from God. Sarah,
it is in vain, I cannot tell you what those hours were. You can tell
their anguish, for you warned me such might be.” He paused, every limb
trembling with his emotion; and Sarah, almost as much affected,
entreated him not to harrow his feelings by such recollections any more.
“Bear with me, dear cousin; I shall be better, happier when all is told.
I saw her look on our infant (thank God, it was a girl!), with the big
tear stealing down her pale face, and I knew of what she thought; yet I
could not, I dared not give her the only promise that might be her
comfort, and her love for me was so strong, so intense, she had no voice
to ask it. At length, one evening, after Mr. Vaughan, the clergyman, had
been urging on her the necessity of her child receiving baptism, she
called me to her, and, laying her head on my bosom, conjured me to grant
her last request, the only one, she said, she had ever feared to ask me.
Her voice was faint from weakness, yet it thrilled so on my heart, that
it was a struggle to reply, and conjure her not to say more. I knew what
she would ask, but she interrupted me by sinking on her knees before me,
and wildly reiterating her prayer, ‘My child, my child! let her be made
pure—let me feel I shall look upon her again. Reuben, my husband, have
mercy on us all!’ Sarah, had that moment been all my punishment, it
would have been enough. Why could I not feel then, as I had so often
declared before, that all faiths were the same in the sight of God? Why
could I not make this promise to the dying and beloved? I know not, I
know not now, save that I felt myself a father, and the immortal spirit
of my child was of more value than my own had ever been. I raised her: I
solemnly vowed that I would study both faiths—I would read with and
listen to Mr. Vaughan, and _if I could believe_, my child should be
reared a Christian, and be baptized with myself. She raised her sweet
face to mine with such a smile. ‘Bless you, bless you, my own husband!
we shall all meet again, then. Oh, you have made me so happy! Jesus will
save—will bring us all to—’ Her sweet voice sunk, and her head drooped
down on my bosom; and thinking she was exhausted, I clasped her closer
to me, and kissed her again and again. Nearly half an hour passed, and I
felt no movement, heard no breath. It was quite dark, and with sudden
terror I called aloud for lights. They were brought: I lifted the bright
curls from her dear face, and raised her head. It was vain, vain.”
He ceased abruptly, and there was silence, for Sarah could not speak.
Reuben hastily paced the room; then, reseating himself by his cousin,
continued more calmly; but, limited as we are for space, we are
forbidden to continue the conversation, though it deepened in interest,
even as it subsided in emotion. Reuben told how he had faithfully kept
his promise—how, for two months, he had remained with his father-in-law,
studying the word of God, and listening to all the instructions of Mr.
Vaughan, whose very kindness and true piety in spirit made his arguments
more difficult to resist, than had they been harshly and determinately
enforced. A year was the period Reuben had promised to devote to the
fulfilment of his vow; and if, at the end of that time, he could believe
in Jesus, he and his child would, of course, be made Christians; but if
his studies had a contrary effect, no more, either by Mr. Wilson or the
clergyman, would be said to him on the subject.
“Sarah, my dear cousin, do not fear for me. My God did not forsake me,
even when I forsook Him. He will not then forsake me now that I seek
Him, and night and day implore Him to reveal that path, that faith,
which is most acceptable to Him. I have already read and felt enough to
glory in the faith I once despised—to feel it is a privilege, aye, and a
proud one, to be a Jew: for the rest, let us trust in Him.”
“And your child, dear Reuben—where is she?”
“With Mrs. Vaughan at present. At the conclusion of the year, God
willing, and my mother is spared, she shall be cared for by the same
tender love which her erring father only now knows how to value and
return.”
“And does my aunt know this?”
“No, Sarah, no. I cannot tell her. I feel as if I had no right to go to
her again, until I have indeed returned with heart and soul to the faith
in which all her gentle counsels had not power to retain me. No, no, no;
I cannot, cannot claim the solace of her love till I am worthy to be
called her son in faith as well as love.”
The cousins were long together, and much, much was spoken between them,
which we would fain repeat as likely to be useful to our readers, but we
are warned to desist: enough to know that Sarah prevailed on Reuben to
write to his mother and tell her all, even if the story of his inward
life were otherwise kept secret.
Reuben said he had given up his place in the bank, and intended, for the
remainder of the year, to endeavour to obtain a situation in some Jewish
counting-house as clerk, for some hours in the day, and thus allow him
evenings, Sabbaths, and holidays for his sacred purpose. It was with
this intention he had come up to London, as, though he might have
procured employment in Liverpool or Manchester, he shrunk from all
remark, even kindness, from his own nation, until he had in truth
returned to them. He had brought with him letters of high
recommendation, which had obtained a capital situation in a thriving
house of his own nation; a branch of which resided in Birmingham, to
which place it was likely he should go.
“It is not that I fear the temptations of this large city, dearest
Sarah, that I would rather live elsewhere. No, I shrink from all scenes
of pleasure now with sensation of loathing; but I feel as if it would be
better for me to be alone, even away from those I most love, till this
one year is passed. Sarah, will you think of me, pray for me?” he took
both her hands, and looked pleadingly in her face. “It would be a
comfort, such a comfort to come to you for sympathy, for counsel; for
you it was, when we watched together by my sick mother’s bed, who first
made me feel that were all like you, the name ‘a Jew’ would cease to be
reproached; but no, no, it is better for me—perhaps too, for your
character, dear girl—that we should not meet yet awhile. I threw away
happiness once when it might perchance have been mine; and now—but it is
better thus.”
He had spoken incoherently, and he broke off abruptly. Sarah only
answered by the simple assurance that she never ceased to pray for his
happiness, nor would she now; and soon after they separated
affectionately, confidingly, as in long past years, perchance yet more
so; for then a barrier was between them, now there was none; their rock
of refuge, the shield of their salvation, was the same.
To define Sarah’s feelings, as she prostrated herself before her God in
prayer that night, is indeed impossible; nor is there need—surely the
coldest, the most callous, can imagine them, and give her sympathy. Not
indeed that hope was dawning for her long-tried, long-hidden affection;
for Reuben never dreamed he was so loved. It was simply thanksgiving,
the purest, most heartfelt, that her prayers were heard—the beloved one
of her heart brought back to his God.
Yet many were the secret tears she shed, as she pictured her cousin’s
anguish. She gave not one single thought to those words, which a less
guileless heart might have believed related to herself. She never
thought of the consequences which Reuben’s return to his faith might
bring to her individually. It was enough of happiness to feel he had
sought her in his sorrow, had felt her as his friend.
But sorrow was at hand, as unexpected as terrible. About four or five
months after her interview with Reuben, old Esther came to her one day
in such extremity of grief and horror, that even her little share of
discretion vanished before it, and she imparted her tidings to Sarah so
suddenly, that the poor girl stood stunned and paralyzed, preserved only
by a strong though almost unconscious effort from fainting. Levison had
been taken up and carried to Newgate as an accomplice in an act of
burglary and robbery, which, attended by circumstances of unusual
notoriety, had been lately committed in the neighbourhood of Epping.
Levison had loudly and fiercely asserted his innocence; but of course
his asseverations had been disregarded.
“But he has said it—he has said it! He has declared he is innocent, and
he is—he is!” reiterated poor Sarah, with a violent burst of tears,
which restored sense and energy. Esther, however, seemed to derive no
comfort from the assertion.
“Yes, dear, yes; I do believe he is not guilty—bad as some of us are, we
do not do such things. Who ever heard of a Jew being a housebreaker or a
thief? But who will believe him? Who will take his word, his oath? Oh,
what will become of us?” and the old woman rocked herself to and fro, in
the misery of the thought. Sarah was in no state to offer the usual
comfort; but stunned, bewildered as she was, her thought formed itself
into unconscious prayer for help and strength. Her plan of action was
decided on the instant; she would, she must go to him. In vain Esther
bade her think of the consequences; what would her mistress say, if she
knew that Sarah was any way related to Levison, the reputed
housebreaker, much less that she was his daughter.
“Would you then advise me, if this misery come to her knowledge, deny my
father, now that he may need me more than ever? Oh, Esther, I cannot do
this,” replied Sarah mournfully, though firmly. “My mistress need not
know my errand now perhaps, and this terrible trial may be permitted to
pass away before it comes to the worst. But should it indeed reach her
ears, I cannot deny him; he has only me, and if it cause me the loss of
my situation, of my character in the opinion of my fellow-creatures, my
God will love me, care for me still. I cannot desert my father.”
And while she seeks him we must inform our readers, briefly as may be,
how the matter really stood. Levison had been seen and recognised
talking to a party of men the evening previous to the night’s robbery.
No one could swear to his person as accessory to the act by having seen
him in the house, but in such earnest conversation with those who were
taken in the fact, that he was, in consequence, committed as one of the
gang, for the apprehension of whom a large reward had been offered. It
was true none of the stolen property had been found on his person, or in
his dwelling; but these facts were little heeded in his favour.
He was a Jew—a man who had been noted for his dishonest practices in
business, and consequently there was no one to come forward with such
report of his former character as could be taken in his favour.
He persisted that he was innocent; that though he had been talking to
the men as was alleged, he knew nothing of their real character or
intentions; that he had been acquainted with them formerly, but only in
the way of business; that they knew he had separated from them, at seven
o’clock that evening, to proceed several miles in a contrary direction,
to the burial-ground of his people, where he had been engaged to watch
beside the grave of one that day interred; the person who had been
engaged to do so having been suddenly taken ill, and asked him, Levison,
to watch in his stead. How could he prove this? he was asked.
The unhappy man groaned aloud for answer—he had no proof. Some one, a
gentleman, had indeed visited the grave at break of day, had demanded
who he was, and why he was there instead of the person engaged; and he
answered, giving his full name. The gentleman had thrown him money, and
hastily departed; but who or what he was, except a Jew, as himself,
Levison did not know.
Of course, such a tale, and from such a person, was not to be believed,
and he was committed to Newgate, with his supposed accomplices, to take
his trial.
It was with great difficulty Sarah gained admittance to his cell; but it
was not till in his presence, till the door was closed upon her for a
specified time, that the energy which supported her throughout gave way.
She could but throw herself on her knees before him, but fling her arms
round him, and sob forth, “Father!” the convulsions of agony and fear
which shook her every limb depriving her at once of power and of voice.
The effect of her presence on Levison was terrible. He gave vent to a
wild, shrill cry, then catching her to his bosom, gasped forth, “My
daughter! oh, my daughter! the God of wrath and justice will withdraw
His hand, if you are near,” and then sunk back in a strong convulsive
fit. Perhaps it was as well that the poor girl was thus compelled to
exertion. Terrified as she was, she knew to call for help was useless,
for who could hear her? But by unloosening his collar, and the
application of cold water, which happened to be in the room, after a few
minutes of intense terror, she saw the convulsive struggles gradually
give way, and he lay sensible but exhausted. It was then she saw the
ravages either illness or imprisonment had made; it seemed as if even
death itself was upon him. He had never quite recovered the illness
which had originally called her to London, and the last few days seemed
to have brought it back with increase of suffering and complete
prostration of physical power. His black hair had whitened, and his form
was bent, as if a burden of many years had descended upon him; his
features were contracted, and wan as death.
“Sarah, Sarah, I thought God had forsaken me; but I see you, and I know
He has not. Miserable and guilty as I am—guilty of many sins, as I know,
I feel now—but not of this: no, no, no; my child, my child, I am
innocent of this. I turned away from vice and sin for your sake. I made
a vow to try and become worthy of such an angel child; and see, see what
has come upon me! I have been deceiving and dishonest in former days,
but even then I never, never turned aside to steal—to join a gang of
thieves. Sarah, Sarah, I thought to make you happy at last; and I shall
be but your curse, your misery. Perhaps you too will not believe me, but
I am innocent of this crime; my child, my child, I am indeed!”
It was long ere Sarah’s gentle soothings and earnest assurances of her
firm belief in his perfect innocence could calm the fearful agitation of
her unhappy father. Still her presence, the pressure of her hand was
such comfort, that a light appeared to have gleamed on the darkness of
his despair, and he poured forth his agonizing thoughts, his terrors,
alike of life and death and eternity, as if his child were indeed the
ministering angel of hope and faith and comfort which his deep love
believed her.
“Had I not you, my daughter, oh, there would be no hope, no mercy for
one like me. I have disobeyed and profaned my God, and taken His holy
name in vain, and called down on me His wrath, His vengeance; and how
can I, how dare I hope for mercy? I cannot repent—I cannot seek
righteousness now; it is too late, too late! Yet God has given me you;
and is He then all wrath, all punishment? Tell me, tell me, there is
mercy for the sinner, even now.”
“Father, dear father, there is! Has He not said it? Yes, and reiterated
it in His holy book, till the most doubting of us must believe. ‘He hath
no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that he should turn
from his wickedness and live;’ bidding us repent and believe, and that
in the day we did so our guilt should not be remembered—should not
appear against us; telling us but to confess our sin, to throw ourselves
on His mercy, that mercy all perfect to purify, redeem, and save—that He
is merciful and gracious, long-suffering, abundant in mercy and
love—showing mercy unto thousands! My father, oh, my father, there is no
sin so infinite as His mercy—no sin for which repentance and love and
faith in Him will not in His sight atone.”
“But I can make no atonement, my child. I can do nothing to prove
repentance—that I would serve and love Him now—nothing to make
reparation for past sin: too late, too late!” and he groaned aloud.
“He does not ask works, my father, when He knows they cannot be
performed. Have you not sought Him this last year, in penitence and
prayer, and amendment of your ways? and does not He record this, though
man may not? and now, oh, do but believe in Him, in His will and power
to forgive and save—do but call upon Him with the faith and repentance
of a sorrowing child. Oh, my father, God asks no more than we can do.
His sacrifices are a broken heart and a contrite spirit, which we all
have power to bestow. He has told us this blessed truth, through the
lips of one who had the power to do and give much more in atonement for
his sin, that we, who can do nothing but believe and repent, may be
comforted. Father, my own dear father, if indeed you repent, and love,
and believe, oh, God is near you, will save you still!”
Much, much more did Sarah say, as she sat on the straw pallet where her
unhappy father half reclined, her dark, truthful eyes, often swelling in
large tears, fixed on his face as she spoke. It was impossible for one
whom her influence the last twelvemonth had already, through God’s
mercy, changed in heart, to listen to her healing words, and look on her
sweet pleading face, and yet retain the doubts and terrors of despair.
It seemed to Levison that if such a being could love and pity him, and
cling to him thus even in a prison cell, he could not be cut off from
all of heavenly hope—the all-pitying love and consoling promises of God
appeared to him through her as if by a voice from heaven. They could not
deceive, and even in the depth of repentant agony—for it was true
repentance—there was comfort. Sarah was summoned away only too soon, but
she promised to visit him often again. The piece of gold which she had
slid into the turnkey’s hand, she knew, would be her passport; but to do
this unknown to her mistress was an act of injustice towards her, which
her pure mind rejected.
Yet how to tell her? The determination was made, but on the manner of
fulfilling it poor Sarah thought some time. Perhaps it was fortunate she
was roused to exertion. On entering the kitchen for something she
wanted, she saw her fellow-servants congregated in a knot together, the
footman reading aloud the account of the robbery, and the committal of
the gang, from the newspapers. He stopped as she entered, and every eye
turned on her. Her cheek grew white as ashes, and her lip quivered, so
as to be remarked by all. The footman seemed about to speak, but the
housemaid laid her hand on his arm, with an imploring look to forbear.
It was enough. Sarah felt she could better leave her mistress than
encounter the questions or suspicions of her fellow-servants, and that
instant she sought the parlour. Miss Leon was with her sister. The
ghastly paleness and agonized expression of the poor girl’s face struck
her at once, and with accents of earnest kindness she inquired what was
the matter. Bursting into tears, Sarah almost inarticulately related the
heavy trial which had befallen her, and her intention to give up her
situation. Confidential, happy as it was to devote herself to her
unfortunate father, feeling that the child of one suspected as he was
could bring but disreputableness to a respectable family, Sarah felt her
story was incoherent; but that it was understood was visible in its
effects. Mrs. Corea, selfish and weak as her wont, thought only of the
trouble and annoyance Sarah’s resignation of her situation would bring
her; and overwhelmed her with reproaches, as ungrateful and capricious.
Miss Leon spoke calmly and reasonably. There was no need for any
decisive parting. Sarah might leave them for a time, if she were
desirous of doing so, though she did not think it wise; that if Mrs.
Corea valued her so much, she could have no objection to her returning.
“What! the daughter of a pickpocket, a housebreaker! No, no, if Sarah
were fool enough to say she were the daughter of such a person, she
would have nothing more to do with her; but there was no need for her to
do so. What was to prevent her disclaiming all relationship; and what
good could she do him or herself by going to him? It was all folly.
There were plenty of Levisons in the world. Nobody need know this
Levison was Sarah’s father, if the girl herself were not such a fool as
to betray it.”
“And can you advise this, Miss Leon?” implored Sarah, turning towards
her. “Oh, do not, do not say so. I would not displease one so kind and
good as you are. I would do anything, everything to show you I am
grateful; but I cannot, oh, I cannot deny my father! I should never know
a happy day again.”
Miss Leon was not at all a person to evince useless emotion, but there
was certainly something rising in her throat, which made her voice husky
ere she replied. Reasonable and feeling, however, as her arguments were,
that, without actually denying or deserting her father, she need not
ruin her own reputation for ever, by proclaiming it was to visit him in
person, she left her place. Sarah could at that moment only _feel_; her
future was bound up in her father’s.
We have not, however, space to dilate on all Miss Leon urged or Sarah
felt. Suffice it, that the next morning Sarah turned away from the house
which for nearly two years had been a happy home. She knew not if she
should ever be welcome there again. Miss Leon was indeed still her
friend; but how could even she aid her now? She returned to that
dilapidated dwelling where old Esther still lived, feeling that heavy as
she had thought her trial when she had first entered those doors, it was
light, it was joy to that which was hers now.
Day after day, in the brief period intervening before Levison’s final
trial, did his devoted daughter visit his cell, and not in vain. The
terror, the anguish which had possessed him were passing from his soul.
He did believe in the saving power of his God. He did approach his
throne with a broken and contrite heart; and it was the prayers, the
faith, the forbearing devotion of his child, which brought him there.
Sarah had told all his story to Miss Leon, who had listened attentively,
though she herself feared that to remedy this and prove him innocent
was, even to her energetic benevolence, impossible.
The morning of the trial came, the court was crowded; for the extensive
robberies traced home to this gang occasioned unusual excitement. The
trembling heart of the daughter felt that to wait to hear of its
termination, and her father’s sentence, was impossible, the very effort
would drive her mad. In vain old Esther remonstrated; offered, infirm as
she was, to go herself, if Sarah would but remain quietly at home. Sarah
insisted on accompanying her, muffled up so as not to be recognised.
They mingled with the thronging crowds, were jostled, pushed, and
otherwise annoyed, yet Sarah knew it not—seemed conscious of nothing
till her eyes rested on her misguided father. What was it she hoped? She
knew not, except a strange undefined belief that even now, in the
eleventh hour, his innocence would be made evident. Alas, poor girl! the
summary proceedings of a court of justice on a gang of noted criminals
allowed no saving clause. He was sworn to as having been seen with them,
and that was sufficient. All he said was unheeded, perhaps unheard; and
sentence of transportation for life was pronounced on every man by name,
Isaac Levison included.
Sarah did not scream; she thought she did not faint, for the words rung
in her ears as repeated by a hundred echoes, each one louder than the
other; but, except this power of hearing, every other sense seemed
suddenly stilled. She did not know whose arm led her from that terrible
scene—who was conducting her hastily yet tenderly towards home. She
walked on quick, quicker still, as if the rapidity of movement should
hush that mocking sound. It would not, it could not; and when she was at
home, she sunk down powerless, conscious only of misery that even faith
might not remove.
“Sarah, my own Sarah! look up, speak to me, this silence is terrible!”
exclaimed a voice which roused her as with an electric shock. Reuben
Perez was beside her, his arm around her; the ice of misery, the
restraint of long-hidden feelings, were broken by the power of that
voice, and laying her head on his shoulder, she sobbed in uncontrollable
agony. He told her how he had seen the name of Levison in the papers,
and his defence, and how he had trembled lest it should be her father;
how anxiously he had wished to come up at once to London, but was
unavoidably prevented leaving Birmingham till the previous night. How he
had proceeded to the court; at once recognised Levison, and at the same
moment, guided by some strange instinct, looked for and found Sarah,
muffled as she was.
He had gradually and with difficulty made his way through the crowd
towards her, and reached her just as the sentence was pronounced. Old
Esther had begged him to take care of Sarah home, as she could follow
more slowly. He tried to speak comfort respecting her father; but in
this he failed. Shudderingly, she reiterated the sentence.
“Transportation, and for life—to be sent away to work, to die, untended,
unloved,” and then, as with sudden thought, she started up—
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed, a hectic glow tinging her pallid cheek.
“Why cannot I go too? not with him, they will not let me do that; but
there are ships enough taking out emigrants, and I can meet him there—be
with him again. They shall not separate the father from his child; and
he is innocent! My father, my poor father, your Sarah will not forsake
you even now!” and she wept again, but less painfully than before.
Startled as he was, Reuben could yet feel this was scarcely a resolution
to be kept, and with argument and persuasion sought to turn her from her
purpose. Her father could not need such sacrifice; how could she aid him
in his far distant dwelling.
“He has but me—he has but me!” she reiterated; “who is there that has
claim enough to keep me from him? I have thought a former trial heavy to
be borne; but had it not been for that, my poor father might have died
in sin, for perhaps I could not have come to him as I did when free. No,
no, I was destined to be the instrument, in the hands of mercy, in
bringing him back to the God he had offended, and I may do so still.
Reuben, Reuben, who is there has such claim upon me, as my poor, poor
father? Others love me, and oh, God only knows how I love them! but they
are happy and prosperous, they do not need me.”
“Sarah,” answered Reuben, his voice choked with emotion, “Sarah, you
spoke of a former heavy trial, one hard to bear. Oh, answer me, speak to
me! Was not I its cause? I deceived myself when I thought I had not
injured your peace when I wrecked my own.”
“It matters little now,” replied Sarah, turning from his look, while her
cheek again blanched to marble; “my path is marked out for me. I may not
leave it, even to think of what has been or might be: it cannot, must
not matter now.”
“It must—it shall!” exclaimed Reuben, with more than wonted impetuosity.
“Sarah, Sarah, you ask me who needs you as your father does—to whom you
can be as you are to him? I answer, there is one, one to whom, as to
your father, you have been a guardian angel, winning him back even by
your memory, when far separated, to the God he had forsaken. I trampled
on the love I bore you—my own feelings as well as yours—to unite myself
with a strange race, to bid all who knew me cease to regard me as a Jew.
I sought to believe I had nothing to reproach myself with, as I had not
caused you grief, and yet—conscience, conscience! Oh, Sarah, my poor
Jeanie’s very love was constant agony, for I could not return it. I
never loved her as I loved you, even though she wound herself about my
very heart, and her death seemed misery. I looked to the end of this
twelvemonth to feel myself worthy to tell you all my sin, my misery,
and, if you could forgive me, to conjure you to become mine. Oh, do not
sentence me to increase of trial! I looked to you to train up my
motherless Jeanie, as indeed a child of God, according to your own pure
belief; and to bind me to Him by links I could never, even in the
strongest temptation, turn aside. And now, now, when my heart tells me I
was deceived, and I had injured you—for you did love me, you do love
me—oh, will you leave me—for a doubtful duty, part from me for ever? I
care not how long I serve to win you. Sarah, Sarah, only tell me you can
still love me, you will be mine.”
“Too late, too late, oh, it is all too late!” replied Sarah, firmly,
though her voice was choked with tears.
“Reuben, dear Reuben, why have you spoken thus, and at this moment? It
were a weak and idle folly to deny that to be your wife would be the
dearest happiness which could be mine; that I have loved you, long
before I knew what love could mean; and prayed for you, wept for you—but
I must not think of these things now. Months ago, such words from you
would have been all joy; but now—do not speak them, dearest Reuben—they
increase my trial, but cannot change my purpose. My poor father is
innocent, condemned unjustly. Were he guilty, I might decide otherwise;
for perhaps it were then less a positive duty to tend him to the last.”
And in vain did Reuben combat this determination. In vain, rendered more
eloquent from his conviction that he was beloved, did he speak and urge,
and speak again. He desisted at length; not from lack of argument, but
because he saw it only increased the anguish of her feelings.
“If it must be so, dearest—yet indeed, indeed, it is a mistaken duty; do
not look on me so beseechingly, I will urge no more. For myself I know I
did not merit the joy I had dared to picture; yet still, still to resign
it thus, to know you love me spite of all—Sarah, how may I struggle on,
with every hope and promise blighted?”
“Do not say so, Reuben. Our Father will not leave you lonely. Seek Him,
love Him, and He will fill up all the void which my absence may create;
and do not think we part for ever. Oh, Reuben, the love borne in my
heart so long can know no cloud or change, and though years may pass
on—my first duty be accomplished—yet when it is, and my poor father’s
weary course is ended, if you be still free, may I not return to you,
all, all your own?”
She lifted up her pale face to his with such a look of confidence and
love, that Reuben’s only answer was to fold her to his heart and bid God
bless her for such words.
Days passed on, and though all who heard her resolution were against it,
though she had to encounter even Miss Leon’s arguments and entreaties
that she would forego a purpose as uncalled for as misguided, Sarah
never for one moment wavered. Vainly Miss Leon sketched the miseries
that would await her in a foreign land; the little chance there was of
her even being permitted to be near her father; the little she could do
for him, even if they were together. She reasoned well and strongly and
even feelingly, but there are times and duties when the heart hears only
its own impulses, its own feelings, and must follow them. Had she
wavered before she again met her father after his condemnation, which,
however, she did not, her first interview would have strengthened her
yet more. There was a wild and haggard look about him, a hollow tone and
wandering words, that made her at the first moment tremble for his
reason.
“Sarah, my daughter! they have banished me from my God! they have
sentenced me to return to sin. Better, better had they said I was to
die, for then I should have gone direct from you to judgment, and your
prayers, your angel words, had turned me from my sin; but they will send
me from you, and I shall sin again. I shall fall away from all the good
you taught me. With you, with you only I am safe—my daughter, oh, my
daughter!”
“And I will not leave you, father—I go with you, not in the same ship,
but I will meet you in a strange land. We shall be together there as
here. I will not leave you while you need me. Do not look so, father, I
have sworn it to my God.”
She threw herself upon his neck, and the sinful but repentant man wept
as an infant on her shoulder; and from that hour her dread that his
reason was departing never tormented her again.
The evening before Levison’s removal with his fellow-convicts to
Portsmouth—the ship awaiting them there—the influence of a larger bribe
than usual from Reuben to the turnkey had secured to Sarah a few
uninterrupted hours with her father in a separate cell. There was
something strange in Levison’s countenance which rather alarmed him when
he joined them; it was flushed and excited, and as he walked across the
cell his limbs seemed to totter beneath him.
They had not much longer to be together, when an unusual number of
footsteps crowded along the passage; and, soon after, the turnkey, a
sheriff, and a gentleman whom neither Sarah nor Reuben knew, though he
was evidently of their own nation, entered the cell. There was still
quite daylight sufficient to distinguish persons and features, and the
very instant Levison’s eye caught the stranger, he started with a shrill
cry to his feet, endeavoured to spring forward, but failed, and would
have fallen had not Reuben caught him in his arms, where he remained in
a fit of trembling, which almost seemed convulsion. “Now be quiet, my
good fellow, you will do well enough,” whispered the turnkey, as he
stepped forward to assist in supporting Levison upon his feet. “Here is
this here gemman come to swear to your person, as having seen you in the
burial-ground, just as how you said, that there night; proving an alibi,
d’ye see. They’ll let you go even now—who’d ha’ thought it?”
“You, said, sir, that you saw and spoke to a man named Isaac Levison, of
the Jewish nation, in the burial-ground of your people, on the morning
of Wednesday, the 14th of May, exactly as the clock of Mile End Church
chimed three,” deliberately began the pompous sheriff, on whose blunted
sensibilities the various attitudes of agonized suspense, hope and
terror delineated in the group before him excited no emotion whatever.
“I have troubled you to come here to see this man, who calls himself by
that name, and tells the same tale, seeing, that if you can swear to his
person, he must be detained from accompanying the rest of the gang, and
undergo a second trial, that your assertion in the court may publicly
prove it.”
“I do not see much use in that,” interrupted the gentleman, who, no
lawyer, did not quite comprehend technicalities; “I should think my oath
as to his person quite enough to free him. I did not appear on his
trial, simply because I was abroad, and only heard of it through a
friend sending me a newspaper and the particulars of the case—a friend
of his wishing the man’s innocence to be proved. He wrote to me, knowing
that either I or some one belonging to me had employed a watcher that
night, and vague as the tale was, I might help to clear it; this,
however, is nothing to the purpose. If the robbery you speak of was
committed at Epping on the 14th of May, just about three o’clock in the
morning, that man, Isaac Levison, is as innocent as I am; for I can take
my oath as to seeing and speaking with him that very morning, at that
very hour, in the burial-ground of our people at Mile End. I
particularly remarked him, as he was not the person I had engaged. There
is no justice in England if you do not let him go—he is innocent!”
“Innocent—innocent—innocent! My child, you are right; there is a God,
and a God of love! Blessed—blessed—forgiven!” He bounded from the
detaining arms of Reuben and the turnkey, clasped Sarah to his heart
with strange unnatural strength, and fell back a corpse!
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