Leading out of one of those close, melancholy alleys in the environs of Liverpool, was a small cottage, possessing little of comfort or beauty in outward appearance, but much in the interior in favour of its inhabitants; cleanliness and neatness were clearly visible, greatly in contradistinction to the neighbouring dwellings. There were no heaps of dirt and half-burnt ashes, no broken or even cracked panes in the brightly shining windows, not a grain of unseemly dust or stains either on door or ledge,—so that even poverty itself looked respectable. The cottage stood apart from the others, with a good piece of ground for a garden, which, stretching from the back, led through a narrow lane, to the banks of the Mersey, and thus permitted a fresher current of air. The garden was carefully and prettily laid out, and planted with the sweetest flowers; the small parlour and kitchen of the cottage opened into it, and so, greatly to the disappointment and vexation of the gossips of the alley, nothing could be gleaned of the sayings and doings of its inmates. Within the cottage the same refinement was visible; the furniture, though old and poor, was always clean and neatly arranged. The Mezzuzot (Deut. vi. 9, 20) were carefully secured to every door-post, and altogether there was an indescribable something pervading the dwelling, that in the very midst of present poverty seemed to tell of former and more prosperous days.
Simeon and Rachel Perez had married with every prospect of getting on well in the world. Neither were very young; for though they had been many years truly devoted to each other, they were prudent, and had waited till mutual industry had removed many of the difficulties and obstacles to their union. All which might have been irksome was persevered in through the strength of this honest, unchanging affection; and when the goal was gained, and they were married, all the period of their mutual labour seemed but as a watch in the night, compared to the happiness they then enjoyed.
Simeon had been for several years foreman to a watchmaker, and was remarkably skilful in the business. Rachel had been principal assistant to a mantua-maker, and all her leisure hours were employed in plaiting straw and various fancy works, which greatly increased her little store. Never forgetting the end they had in view, their mutual savings had so accumulated, that on their marriage, Perez was enabled to set up a small shop, which, conducted with honesty and economy, soon flourished, and every year brought in something to lay aside, besides amply providing for their fast-increasing family.
The precepts of their God were obeyed by this worthy couple, not only in word but in deed. They proved their love for their heavenly Father, not only in their social and domestic conduct, but in such acts of charity and kindness, that many wondered how they could do so much for others without wronging their own. Perez and his wife were, however, if possible, yet more industrious and economical after their marriage than before, and many a time preferred to sacrifice a personal indulgence for the purer pleasure of doing good to others; and never did they do so without feeling that God blessed them in the deed.
A painful event calling Perez to London was the first alloy to their happiness. A younger sister of his wife, less prudent because, perhaps, possessed of somewhat more personal attraction, had won the attentions of a young man who had come down to Liverpool, he said, for a week’s pleasure. No one knew anything about Isaac Levison. As a companion, Perez himself owned he was very entertaining, but that was not quite sufficient to make him a good husband. Assurances that he was well able to support a wife and family, with Perez and Rachel (they were not then married), went for nothing; they wanted proofs, and these he either could not or would not bring; but in vain they remonstrated. Leah had never liked their authority or good example, and in this point determined to have her own way.
They were married, and left Liverpool to reside in London, and Leah’s communications were too few and far between to betray much concerning their circumstances. At length came a letter, stating that Leah was a mother, but telling also that poverty and privation had stolen upon them. Their substance in a few troubled years had made itself wings, and flown away when most needed, and Leah now applied for assistance to those very friends whose kindness and virtues she had so often treated with contempt. The fact was, Levison had embarked all his little capital (collected no one knew how) in an establishment dashing in appearance, but wanting the basis of honesty and religion. After seeming to flourish for a few years, it, of course, failed at last, exposing its proprietors to deserved odium and distrust, and their families to irretrievable distress.
For seven years Perez and his wife almost supported Leah and her child (secretly indeed, for no one in Liverpool imagined they had need to do so). Leah was still too dear, for the faults and follies of her husband, and perhaps her own imprudences, to form any subject of conversation with her relatives.
At length Leah wrote that she was ill, very ill. She thought the hand of death was on her; and she feared it for her child, her darling Sarah, whom she had striven to preserve pure amidst the scenes of misery and sin which she now confessed but too often neared her dwelling. What would become of her? Who would protect her? How dared she appeal to the God of the orphan, when her earthly father yet lived, seeming to forget there was a God? Perez and his wife perused that sad letter together; but ere it was completed, Rachel had sunk in bitter tears upon his bosom, seeking to speak the boon which was in her heart; but, though it found no words, Perez answered—
“You are right, dear wife; one more will make little difference in our household. Providence blessed us with four children, and has been pleased to deprive us of one. Sarah shall take her place: and in snatching her from the infection of vice and shame, may we not ask and hope a blessing? Do not weep then, my Rachel; Leah may not be so ill as she thinks. I will go and bring her and her child; and there may be happy days in store for them yet.”
Perez departed that same night by the mail to London; but, prompt as he was, poor Leah’s sufferings were terminated before his arrival. Her death, though in itself a painful shock, was less a subject of misery and depression to a mind almost rigid in its notions of integrity and honour as that of Perez, than the fearful state of wretchedness and shame into which Isaac Levison had fallen. Perez soon perceived that all hope of effecting a reformation was absolute folly. His poor child had been so repeatedly prevented attending school, by his intemperate or violent conduct, that she was at length excluded. Levison could give no good reason for depriving his little girl of these advantages, except that he hated the elders who were in office; that he did not see why some should be rich and some should be poor, and why the former should lord it over the latter. He was as good as they were any day, and his daughter should not be browbeaten or governed by any one, however she might call herself a lady. To reason with folly, Perez felt was foolishness, and so he contented himself with entreating Levison to permit his taking the little Sarah, at least for a time, into his family. Levison imagined Perez was the same rank as himself, and, therefore, that his pride could not be injured by his consenting. Equal in birth perhaps they were, but as far removed in their present ranks as vice from virtue, dishonesty from truth.
Perez, however, glad and grateful for having gained his point, made no comment on the many muttered remarks of his brother-in-law, as to his conferring, not receiving an obligation, by giving his child to the care of her aunt, but hastened home, longing to offer the best comfort to his wife’s sorrow by placing the rescued Sarah in her arms. And it was a comfort, for gradually Rachel traced a hand of love even in this affliction; the loss of her mother, under such circumstances, proving perhaps, in the end, a blessing to the child, if her father would but leave her with them. She feared that he would not at first; but Perez smiled at the fear as foolishness, and it gradually dwindled away; for years passed, and the little Sarah grew from childhood into womanhood, still an inmate of her uncle’s family, almost forgetting she had any father but himself.
But it is not to the unrighteous or the irreligious only that misfortunes come. Nay, they may flourish for a time, and give no evidence that there is a just and merciful God who ruleth. But even those who have loved and served Him through long years of probity and justice, and who, according to frail human perceptions, would look for nothing but favour at His hand, are yet afflicted with many sorrows; and our feeble and insufficient wisdom would complain that such things are. If this world were all, then indeed we might murmur and rebel; but our God himself has assured us, “There will come a day when He will discern between the righteous and the wicked; between those who serve God and those who serve Him not.” And it is our part to wait patiently for that day, and that better world where that word will be fulfilled.
Perez had now five children. Reuben, his eldest son, was full five years older than the rest, a circumstance of rejoicing to Perez, as he hoped his son would supply his place to his family, should he be called away before the threescore and ten years allotted as the age of man.
To do all he could towards obtaining this end, Perez early associated his son with him in his own business of watch-making; but too soon, unhappily, the parents discovered that a heavy grief awaited them, from him to whom they had most fondly looked for joy. They had indeed striven and prayed to train up their child in the way he should go, but it seemed as if his after years would not confirm the sage monarch’s concluding words. Wild, thoughtless, and headstrong, Reuben, after a very brief trial, determined that his father’s business was not according to his taste, and he could not follow it. His father’s authority indeed kept him steady for a few years, but it was continued rebellion and reproof: and often and often the father’s hard-earned savings were sacrificed for the wild freaks and extravagance of the son. Perez trembled lest the other members of his family, equally dear, should suffer eventual loss; but there is something in the hearts of Jewish parents towards an eldest son, which calls imperatively for indulgence towards, and concealment of his failings. Again and again Perez expended sums much larger than he could conveniently afford, in endeavouring to fix his son in business according to his inclinations; but no sooner was he apparently settled and comfortable, and his really excellent abilities fairly drawn forth, than, by negligence or inattention, or some graver misdemeanour, he disgusted his employers, and, after a little longer trial, was returned on his father’s hands.
Deeply and bitterly his parents grieved, using every affectionate argument to convince him of the evil of his ways, and bring him back again to the paths of joy. They did not desist, however their efforts and prayers seemed alike unanswered; they did not fail in faith, though often it was trembling and faint within them. One hope they had; Reuben was not hardened. Often he would repent in tears and agony of spirit and deplore his own ill fate, that he was destined to bring misery to parents he so dearly loved. But he refused to believe that it only needed energy to rouse himself from his folly, for as yet it was scarcely more. He said he could not help himself, could not effect any change, and therefore made no effort to do so. But that which grieved his parents far more than all else, was his total indifference to the religion of his forefathers. His ears, even as his heart and mind, were closed to those divine truths his parents had so carefully inculcated. He knew his duty too well to betray infidelity and indifference in their presence, but they loved him too well to be blind to their existence.
“What is it to be a Jew,” they heard him once say to a companion, “but to be cut off from every honourable and manly employment? To be bound, fettered to an obsolete belief, which does but cramp our energies, and bind us to detestable trade. No wonder we are looked upon with contempt, believed to be bowed, crushed to the very earth, as void of all spirit or energy, only because we have no opportunity of showing them.”
Little did he know the bitter tears these words wrung from his poor mother, that no sleep visited his father’s eyes that night. Was this an answer to their anxious prayer? Yet they trusted still.
Anxiety and grief did not prevent Perez attending to his business; but either from the many drains upon his little capital, or that trade was just at that time in a very low state, his prosperity had begun visibly to decrease. And not long afterwards a misfortune occurred productive of much more painful affliction than even the loss of property which it so seriously involved. A dreadful fire broke out in the neighbourhood, gaining such an alarming height ere it was discovered, that assistance was almost useless. Amongst the greatest sufferers were Perez and his family. Their happy home was entirely consumed, and all the little valuables it had contained completely destroyed. Perez gazed on ruin. For one brief moment he stood as thunderstricken, but then a terrible shriek aroused him. He looked around. He thought he had seen all whom he loved in safety, but at one glance he saw his little Ruth was not there. His wife had caught a glimpse of the child in a part of the building which the flames had not yet reached, and with that wild shriek had flown to save her. He saw her as she made her way through falling rafters and blazing walls; he made a rush forward to join and rescue or die with her; but his children clung round him in speechless terror; his friends and neighbours seconded them, and before he could effectually break from them, a loud congratulatory shout proclaimed that the daring mother had reached her child. A dozen ladders were hurried forward, their bearers all eager to be the first to plant the means of effectual escape; and clasping her Ruth closely to her breast, regardless of her increasing weight (for terror had rendered the poor child utterly powerless), the mother’s step was on the ladder, and a hush fell upon the assembled hundreds. There was no sound save the roar of the devouring element and the play of the engines. The flames were just nearing the beam on which the ladder leaned, but hope was strong that Rachel would reach the ground ere this frail support gave way; and numbers pressed round, regardless of the suffocating smoke and heat, in the vain hope of speeding her descent.
Perez had ceased his struggles the moment his wife appeared. With clasped hands, and cheeks and lips so blanched, as even in that lurid light to startle by their ghastliness, he remained, his eyes starting from their sockets in their intense and agonized gaze. He saw only his wife and child; but his children, with horror which froze their very blood, could only look on the fast-approaching flames. A wild cry of terror was bursting from young Joseph, Ruth’s twin brother, but Sarah, with instinctive feeling, dreading lest that cry should reach his mother’s ears and awaken her to her danger, caught him in her arms, and soothed him into silence.
Carefully and slowly Rachel descended. She gave no look around her. No one knew if she were conscious of her danger, which was becoming more and more imminent. Then came a smothered groan from all, all save the husband and the father. The flame had reached the beam,—it cracked—caught—the top of the ladder was wreathed with smoke and fire. Was there faltering in her step, or did the frail support fail beneath her weight? The half was past, but one-third to the ground remained; fiercer and fiercer the flames roared and rose above her, but yet there was hope. It failed, the beam gave way, the ladder fell, and Rachel and her child were precipitated to the ground. A heavy groan mingled with the wild shriek of horror which burst around. Perez rushed like a maniac forward; but louder, shriller above it all a cry resounded “Mother! mother! oh God, my mother! why was I not beside you, to save Ruth in your stead? Mother, speak; oh speak to me again!” And the father and son, each unconscious of the others presence, met beside what seemed the lifeless body of one to both so dear.
But Rachel was not dead, though fearfully injured; and it was in the long serious illness that followed, Reuben proved that despite his many faults and follies, affection was not all extinguished; love for his mother remained in its full force, and in his devotion to her, his almost woman’s tenderness, not only towards her, but towards his little sister Ruth, whose eyes had been so injured by the heat and smoke as to occasion total blindness, he demonstrated qualities only too likely so to gain a woman’s heart, as to shut her eyes to all other points of character save them.
A subscription had indeed been made for the sufferers by the fire, but they were so numerous, that the portion of individuals was of course but small; and even this Perez’ honest nature shrunk in suffering from accepting. Religious and energetic as he was, determined not to evince by word or sign how completely his spirit was crushed, and thus give the prejudiced of other faiths room to say, “the Jew has no resource, no comfort,” he yet felt that he himself would never be enabled to hold up his head again, felt it at the very moment friends and neighbours were congratulating him on the equanimity, the cheerfulness with which he met and bore up against affliction.
Yet even now, when the sceptic and unbeliever would have said, surely the God he has so faithfully served had deserted him, Perez felt he was not deserted, that he had not laboured honestly and religiously so long in vain. The wild and wayward conduct of the son could not, in candid and liberal minds, tarnish the character of the father; and thus he was enabled easily and pleasantly to obtain advantageous situations for his two elder children.
The dwelling to which we originally introduced our reader was then to let; and from its miserably dilapidated condition (for when Perez first saw it, it was not as we described), at a remarkably low rent. An influential friend made it habitable, and thither, some three months after the fire, the family removed.
And where was Sarah Levison in the midst of these changes and affliction? In their heavy trial, did Rachel and Perez never regret they had made her as their own? nor permit the murmuring thought to enter that, as the girl had a father, they had surely no need to support an additional burden? To such questions we think our readers will scarcely need an answer. As their own daughter Leah, they loved and cherished their niece, whose affection and gratitude towards them was yet stronger and more devoted than that of their own child, affectionate as she was. Leah had never known other than kind untiring parents, never, even in dreams, imagined the misery in which her cousin’s early years had passed. To Sarah, life had been a strange dark stream of grief and wrath, until she became an inmate of her uncle’s house. Though only just seventeen when these heavy sorrows took place, her peculiarly quiet and reflective character and strong affections endowed her with the experience of more advanced age. She not only felt, but acted. Entering into the feelings alike of her uncle and aunt, she unconsciously soothed and strengthened both. She taught Leah’s young and, from its high and joyous temperament, somewhat rebellious spirit, submission and self-control. She strengthened in the young Simeon the ardent desire to work, and not only assist his father now, but to raise him again to his former station in life. She found time to impart to the little Joseph such instruction as she thought might aid in gaining him employment. Untiringly, caressingly, she nursed both her aunt and the poor little patient sufferer Ruth, telling such sweet tales of heaven and its beautiful angels, and earth and its pleasant places, and kind deeds, that the child would forget her sorrow as she listened, and fancy the sweet music of that gentle voice had never seemed so sweet before; and while it spoke she could forget to wish to look once more on the flowers and trees and sky. And Reuben, what was his cousin Sarah not to him in these months of remorseful agony, when he felt as if he could never more displease or grieve his parents; when again and again he cursed himself as the real cause of his father’s ruin; for had not such large sums been wasted upon him, there might have been still capital enough to have set him afloat again? For several days and nights Sarah and Reuben had been joint-watchers beside the beds of suffering; and the gentle voice of the former consoled, even while to the divine comfort and hope which she proffered Reuben felt his heart was closed. He bade her speak on; he seemed, in those still silent hours, to feel that without her gentle influence his very senses must have wandered; and that heart must have been colder and harsher than Sarah’s which could have done other than believe she was not indifferent to him. Sarah did not think of many little proofs of affection at the time; she was only conscious that, at the very period heavy affliction had visited her uncle’s family, a new feeling, a new energy had awakened within her heart, and she was happy—oh, so happy!
It was to Sarah’s exertions their new dwelling owed the comfort, cleanliness, and almost luxury of its interior arrangements; her example inspired Leah to throw aside the proud disdain with which she at first regarded their new home—to conquer the rebellious feeling which prompted her to entreat her father to apprentice her anywhere, so she need not live so differently at home, and not only to conquer that sinful pride, but use her every energy to rouse her natural spirits, and make her parents forget how their lot was changed: and the girl did so; for, in spite of youthful follies, there was good solid sense and warm feelings on which to work.
Sarah and Leah, then, worked in the interior, and Perez and Simeon improved the exterior of the house, so that when the little family assembled, there was comfort and peace around them, and thus their song of praise and thanksgiving mingled with and hallowed the customary prayer, with which the son of Israel ever sanctifies his newly-appointed dwelling.
Rachel could no longer work as she had done; her right arm had been so severely injured as to be nearly useless, but Sarah supplied her place so actively, so happily, that Rachel felt she had no right to murmur at her own uselessness: the poor motherless girl she had taken to her heart and home returned tenfold all that had been bestowed. She could have entered into more than one lucrative situation, but she would not hear of leaving that home which she knew needed her presence and her services; and this was not the mere impulse of the moment—week after week, month after month, found her active, affectionate, persevering as at first.
The most painful circumstance in their present dwelling was its low neighbourhood; and partially to remedy this evil, Sarah prevailed on her uncle to employ his leisure in cultivating the little garden behind the house, making their sitting-room and kitchen open into it, and contriving an entrance through them, so as scarcely to use the front, except for ingress and egress which necessity compelled. This arrangement was productive of a twofold good; it prevented all gossiping intercourse, which their neighbours had done all they could to introduce, and gave Perez an occupation which interested him, although he might never have thought of it himself. Both local and national disadvantages often unite to debar the Jews from agriculture, and therefore it is a branch in which they are seldom, if ever, employed. Their scattered state among the nations, the occupations which misery and persecution compel them to adopt, are alone to blame for those peculiar characteristics which cause them to herd in the most miserable alleys of crowded cities, rather than the pure air and cheaper living of the country. Perez found pleasure and a degree of health in his new employment; the delight which it was to his poor little blind Ruth to sit by his side while he worked, and inhale the reviving scent of the newly-turned earth or budding flowers, would of itself have inspired him, but his wife too shared the enjoyment. It was a pleasure to her to take the twins by her side, and teach them their God was a God of love, alike through His inspired word and through His works; and Joseph and Ruth learned to love their new house better than their last, because it had a garden and flowers, and they learned from that much more than they had ever learned before.
For nine months all was cheerfulness and joy in that lowly dwelling. The heavy sorrow and disquiet had partially subsided. Reuben was more often at home, and seemed more steadily and honourably employed. Twice in six months he had poured his earnings in his mothers lap, and while he lingered caressingly by her side, how might she doubt or fear for him? though when absent, his non-attendance at the synagogue, his too evident indifference to his faith, his visible impatience at all its enjoyments, caused many an anxious hour. Simeon and Leah gave satisfaction to their employers, and Sarah earned sufficient to make her aunt’s compelled idleness of little consequence. Perez himself had been gladly received by his former master, as his principal journeyman, at excellent wages; and could he have felt less painfully the bitter change in his lot, all might have been well. Pride, however, was unhappily his heirloom, as well as that of Levison. With Perez it had always acted as a good spirit—with Levison as a bad; inciting the former to all honourable deeds and thoughts, and acting as religion’s best agent in guarding him from wrong. Now, however, it was to enact a different part. In vain his solid good sense argued misfortune was no shame, and that he was as high, in a moral point of view, as he had ever been. Equally vain was the milder, more consoling voice of religion, in assuring him a Father’s hand had sent the affliction, and therefore it was love; that he failed in submission if he could not bear up against it. In vain conscience told him, while she was at rest and glad, all outward things should be the same; that while his wife and children had been so mercifully preserved, thankfulness, not grief, should be his portion. Pride, that dark failing which will cling to Judaism, bore all other argument away, and crushed him. Had he complained or given way to temper, his health perhaps would not have been injured; but he was silent on his own griefs, even to his wife, for he knew their encouragement was wrong. There was no outward change in his appearance or physical power, and had he not been attacked by a cold and fever, occasioned by a very inclement winter, the wreck of his constitution might never have been discovered. But trifling as his ailments at first appeared, it was but too soon evident that he had no strength to rally from them. Gradually, yet surely, he sunk, and with a grief which, demonstrating itself in each according to their different characters, was equally violent in all, his afflicted family felt they dared not hope, the husband and the father was passing to his home above, and they would soon indeed be desolate.
It was verging towards the early spring, when one evening Perez lay on his lowly pallet surrounded by his family; his hand was clasped in that of his wife, whose eyes were fixed on him with a look of such deep love, it was scarcely possible to gaze on her without tears; the other rested lightly on the beautiful curls of his little Ruth, who, resting on a wooden stool close beside his bed, sometimes lifted up her sightless orbs, as if, in listening to the dear though now, alas! but too faint voice, she could see his beloved face once more. One alone was absent—one for whom the father yearned as the patriarch Jacob for his Joseph. Reuben had been sent by his employer to Manchester, and though it was more than time for him to return, and tidings of his father’s illness had been faithfully transmitted, he was still away. No one spoke of him, yet he was thought of by all; so little had his conduct alienated the affections of his family, that no one would utter aloud the wish for his presence, lest it should seem reproach; but the eyes of his mother, when they could turn from her husband, ever sought the door, and once, as an eager step seemed to approach, she had risen hastily and descended breathlessly, but it passed on, and she returned to her husband’s pallet with large tears stealing down her cheeks.
“Rachel, my own dear wife, do not weep thus; he will come yet,” whispered Perez, clasping her hands in both his; “and if he do not, oh, may God bless him still! Tell him there was no thought of anger or reproach within me. My firstborn, first beloved, beloved through all—for wayward, indifferent as he is, he is still my son—perhaps if he tarry till too late, remorse may work upon him for good, may awaken him to better thoughts, and if our God in His mercy detain him for this, we must not grieve that he is absent.”
For a moment he paused; then he added, mournfully, “I had hoped he would have supplied my place—would have been to you, my Rachel, to his brothers and sisters, all that a firstborn should; but it may not be. God’s will be done!”
“Oh, no, no; do not say it may not be, dear uncle! Think how young he is! Is there not hope still?” interposed Sarah, so earnestly, that the colour rose to her cheeks. “He will be here, I know he will, or the letter has not reached him. You cannot doubt his love; and whilst there is love, is there not, must there not be hope?”
The dying man looked on her with a faint, sad smile. “I do not doubt his love, my child; but oh, if he love not his God, his love for a mortal will not keep him from the evil path. His youth is but a vain plea, my Sarah; if he see not his duty as a son and brother in Israel now, when may we hope he will? but you are right in bidding me not despond. He is my heaviest care in death; but my God can lighten even that.”
“Death,” sobbed Leah, suddenly flinging herself on her knees beside the bed and covering her father’s hand with tears and kisses, “death! Father, dear, dear father, do not say that dreadful word! You will live, you must live—God will not take you from us!”
“My child, call not death a dreadful word, it is only such to the evil doers, to the proud and wicked men, of whom David tells us, ‘They shall not stand in the judgment, nor enter the congregation of the righteous, but shall be as chaff which the wind driveth away.’ For them death is fearful, for it is an end of all things; but not to me is it thus, my beloved ones. I have sought to love and serve my God in health and life, and His deep love and fathomless mercy is guiding me now, holding me up here through the dark shadows of death. His compassion is upon my soul whispering my sins are all forgiven, that he has called me unto Him in love, and not in wrath. There was a time I feared and trembled at the bare dream of death; but now, oh, it seems but as the herald of joy, of bliss which will never, never change. My children, think that I go to God, and do not grieve for me.”
“If not for you, my father, chide us not that we weep for ourselves,” answered Simeon, struggling with the rising sob; “what have you not been to all of us? and how may we bear to feel that to us you are lost for ever, that the voice whose accents of love never failed to thrill our hearts with joy, and when in reproach ever brought the most obdurate in repentant sorrow to your feet, that dear, dear voice we may never—” he could not go on for his own voice was choked.
“My boy, we shall all meet again; follow on in that path of good in which I have humbly sought to lead you; forget not your God, and the duties of your faith; obey those commands and behests which to Israel are enjoined; never forget that, as children of Israel, ye are the firstborn and beloved of the Lord; serve Him, trust Him, wait for Him, and oh, believe the words of the dying! We shall meet again never more to part. I do but go before you, my beloved ones, and you will come to me; there are many homes in heaven where the loved of the Lord shall meet.”
“And I and Ruth—father, dear father, how may we so love the Lord, as to be so loved by him?” tearfully inquired the young Joseph, drawing back the curtain at the head of the bed, which had before concealed him, for he did not like his father to see his tears. “Does he look upon us with the same love as upon you, who have served him so faithfully and well? Oh, what would I not do, that I may look upon death as you do, and feel that I may come to you in heaven, written amongst those He loves.”
“And our God does love you, my little Joseph, child as you are, or you would not think and wish this; my works are not more in His sight than yours. Miserable indeed should I now be, if I had trusted in them alone for my salvation and comfort now. No, my sweet boy, you must not look to deeds alone; study the word of your God to know and love Him, and then will you obey His commandments and statutes with rejoicing, and glory that He has given you tests by which you may prove the love you bear Him: and in death, though the imperfection and insufficiency of your best deeds be then revealed, you will feel and know you have not loved your God in vain. His infinite mercy will purify and pardon.”
His voice sunk from exhaustion; and Rachel, bending over him to wipe the moisture from his brow, tenderly entreated him not to speak any more then, despite the comfort of his simplest word.
“It will not hurt me, love,” he answered, fondly, after a pause. “I bless God that He permits me thus to speak, before I pass from earth for ever. When we meet again, there will be no need for me to bid my children to know and love the Lord; for we shall all know Him, from the smallest to the greatest of us. But to you, my own faithful wife, oh, what shall I say to you in this sad moment? I can but give you to His care, the God of the widow and the fatherless, and feel and know He will not leave you nor forsake you, but bless you with exceeding blessing. And in that heavy care—which, alas! I must leave you to bear alone—care for our precious Reuben, oh, my beloved wife, remember those treasured words, which were our mutual strength and comfort, when we laboured in our youth. How well do I remember that blessed evening, when we first spoke our love, and in our momentary despondence that long years must pass ere we could hope for our union, we opened the hallowed word of God, and could only see this verse: ‘Commit thy ways unto the Lord, trust also in him and he will bring it to pass.’ And did He not bring it to pass, dear wife? Did He not bless our efforts, and oh, will He not still? Yes, trust in Him; commit our Reuben unto Him, and all shall yet be well!”
“Yes, yes, I know it will; but oh, my husband, pray for me, that I may realize this blessed trust when you are gone. You have been my support, my aid, till now, cheering my despondence, soothing my fears; and now—”
“Rachel, my own wife, I have not been to you more than you have to me; it is our God who has been to us more—oh, how much more!—than we have been to each other, and He is with you still. He will heal the wound His love inflicts. But for our erring, yet our much-loved boy, I need not bid you love him, forgive him to the end—and his brothers and sisters. Oh, listen to me, my children.” He half-raised himself in the energy of his supplication. “Promise me but this, throw him not off from your love, your kindness, however he may turn aside, however he may fall; even if that fearful indifference increase, and in faith he scarcely seems your brother, my children, my blessed children, oh, love him still. Seek by kindness and affection to bring him back to his deserted fold. Promise me to love him, to bear with him; forget not that he is your brother, even to the last. Many a wanderer would return if love welcomed him back, many a one who will not bear reproach. Do not cast him from your hearts, my children, for your dead father’s sake.”
“Father, father, can you doubt us?” burst at once from all, and rising from their varied postures, they joined hands around him. “Love him! yes. However he may forget and desert us, he is still our brother and your son. We will love him, bear with him. Oh, do not fear us, father. There needed not this promise, but we will give it. We will never cease to love him.”
“Bless you, my children,” murmured the exhausted man, as he sunk back. “Sarah, you have not spoken. Are you not our child?”
She flung down her work and darted to his side. She struggled to speak, but no words came, and throwing her arms round his neck, she fixed on his face one long, piercing look, and burst into passionate tears.
“It is enough, my child. I need not bid you love him,” whispered Perez, so as to be heard only by her. “Would you were indeed our own; there would be less grief in store.”
“And am I not your own?” she answered, disregarding his last words, which seemed, however, to have restored her to calmness. “Have you not been to me a true and tender father, and my aunt as kind a mother? Whose am I if I am not yours? Where shall I find another such home?”
“Yet you have a father, my gentle girl; one whom I have lately feared would claim you, because they told me he was once more a wealthy man. And if he should, if he would offer you the rest and comfort of competence, why should you labour throughout your young years for us? If he be rich, he surely will not forget he has a child, and therefore claim you.”
“He has done so,” replied Sarah, calmly, regardless of the various intonations of surprise in which her words were repeated. “My father did write for me to join him. He told me he was rich; would make me cease entirely from labour, and many similar kind offers.”
“And you refused them! Sarah, my dear child, why have you done this?”
“Why,” she repeated, pressing the trembling hand her aunt held out to her between both hers; “why, because now, only now, can I even in part return all you have done for me; because I cannot live apart from all whom I so love. I cannot exchange for short-lived riches all that makes life dear. Had my father sent for me in sickness or in woe, I should fly to him without an hour’s pause. But it is he who is in affluence, in peace; and you, my best, kindest friends, in sorrow. No, no; my duty was to stay with you, to work for you, to love you; and I wrote to beseech his permission to remain, even if it were still to labour. I did not feel it labour when with you; and I have permission. I am still your child; he will not take me from you.”
“God’s blessing be upon him!” murmured Rachel, as she folded the weeping girl to her bosom.
A pause of deep emotion fell upon the group. Perez drew her faintly to him, and kissed her cheek; then saying he felt exhausted, and should wish to be left alone a brief while, Sarah led the twins away, and, followed by Leah, softly left the apartment. Simeon and his mother still remained beside his couch.
The night passed quietly. Sarah put the twins to bed, and persuaded Leah to follow their example, and, exhausted by sorrow, she was soon asleep, leaving Sarah to watch and pray alone; and the poor girl did pray, and think and weep, till it seemed strange the night could so soon pass, and morning smile again. She had not told that permission to remain with her aunt had been scornfully and painfully given; that her father had derided her, as mean-spirited and degraded; that as she had chosen to remain with her poor relations, she was no longer his daughter. Nor did she pray and weep for the dying, or for those around him. One alone was in that heart! Why was he not there at such a moment? and she shuddered as she pictured the violence of the self-accusing agony which would be upon him when he discovered he had lingered until too late. Hour after hour passed, and there was no footstep. She thought the chimes must have rung too near each other; for as one struck, she believed he must be at home ere it struck another, and yet he came not: she watched in vain.
Day dawned, and as light gleamed in upon the dying, there was a change upon his face. He had not suffered throughout the night, seeming to sleep at intervals, and then lay calmly without speaking; but as the day gradually brightened, he reopened his eyes and looked towards the richly glowing east.
“Another sun!” he said, in a changed and hollow voice. “Blessed be the God who sets him in the heavens, strong and rejoicing as a young man to run a race: my race is over—my light will pass before his. I prayed one night’s delay, but still he does not come; and now it will soon be over. Rachel, my true wife, call the children; let me bless them each once more.”
They were called, and, awestruck even to silence at the fearful change in that loved face, they one by one drew near and bowed down their bright heads before him. Faintly yet distinctly, he spoke a blessing upon each; then murmured, “The God of my Fathers bless you all, all as you love Him and each other. Never deny him: acknowledge Him as One! Hear, O Israel! the Lord our God, the Lord is one!”
The words were repeated in tears and sobs by all; he fell back, and they thought his spirit gone. Minutes rolled by, and then there was a rapid step without; it neared the door, one moment paused, and entered.
“My son, my son! O God, I thank thee! Reuben, my firstborn, in time, I bless, bless—” the words were lost in a fearful gurgling sound, but the father’s arms were flung wildly, strongly round the son, who, with bitter tears, had thrown himself upon his neck—and there was silence.
“Father! oh, my father, speak—bless, forgive me!” at length Reuben wildly exclaimed, breaking from that convulsive hold to sink as a penitent upon the earth. He spoke in vain; the spirit had lingered to gaze once more upon the firstborn of his love, then fled from earth for ever.
It is two years after the mournful event recorded in our last chapter that we recommence our simple narrative. When time and prayer had softened the first deep affliction, the widow and her family indeed proved the fulfilment of that blessed promise, “Leave thy fatherless children to me, and I will keep them alive, and let thy widows trust in me;” for they prospered and were happy. Affliction, either of failing health in those compelled to labour, or in want of employment, was kept far from them. The widow, indeed, herself often suffered; but she thanked God, in the midst even of pain, as she compared the blessings of her lot with those of others. Little Ruth, too, from her affliction and very delicate health, was often an object of anxiety; but so tenderly was she beloved, that anxiety was scarcely pain in the delight her presence ever caused. Sweet-tempered, loving, and joyous, with a voice of song like a bird’s, and a laugh of child-like glee, and yet such strong affections, such deep reverence for all things holy, that who might grieve for her afflictions when she was so happy, so gratified herself? She was the star of that lowly little dwelling, for sorrow, or discord, or care could not come near her.
Joseph, her twin brother, had attracted the notice of a respectable jeweller, who, though he could not take the boy into his house as a regular apprentice till he was thirteen, not only employed him several hours in the day in cleaning jewels, etc., but allowed him small wages—an act of real benevolence, felt by the widow as an especial blessing, rendered perhaps the dearer from the fact that it was the high character her husband had borne which gave his youngest son so responsible an office, intrusted as it was to none but the strictly honest.
Simeon, now nearly seventeen, was with the same watchmaker who had formerly brought forward his father. It was not a trade he liked; nay, the delicate machinery required was peculiarly annoying to him, but it was the only opening for him, and he conquered his disinclination. He had long since made a vow to use his every effort to restore his parents to the comfortable estate from which they had unfortunately fallen, and no thought of himself or his own wishes should interfere with its accomplishment. Persevering and resolute, he took a good heart with him to the business; and though his first attempts were awkward, and the laughter of his companions most discouraging, the praise of his master and his own conscience urged him on, and before the two years which we have passed over had elapsed, he had conquered every difficulty, and promised in time to be quite as good a workman as his father.
The extent of suffering which his father’s death had been to him no one knew, but he had felt at first as if he could not rouse himself again. It was useless to struggle on; for the beloved parent, for whose sake he had made this solemn vow, was gone for ever. His mother indeed was spared him; but much as he loved and reverenced her, his father had been, if possible, first in his affections. Perhaps it was that his own feelings, his own character, gave him a clue to all that his father had done and endured. He had all his honesty and honour, all his energy, and love for his ancient faith. One difference there was: Perez could bear with, nay, love all mankind—could find excuse for the erring, even for the apostate, much as he abhorred the deed; could believe in the sincerity and piety of others, though their faith differed from his own; but Simeon could not feel this. Often, even in his childhood, his father had to reprove him for prejudice; and as he grew older, his hatred against all those who left the faith, or united themselves in any way with other than Israelites, continued violent. Prejudice is almost the only feeling which reason cannot conquer—religion may, and Simeon was truly and sincerely religious; but he loved his faith better than he loved his God. He would have started and denied it, had any one told him so, and declared it was impossible—one feeling could not be distinct or divided from the other; yet so it was. An earnest and heartfelt love of God can never permit an emotion so violent as hatred to any of God’s creatures. It is no test of our own sincerity to condemn or disbelieve in that of others; and those who do—who prejudiced and violent against all who differ from them—may be, no doubt are, sincerely religious and well intentioned, but they love their faith better than they love their God.
These peculiar feelings occasioned a degree of coldness in Simeon’s sentiments towards his brother Reuben, of whom we have little more to say than we know already.
The death of his father was indeed a fearful shock; yet, from a few words which fell from him during some of his interviews with Sarah, she fancied that he almost rejoiced that he was bound by no promise to the dying. In the midst of repentant agony that he had arrived too late for his parent’s blessing, he would break off with a half shudder, and mutter, “If he had spoken that, he might have spoken more, and I could not have disobeyed him on his death-bed. Whatever he bade me promise I must have promised; and then, then, after a few brief months, been perjured. Oh, my father, my father! why is it my fate to be the wretch I am?”
This grief was violent, but it did not produce the good effect which his parents had so fondly hoped. Even in the days of mourning, it was evident that the peculiar forms which his faith enjoined, as the son of the deceased, chafed and irritated him; and had it not been for the deep, silent suffering of his mother, which he could not bear to increase, he would have neglected them altogether. When he mixed with the world again, he followed his own course and his own will, scarcely ever mixing with those of his own race, but seeking, and at last finding employment with the stranger. He had excellent abilities; and from his having received a better education than most youths of his race, obtained at length a lucrative situation in an establishment which, trading to many different parts of the British Isles, often required an active agent to travel for them. His peculiar creed had been at first against him; but when his abilities were put to the proof, and it was discovered he was in truth only nominally a Jew, that he cared not to sacrifice the Sabbath, and that no part of his religion was permitted to interfere with his employments, his services were accepted and well paid.
Had then Reuben Perez, the beloved and cherished son of such good and pious parents, indeed deserted the religion of his forefathers? Not in semblance, for there were times when he still visited the synagogue; and as he did so, he was by many still conceived a good Jew. The flagrant follies of his youth had subsided; he was no longer wild, wavering, and extravagant. Not a word could be spoken against his moral principles; his public, even his domestic conduct was unexceptionable, and therefore he bore a high character in the estimation alike of the Jewish and Christian world. What cause had his mother, then, for the grief and pain which swelled her heart almost to bursting, when she thought upon her firstborn? Alas! it was because she felt there was One who saw deeper than the world—One, between whom and himself Reuben had raised up a dark barrier of wrath—One who loved him, erring and sinful as he was, with an immeasurable love, but whose deep love was rejected and abused—even his God, that God who had been the Saviour of his forefathers through so many thousand ages. The mother would have preferred seeing him poor, dependent, obtaining but his daily bread, yet faithful to his faith and to his God, than prosperous, courted, and an alien.
The brothers seldom met, and therefore Simeon was ignorant how powerfully coldness was creeping over his affections for Reuben; how, in violently condemning his indifference and union with the stranger, he was rendering the observance of his promise to his dying father (to bear with and love his brother) a matter of difficulty and pain. Faithful and earnest himself, he could not understand a want of earnestness and fidelity in others. But, however the world might flatter and appear to honour his exemplary moral conduct, one truth it is our duty to record—Reuben was not happy. It was not the mere fancy of his mother and cousin, it was truth; they knew not wherefore—for if he neglected and contemned his religion, he could scarcely feel the want of it—but that he was unhappy, perhaps was the secret cause which held the love of his mother and Sarah so immovably enchained, bidding them hope sometimes in the very midst of gloom.
Of the female members of Perez’ family we have little to remark. Leah’s good conduct had not only made her the favourite of her mistress, but her liveliness and happy temper had actually triumphed over the sometimes harsh disposition she had at first to encounter. There was no withstanding her good humour. She had the happy knack of making people good friends with themselves, as well as with each other, and was so happy herself, that, except when she thought of her dear father, and wished that he could but see her and hear her sing over her work, sorrow was unknown. Every Friday evening she went home to remain till the Sunday morning, and that was superlative enjoyment, not only to herself, for her mother looked to the visit of her merry, affectionate daughter as a source of pure feeling, delight, and recreation.
In Sarah there was no change. Still pensive, modest, and industrious, she continued quietly to retain the most devoted affections of her relatives, and the goodwill and respect of her employers. Of her own individual feelings we must not now speak, save to say that few even of her domestic circle imagined how strong and deep was the under-current of character which her quiet mien concealed.
It was the evening of the Sabbath, and the widow and her daughters were assembled in their pretty little parlour. Simeon and Joseph were not yet returned from synagogue. Reuben, alas! was seldom there on the Sabbath eve. The table was covered with a cloth, which, though not of the finest description, was white as the driven snow; and the Sabbath lamp was lighted, for in their greatest poverty this ceremony had never been omitted. When they had no lamp, and could not have afforded oil, they burnt a wax candle, frequently depriving themselves of some week-day necessary to procure this indulgence. The first earnings of Sarah, Leah, and Simeon had been used to repurchase the ancient Sabbath lamp, the heirloom in their family for many generations. It was silver and very antique, and by a strange chance had escaped the fire, which rendered perhaps the sale of it the more painful to Perez. His gratification on beholding it again had amply repaid his affectionate children. Never being used but on Sabbaths, it seemed to partake of the sanctity of that holy day.
Bread and salt were also upon the table, and the large Bible and its attendant prayer-books there also, open, as if they had just been used. Ruth had plucked some sweet flowers just before Sabbath, and arranged them tastefully in a china cup, and Leah had playfully removed a sprig of rosebuds and wreathed it in the long glossy curls which hung round Ruth’s sweet face and over her shoulders. The dresses of all were neat and clean, for they loved to make a distinction between the seventh day and the six days of labour.
“If we were about to pass a day in the presence of an earthly sovereign, my dear children,” the widow had often been wont to say, “should we not deserve to be excluded if we appeared rudely and slovenly and dirtily attired? You think we could not possibly do so; it would not only be such marked disrespect, but we should not be admitted. How, then, dare we seek the presence of our heavenly sovereign in such rude and sinful disarray? The seventh day is His day. He calls upon us to throw aside all worldly thoughts and cares, and come to Him, and give our thoughts and hearts to His holy service. If an earthly king so called us, how anxious should we be to accept the invitation—shall we do less for God?”
“But, dear mother,” Leah would answer, “will God regard that? Is He not too holy, too far removed from us, too pure to mark such little things?”
“Nothing is too small for Him to remark, if done in love and faith, my child. The heart anxious to mark the Sabbath by increase of cleanliness and neatness in personal attire, as well as household arrangements, must conceive it God’s own day, and observing it as such will receive His blessing. It is not the act of dressing or the dress He observes. He only marks it as a proof His holy day is welcomed with love and rejoicing, as He commanded; and the smallest offering of OBEDIENCE is acceptable to Him.”
“But I have heard you remark with regret, mother, that some of our neighbours are dressed so very smart on Sabbath. If it be to mark the holy difference between that day and the others, why should you regret it?”
“Because, love, there ought to be moderation in all things, and when I see very smart showy dresses, which, if not in material, in appearance are much too fine and smart for our station, I fear it is less a religious than a worldly feeling which dictates them. Have you not noticed that those who dress so gaily generally spend their Sabbath in walking about the streets and exchanging visits, conversing, of course, on the most frivolous topics? I do not think this the proper method of spending our Sabbath day, and therefore I regret to see them devote so much time and thought on mere outward decoration, which is so widely different from obedience to their God.”
Leah thought of this little conversation many times. From thoughtlessness and dislike to trouble, she had hitherto been rather negligent than otherwise in her dress; then going to a contrary extreme, felt very much inclined to imitate some young companions in their finery. Her mother’s word saved her from the one, and their subsequent misfortunes effectually from the other, as all her earnings were hoarded for one holy purpose, simply to assist her parents; and she would have thought it sacrilege to have spent any portion on herself, except on things which she absolutely needed. But so neat and clean was she invariably in her dress, that her mistress always sent her to receive orders, and, trifling as appearance may seem, it repeatedly gained customers.
“They are coming—I hear their footsteps,” said the little Ruth, springing up to open the parlour door. “Oh! I do so love the Sabbath eve, for it brings us all together again so happily.”
“Is it only Simeon and Joseph, my child?” inquired the widow, mournfully; for there was one expectation on her heart and that of Sarah, which, alas! was seldom to be fulfilled.
Ruth listened attentively.
“Only they, mother!” she said, checking her voice of glee, and returning to her mother’s side, for she knew the cause of that saddened tone, and she laid her little head caressingly on her mother’s breast.
Simeon and Joseph at that moment entered, and each advancing, bent lowly before their mother, who, laying her hand upon each dear head, blessed them in a voice faltering from its emotion, and kissed them both. The kiss of love and peace went round, and gaily the brothers and sisters drew round the table, which Sarah’s provident love speedily covered with the welcome evening meal. The happy laugh and affectionate interchange of the individual cares and pleasures, vexations and enjoyments of the past week, occupied them delightfully during tea. Sarah had to tell of a new kind of work which had diversified her usual employment, and been most successful; a kind of wadded slipper, which, after many trials, she had completed to her satisfaction, in the intervals of other work; and which not only sold well, but gave her dear aunt an occupation which she could accomplish without pain, in wadding and binding the silk. Leah told of a pretty dress and bonnet which her mistress had presented to her, in token of her approbation of her steadiness in refusing to accompany her companions to some place of amusement, which, from its respectability being doubted, she knew her mother would not approve; and, by staying at home, enabled Mrs. Magnus to finish an expensive order a day sooner than had been expected, and so gained her a new and wealthy customer.
“Dearest mother, you told me how to resist temptation even in trifles,” continued the affectionate girl, with tears of feeling in her bright dark eyes. “You taught me from my earliest childhood there was purer and more lasting pleasure in conquering my own wishes than any doubtful recreation could bestow; and that in that inward pleasure our heavenly Father’s approval was made manifest. And so, you see, though you were not near me and I could not, as I wished, ask your advice and permission, it was you who enabled me to conquer myself, and resist this temptation. I did want to go, and felt very, very lonely when all went; but when Mrs. Magnus thanked me for enabling her to give so much satisfaction, and said I had gained her a new customer, oh, no circus or play could have given me such happiness as that; and it was all through you, mother, and so I told her.”
The happy mother smiled on her animated girl; but her heart did not glorify itself, it thanked God that her early efforts had been so blessed. “And Ruth!” some of our readers may exclaim, “poor blind Ruth, what can she have to say?” And we answer, happy little Ruth had much of industry and enjoyment to dilate on. The straw she had plaited, the hymns she had learnt through Sarah’s kindly teaching, the dead leaves she had plucked from the shrubs and flowers, for so delicate had her sense of touch become, she could follow this occupation in perfect security to the plants, distinguishing the dead and dying from the perfect leaves at a touch. Then she told of a poor little orphan beggar girl, whom Sarah had one day brought in cold and crying, because she had been begging all day and had received nothing, and she knew she should be beaten when she went home; and how she had said she hated begging; but she could do nothing else; and little Ruth had asked her if she would like to sell flowers; and poor Mary had told her she should like it very very much, but she could not get any. She knew no one who would let her take them from the garden. How she (Ruth) had promised to make her some little nosegays, and Sarah and her mother said they would make her some little nick-nacks, pincushions, and housewives to put with her flowers.
“Ah, we made her so happy!” continued the child, clasping her little hands in delight. “Mother gave her some of my old things, which were quite good to her, and it is quite a pleasure to me to make her nosegays, and feel they give her a few pence better than begging; and Sarah is going to try if I can make her some little fancy things when winter comes. You know I am quite rich to her, for God has given me a home, and such a kind mother, and dear brothers and sisters, and she has neither home nor mother, nor any one to love her. Poor, poor Mary! and then, too, some say the Christians do not like the Jews, and I know she will and does like us, and she may make others of her people like us too.”
“Ruth,” said her brother Simeon, in a very strange husky voice, “Ruth, darling, come here and kiss me. I wish you would make me as good as you.”
“As good!” exclaimed the child, springing on his knee, and throwing her arms round his neck; “dear naughty Simeon, to say such a thing. How much more you can do than I. Do you not work so very much, that dear mother sometimes fears for your health? and it is all for us, to help to support us, mother and me, because we cannot work for ourselves. Ah, I am blind, and can only do little things, and try to make every one happy, that they may love me; but I am only a little girl; I cannot be as good as you.”
“Ruth, darling, I could not do as you have done. I cannot love and serve those who hate and persecute us as Israelites.”
“They do not persecute us now, brother. Sarah told me sad tales of what we suffered once; but God was angry with us then, and he made the nations punish us. But now, if they still dislike us we ought not to dislike them, but do all we can to make them love us.”
Simeon bent his head upon his sister’s; her artless words had rebuked and shamed him. But prejudice might not even then be overcome. He knew she was right and he was wrong, so he would not answer, glad to hear Leah gaily demand a history of his weekly proceedings, as he had not yet spoken. He had little to relate, except that he was now beginning really to understand his business. His master had said that he should soon be obliged to raise his salary; and, what was a real source of happiness, from the care and quickness with which he now accomplished his tasks, he found time for his favourite amusement of modelling, which circumstances had compelled him so long to neglect. Joseph had to tell of similar kindness on the part of his master and industry on his own. He told, too, with great glee, that Mr. Bennet had promised to give him some lessons in the evenings, in the language which of all others he wished most particularly to understand. He knew many were satisfied merely to read their prayers in Hebrew, whether they understood them or not, but he wished to understand it thoroughly, and all the time he was cleaning jewels, for he was now quite expert, he thought over what his master had so kindly taught him; perhaps one day he might be able to know Hebrew thoroughly himself, and oh, what a delight that would be!
By the time Joseph had finished his tale, the table had been cleared; and then the widow opened the large Bible, and after fervently blessing God for His mercy in permitting them all to see the close of another week in health and peace, read aloud a chapter and psalm. Varied as were the characters and wishes of all present, every heart united in reverence and love towards this weekly service—in, if possible, increased devotion towards that beloved parent, who so faithfully endeavoured to support not alone her own duties towards her offspring, but those of their departed father. She had not lost those hours and days, aye, and sometimes long weeks of suffering, with which it had pleased God to afflict her. When confined to her bed, the Bible had been her sole companion, and she so communed with it and her own heart, that many passages, which had before been veiled, were now made clear and light, and her constant prayer for wisdom and religion to lead her offspring in its paths of pleasantness and peace granted to the full. Yet Rachel was no great scholar. Let it not be imagined amongst those who read this little tale, that she was unusually gifted. She was indeed so far gifted that she had a trusting spirit and a most humble and child-like mind, and of worldly ways was most entirely ignorant; and it was these feelings which kept her so persevering in the path of duty, and, leading her to the footstool of her God, gave her the strength of wisdom that she needed; and to every mother in Israel these powers are given.
“Well, my dear children, to whom must I look for the text which is to occupy us this evening?” said the widow, glancing affectionately round as she ceased to read.
“To me and Ruth, mother; for you know we always think together,” answered Joseph, eagerly. “And you don’t know how we have both been longing for this evening, for the verse we have chosen has made us think so much, and with all our thinking, we cannot quite satisfy ourselves.”
“But what is it, my boy?”
“It is the one our dear father repeated on his death-bed, mother. I have often thought of it since, but feared it would make you sorrowful, if we spoke of it for the first year or two; but as I found Ruth had thought of it and wished it explained also, we said we would ask you to talk about it to-night. You repeat it, Ruth; you pronounce the Hebrew so prettily!”
And timidly, but sweetly, Ruth said, first in Hebrew and then in English, “‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he will bring it to pass.’ Ways,” continued the child, “was the word which first puzzled us, but Sarah has explained it to me so plainly, I understand it better now.”
“Tell us then, Sarah dear,” said her aunt.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that the word ways has many meanings. In the verse, ‘Show me thy ways, O Lord,’ I think it means actions. In another verse, ‘The Lord made known his ways unto Moses, his acts unto the children of Israel,’ I think ways mean thoughts!”
“And there are several in Proverbs,” interposed Simeon, “which would make us regard ways as the path we are to tread; as for instance, ‘Who leaveth the path of righteousness, to walk in the ways of darkness.’”
“But Ruth and I want to know in which of these ways we are to regard it in our verse,” persisted Joseph.
“As meaning both outward actions and inward thoughts, my dear children,” replied his mother. “I have thought long on this verse, and I am glad you have chosen it for discussion. Perhaps you do not know, my little Joseph, that we must think to act; that it is very seldom any good or bad action is performed without previous thought; and, consequently, if we would be pure in act, we must commit our thoughts unto the Lord.”
“But how are we to do this, mother?” asked Leah.
“By constant prayer, my love; by endeavouring, wherever we are, or whatever we may be doing, to remember God knows our every thought before it has words, and long before it becomes action. We are apt, perhaps, to indulge in the wildest thoughts, simply because we imagine ourselves secure from all observation. From human observation we are secure, but not from our Father who is in heaven; and therefore we should endeavour so to train our thoughts as to banish all which we dare not commit unto our God.”
“But are there not some things, dear aunt, too trivial, too much mingled with earthly feelings, to bring before a Being of such ineffable holiness and purity?” inquired Sarah, in a voice which, notwithstanding all her efforts, audibly faltered.
“Ah, that is what I want so much to know,” added Joseph.
“You must not forget, my dear Sarah,” resumed Mrs. Perez, “that our God is a God of love and compassion, as infinite as His holiness; that every throb of pain or joy in the creature His love has formed, is felt as well as ordained by Him. No nation has a God so near to them as Israel; and we, of all others, ought to derive and realize comfort from the belief that He knows our nature in its strivings after righteousness, as well as in its sin. He knows all our temptations, all our struggles, far better than our dearest earthly friends, and His loving mercy towards us is infinitely stronger. Therefore we can better commit our secret thoughts and feelings unto His keeping, than to that of our nearest friends on earth.”
“And may children do this, mother?”
“Yes, dear boy; our Father has children in His tender care and guiding, even as those of more experienced age. Accustom yourselves, while engaged in thought, to ask, ‘Can I ask my Father’s blessing on these thoughts, and on the actions they lead to?’ and rest assured conscience will give you a true answer. If it say, ‘No,’ dismiss the trifling or sinful meditations on the instant; send up a brief prayer to God for help, and He will hear you. If, on the contrary, conscience approve your thought, encourage it, as leading you nearer, closer, and more lovingly to God.”
“But is not this close communion more necessary for women than for men, mother?” inquired Simeon.
“Women may need it more, my dear boy; but, believe me, it is equally, if not more necessary for man. Think of the many temptations to evil which men have in their intercourse with the world; the daily, almost hourly call for the conquest of inclination and passion, which, without some very strong incentive, can never be subdued. One unguarded moment, and the labour of years after righteousness may be annihilated. Man may not need the comfort of this close communion so much as women, but he yet more requires its strength. Nothing is so likely to keep him from sin, as committing his thoughts even as his actions unto the Lord.”
“Thank you, my dear mother; that first bit is clear,” said Joseph. “Now I want the second: the third is the most puzzling of all, but we shall come to that by and bye.”
“You surely know what it means by to ‘trust in Him,’ Joseph?” said Leah.
“I think I do, sister mine, for it was mother’s humble trust in the Lord that supported her in her sorrows: that I saw, I felt, though I was a child; but—” he hesitated.
“Well, my boy?”
“To trust, I think, means to have faith. Now, Henry Stevens said the other day, Jews have no faith—and how can we trust, then?”
“My dearest Joseph, do not let your companions so mislead you,” answered his mother, earnestly. “I know that is a charge often brought against us; but it is always from those who do not know our religion, and who judge us only from those who, by their words and actions, condemn it themselves. The Jew must have faith, not only in the existence of God, but in the sacred history our God inspired, or he is no Jew. He must feel faith—believe God hears and will answer, or his prayers, however fervent, are of no avail. Without faith, his very existence must be an enigma, and his whole life misery. Oh, believe me, my dear children, as no nation has God so near them, so no nation has so much need of faith, and no nation has so experienced the strength, and peace, and fulness which it brings.”
“But how does our verse mean that we are to trust in the Lord, mother?” asked Ruth.
“It belongs both to the first and last division of the verse, my love. If we commit our ways unto the Lord, and trust also in Him (remember one is of no avail without the other), then He will bring it to pass.”
“Ah! that is it. I am so glad we have come to that,” eagerly exclaimed Joseph. “Mother, does it mean, can it mean that our Father will grant our prayers, will give us what we most wish?”
“If it be for our good, my boy; if our wishes be acceptable in His sight; if they will tend to our eternal as well as our temporal welfare; and we bring them before Him in unfailing confidence, believing firmly that He will answer in His own good time—we may rest assured that He will answer us, that He will grant our prayers.”
“But that which is for our good may not be what we most wish for,” resumed Joseph, despondingly.
“But, my boy, if what we wish for is not for our good, is it not more merciful and kind to deny than to grant it? Remember, God knows us better than we know ourselves; and we may ask what would lead us to evil temporally and eternally. If, for a wise and merciful purpose, even our good desires are not granted, be assured that peace, strength, and healing will be given in their stead.”
The little circle looked very thoughtful as the impressive voice of the widow ceased.
Sarah seemed more than usually moved; for, as she bent over her little Bible, which she had opened at the verse, tears one by one fell silently upon the page. Whether Ruth heard them drop, or from her seat close by her cousin felt that the hand she caressingly held trembled, we know not, but the child rose and threw her little arms around her neck.
“Do you remember who it was wrote the verse we are considering?” said the widow, after a pause.
“King David,” answered Joseph and Simeon together.
“Then you see it was no prosperous monarch, no peaceful lawgiver, but one whose life had passed in trials, compared to which our severest misfortunes must seem trifling. Hunted from place to place, in daily danger of his life, compelled even to feign madness, separated from all whom he loved, from all of happiness or peace, even debarred from the public exercise of his faith, his very prayers at times seemingly unheeded—yet it is this faithful servant of God who exclaims, ‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he will bring it to pass.’ We know not the exact time he wrote these words; but we know he wrote from experience, for did not God indeed bring happiness to pass for him? If we think of the life of him who wrote these blessed words, as well as the words themselves, we must derive strength and comfort from the reflection.”
“Yes, yes; I see and feel it all now,” exclaimed Joseph, eagerly as before. “Oh, mother, I can think about it now without any puzzling at all. I am so glad. Cannot you, Ruth?”
“Hush!” answered the child, as she suddenly started up in an attitude of attentive listening. “Hush! I am sure that is Reuben’s step: he is coming, he is coming. Oh, what joy for me!”
“You are wrong, dear; and it only disappoints mother,” said Leah, gently.
“No, no! I know I am not. There listen; do you not hear steps now?”
“Yes: but how can you be sure they are his?” answered Simeon. “It is so very unlikely, I should have thought of everybody else first?”
Ruth made no answer; but she bounded from the room, and had opened the street-door, regardless of Leah’s entreaties to wait at least till the steps came nearer. A very few minutes more, and all doubts were solved by the entrance of Ruth, not walking, but clinging round her brother Reuben’s neck and almost stifling him with kisses, only interrupting herself to say, “Who was right, Miss Leah and Master Simeon? Ah, you did not have Reuben for long weeks to attend and nurse, as I had, or you would have known his step too.”
“You can love me still, then?” murmured her brother, as only to be heard by her; then added aloud, “my mother should have had the first kiss, dearest; let me ask her blessing, Ruth?”
She released him, though she still held his hand; and hastening to his mother, he bent his head before her.
“Is it too late to ask my mother’s Sabbath blessing?” he said, and his voice was strangely choked. “Bless me, dearest mother, as you used to do.”
The widow rose and, laying her hands upon his head, repeated the customary Hebrew blessing, and then folded him to her heart.
“It is never, never too late for a mother’s blessing—a mother’s love, my Reuben,” she said, her voice quivering with the efforts she made to restrain her emotion. “I could have wished it oftener and earlier asked on the Sabbath eve; but it is yours, my boy, each night and morning, though you hear it not.”
“And will it always be? Mother! mother! will you never withdraw it from me? No, no, you will not. You love me only too, too well,” and abruptly breaking from her, after kissing her passionately, he turned to greet his brothers and sisters.
All met him cordially and affectionately, except perhaps that there was a stern look of inquiry in Simeon’s eyes, which Reuben, from some unexpressed feeling, could not meet; and, looking from him, he exclaimed—
“Sarah! where is my kind cousin Sarah? will she not give me welcome?”
“She was here this moment,” said Leah; “where can she have vanished?”
“Not very far, dear cousin: I am here. Reuben, can you believe one moment that I do not rejoice to see you once again at home?” said Sarah, advancing from the farther side of the room and placing her hand frankly in her cousin’s, looking up in his face with her clear, pensive eyes, but cheeks as pale as marble.
Reuben pressed her hand within his own, tried to meet smilingly her glance and speak as usual, but both efforts failed, and again he turned away.
“And he has come to stay with us—he will not leave us in a hurry again,” said the affectionate little Ruth, keeping her seat on his knee, and nestling her head in his bosom. “I wanted but you to make this evening quite, quite happy.”
Reuben kissed her to conceal a sigh, and controlling himself, he entered cheerfully and caressingly into all Ruth and Joseph had to tell, called for all interesting conversation from the other members of his family, and imparted many particulars of himself. He was rising high in the world, had been the fortunate means of preventing a great loss to the firm of which he was a servant, and so raised his salary, and himself in the estimation of his employers. Fortune smiled on him, he said, in many ways, and he had had the happiness of securing a trifling fund for his mother, which though small was sure, and would provide her yearly with a moderate sum. He had something else to propose, but there would be time enough for that. His mother blessed and thanked him; but her heart was not at rest. Cheerful as the conversation was, happy as the last hour ought to have been, there was a dim foreboding on her spirit which she could not conquer. Something was yet to be told, Reuben was not at peace, and when indeed he did speak that something, it was with a confused more than a joyous tone.
“I do not know why I should delay telling you of my intention, mother,” he said at length; “I have had too many proofs of your affection to doubt of your rejoicing in anything that will make my happiness—I am going to be married.”
There was a general start and exclamation from all but two in the group—his mother and cousin.
“If it will make your happiness, my son, I do indeed rejoice,” the former said very calmly. “Whom do you give me for another daughter?”
“You do not know her yet, mother; but I am sure you will learn to love her dearly: it is Jeanie Wilson, the only child of my fellow-clerk.”
“Jeanie Wilson!—a Christian! Reuben, Reuben, how have you fallen!” burst angrily, almost fiercely, from Simeon; “but it is folly to be surprised—I knew it would be so.”
“Indeed! wonderfully clear-sighted as you were then, if you consider such a union humiliation, it would have been more brotherly, perhaps, to have warned me of the precipice on which I stood,” answered Reuben, sarcastically.
“Yes! you gave me so fair an opportunity to act a brother’s part; never seeking me, or permitting me to seek you, for weeks together; herding with strangers alone—following them alike in the store and in the mart—loving what they love, doing as they do—and, like them, scorning, despising, and persecuting that holy people who once called you son—forgetting your birthright, your sainted heritage—throwing dishonour on the dead as on the living, to link yourself with those who assuredly will, if they do not now, despise you. Shame, foul shame upon you!”
“Have you done?” calmly inquired Reuben, though the red spot was on his cheek. “It is something for the elder to be bearded thus by the younger. Yet be it so. I have done nothing for which to feel shame—nothing to dishonour those with whom I am related. If they feel themselves dishonoured, let them leave me; I can meet the world alone.”
“Aye, so far alone, that you will rejoice that others have cast aside the chains of nature, and given you freedom to follow your own apostate path unquestioned and unrebuked.”
“Peace, I command you!” exclaimed the widow, with a tone and gesture of authority which awed Simeon into silence, and checked the wrathful reply on Reuben’s lips. “My sons, profane not the Sabbath of your God with this wild and wicked contention. Simeon, however you may lament what Reuben has disclosed, it is not your part to forget he is your brother—yes, an elder brother—still.”
“I will own no apostate for my brother!” muttered the still irritated young man. “Others may regard him as they list; if he have given up his faith, I will not call him brother.”
“I have neither the will nor occasion to forswear my faith,” replied Reuben calmly. “Mr. Wilson has made no condition in giving me his daughter, except that she may follow her own faith, which I were indeed prejudiced and foolish to deny. He believes as I do; to believe in God is enough—all religions are the same before Him.”
“That is to say, he is, like yourself, of no religion at all,” rejoined Simeon, bitterly. “Better he had been prejudiced, rigid, even despising us as others do; then this misfortune would not have befallen us.”
“Is it a misfortune to you, mother? Leah—Ruth—Joseph, will you all refuse to love my wife? You will not, cannot, when you see and know her.”
“As your wife, Reuben, we cannot feel indifference towards her,” replied Leah, tears standing in her eyes; “yet if you had brought us one of our own people, oh, how much happier it would have made us!”
“And why should it, my dear sister? Mother why should it be such a source of grief? I do not turn from the faith of my fathers: I may neglect, disregard those forms and ordinances which I do not feel at all incumbent on me to obey, but I must be a Jew—I cannot believe with the Christian, and I cannot feel how my marriage with a gentle, loving, and most amiable girl can make me other than I am. We are in no way commanded to marry only amongst ourselves.”
“You are mistaken; we are so commanded, my dear son. In very many parts of our Holy Law we are positively forbidden to intermarry with the stranger; and, as a proof that so to wed was considered criminal, one of the first and most important points on which Ezra and Nehemiah insisted, was the putting away of strange wives.”
“But they were idolaters, mother. Jeanie and I worship the same God.”
“But you do not believe in the same creed, and therefore is the belief in one God more dangerous. We ought to keep ourselves yet more distinct, now that we are mingled up amongst those who know God and serve Him, though not as we do. You do not think thus, my dear son; and therefore all we may do is but to pray that the happiness you expect may be realized.”
“And in praying for it, of course you doubt it, though I still cannot imagine why. Sarah, you have not spoken: do you believe me so terrible a reprobate that there is no chance for my happiness, temporally and eternally?”
He spoke bitterly, perhaps harshly, for he had longed for her to speak, and her silence strangely, painfully reproached him. He did not choose to know why, and so he vented in bitter words to her the anger he felt towards himself.
“My opinion can be of little value after my aunt’s,” she answered, meekly; “but this believe, dear cousin, if you and Jeanie are only as blessed and happy together as I wish you, you will be one of the happiest couples on earth.”
“I do believe it!” he said, passionately springing towards her, and seizing both her hands. “Sarah, dear Sarah, forgive me. I was harsh and bitter to you, who were always my better angel; say you forgive me!” He repeated the word, with a strong emphasis upon it.
“I did not know that you had given me anything to forgive, Reuben,” she replied, struggling to smile; “but if you think you have, I do forgive you from my very heart.”
“Bless you for the word!” he said, still gazing fixedly in her face, which calmly met his look.
“Thank God, one misery is spared me,” he muttered to himself; then added, “and you think I may be happy?”
“I trust you will; and if it please God to bless you with prosperity, I think you may.”
“How do you mean?”
“That while all things go smoothly, you will not feel the division, the barrier which your opposing creeds must silently erect between you. But if affliction, if death should happen, Reuben, dearest Reuben, may you never repent this engagement then.”
The young man actually trembled at the startling earnestness of her words.
“And will you, surely you will not, marry in church, brother?” timidly inquired Joseph.
“He must, he cannot help himself!” hoarsely interposed Simeon, who had remained sitting in moody silence for some time; “and yet he would say he is no apostate, no deserter from our faith.”
“You said you had something to ask mother, Reuben,” said Ruth, pressing close to his side, for she feared the painful altercation between her brothers might recommence.
“I had,” he answered, “but I fear it is useless now. Mother, Jeanie and I hoped to have offered you a home—to have entreated you to live with us, and return to the comforts which were yours; we should seek but to give you joy. But after what has passed this evening, I fear we have hoped in vain.”
“I wonder you dared hope it,” muttered Simeon. “Would our mother live with any one who lives not as a Jew, whose dearest pride is to seem in all points like the stranger with whom he lives?”
“Thank you for the kind will, my dear son,” replied the widow, affectionately, though sorrowfully; “but you are right in thinking it cannot be. I am too old and too ailing to mingle now with strangers. I cannot leave my own lowly dwelling; I cannot give up these forms and ordinances which I have learned to love, and believe obligatory upon me. Bring your wife to me, if indeed she does not scorn your poor Jewish mother; she will meet but love from me and mine.”
Reuben flung himself impetuously on her neck, and she felt his whole frame tremble as with choking sobs. His sister, Sarah, and Joseph reiterated their mothers words; Simeon alone was silent. Another half-hour passed—an interval painful to all parties, despite the exertions of Sarah and the widow to make it cheerful, and then Reuben rose to depart. His affectionate embrace, his warm “Good night, God bless you,” was welcomed and returned as warmly by all, and then he looked for Simeon. The youth was standing at the farther end of the apartment, in the deepest shadow, his arms folded on his breast, his lip compressed, and eyes fixed sternly on the ground.
“Simeon!” exclaimed Reuben, as he approached him with frankly extended hand, “Simeon! we are brothers; let us part friends.”
“Give up this intended marriage, come back to the faith you have deserted, and we are brothers,” answered Simeon, sternly. “If not, we are severed, and for ever.”
“Be it as you will, then,” answered Reuben, controlling anger with a violent effort. “Should you need a brother or a friend, you will find them both in me: the God of our fathers demands not violence like this.”
“He does not—He does not. Simeon, I beseech, COMMAND you, do not part thus with your brother; on your love, your duty to me, as your only remaining parent, I command this,” his mother said, mildly, but imperatively; but for once she spoke in vain. Leah, Sarah, Joseph, all according to their different characters, sought to soften him; but the dark cloud only thickened on his brow. At that moment a light form pressed through them all, and clasping his knees, looked up in that agitated face, as if those sightless orbs had more than common power—and Ruth it was that spoke.
“Brother,” she said, in her clear, sweet voice, “brother, our father bade us love our brother, even if he turned aside from all we hold most sacred and most dear. We stood around his death-bed, and we promised this—to love him to the end. Brother, you will not break this vow? No, no: our father looks upon us, hears us still!”
There was a strong and terrible struggle on the part of Simeon, and a heavy groan of repentant anguish broke from the very heart of Reuben.
“My father, my poor father! did he so love me? And will you still hate me, Simeon?” he gasped forth.
Another moment, and the brothers were clasped in each others arms.
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.
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!
A small, but most comfortably-furnished parlour of a new, respectable-looking dwelling, in one of the best streets of Liverpool, is the scene to which we must conduct our readers about two years after the conclusion of our last chapter. The furniture all looked new, except a kind of antique silver lamp, which stood on an oaken bracket opposite the window. It was a room thrown out from the usual back of the house, opening by a large French window and one or two steps into a small but beautifully laid-out flower garden, divided by a passage and another parlour from the handsome shop which opened on the street. It was a silversmith and watchmaker’s, with the words “Perez Brothers,” in large but not showy characters, over the door. The shop seemed much frequented, there was a constant ingress and egress of respectable people; but there was no bustle, nothing going wrong, all seemed quietness and regularity; orders received and questions answered, and often articles of particularly skilful workmanship displayed with that gentle courtesy and good feeling which can spring but from the heart.
But we are forgetting—it is the parlour and not the shop with which we have to do. The room and its furniture may be strangers to us—perhaps one of the inmates—but not the other. The still infirm and aged, but the thrice-blessed, thrice-happy mother was still spared to bless God for the prosperity, the well-doing, and the unchanging faith and piety of her beloved children. Simeon’s wish was fulfilled—his mother was restored to her former station, nay, raised higher in the scale of society than she had ever been; but meek in prosperity as faithful in adversity, there was no change in that widowed heart, save, if possible, yet deeper love and gratitude to God. And a beautiful picture might that gentle face have made, bending down with such a smile of caressing love on the lovely infant of nearly three years, who had clambered on her knee, and was folding its little round arms about her neck. It was a touching contrast of age and infancy, for Rachel looked much older than she really was, but there was nothing sad in it. The unusual loveliness of the child cannot be passed unnoticed: the snowy skin, the rich golden curls, just touched with that chesnut which takes away all insipidity from fairness, might have proclaimed her not a child of Israel; but then there was the large, lustrous black eye and its long fringe, the subdued, soul-speaking beauty of the other features—that was Israel’s, and Israel’s alone! Full of life and joyousness, her infant prattle amused her grandmother, till at the closing, about six in the evening, her son Simeon joined her. We should perhaps have said that an elderly Jewess, remarkably clean and tidy in her person, had very often entered the parlour to see, she said, if the dear widow were comfortable or wanted anything, or little Jeanie were troublesome, etc. It was old Esther, who fulfilling all sorts of offices in the family, acting companion and nurse to the widow and Jeanie, cleaning silver—in which she was very expert—seeing to the cooking of the dinner, and taking care of the lad’s clothes, delighted herself, and more than satisfied those with whom she lived.
To satisfy our readers’ curiosity, as to how this great change in the widow’s condition had been brought about, we will briefly narrate its origin. When Reuben’s year of probation was over, and he felt he was a Jew in heart and soul and reason, as well as name, he returned to Liverpool, to delight his mother with the change. He was met with love and with rejoicing, no reference was made to the past, and between himself and Simeon not a shadow of estrangement remained. The latter had at first hung back, feeling self-reproached that he had wronged his brother; but Reuben’s truly noble nature conquered these feelings, and soon after bound him to him with the ties of gratitude as well as love. Simeon’s talent for modelling in silver was now as marked as his dislike to that trade, which despite of disinclination, he had perseveringly followed. Reuben, on the contrary, retained all his father’s instructions in watch-making, and had determined, when he returned to Liverpool, to set up that business which, from the excellent capital he had amassed and laid by, was not difficult to accomplish. He had determined on this plan, feeling as if he thus tacitly acknowledged and followed his lamented father’s wishes, and atoned to him, even in death, for former disregard. He, of course, wished to associate Simeon in the business; but as the young man’s desires and talents seemed pointed otherwise, he placed him for a year with a first-rate silversmith in London. Morris, Simeon’s late master, had given up business, and this in itself was a capital opening for Reuben. He made use of it, and flourished. In less than eighteen months after his return to Liverpool, “Perez Brothers” opened their new shop as silversmiths and watchmakers, and from the careful, economical, and strictly honourable way in which the business was carried on—the name, too, with the associations of the honest hard-working man of whom these were the sons, adding golden weight—a very few months trial proved that industry, economy, and honesty must carry their own reward.
But why was the widow alone? Was not Reuben married, and should not Sarah have been with her? Gentle reader, Reuben is not yet married; he has now gone to fetch his Sarah, for the term of probation for both is over. The morrow is the thirteenth birthday of the twins; and the widow is expecting the return of Reuben and Sarah and Ruth, as she sits with her darling Jeanie in her little parlour, the evening we meet her again.
Levison’s innocence and his sudden death had, of course, been made public, not only in an official way, but through the eagerness of Reuben that not a shadow of shame should ever approach his Sarah. When the first month of mourning had expired, Sarah returned to her situation; her mistress quite forgetting former anger, and ready to declare Sarah had only done just as she ought towards her poor innocent father; that she was a pattern of Jewish daughters, and poured forth a volume of praises, all in the joy of getting her back.
Reuben had been anxious for their marriage as soon as he had completed two years from poor Jeanie Wilson’s early death. Sarah fully sympathised in his feelings towards Jeanie, and they would often talk of her as a being dear to and cherished by them both. When the two years were completed, the marriage was still delayed, Mrs. Corea entreating Sarah to remain with her till she went on the Continent with her daughters, which she intended to do in about six or eight months. She had been too indulgent a mistress, and Miss Leon too sincere a friend, for Sarah to hesitate a moment in postponing her own happiness. Besides, the delay, though Reuben did not like it, might be beneficial to him in allowing him time to get settled in his business. Before the period elapsed, Sarah and Reuben too were rejoiced that she was still in London, for Ruth needed her; the wherefore we shall find presently.
“Are they not late, mother?” inquired Simeon, as he joined his mother in her own parlour. “Troublesome loiterers! I wish they would arrive—I want my tea.”
“And is that all you want, Simeon?” said the widow, smiling; “because that may easily be satisfied.”
“No, no; not quite so voracious as that comes to. I want the loiterers themselves, though I have seen them later than you have, you know. You won’t find Sarah a whit altered; she is just the gentle yet energetic creature she always was, only more animated, more happy, I think. Then Ruth, darling Ruth—oh, how much I owe to her! I never shall forget her reminding me of my promise to my poor father—her compelling me as it were, to love my brother; and now what is not that brother to me? Mother, is it not strange how completely prejudice has gone?”
“No, my dear son; your heart was too truly and faithfully pious, too desirous really to love its God, for prejudice long to obtain the ascendant. It comes sometimes in very early youth, when we are apt to think we alone are quite right, but, unless encouraged, cannot long stand the light of strengthening reason and real spiritual love.”
“But does it not seem strange, mother, that I alone of my family, should have been the one selected to receive such extreme kindness from a Christian—one of those whom, in former days, I was more prejudiced against than I dared acknowledge? I was very ill on my way home from London, and as you know, Mr. Morton had me conveyed to his house, instead of leaving me to the care of heartless strangers at the public inn—had a physician to attend me, nursed me as his own son—would read and talk to me, even after he knew I was a Jew, on the spirit of religion, which we both felt. Never shall I forget the impressive tone and manner with which he said, when parting with me, ‘Young man, never forget this important truth—that heart alone in sincerity loves God, who can see, in every pious man, a brother, despite of difference of creed. That difference lies between man and his God: to do good and love one another is man’s duty unto man, and can, under no circumstances and in no places, be evaded. Learn this lesson, and all the kindness I have shown you is amply rewarded.’ Is it not strange this should have occurred to me?”
“I do not think it strange, my dear son,” replied Mrs. Perez affectionately, though seriously. “I believe so firmly that God’s eye is ever on us, that He so loves us, that He guides every event of our lives as will be most for our eternal good. He saw you sought to love and serve Him—that the very prejudice borne towards others had its origin in the ardent love you bore your faith, and His infinite mercy permitted you to receive kindness from a Gentile and a stranger, that this one dark cloud should be removed, and your love for Him be increased in the love you bear your fellow-creatures.”
“May I believe this, mother? It would be such a comfort, such a redoubled excitement to love and worship,” answered Simeon, fixing his large dark eyes beseechingly on his mother’s face. “But can I do so without profaneness, without robbing our gracious God of the sanctity which is so imperatively His due?”
“Surely you may, my dear boy. We have the whole word of God to prove and tell us that we are each individually and peculiarly His care—that he demands the heart; for dearer even than a mother’s love for her infant child is His love towards us. How may we give Him our heart, if we never think of Him but as a being too inexpressibly awful to approach? How feel the thanksgiving and gratitude He loves to receive, if we do not perceive His guiding hand, even in the simplest events of our individual lives? How seek Him in sorrow, if we do not think He has power and will to hear and to relieve?—in daily prayer, if we were not each of us especially His own? My boy, if the hairs of our head are numbered, can we doubt the events of our life are guided as will be but for our eternal good, and draw us closer to our God? Think but of one dear to us both: did it not seem, to our imperfect wisdom, that Reuben’s marriage must for ever have divided him from his nation? Yet that very circumstance brought him back. Our Father in mercy permitted him to follow his own will, to be prosperous, to lose even the hated badge of Israel, that his own heart might be his judge. Affliction also, sent from that same gracious hand, deepened the peculiar feelings which becoming a parent had already excited. Then the year of research put the final seal on his return to us. His mind could never have believed without calm, unimpassioned, steady examination. He has examined not alone his own faith. Mr. Vaughan, from being the explainer, was forced to become the defender of his own creed. He drew back, avowing, with a candour and charity which proved how truly of God was the spirit of religion within him, spite of the mistaken faith, that Reuben never could become a convert. And we know what true friends they are, notwithstanding Mr. Vaughan’s disappointment. They have strengthened themselves in their own peculiar doctrines, without in the least shaking each other’s.”
“Yes, yes; you are quite right, mother dear, as you always are,” replied Simeon, putting his arm round her, and affectionately kissing her. “What a blessing it has been for me to have such a mother. Why, how now, master Joseph, what has happened? have you lost your wits?”
“If I have, it is for very joy!” exclaimed the boy, springing into the parlour, flinging his cap up to the ceiling, and so stifling his mother with kisses, as obliged her to call for mercy. “Mother, mother, how can I tell you the good news? I must scamper about before I can give them vent.”
“Not another jump, not another step, till you have told us,” exclaimed Simeon, laughing heartily at the boy’s grotesque movements, and catching him midway in a jump that would not have disgraced a harlequin. “Now what is it, you overgrown baby? Are you not ashamed not to meet joy like a man?”
“No baby ever felt such joy, Simeon; and though I am a man to-morrow, I am not ashamed to act the madcap to-night. Mother, have I not told you the notice Mr. Morales has always taken of me, and the books he has lent me? Well, my master must have said such kind things of me; for what, what do you think he has offered?—that is, if you will consent; and I know, oh, I know you love me too well to refuse. He will call on you himself to-morrow about it.”
“About what?” reiterated Simeon. “My good fellow, it is of no use his calling. You are gone distracted, mad, fit for nothing!”
“What does he offer, my love?” anxiously rejoined the widow.
“To take me home with him, as companion and friend to his own son, a boy just about my age—and such a fellow! He has often come to talk with me about the books we have both read. And Mr. Morales said I shall learn all that Conrad does. That I shall go abroad with them, and receive such an education, that years to come, if I still wish it, I may be fitted to be, what of all others I long to be, the Hazan of our people. Hebrew, the Bible and the Talmud, and Latin, and Greek, and everything that can help me for such an office; besides the lighter literature and studies, which will make me an enlightened friend for his son. Oh, mother! Simeon! is it not enough to make me lose my wits? But I must not though, for I shall want them more than ever. You do not speak, my own dear mother; but you will not, oh, I know you will not refuse.”
“Refuse!” repeated the grateful widow, whose voice returned. “No, no; I would deserve to lose all the friends and blessings my God has given me, could I be so selfish to refuse, because for a few years, my beloved child, I must part with you. I do not fear for you; you will never forget to love your mother, or to remember and obey her precepts!”
“Give you joy, brother mine! though, by my honour, I had better not wish you any more joy, for this has well-nigh done for you,” laughingly rejoined Simeon; for he saw that both Joseph and his mother’s eyes were wet with grateful tears, and he did not wish emotion to become pain.
“Yes, one more joy, but one: it is almost sinful to wish more, when so much has been granted me,” replied Joseph, almost sorrowfully. “Would that Ruth, my own Ruth, could but look on me once more; could but have sight restored, that I might think of her as happy, independent, not needing me to supply her sight. Oh, I should not have one wish remaining; but sometimes I think, afflicted as she is, and bound so closely as we are, I ought not to leave her.”
“Then don’t think any more silliness, my boy. Reuben and your humble servant are much obliged to you for imagining, because we do not happen to be her twin brothers, we cannot be to her what you are—out on your conceit! Make haste, and be a Hazan, and give her a home, and then you shall have her all to yourself; till then we will take care of her!”
Joseph’s laughing reply was checked by the entrance of Leah, attended by a young man of very prepossessing appearance. It was Maurice Carvalho, the son and heir of a thriving bookseller and fancy stationer, of Liverpool, noted for a devoted attendance on the pretty young milliner.
“Not arrived yet! why, I feared they would have been here before me, and thought me so unkind,” said Leah, after affectionately greeting her mother. “Are we not late?”
“Dreadfully!” replied Simeon, mischievously. “Mrs. Valentine said you were at liberty after five; what have you been doing with yourselves?”
“Taking a walk, and went further than we thought,” said Maurice, with affected carelessness, while Leah turned away with a blush.
“A walk! whew,” and Simon gave a prolonged whistle; “were you not cold?”
“Cold, you stupid fellow! why it is scarce autumn yet—the evenings are delightful.”
“Particularly when the subject of conversation is of a remarkably summer warmth; with doves billing and cooing in the trees, and nightingales singing to the rose—there, am I not poetical? Leah, my girl, you used to like poetry; you ought to like it better now.”
“Better—why?”
“Oh, because—because poetry and love are twin brothers, you know!”
“Simeon!” remonstrated Leah; but the pleased expression of young Carvalho’s face and the satisfaction beaming on the widow’s betrayed at once that the bachelor was quite at liberty to talk and amuse himself at their expense; their love was acknowledged to each other, and hallowed by a parent’s blessing and consent.
Joseph had scarcely had time to tell his joyful tale to his sister, before a loud shout from Simeon, who had gone to the front to watch, proclaimed the anxiously-desired arrivals. Joseph and Maurice darted out, and in less than a minute Reuben and Sarah entered the parlour.
“Mother, dearest mother, she is here—never, never, with God’s blessing, to leave us again!” exclaimed Reuben, as Sarah threw herself alternately in the arms of the widow and Leah, and then again sought the embrace of the former, to hide the gushing tears of joy and feeling on her bosom, without the power of uttering a single word.
“My child, my own darling child! oh, what a blessing it is to look on your dear face again! Still my own Sarah, spite of all the cares and trials you have borne since we parted!” exclaimed the widow, fondly putting back the braids of beautiful hair, to look intently on that sweet gentle face.
“And your blessing, mother, dearest mother; oh, say as you have so often told me, you could wish and ask no dearer, better wife for your Reuben; and such blessing may give my Sarah voice!” He threw his arm round her as he spoke, and both bent reverently before the widow, whose voice trembled audibly as she gave the desired blessing, and told how she had prayed and yearned that this might be, and Sarah’s voice returned, with a tone so glad, so bird-like in its joy, it needed but few words.
“My Ruth, where is my Ruth? and where are Joseph and Simeon gone?” asked the widow, when one joy was sufficiently relieved to permit her thinking of another.
“She will be here almost directly, mother. She was rather tired with the journey, and so I persuaded her to rest quiet at the inn close by, till I sent Simeon and Joseph with a coach for her and our luggage; they will not be long before they return. But tell me, where is my Jeanie? not in bed I hope, though we are late?”
“No; Esther took her away about half an hour ago, to amuse and keep her awake—not very difficult to do, as she is as lively as ever.” Reuben was off in a moment.
“And Esther, dear Reuben, bid her come and see me,” rejoined Sarah; and then clasping her aunt’s hand, “oh, my dear aunt, what have I not felt, since we last met, that I owe you! I thought I was grateful, felt it to the full before; but not till I was tried, not till I learned the value of strong principles, steady conduct, and firm control, did I know all you had done for me. My God, indeed, was with me throughout; but this would not have been, had not your care and your affection taught me how to seek and love Him. Oh, will a life of devotion to our Reuben, and to you, and to his offspring, in part repay your kindness, dearest aunt?”
The widow’s answer we leave our readers to imagine; fearing they should accuse us of again becoming sentimental. Old Esther speedily made her appearance, and her greeting was second only in affection to the widow’s own.
“Father, dear father, come home, come home!” was the next sweet lisping voice that met the delighted ears of Sarah, and in another moment Reuben appeared with the child in his arms, her little rosy fingers twisted in his hair, and her round soft cheek resting against his.
“This is my poor motherless babe, for whom I have bespoken your love, your protection, your guiding hand, my Sarah,” he whispered, in a low, earnest voice. “Will you love her for my sake?”
“And for her own and for her mother’s; do not doubt me, Reuben. If she is yours, is she not, then, mine?” she answered, in the same voice. The child looked at her as if half inclined to spring into the caressing, extended arms, but then, with sudden shyness, hid her face on her father’s shoulder.
“Jeanie, darling, what was the word I taught you to say? Look at her and say it, and kiss her as you do me.”
The child still hesitated; but then, as if emboldened by Sarah’s sweet voice calling her name, she looked full in her face and lisped out “Mother,” held up her little face to kiss her, and was quite contented to be transferred from Reuben’s arms to those of Sarah.
“Ruth, Ruth—I think I hear her coming?” joyfully exclaimed Leah, a few minutes afterwards.
“Go to her then, dear—detain her one minute,” hastily whispered Reuben, in a tone and manner that made his sister start. “Do not ask me why now—you will know the moment you see her—only go. I must prepare my mother. I did not think she would have been here so soon.”
Leah obeyed him, her heart beating, she did not know why, and Reuben turned to his mother. Sarah had given little Jeanie to Esther’s care, and was kneeling by her as if to intercept her starting up.
“What is it—what is it? Why do you keep my child from me? why send her brothers and sisters to her, instead of letting her come to me? Reuben, Sarah! what new affliction has befallen my angel child?”
“Affliction? None, none!” repeated Sarah and Reuben together. “It is joy, dearest aunt, all joy. Oh, bear but joy as you have borne sorrow, and all will be well.”
“Joy?” she repeated, almost wildly; “what greater joy can there be than to have my children all once again around me? I have heard my Ruth has been ill, but that she was quite well, quite strong again, and have blessed God for that great mercy.”
“But there may be more, my mother, yet more for which to bless Him. Oh, are not all things possible with Him? He who in His wisdom once deprived of sight, can He not restore it?”
“Reuben, Sarah! what can you mean? My child, my Ruth!” but voice and almost power failed, for such a trembling seized her limbs that Reuben was compelled to support her as she sat. It was but for a moment, for the next a light figure had bounded into the room, followed by Simeon and Joseph, Maurice and Leah.
“Mother! mother! mother! They need not tell me where you are. You need not come to your poor blind Ruth. I can see your dear face—see it once again.”
The widow had sprung up from her chair; but ere she had made one step forward her child was in her arms—was fixing those long-closed eyes upon her face as if they would take in every feature with one delighted gaze. One look was sufficient. A deadly faintness, from over-excited feelings, passed over the widow’s heart; but as she felt Ruth’s passionate kisses on her lips and cheeks, life returned in a wild burst of thanksgiving, and the widow folded her child closer and yet closer to her heart, and, overpowered by joy as she had never been by sorrow, “she lifted up her voice and wept.”
Reader, our task is done—for need we say it was the benevolent exertion of Miss Leon, under a merciful Providence, which procured the last most unlooked-for blessing to the widow and her family. She had remarked there was a slight change in the appearance of the child’s eyes, had taken her without delay to the most eminent oculist of the day, and received his opinion that sight might be restored. The rest, to a character such as hers, was easy; and thus twice was she the means of materially brightening the happiness of the Perez family; for, though we had not space in our last chapter to dilate on it, it had been actually through her means the innocence of Levison had been discovered, though she herself was at the time scarcely conscious how. She had mentioned it to everybody she thought likely to be useful in discovering it, had been laughed at for her folly in believing such a tale, warned against taking up the guilt or innocence of such a person’s character, and, in short, almost every one dissuaded her from mentioning the subject; it really would do her harm. But she had persevered against even her own hope of effecting good, and was, as we have seen, successful.
Before we quite say farewell, we would ask our readers if we have indeed been happy enough in this simple narration to make one solemn and most important truth clear as our own heart would wish—that, however dark may be our horizon, however our prayers and trust may for a while seem unheeded, our eager wishes denied us, our dearest feelings the mere means of woe, yet there is an answering and pitying God above us still, who, when He bids us “commit our ways unto Him, and trust also in Him,” has not alone the power, but the will, the loving-kindness, the infinite mercy, to “bring it to pass.” My friends, that God is still our God; and though the events of our simple tale may have no origin in real life, is there one amongst us who can look back upon his life, and prayers, and thoughts, and yet say that overruling Providence is but fiction, for we feel it, know it not? Oh, if so, it is his own heart, not the love and word of his God, at fault. All may not be blessed so visibly as the widow and her family, but all who wait on and trust in the Lord will have their reward, if not on earth, yet dearer, more gloriously in heaven.
The Stone-Cutter’s Boy of Possagno. A SKETCH FROM HIS LIFE. 1
It was evening in Venice. The queen of the Adriatic, her marble palaces and princely halls, her stately bridges and her dreary prisons, lay sleeping in gorgeous beauty, flushed by the glowing splendour of the setting sun, lingering as loth to fade away and be lost in the more sombre hues of twilight, which, rising, from the east, was softly and balmily stealing over the expanse of heaven, bearing silence, and repose, and quiet loveliness on her meekly pensive brow. It was an hour of deep calm—the pause of life and nature, when the business of the day was done, the gay festivities of night not yet begun. Now and then the sound of a guitar, or the thrill of melody from music-gushing voices, echoed from the water; or whispered accents, in the passioned tones of Italy, betraying some tale of happy love; and then, again, might be traced a muffled figure, with shadowed brow and stern-closed lip, holding himself aloof, as if his world were contained in the mighty passions, the deep secrets of his own heart; and thus, from hate, or guile, or scorn, contemning all his fellows. And then would come by, with measured oar and evening hymn, the fisher’s humble skiff; and then, in strange contrast, the decorated bark of patrician pride, with noble freight and liveried attendants. Presently, light after light gleamed up from palace, and hall, and bridge, rivalling the stars of heaven, spangling earth and water. Sunset faded into twilight; and twilight, resting a brief interval on the bosom of night, gave up to her the care of earth, and disappeared. But not with the marble palaces and their princely honours—not with the midnight intrigue, the lover’s meeting—not with the pirate of the seas, the brigand of the land; all of which seem springing up, more vivid than memory, more tangible than fancy, in that one magic word, Venice—not with these have we to treat.
In a small, rudely-furnished apartment, scattered round with implements of sculpture, half-finished models in clay and stone, sketches, both in chalk and colouring, and some few volumes of miscellaneous lore, sat one, a boy in years, but bearing on his brow and in his eye somewhat far—oh! far beyond his age. Clothed as he was in the simplest, most homely attire, his peculiarly graceful and well-proportioned figure marked him noble; his intelligent, nay more, his soul-breathing features, the light of MIND illumining his full, dark eye, and resting on the broad, high forehead, even the beautiful hair of glossy black, curling so carelessly round the peculiarly well-shaped head:—could these characteristics belong to the stone-cutter’s boy of Possagno, whose first twelve years had been passed in the mud-walled cabin of his poor and hard-working grandfather? It was even so; but the lowliness of birth was, even at this early period of his life, lost in the nobility of Genius. Her voice had breathed its thrilling whisper within him; and he heard, but as yet understood it not—was unconscious of the deep meanings, the glorious prophecy, the mighty shadows of an unborn future, of which those thrilling whispers spoke. He only knew there was a spirit within him, urging, impelling, he scarce knew what: and longing for the Infinite which pressed so heavily upon him, that he felt, to use his own impressive words, “He could have started on foot with a velocity to outstrip the wind, but without knowing whither to direct his steps; and when activity could no longer be supported, he would have desired to lie down and die.” He would hurry to the haunts of Nature—the wildest, most boundless scenes, gazing on the distant mountain, the rushing torrent, the dark, mysterious forest; and then up to the gorgeous masses of cloud, sailing over the transparent heaven of his own bright land, watch intently each light, each shade, each fleeting change, longing to soar to them, to penetrate the mysteries of Nature. At such moments he was happy; for the sense of Infinity seemed taken from his own overcharged heart to be impressed on Nature, to linger around, below, above him, to breathe its tale aloud, from the voice of the torrent to the glistening star reflected in its depths—from the radiant star to the lowly flower, trembling beneath its burning gaze; and the voice was less painfully oppressive then than when it came, in the still, the lonely hour, to the deep recesses of his own young heart. And from these scenes he would turn again to the work of his own hand; and despondency and darkness, at times, clouded up his spirit, for they gave not back the impress of the beauty, the infinity, with which his soul was filled. He knew not the wherefore of this deep-seated joy and woe; and had there been one to whisper it did but prophesy immortal fame, the boy would have smiled in disbelief.
But on this fair eve neither the hurrying impulse nor desponding sadness was upon him. The boy sat beside the open casement, looking forth on the gradual approach of night and her starry train, on the still waters slumbering beneath, or flashing in passing light from illuminated skiffs; but his thoughts were not on these. An open volume lay upon his knee, which had so absorbed alike heart, mind, and fancy, that darkness had stolen around him unconsciously; and when compelled to cease reading, there was a charm in the thoughts created, too entrancing, too irresistible, to permit their interruption, even by a movement.
“Why, Antonio, lad, what holds thee so tranced, even thine own Guiseppe stands beside thee, rudely and inhospitably unnoticed? Shame on thee! The Falieri had not welcomed Tonin thus.”
With a start of joyful surprise, the boy turned to grasp the extended hands of his noble friend, to welcome him again and again, and then to ask and answer so many questions interesting to none but themselves, that some time passed ere Guiseppe Falieri found leisure to ask what had so engrossed his friend when he entered.
“Up in the skies again, Tonin, lad—riding on a star, or reposing on a cloud—yonder one, perchance, so exquisitely silvered by the moon?”
“No, Guiseppe mio, I was more on earth than in heaven that moment.”
“Thou on earth! and with such a sky, such a moon, above us! Marvellous! Ah, a book!” And, attracted by Antonio’s smile to the volume, he took it up, and read by the clear moonlight, “‘Life of Dante.’ Only his life! Nay, had it been his Divina Commedia, his soul-thrilling poesy, I could better have forgiven thy neglect.”
“Yet, perchance, had his life no Beatrice, Guiseppe, Italy had had no poet.”
“It was Beatrice, then, that so enchanted thee! Come, that’s some comfort for my pride. I give thee permission to neglect me for her. Yet,” he added, after a brief pause, “how know we it was not all illusion—a vision of the poet—a fancy—a beautiful creation? I have often thought it too shadowy, too much of the ideal, for dull, dark reality.”
“Illusion or reality, oh! it was blessed for Italy, thrice-blessed for the poet!” answered Antonio, with such unaffected fervour, that it extended to his companion. “Without Beatrice, what had Dante been? A poet, perchance, but wanting the glow, the life, the thrilling beauty, now gushing so eloquently from every line. Beauty, and such as hers, ethereal from first to last, till nought but his own heart and heaven retained her. Oh, Guiseppe, the glance of her eye, the touch of her hand, was all-sufficient to ignite the electric lamp of genius, which, without such influence, perchance, had been buried in its own smouldering gloom, and never flung its rays upon a world.”
“Thinkest thou, then, Tonin, that the influence of beauty could, indeed, be so experienced, by one who, though so mighty in intellect, was still only a boy in years?”
“Do I think so, Guiseppe?—yes, oh yes! It filled up all the yearning void so dark before; it threw a sunshine and a glory over all of life and earth; it gave a semblance and a shape to all the glowing images of mind; and as the countless rays down-gushing from one sun, it poured into the poet’s breast infinity from one!”
Guiseppe Falieri looked on the enthusiast, feeling far more than Antonio himself the glorious gifts that boyish heart enshrined; and loved, aye, reverenced him—him, the peasant boy, though he himself was noble, the younger son of an illustrious Venetian house. But what, he felt, was rank of birth compared to rank of intellect? and with that peasant boy the youthful noble remained for hours, only leaving that lowly room to wander forth with him, as their souls had freer, more delicious communion, under the blue vaults of heaven than in confining walls. To enjoy the society of his humble friend in their brief visits to Venice, Guiseppe Falieri ever relinquished the more exciting pleasures of the boon companions of his rank and station; and ere the mantle of age descended upon him, how did he glory in the penetration of his boyhood!
It was morn in Venice: her seventy islets were lighted up with a flood of sunshine of transparent brilliance known only to fair Italy, but falling with soft and mellowed rays within the gallery of the proud Farsetti Palace. Thrown open to the youth of both sexes studying the fine arts, private munificence had gathered together the most perfect specimens of ancient and modern art—all that could forward the eager student in his darling pursuit, ensuring priceless advantages even to the poorest and the humblest, fostering in every individual breast the gift peculiarly his own. Oh, truly is that country where such things are the nurse of Genius! Truly may her children decorate her with the fruits of those resplendent gifts with which Heaven has endowed them! Truly may her poets breathe forth lays to mark her as themselves—immortal! Italy, beautiful Italy, how does the heart burn, the spirit love, when we write of thee!
To this gallery the young Antonio was a constant visitor, and he was so persevering in his studies as to attract the attention and rivet the friendship of its noble owner, at whose order he executed the first specimen of that sculpture which was to enrol his lowly name amid the mighty spirits of his native land, and bear to distant shores the echoes of his fame. Morning after morning found him in the Farsetti gallery, engaged either in drawing, modelling, or painting from antique casts, or from those modern ones to which the possessors of the establishment directed his notice. No difficulty could deter, no more tempting model could allure. Severely, faithfully true to the path marked out, every other student shrunk from competition with him, as pigmies from a giant.
Wrapt as Antonio ever was in his task, however severe or little interesting, generally so absorbed as to be unconscious of all outward things, it was strange that a voice had power to rouse him from such preoccupation, and bid him, half-unconsciously yet inquiringly, look round. Soft, low, silvery, it thrilled to the boy’s soul, as a voice that had haunted his dreams, and was yet to reality unknown. And the being from whom it came? Had he ever seen one like to her, or was it the mere embodying of all those visions of beauty, which, sleeping or waking, haunted his soul? He knew not. He only knew he sat entranced, breathless, awestruck, as though some angelic being had stood before him, demanding adoration. Young, very young, she seemed yet older than himself; and pale, but oh! so exquisitely lovely—with all of heaven, nought of earth! E’en the deep feeling resting on that full bright lip; the dark, lustrous, deep-souled eye; the rich, the glorious intellect sitting throned upon that beauteous brow; the smile flitting round that chiselled mouth, as an emanation from the soul; nay, every movement of the sylph-like form, too light, too spirit-like, for coarser earth—all whispered to the boy’s full heart with power, eloquence, unfelt though often dreamed before. And matter of astonishment it was to him, that the other students so calmly continued their labours, content with one glance of admiration on the stranger.
Leaning on the arm of a friend or attendant, she advanced up the gallery, and took her seat as one of the students. The model was selected, her drawing materials arranged, and silently she pursued her task.
Little more did Antonio do that day; for the strange, tumultuous emotions of his bosom seemed from that time to paralyse his hand. He worked on, indeed, mechanically till the hour of closing, and then, oh! how grateful was the fresh breeze of heaven, the free, active movement of a rapid walk. Yet even then—strange incongruity of feeling—he yearned for the morrow to find himself anew by her side; and then a trembling was upon him, that it was all illusion, all a sweet, bright vision, which would fade as it had come.
But such it was not. The hours of study came and passed, and each morning found that frail, ethereal being in the Farsetti gallery, attended on her entrance and departure, but left to pursue her studies, as was the custom, alone; and, irresistibly, the young sculptor chose those casts which drew him closer to her side, that even as he worked he might glance on that surpassing beauty, might watch each graceful movement; and this was happiness, inexpressible happiness, although he knew not wherefore. He could not speak it, even to his dearest friend. He felt it all too sacred, too deeply shrined for voice, as if the first breath that gave it utterance would bid it fly for ever. He shrunk deeper and deeper within himself; not moodily, not sadly, but only sensible that “with such a being he should be for ever happy;” for even her silent presence shed a glow around him, fading not even when she was no longer near. He was feeling what his own lips had so vividly described as Beauty’s influence on Dante; but the guileless, unsophisticated boy knew not that such it was.
Silently he felt, and silently he worked; for those new, strange, yet delicious feelings weakened not his mighty powers; nay, new light suffused them, even to his own impartial, often desponding eye. Once she stood by his side, leaning on the arm of her attendant. He felt the glance of those lovely eyes was fixed admiringly on the work of his hand; and that hand trembled for the first time. Her voice reached his ear in its sweet music, and though it simply praised his work as “assai bello,” it lingered on his heart as a never-forgotten melody, thrilling through the deeper, louder, mightier voice of Fame, of monarchs’ praise, of world’s applause, as an angel’s whispering amidst the crashing storm. He only bowed his head in low acknowledgment, in voiceless answer. He could not summon strength to breathe one word, or meet that gentle glance; but, oh! the deep, full, gushing joy which was upon him from that hour, inspiring more air of beauty in his labours, for her eye might rest on them again.
Days, weeks, thus passed, and still, as by magnetic influence, those youthful students were ever side by side; but ere the second moon had wholly waned, Antonio sat alone; that lovely one had vanished from her usual haunt, and mournfully, darkly, the hours, once so joyous, passed—for the sunlight had departed from them.
Day after day, hope returned to the boy’s heart, but not its beauteous object to his eye, and heavily this silent adoration lay upon his soul. Another and another day, and still she came not; a week, another, and how might he inquire her fate, when, even could he speak that yearning sorrow, he had no trace—no clue to her identity? She had come with nought but her own loveliness to steal upon his heart, and he could not violate the sanctuary her image filled by one word of question. He shrunk from every eye, as if he feared his treasure were discovered, and the notice of his fellows would sully its ethereal purity by mingling it with earth.
Still he laboured indefatigably as before; for her voice was sounding in the still depths of his own soul, and perhaps it might sound again—her praise might hallow the work, even of his impotent hand, and mark it blessed?
A ray of sunshine had fallen upon the work of the young sculptor, giving it that peculiar light and shadow which it had worn that never-to-be-forgotten day, when his eye first marked the loveliness his soul had visioned. Such as the ray had reached him from its fount, flashed back every feeling, every pulsation of that hour, till, in its magic, the very form of the beloved, the worshipped one, stood, or seemed to stand, before him, tangible, palpable as life, save that the smile, the shadowy form, were as if all of earth had gone. Breathless, pale, motionless, Antonio’s trembling hand refused to guide the pencil—his fixed and starting eye to move, lest all should fade away, and leave him desolate. A noise among the students aroused him, and with a sudden start and heavy sigh he awoke to consciousness. It was but vacancy on which he gazed, or his spirit held commune with beings not seen of earth.
Another week, and Antonio looked on the faithful attendant of his spirit’s idol; but she was alone, and pale and sad, and robed in all the sable draperies of woe. His heart throbbed, his voice failed, a sickness as of death crept over him; yet, as she passed to seek and remove the portfolio of the missing one, he struggled to subdue that inward trembling, and speak, but only a few brief, faltering accents came.
“The Signora—her friend—was she well?—had she quitted Venice?”
A burst of agonizing tears answered him, and then the mournful confirmation: “The Signora Julia had gone to that heaven whose child she was; earth would see her sweet face, list her glad laugh, feel her light step, no more.” And the mourner passed on: and Antonio leaned his head upon his hands, as if some invisible stroke had crushed him. Gone! and for ever! Oh, the unutterable agony to the young, the loving, contained in those brief words!
And never more did the young sculptor hear that name. Never did he know the birth, the rank, the story of her who so like a spirit had crossed his path! Men knew not, dreamed not, the tide of feeling on that young boy’s soul. Now in him were working the silent influences of beauty, of hopeless love. They saw him engaged each day, studying his art, laboriously working under his master, Ferrari, on some still, cold, soulless statues, still to be seen in the Villa of Trepoli; and how could they imagine the glowing visions of beauty, of poetry, at work within? No! It was in after years, when such forms of unrivalled loveliness, of immortal beauty, sprung in almost breathing life beneath the magic chisel of Antonio Canova, that the vision of early boyhood might be traced; and even now, in the perfection to which his art attained, man may behold the realization of those vague yet impelling yearnings after Beauty, Infinity, all that Genius craves, which had started into life and being from the lovely vision of his first and only love.
Amête and Yaféh. AN ALLEGORY.
Far in the illimitable space, seeming to earth as one of those bright yet tiny stars, which even the most powerful telescope will not increase in size, so immeasurable is the distance between them and us, two Spirits sate enthroned, each intrusted with an attribute of the Creator, with which to renew His image in man and vivify the earth. Their work was one, each so aiding each that, though in outward form distinct, their inward being was the same. The one, known in the language of heaven as Amête—and who, were there measurement of Time in the children of Eternity, might seem the elder—was in aspect grave, almost stern, but those who could steadily gaze upon him, and receive his image within their hearts (and man did so a thousand and a thousand times, though the Spirit’s visible form was unrevealed), loved him, with such deep, earnest love, as to forget the seeming sternness in the deep calm and still security his recognition ever brought. A coronet of light circled his brow, his wings were of living sapphire, and in his hand he held a transparent spear. Wherever he moved, darkness and mist fled from before him; and error sunk annihilated, before one touch of that crystal lance. Change and mutability touched him not; coeval with Creation, he endured to Everlasting—ever presenting the same exquisite aspect, producing on earth the same effect, and through every age aiding to mould man for Immortality. Distinct from his companion, yet the same; reflecting his every changeful hue of loveliness, yet retaining undisturbed his own.
Not such was the outward appearance of Yaféh. Less majestic, less grave, Earth and Heaven ever hailed him with rejoicing. The latter, indeed, knew him not apart from Amête; and the former, in her darkness, sometimes greeted his semblance, not himself. Robed in light, drawn not from the ethereal fount which circled Amête, but from those dazzling iris-coloured rays, the reflection of which we sometimes catch when the sun shines upon a prism, the various changes of his exquisite loveliness were impossible to be defined. But it was only when in close unity with Amête he was seen to full perfection, and his glittering garb endowed with vitality and glory; apart those iris rays shone forth resplendent and most dazzling, but without the light glistening on the brow of his companion were too soon merged in gloom.
But this Yaféh himself knew not, and in his young ambition besought permission to work alone. His revealed form was more visible on earth than that of Amête. As he looked down, and around, and above him, the attribute of which he was the guardian seemed so powerfully and palpably impressed, that he could not trace the invisible workings of his companion, and in his presumption he deemed it all his own, and chafed and spurned the bond which, since their creation, had entwined and marked them one. Mournfully and earnestly Amête conjured him to check the impious prayer; that which the All-Wise had assigned them was surely best and safest. But Yaféh would not heed, and ceased not his murmuring supplication till it was granted. With the work already done, the work of Creation, he might not interfere; but the archangelic minister bade him “Go down to earth, and in the workshop of man, be his creation of hand or brain, display thy power; thou art free to work alone,” and with a glad burst of triumphant song, and the brilliant velocity of a fallen star, the Spirit darted down to earth.
“Follow him not!” commanded the archangel, answering Amête’s imploring gaze; “once convinced of his nothingness alone, he will never leave thee more. That lesson learned, thou mayest rejoin him; meanwhile, look down upon his course,” and sorrowingly Amête obeyed.
He beheld him, arrayed in even more than his wonted loveliness, enter the several habitations of man; his invisible but felt presence greeted with wild joy, and his inspirings followed in the new creative genius of all whom he touched. In the lowly homes of the mechanic and the artizan he lingered, and their work grew beneath their hand; and at first it seemed most lovely, but still something was wanting, and they toiled and toiled to find it, but in vain; and despair and ruin usurped the place of glad rejoicing.
“They are of too low a grade, too dull a mind,” murmured the Spirit, and he flew to the easel of the painter; the workshop of the sculptor; and new conceptions of loveliness floated so vividly in their minds, that day and night unceasingly they toiled to give them embodied form, and sweet dreams of fame mingled with their creation, till life itself seemed brighter than before. And Yaféh rejoiced, for surely now he was triumphant; here at least perfection would vitalize his presence, and prove how little needed he Amête. He mingled invisibly with the judges of the works, and he beheld them scorned—contemned as dreams of madmen; and the artists fled, disgraced and miserable, to their homes, with difficulty restrained from shivering their work to atoms.
Terrified, yet still not humbled, Yaféh winged his flight to the studio of the musician, and harmonies of heaven floated in his ear, entrancing him with their exquisite perfection, and hour after hour he laboured to bring them from their impalpable essence to the bondage of note and phrase, but in vain—in vain! The sounds he did produce were wild, discordant, unconnected, and in passionate agony he refused to listen more.
The poet, the philosopher, the historian—wherever genius lay—Yaféh touched with his quivering breath, and to all came the same dream of marvellous loveliness—the same ideal perfection. On all burst the torrent of inspiration, compelling toil and work, to give words to the pressing thought, and all for awhile believed it perfect; and their burning souls throbbed high in the fond hope that each glorious lay, each novel discovery, each startling hypothesis—clothed in such glowing imagery and thrilling words—must last for ever. And Yaféh triumphed, for surely here he was secure, and in these prove that he could work alone, and needed the aid of none.
A brief, brief while, and the burning lays of the poet were forgotten and unread. The theory of the philosopher, lovely as it had seemed, quivered into darkness before the test of usefulness and reason. The new discoveries, new thoughts of the historian met with scorn and laughter in the vain search for their foundation. And, in their deep despair, Yaféh heard the names by which he was known to earth accursed and scorned; his presence banished; his inspirations rudely checked, as bringing not loveliness and joy, but misery and ruin, and the Spirit fled, in his wild agony, far, far from the homes of earth and the hearts of men; and shrinking from his starry home and light-clad brother, sought to pierce through and through the vast realms of unfathomable space, and lose himself in darkness. His iris rays seemed fading from his lovely form, lost in denser and denser gloom. Above, below, and around him thunder rolled, and the glittering Hosts of Heaven trembled, lest his proud wish were to be chastised still further. But soon the majestic form of the Spirit Amête stood beside his brother, and before the touch of his glittering spear, Error and Despair, about to claim Yaféh, fled howling.
“Yaféh, beloved! we will descend together,” he said, in tones clear, distinct, and liquid, impossible to be withstood. “Thy work shall yet live and be immortal.”
“Nay, ’twill be thine,” murmured the repentant Spirit, his darkened loveliness resuming light and glory from the effulgent brow so pityingly bent down on his. “What need hast thou for me? Go forth and work alone; I have no part on earth.”
“Thou hast; for without thee I have no power. Man trembles at my form when at the Eternal’s mandate, I must go forth alone; but with thee, perchance because my sterner self is hidden, he loves and hails me, and permits my work ascendency. Without thee I could but bind to earth; with thee I lead to heaven. Brother, we are One, though earth may deem us twain. We cannot work for Immortality apart.”
Side by side, so closely twined that even their brother spirits could with difficulty distinguish their individuality, Amête and Yaféh stood within the dwellings of man. The mechanic and the artizan started from their desponding trance; the neglected work was resumed. The form, the inspiration was the same; but as if a flash of light had touched it, it gave back that perfect image of the mind for which before they had so toiled and toiled in vain. On to the artist, the sculptor, the musician, and one touch from that crystal spear, and the misty cloud dispersed, and the senseless canvas gave back the perfected thought; the cold marble sprung into the warmth of actual being; the impalpable but exquisite harmonies, the ethereal essence of sound, at the word of Amête, resolved itself into the necessary bondage of note and form, and breathed forth to admiring thousands the music lent to one. Hovering over the poet, again the thrilling words burst forth, and fraught with such mighty meanings every heart responded, as to the voice of the Immortal; folding his azure pinion round the panting soul of the philosopher, the shrouding cloud dispersed, and science, deep, stern, lasting, took the place of the mere lovely dream; and on the page of the historian, light from the brow of Amête so flashed as to make him a gifted reader of the Future, by the wondrous record his spirit-thought unfolded of the Past. Wherever the Spirits lingered, man worked for immortality; it mattered not under what guise, or in what rank. From the highest to the lowest, each creative impulse, fashioned by Yaféh, received perfection from Amête. The former, indeed, alone was visible, but never more he sought to work alone. Within his outward work was the vital essence breathed by Amête, without which the most exquisite form was incomplete—the most lovely thought imperfect—the fairest theory a dream.
And so it is even now. Up, up in yon distant star, gleaming so brightly through the immeasurable space, as may be their throne, still does their glorious and united Presence walk the earth. Their semblance may be found apart, but not themselves. Twain as they are in name and aspect, in essence they are One. Truth is the vital breath of Beauty; Beauty the outward form of Truth; the Real the sole foundation of the Ideal; the Ideal but the spiritualized essence of the Real.
1. Two Hebrew words, whose translations will be found in the concluding paragraph.
The Fugitive. A TRUE TALE.
Judah Azavédo was the only son of a rich Jewish merchant, settled in London. His grandfather, a native and resident of Portugal, having witnessed the fearful proceedings of the Inquisition on some of his relations and friends, secretly followers of Israel, as himself, fled to Holland, bearing with him no inconsiderable property. This, through successful commerce, swelled into wealth; and when, on his death, his son, with his wife and child, removed to England, and settled in the metropolis, they were considered, alike in birth, education and riches, one of the very highest families of the proud and aristocratic Portuguese.
But the situation of the Jews in England, some eighty or ninety years ago, was very different to their situation now. Riches, nay, even moral and mental dignity, were not then the passport to society and friendliness. Lingering prejudice, still predominant in the hearts of the English, and pride and nationality equally strong in the Hebrew, kept both parties aloof, so that no advance could be made on either side, and each remained profoundly ignorant of the other, not alone on the subject of opposing creeds, but of actual character.
This, though certainly a social evil, was, in some respects, as concerned the Israelites, a national good. It drew them more closely, more kindly together; aliens and strangers to the children of other lands, the true followers of their persecuted creed were as brothers. Rich or poor, it mattered not. Hebrews and Portuguese were the ties in common, and the joy or grief of one family was the joy or grief of all. Fashion was little thought of. Heartlessness and that false pride which forswears relation to or connection with poverty were unknown. Faults, no doubt they had; but a more kindly, noble-hearted set of men, in their own sphere, than the Spanish and Portuguese Jews, nearly a hundred years ago, never had existence.
The restlessness and over-sensitiveness of Judah Azavédo was a subject of as much surprise to his nation as of regret to his father. Sole heir to immense wealth—unencumbered with business—nothing to occupy him but his own pleasure—gifted with unusual mental powers—dignified in figure—a kindly and most winning manner, when he chose to exert it; yet was his whole life embittered by the morbid sensitiveness with which he regarded his most unfortunate lack of all attraction in face and feature. He was absolutely and disagreeably plain; we would say ugly, did we not so exceedingly dislike the word. Yet there were times when the glow of mind, or still more warmth of heart, would throw such a soft and gentle expression over the almost deformed features, that their natural disfigurement ceased to be remembered. Those who knew him never felt any difference between him and his fellow-men, save in his superior heart and mind; but Azavédo himself always imagined that, wherever he went he must be an object of derision or dislike. He shrunk from all society, particularly from that of females, who, he was convinced, would be terrified even to look at him. Entreaties, commands, and remonstrances were vain. Could he have known more, mingled more with the world at large, these morbid feelings would, in time, have been rubbed off; but in his very limited circle of familiar friends this was impossible, and the evil, in consequence, each year increased.
To the Israelites of ninety years ago, the idea of travelling for pleasure was incomprehensible; they were too happy, too grateful to the land which gave them rest and peace, to think of quitting it for any other. That Judah Azavédo should restlessly desire to leave England, and seek excitement in foreign lands, was in accordance with all his other extraordinary feelings; but that his father, the wise, sedate, contented old man, whose every hope and affection were centred in this son, should give his consent, was more extraordinary still; and many, in kindness, sought to dissuade him from it. But Azavédo loved his son too well to permit old habits and prejudices to interfere with the only indulgence Judah had ever asked: he gave him his blessing and carte blanche with regard to gold, and the young man forthwith departed.
He was absent three years, having travelled as far as the East, and visited every scene endeared to him as one of that favoured race for whom the sea itself had been divided. He had looked on misery, in so many varied forms, as the portion of his nation, that he felt reproached and ashamed at his own repinings. He learnt that only sin and crime could authorize the misery he had endured; that he was an immortal being, and one whose earthly lot was blessed so much above thousands of his brethren, that he only marvelled his sin of discontent had not called down on him the wrath of God. His soul seemed suddenly free from fetters, and he moved among his fellow-men fearless and unabashed.
Notwithstanding the danger of such a route—for, if known, or even suspected as a Hebrew, he would inevitably have perished—Judah chose to return home through Spain and Portugal, making himself known to some friends of his family still dwelling in the latter kingdom. With them he remained some few months, and then it was that a new emotion awoke within him, chaining him effectually, ere aware of its existence. From his earliest youth Judah had dreaded, and so forsworn love, feeling it next to impossible for him ever to be loved in return; but Love laughs at such forswearers. Before he could analyse why that bitterness against his unhappy ugliness should return, when he had thought it so successfully conquered, he loved with the full passionate fervour of his race and his own peculiar disposition, and loved one of whom he could learn nothing, trace nothing, know nothing, save that she was so surpassingly lovely, that though he had seen her but three times, never near, and only once without her veil, her beauty both of face and form lingered on his memory as indelibly engraved as if it had lain there for years, and then had been called into existence by some strangely awakening flash. She was as unknown to his friends as to himself; only at the Opera had she been visible; no inquiry, no search could elicit information. Once only he had heard the sound of her voice, and it breathed music as thrilling and transporting as the beauty of her face. Yet was she neither saintlike nor angelic; it was an arch witchery, a shadowless glee, infused with the nameless, descriptionless, but convincing charm of mind.
Judah Azavédo returned home an altered man, yet still no one could understand him. He no longer morbidly shunned society, nor even cared to eschew the company of females, seeming as wholly careless and insensible to the effects of his presence as he had before thought too much about it. Some said he was scornfully proud; others, that it was impenetrable reserve: all agreed that he was changed, but only his most intimate friends could perceive that he was unhappy, and from some deep-seated sorrow essentially distinct from the feelings engrossing him when he left England, and that this one feeling it was which rendered him so totally indifferent to everything else.
Three, nearly four years elapsed, and Azavédo, in character and habits, remained the same. His father was dead, leaving him immense wealth, which he used nobly and generously, winning “golden opinions” from every class and condition of men, who, at the same time, wished that they could quite understand him; and so we must leave him to waft our readers over the salt seas, and introduce them to a more southern land and a very different person.
In a luxuriously furnished apartment of a beautiful little villa, a few miles from Lisbon, was seated a lady of that extraordinary beauty which ever fastens on the memory as by some strange spell. Not more than three or four and twenty, all the freshness of girlhood was so united to the more mature graces of woman, that it was often difficult to say to which of these two periods of life she belonged. Her large, lustrous, jet-black eye, and the small, pouting mouth, alike expressed at will either the mischievous glee of a mirth-loving girl or the high-souled intellectuality of maturer woman. Hair of that deep, dark brown, only to be distinguished from black when the sunshine falls upon it, lay in rich masses and braids around the beautifully shaped head, and giving, from the contrast, yet more dazzling fairness to the pure complexion of face and throat which it shaded; the brow, so “thought-thronged” when at rest, yet lit up, when eye and mouth so willed, with such arch, laughter-loving glee; but we must pause, for the pen can never do beauty justice, and even if it did, would be accused of exaggeration, although there yet remains those who, from personal acquaintance, can still bear witness to its truth.
A gentleman was standing near her as she sat on her sofa, in the busy idleness of embroidery; and as part of their conversation may elucidate our tale, we will record it briefly as may be.
“Then you refused him?”
“Can you ask?” and the lightning flash of the lady’s dark eye betrayed unwonted indignation. “He who would have so tempted a helpless girl of seventeen—I was then no more, though I had been married nearly a year—under such specious reasoning, that I dreamed not his drift till the words of actual insult came; sought to sow suspicion and distrust in my heart against my husband, his own brother, to serve his vile purposes: and you ask me if I refused him, when, being once more free to wed, he dared pollute me with his abhorred addresses! Julian, my fair cousin, have you so forgotten Inez?”
“If I had, that indignant burst would have recalled her; but of insult, remember, I knew nothing. You were married when so young, to a man so much older than yourself, that when I heard of his death, three years ago, I fancied, as you know is often the case with us, you would have married his younger brother, so much more suitable in point of qualities and years.”
“More suitable! Wrong again, cousin mine. If I did not love my husband, I respected, honoured him—yes, loved him too as a father; but as for Don Pedro, as men call him, Julian, I would rather have trusted the tender mercies of the Inquisition than I would him, and so I told him.”
“You could not have been so mad!”
“In sober truth, I was feeling too thoroughly indignant to weigh my words. It matters not, he dare not work me harm, for the secret on which alone he can, involves his safety as well as mine.”
“I wish I could think so; there are many to say that he is in truth what he appears to be, and therefore one most dangerous to offend.”
“I fear him as little as I scorn him much. I have heard this report before, but heed it not at all. Our holy cause loses little in the apostasy of such a member.”
“It may be so, Inez; but he holds the lives of others in his keeping, and therefore revenge is easily obtained.”
“You will not frighten me, Julian, try as you may. They say Pedro Benito is ill, almost to death—I am sorry for him, for I know no one more unfit to die; but I have far too much pride to fear him, believe me. Better he should injure me, than I my own soul in uniting it with his. See,” she continued, laughing, as she pointed to the portly figure of a Dominican priest pushing his mule up the steep ascent leading to the villa, in such evident haste and trepidation as to occasion some amusement to his beholders; “there is more fear there than I shall ever feel. What can the poor priest need? Do you know him, Julian? comes he to you or me?”
“I trust to neither, Inez, for such hot haste bodes little good.”
“Why, now, what a craven you have grown! I will disown you for my cousin if you pluck not up more spirit, man!”
Julian Alvarez tried to give as jesting a reply, but succeeded badly, his spirits feeling strangely anxious and oppressed. He was spared further rallying on the part of Inez, by the sudden reappearance of the priest (whom they had lost sight of by a curve in the ascent), without his mule, at the private entrance of Inez’s own garden, and without ceremony or question neared the window. Inez addressed him courteously, though with evident surprise; the priest seemed not to heed her words, but laying his hand on her arm, said, in a deep, low tone—
“Donna Inez, this is no time for courtesy or form. Daughter, fly! even now the bloodhounds are on the track. The scent has been given; a dying man proclaimed you a Jewess in hearing of others besides his confessor, else had you been still safe and free. Ere two hours, nay, in less time, they will be here. Away! pause not for thought; seek to save nothing but life, too precious for such sacrifice. A vessel lies moored below, which a brisk hour’s walk will reach. She sails for England the moment the wind shifts; secure a passage in her, and trust in the God of Israel for the rest.”
“And who are you who thus can care for me, knowing that which I am?” answered the lady, in accents low as the supposed priest’s, but far less faltering, and only evincing the shock she had sustained by the sudden whiteness of cheek and lip.
“Men call me—think me, Padre José, my child; but were I such you had not seen me here. That which you are am I, and because I thought Pedro Benito the same, I stood beside his death-bed. Vengeance and apostasy went hand in hand. Ask no more, but hence at once; how may those fragile limbs bear the rack—the flames? Senor Alvarez, shake off this stupor, or it will be too late!”
Julian did indeed stand as paralysed, so suddenly and fearfully were his worst fears confirmed. Fly! and from all, home, friends, luxury, to be poor and dependent in a strange land! It was even so; the voice of vengeance had betrayed the fatal secret of race and faith, the very first whisper of which consigned to the Inquisition—but another word for torture and death. In two short hours, part of which had already gone, Inez had to find the vessel, be received on board, and leave no trace whatever of her way. Her very domestics must suspect nothing, or discovery would inevitably ensue. And yet, in the midst of all this sudden accumulation of misfortune, Inez but once betrayed emotion.
“Julian, Julian, my boy!” she exclaimed, her sole answer to the reiterated entreaties of her companions for her to depart at once; “what will they not do to him?”
“Nothing, lady; he shall be with me till he can rejoin you. Who will suspect Padre José of harbouring an Israelite save to convert him to the Holy Faith?”
Inez caught the old man’s hand, her lip and eyelids quivering convulsively; but even the passion of choking tears was conquered by the power of mind. In less than half an hour she was walking, at a brisk pace, through the shrubberies, in the direction of the river, enveloped in mantilla and veil, and Julian Alvarez carrying a small parcel, containing the few jewels which she could collect, and one or two articles of clothing, the all that the mistress of thousands could save from the rapacious hands which, under the garb of religion, were ever stretched out to confiscate and to destroy.
Scarcely had they quitted the shrubberies, after nearly an hour’s brisk walking, and entered the high road, their only path, when about a dozen men, in the full livery of the Holy Office, were clearly discernible on a slight rising not half a mile beyond them, pushing their horses so as directly to face them, and advancing at full speed. To turn back was to excite suspicion, to meet them, tempt discovery. Fortunately a small enclosure of tall larches and thick firs lay forward, a little to the left, and there Inez impelled her bewildered companion, walking as carelessly, to all appearance, as taking a saunter for amusement. They saw the troop rapidly advance, pause exactly in front of their hiding-place, look round inquiringly; one or two spurred forwards, as to beat the bushes; a man’s step at the same time sounded in their rear—his dress fanned them as he passed: it was one of Donna Inez’s own labourers. They heard him hailed as he appeared, and questions asked, of which they heard nothing, but that wordless sound of voices so torturing to those who deem that life or death are hanging on the words. A few minutes—feeling hours—the conference lasted; some direction, loudly repeated along the file, betrayed that their questions only related to their further route to the Villa Benito, and the horses galloped on.
Without exchanging a syllable, Inez and her companion hurried forward. It was still full half-an-hour’s walk to the river, the sun was declining, and the wind had risen fresh and balmy; but while Julian rejoiced in its reviving power, he trembled lest it should be bearing his cousin’s only chance of safety farther from them. Their pace was brisk as could be, yet every step seemed clogged with lead, and weary felt the way, till the river’s brink was gained. Bathed in the lingering glow of a magnificent sunset, the bright waters lay before them, and every sail spread, gliding softly yet swiftly on her course, they beheld the longed-for vessel receding from their sight.
For one minute they stood, gazing on the departing ship, as mute, as feelingless as stone, save to the horrible consciousness that flight was over, all hope of escape must be vain. But great emergencies prevent the continuance of despair. Ere Julian had recovered the stupor of alike disappointment and dread, Inez had hailed the boatman, and drawing a diamond ring of immense value from her hand, bade him place her in safety on board the English vessel, and it should be his. The man hesitated, then swore it was worth the trial, and very speedily a boat was ready, manned by four stout rowers impatient as herself.
“And now farewell, dear Julian!” she said, calmly, taking the parcel from his hand, and looking in his astonished face with her own sweet smile. “You go no farther; I will not risk your life, so precious to your wife and children, because I weakly fear to meet my destiny alone. Do not attempt to argue with me, it will be useless, as you ought to know. Look to my poor boy, he needs you more than I do.” Her voice sunk to a thrilling whisper: “The God we both serve bless you, and keep you from a similar fate.”
She wrung his hand, and lightly springing into the boat, it was pushed off, and rapidly cutting the yielding waters, ere Julian Alvarez recovered sufficiently from his emotion to speak even a farewell word. And now, with feelings wrought almost to agony, he watched a chase seemingly so utterly vain. For some time the vessel still kept ahead, but the efforts of the rowers in no degree relaxed. He heard their stentorian hail repeated by the innumerable echoes on the shore, but still there seemed no answer. Again, and yet again! It is fancy. No, the sails are lowered, the vessel’s speed is diminished, till the boat appears almost alongside. Julian strained his gaze, while his very heart felt to have ceased beating, in the sickening fear that even now her flight might be prevented by a refusal to receive her. He could discern no more, for twilight had gathered round him, and interminable seemed the interval till the boat returned with the blessed assurance that the Senora was safe on board.
Night fell; the lovely southern night, with its silvery moonshine on the gleaming waters, its glistening stars, appearing suspended in the upper air as globes of liquid light, with its fresh, soft breezes, bearing such sweet scents from the odoriferous shores, that a poet might have fancied angelic spirits were abroad, making the atmosphere luminous with their pure presence, and every breeze fragrant with their luscious breath.
Inez sat upon the deck, a fugitive, and alone. She who, only the evening previous, had been the centre of a brilliant group, whose halls had sounded with the voice of revelry, the blithesome dance, whence aught of sorrow seemed so far away as to be but a name, not a reality. To us, looking back on the extraordinary fact of the most Catholic kingdoms being literally peopled with secret Jews, whose property and life might be sacrificed from one hour to another, it appears incomprehensible that security or happiness could ever have existed, and still more difficult to understand what secret feeling it was which thus bound them to a country where, acknowledged or discovered, Judaism was death, when there were other parts of the globe where they could be protected and received. Yet so it was, and there are still families in England to trace their descent from those who, like the Senora Benito, were compelled to fly at an hour’s warning, saving little else than life.
Some spirits would have sunk under a misfortune so sudden, so overwhelming in its details, but Inez rose above it. She had nothing to look to but her own resources; the few valuables she had secreted would, she knew, soon be exhausted, did she depend on them alone. She was going to a land where she knew not one, her only credentials being a letter hurriedly written by her cousin to one of his friends in London. Loneliness, privation, care, and even manual toil, all awaited her, child as she had been of luxury and wealth, lavish as it was believed exhaustless; yet, as she looked forth on the glorious night with her star-lit dome, as she inhaled the sweet breath of a thousand flowers floating on the breeze, she knew she was not forsaken. He who cared for all nature would still more care for her, and, when the spirit is at peace, how lightly is all of sorrow borne.
The unusual stir in the harbour, which they reached about midnight, attracted the attention not only of Inez but of the captain and crew. On stopping at the quay for passengers and freight, he was told that the vessel must remain at anchor, no English ship being allowed to leave the harbour until it had received a visit from the officers of the Inquisition, in search of a female fugitive suspected of Judaism, who, having effectually disappeared from her home, was supposed to have taken refuge in some English vessel, the general receivers of heretics and unbelievers.
“I halt not at any man’s beck or bidding!” was the proud reply. “England owns no Inquisitional supremacy. Had any such fugitive taken refuge in my ship, no power of the Inquisition, backed by the whole kingdom, should force me to give her up.”
Time for reply or seizure there was none. Every sail spread at the word of command, and almost bending beneath her weight of canvas, the gallant ship, with her right English-hearted crew, sped on to sea.
Inez had seen all, felt all—but though her heart beat quicker, no word or sign betrayed it. She saw the captain look hastily on her, and for a terrible moment she knew not whether the glance of discovery, for such it was, would be followed by her surrender or her safety. His words speedily reassured her, and sent her to the berth provided for her comfort, with more care than for any other passenger, with the grateful feeling that all of danger was indeed at end. She was in England’s keeping, and no Inquisition could work her harm.
Nor was it the mere excitement of misfortune which so endowed her with courage to endure. She retained not only firmness but liveliness during the voyage, and when received in England with the most hospitable kindness by Julian’s friends, gaily consulted them on the best means of subsistence—whether to take in plain work or enter upon the business of fancy confectionary, for both of which her convent education had well fitted her. And what with her brilliant beauty, her sparkling wit, and readiness of repartee, ere two days had passed she had completely fascinated old and young.
The evening of the third day, Mr. Nunez’s family had been engaged to spend with a friend living a few miles from London. On sending to state that a Portuguese lady staying with them would prevent their going, an entreaty was instantly forwarded that she would accompany them.
“What, go! and my whole wardrobe consists of this one dress?” was her laughing reply. “I shall bring shame on your fashionable reputation, my kind friends.”
They assured her that dress was of little consequence, and even if it were, she need not be alarmed, being more likely to bring them fame by the fashion of her face than shame by the plainness of her robe; which, by the way, a rich black velvet, set off the dazzling clearness of her complexion more becomingly than the most carefully assorted garb.
To the house of their friend, in consequence, they went; and the beautiful stranger, with her broken English, sweetly spoken Portuguese, and most romantic story, soon commanded universal attention.
Towards the middle of the evening a rapidly approaching carriage, followed by a thundering rap, announced the arrival of some new guest.
“That is Azavédo,” observed one, “I know him by the sound of his four horses. A strange fancy that, always sporting a carriage and four, when in everything else he has no pretension whatever. Did you expect him, Cordoza?” he asked of his host.
“He said he might look in on his way to Epping,” was the reply.
“What a changed man he is,” said another; “I remember when he literally loathed society, and shrunk from beauty, male or female, as if it stung him by the contrast with himself.”
“I have never heard him admire a woman yet though,” rejoined the first speaker. “I wonder if he will notice the beauty of to-night?”
Azavédo entered as he spoke, and, after addressing his host and hostess, began an earnest conversation with a friend near them.
A low, musical laugh from the centre of a merry group at the opposite end of the large drawing-room caused Azavédo suddenly so to start, with such an indescribable change of countenance, as to impel the anxious query whether he were ill. He answered hurriedly in the negative, but his friend perceiving his eye fixed on the group, eagerly entered on the story of the stranger, from whom the laugh had come, inviting him to join the circle round her. Somewhat hesitatingly he did so. Inez, in compliance with the customs of her own country, still wore her veil, which, in answer to the inquiry of some one near her as to the different fashions of wearing it in Portugal, she had drawn so closely round her as to hide every feature.
“Tell her that it is not the custom of English ladies to wear veils,” whispered Azavédo to his hostess, in tones of such strong and most unusual excitement, that she looked at him as if in doubt of his identity. His hint was acted upon, however, and Inez, with winning courtesy, soon after laid aside her veil.
Azavédo had become in some degree a man of the world, and it was well he was, or he might have found it difficult so to suppress inward emotion as to conceal it from those around him. He looked once more on the being who for four long years had in secret so occupied his heart, as never to permit the entrance of another image, or the faintest thought of another love. She was there, not only yet more radiant in finished loveliness than when he had first beheld her, but free, and of his own race and creed. And so exquisite were the feelings of the moment, that he feared to be introduced, lest her first glance upon his face, if it revealed the horror that he believed it would, should sentence him to misery.
That he had trembled needlessly was proved by his never leaving her side that evening. The lively spirits of the young stranger appeared, by some extraordinary species of mesmerism, to call forth the same from him; and lie conversed more brilliantly, more unreservedly, than he had ever before been known to do.
Judah Azavédo pursued his journey to his country-house, and Inez quietly fixed her residence with a Jewish family in London, and pursued her intention of taking in plain work; giving no more thought of her former affluence, save to wish that part had been spared for her boy, who, through the efforts of Padre José and Julian Alvarez, joined her about three weeks after her flight, bringing the information that every article belonging to her had been seized and confiscated.
Twice a week, then three times, and at length every day, did Azavédo, on some pretence or other, visit the fair fugitive. Folks talked and wondered, but for once he heeded neither. But why prolong our tale, claimed as it is by truth, however it may read like fiction? Not six weeks after Inez left Portugal, a fugitive for her very life, she became the wife of Judah Azavédo, the richest Hebrew in London, and the possessor of a love as warm and unwavering as was ever felt by man. But did she—could she—return it? Reader, we will not blazon the simplicity of truth with the false colouring of romance. She did not love him, in the general acceptation of the term, and she told him so, beseeching him to withdraw his offer, if his heart could not rest satisfied with the respect and gratitude which alone she felt. He thanked her for her candour, but the hand was not withdrawn, and they were married. Some biographers stop here, bidding the curious reader probe not too deeply into the history of wedded life. As regards our heroine, however, we shrink not from the probe. The romance of love before marriage she might not have known, but its reality afterwards she made so manifest, even when disease, joined to other infirmities, so tried her husband as to render him fretful and irritable, that there are still living some to assert that never was wife more tenderly affectionate, more devotedly faithful than was Inez Azavédo. Her extraordinary beauty seemed invulnerable to age, for I have heard it said that even in her coffin, and she lived to the full age of mortality, she retained it still.
The Edict.
A TALE OF 1492.
“The love that bids the patriot rise to guard his country’s rest,
With deeper mightier fulness thrills in woman’s gentle breast.”—MS.
“And we must wander, witheringly,
In other lands to die;
And where our father’s ashes be,
Our own may never lie.”—Byron.
“Then thou wouldst not leave this beautiful valley even with me, Josephine?”
“Nay, thou knowest thou dost but jest, Imri; thou wouldst not give me such a painful alternative?”
“How knowest thou that, love? Perchance I may grow jealous even of thy country, an it hold so dear a place in thy gentle breast, and seek a home elsewhere—to prove if thy love of Imri be dearer than thy love of land.”
“I know thou wouldst do no such thing, my Imri; so play the threatening tyrant as thou mayest, I’ll not believe thee, or lessen by one throb the love of my land, which shares my heart with thee. I know too well, thy heart beats true as mine; thou wouldst not take me hence.”
“Never, my best beloved. Our children shall rove where we have roved, and learn their father’s faith uninjured by closer commune with its foes. Here, where the exiles of Israel for centuries have found a peaceful home, will we rest, my Josephine, filling the little hearts of our children with thanksgiving that there is one spot of earth where the wandering and the persecuted may repose in peace.”
“And surely it is for this cause the love we bear our country is so strong, so deep, that the thought of death is less bitter than the dream of other homes. We stand alone in our peculiar and most sainted creed, alone in our law, alone in our lives on earth, in our hopes for heaven. Our doom is to wander accursed and houseless over the broad earth, exposed to all the misery which man may inflict, without the power to retaliate or shun. Surely, oh, surely then, the home that is granted must be doubly dear—so sheltered from outward ill, so blessed with inward peace that it might seem we alone were the inhabitants of Spain. Oh! it is not only memory that hallows every shrub and stream and tree—it is the consciousness of safety, of peace, of joy, which this vale enshrines, while all around us seemeth strife and gloom. Dearest Imri, is it marvel that I love it thus?”
The speaker was a beautiful woman of some two- or three-and-twenty summers. There was a lovely finished roundness of form, a deep steady lustre in her large black eye, a full red ripe on her beautiful lip, a rose soft yet glowing as the last tinge of sunset beaming, in the energy of her words, upon a cheek usually more pale—all bespeaking a stage of life somewhat past that generally denominated girlhood, but only pressing the threshold of the era which follows. Life was still bright and fresh, and buoyant as youth would paint it; but in the heart there were depths and feelings revealed that were never known to girlhood. Her companion, some three or four years her senior, presented a manly form, and features more striking from their frankness and animation than any regular beauty. But there was one other individual, seated at some little distance from the lovers (for such they were), whose peculiar and affecting beauty would rivet the attention to the exclusion of all else. He was a slight boy, who had evidently not seen more than ten years, though the light in the dark blue eye, so deep, so concentrated in its expression, that it seemed to breathe forth the soul; the expression ever lingering round his small delicately pencilled mouth appeared to denote a strength and formation of character beyond his years. His rich chesnut hair, long and gracefully curling, fell over his light blue vest nearly to his waist, and, parted in the centre, exposed a brow of such transparent fairness, so arched and high, that it scarce appeared natural to his Eastern origin and Spanish birth. Long lashes, much darker than his hair, almost concealed the colour of the eye, save when it was fixed full on those who spoke to him, and shaded softly, yet with a mournful expression, the pale and delicate cheek, to which exertion or emotion alone had power to bring the frail and fleeting rose. An indescribable plaintiveness pervaded the countenance; none could define wherefore, or why his very smile would gush on the heart like tears. He was seated on the green sward, weaving some beautiful flowers into a garland or wreath, in perfect silence, although he was not so far removed from his companions as to be excluded from their conversation, could he have joined in it. Alas! those lips had never framed a word; no sound had ever reached his ear.
An animated response from Imri followed his Josephine’s last eager words; and the boy, as if desirous of partaking their emotion, whatever it might be, bounded towards them, placing his glowing wreath on the brow of Josephine with a fond admiring glance, calling on Imri by a sign to admire it with him; then nestling closer to her bosom, inquired in the same manner the subject of their conversation: and when told, there was no need of language to speak the boy’s reply. He glanced eagerly, almost passionately, around him; he stretched forth his arms, as if embracing every long-loved object, and then he laid his hand on his heart, as if the image of each were reflected there, and stretching himself on the mossy earth, as if there should be his last long sleep. He pointed to distant mountains, made a movement with his hands, to denote the world beyond them, then turned shudderingly away, and laid his head on the bosom of his nearest and dearest relative on earth.
The situation of the valley of Eshcol was in truth such as to inspire enthusiasm in colder hearts than Josephine’s. Formed by one of the many breaks in the Sierra Morena, and sharing abundantly the rich vegetation which crowns this ridge of mountains nine months in the year, it appeared set apart by Nature as a guarded and blessed haven of peace for the weary wanderers of Israel; who, when the Roman spoiler desolated their holy land, tradition said there found a resting-place. Lofty rocks and mountains hemmed it round, throwing as it were a natural barrier between the valley and the world beyond. The heath, the rosemary, the myrtle, and the cistus grew in rich profusion amidst the cliffs; while below, the palm, the olive, the lemon, orange and almond, interspersed with flowering shrubs of every variety, marked the site of the hamlet, and might mournfully remind the poor fugitives of the yet richer and holier land their fathers’ sins had forfeited. To the east, a thick grove of palm, cedar, and olive surrounded the lowly temple, where for ages the simple villagers worshipped the God of Israel as their fathers did. Its plain and solid architecture resisted alike the power of storm and time; and it was the pride of every generation to preserve it in the primitive simplicity of the past. Innumerable streams, issuing from the mountains, watered the vale; some flowing with a silvery murmur and sparkling light, others rushing and leaping over crags, their prominences hid in the snowy foam, creating alike variety and fertility. The brilliant scarlet flower of the fig-marigold mingled with the snowy blossoms of the myrtle, peeping forth from its dark glossy leaves, formed a rich garland around the trunks of many a stalwart tree; and often at the sunset hour the perfume of the orange and almond, the balsamic fragrance of the cistus, mingling with, yet apart from the others, would float by on the balmy pinions of the summer breeze, adding indescribably to the soothing repose and natural magic of the scene.
But it was not the mere beauty of nature which sunk so deeply on the hearts of the Eshcolites, as to create that species of amor patri?, of which Josephine’s ardent words were but a faint reflection; it was the fact that it was, had been, and they fondly hoped ever would be, to them a second Judea. Its very name had been bestowed by the unhappy fugitives from the destruction of Jerusalem, who hailed its natural loveliness as their ancestors did the first-fruits of the land of promise. Throughout the whole of Spain, indeed, the sons of Israel were scattered, far more numerously and prosperously than in any other country. Despite her repeated revolutions, her internal wars, her constant change of masters, the Hebrews so continued to flourish that the whole commerce of the kingdom became engrossed by them; and occupying stations of eminence and trust—the heads of all seminaries of physic and literature—they commanded veneration even from the enemies and persecutors of their creed.
With the nation at large, however, our simple narrative does not pretend to treat. Century after century found the little colony of Eshcol flourishing and happy; acknowledging no law but that of Moses, no God but Him that law revealed. It mattered not to them whether Mahommedan or Nazarene claimed supremacy in Spain. Schism and division were unknown amongst them; the same temple received their simple worship from age to age; for if it chanced that the more eager, the more ambitious spirits sought more stirring scenes, they returned to the simplicity of their fathers, conscious they had no power to alter, and satisfied that they could not improve.
Varying in population from three to five hundred families, actuated by the same interests, grief and joy became as it were the common property of all—the one inexpressibly soothed, the other heightened by sympathy—the vale of Eshcol seemed marked out as the haven of peace. The poet, the minstrel, the architect, the agriculturist, even the sculptor, were often found amongst its inmates, flourishing, and venerated as men more peculiarly distinguished by their merciful Creator than their fellows. The sins that convulse kingdoms and agitate a multitude to them were unknown; for the seditious, the restless, the ambitious sought a wider field, bidding an eternal farewell to the vale, whose peaceful insipidity they spurned. Crimes were punished by banishment, perpetual or for a specified time, according to the guilt; liable indeed to death, if the criminal returned, but of this the records of Eshcol present no example.
Situated in the southern ridge of the Sierra Morena, on the eastern extremity of Andalusia, and consequently at the very entrance of the Moorish dominions, yet Nature’s care had so fortified the vale, that it had remained both uninjured and undiscovered by the immense armies of Ferdinand and Isabella, who for ten years had overrun the beautiful province of Grenada, and now, at the commencement of our narrative, had completed its reduction, and compelled the last of the Caliphs to acknowledge their supremacy in Spain. Misery and death were busy within ten miles of the Hebrew colony, but there they entered not. Some aspiring youths had in truth departed to join the contending hosts; but by far the greater number, more indifferent to the fate of war, cared not on which side the banner of victory might wave—their affections centred so strongly on the spot of earth at once their birthplace and their tomb, that to depart from it seemed the very bitterness of death.
Tedious as this digression may seem, it is necessary for the clear comprehension of our narrative; for the appreciation of that feeling of amor patri? which is its basis; an emotion experienced in various degrees by every nation, but by the Jew in Spain with a strength and intensity equalled by none and understood but by a few.
Josephine Castello, in whom this feeling was resting yet more powerfully than in her compeers, was regarded as an orphan, and as such peculiarly beloved; yet an orphan she was not. The youth of her father, Simeon Castello, had been marked by such ungovernable passions, as to render him an object of doubt and dread to all; with the sole exception of one—the meekest, gentlest, most timid girl of Eshcol. Perhaps it was the contrast with herself—the generous temper, the frank and winning smile, the bold character of his striking beauty, or the voiceless magic which we may spend whole lives in endeavouring to define, and which only laughs at our wisdom—but Rachel Asher loved him, so faithfully, so unchangeably, that it stood the test of many months, nay years, of wandering on the part of Simeon, who on each return to the vale appeared more restless, more wayward than before.
Men said he was incapable of loving, and augured sorrow and neglect for the gentle Rachel, even when, seemingly touched by her meek and timid loveliness, he bent his proud spirit to woo her love, and was accepted. They were married; and some few years of quiet felicity appeared to belie the prognostics of the crowd. But, soon after the birth of a daughter, the wandering propensities of her father again obtained ascendency; and for months, and then years, he would be absent from his home.
Uncomplainingly Rachel bore this desertion, for he was ever fond when he returned; and even when she once ventured to entreat permission to accompany him, it was with soothing affection, not harsh repulse, he refused, assuring her, though honoured and trusted by the Nazarene, he was seldom more than a month at one place; and he could not offer delicate females the quiet settled home they needed. Rachel could have told him that privation and hardship with him would be hailed as blessings, but she knew her husband’s temper, and acquiescing, sought comfort in the increasing intelligence and beauty of her child.
Ten years thus passed, and then Simeon, as if involuntarily yielding to the love of his wife and child, declared his intention of never again seeking the Nazarene world, and for two years he adhered to his resolution; at the end of that time hailing with pleasure the promise of another little one, to share with Josephine the affection he lavished upon her. This sudden change of character could not pass unnoticed by his fellows; and no man being more tenacious of his honour than Simeon Castello, it was of course exposed to many aspersions, which his passionate temper could not brook.
It happened, in a jovial meeting of youngsters when somewhat heated by excitement and wine, that the character and actions of Castello were canvassed somewhat more freely than sobriety would have ventured. One of them at length remarked, that in all probability he was glad to avail himself of the retreat of Eshcol, to eschew the hundred eyes of justice or revenge.
“Then die in thy falsehood, liar!” were the words that, uttered in thunder, startled the assembly. “The man lives not who dares impugn the honour of Castello!” and the hapless youth sunk to the earth before them, stricken unto death. The speechless horror of all around might easily have permitted flight, but Castello scorned it. He knew his doom, and met it in stern unflinching silence;—to wander forth alone, with the thoughts of blood clinging to his conscience, till the mandate of his God summoned him to answer for his crime;—death, if he ever ventured to insult the sacred precincts of his native vale by seeking to return.
The voice of his father faltered not as from his seat of judgment, amid the elders of his people, he pronounced this sentence. His cheek blanched not as the wife and child of the murderer flung themselves at his feet, beseeching permission to accompany the exile. It could not be. Nay more, did he return, the law was such, that his own wife or child must deliver him up to justice, or share the penalty of his crime. Hour by hour beheld the wretched suppliants pleading for mercy, but in vain.
Nor did this more than Roman firmness (for it was based on love, not stoicism) desert him when, in agonized remorse, his son besought his forgiveness and his blessing. He confessed his sin, for he felt it such. No provocation could call for blood. And headstrong and violent as were the passions of Simeon Castello, his father believed in his remorse, his penitence; for he knew deeds of blood were foreign to his nature. He raised his clasped hands to heaven, he prayed that the penitence of the sinner might be accepted, he spoke his forgiveness and his blessing, and then flinging his arms around his son, his head sunk upon his shoulder. Minutes passed and there was no sound—the Hebrew father had done his duty: but his heart had broken—he was dead!
From the moment she was released from the parting embrace of her doubly-wretched husband, and her strained eyes might no longer distinguish his retreating figure, no word escaped the lips of Rachel. For the first time, she looked on the sorrow of her poor child, without any attempt to soothe or console. She resumed her usual duties, but it was as if a statue had been endowed with movement. Nor could the entreaties of her aged grandfather, her sole remaining relative, nor the caresses of Josephine, wring even one word of suffering from her lips.
A week passed, and Josephine held a little brother in her arms; the looks of her mother appeared imploring her to cherish and protect him, and kneeling, she solemnly swore to make him the first object of her life; belief beamed in the eyes of the dying—her look seemed beseeching the blessing of heaven on them both; but Josephine yearned in vain for the sweet accents of her voice—she never spoke again.
From that hour the gay and sprightly child seemed changed into premature and sorrowing womanhood. She stood alone of her race. Alone, with the sole exception of that aged relative, who had seen his children and children’s children fall around him, and her infant brother. She shrunk, in her sensitiveness, from the young companions who would have soothed her grief. She did not fear that the crime of her father would be visited upon her innocent head, for such feelings were unknown to the simple government of Eshcol; but her loneliness, the shock which had crushed every hope and joy of youth, caused her to cling closer to her aged relative, and direct every energy to the welfare of her young and—as, alas! she too soon discovered—afflicted brother. She watched his increase in strength, intelligence, and loveliness, and pictured in vivid colouring the delight which would attend his instruction; she longed intensely for the moment when her ear should be blessed by the sweet accents of his voice. That moment came not! the affliction of her mother had descended to the child she bore, and Josephine, in irrepressible anguish, became conscious that not only was his voice withheld from her, but hers might never reach his ear.
Her deep affection for him, however, roused her from this mournful conviction; and energetically she sought to render his affliction less painful than it had appeared, and she succeeded. She led him into the fields of nature—every spot became to the child a fruitful source of intelligence and love, providing him with language, even in inanimate objects; by his mother’s grave she instilled the thoughts of God and heaven, of their peculiar race and history; of the God of Israel’s deep love and long-suffering; and she was understood—though to what extent she knew not, imagined not, till the hour of trial came. That she was inexpressibly assisted by the child’s rapid conception of the good and evil, of the sublime and beautiful—by its extraordinary intellect and truly poet’s soul, is true, but the lowly spirit of Josephine felt as if a special blessing had attended her task, and urged yet further efforts for his improvement.
By means of waxen tablets, formed by the hand of Imri Benalmar, she taught him to read and write. Leading his attention to familiar objects, she would write down their appropriate names, and familiarising his eye to the writing, he gradually associated the written word with the visible object. The rest was easy to a mind like his. The flushed cheek and sparkling eye denoted the intense delight with which he perused the manuscripts collected, and often adapted for his use by Imri, and poesy became his passion; breathing in the simplest words, on his waxen tablets, the love he bore his devoted sister, and the pure, beautiful sentiments which filled his soul.
The kindness of Imri to her Aréli, passed not unfelt by the heart of Josephine. Tremblingly she became conscious that an emotion towards him was obtaining ascendency, which she deemed it her duty to conquer, or at least profoundly to hide. She could not forget the stigma on her name, and believed none could seek her love. The daughter of a murderer (for though the crime was involuntary, such he was) was lonely upon earth. Dignified and reserved, they would have thought her proud, had not her constant kindness, her total forgetfulness of self, in continually serving others, belied the thought; but this they did think (and Imri Benalmar himself, so well did she hide her heart) that her affections were centred in her aged relative and her young brother.
But when the magic words were spoken, when Imri Benalmar, whose unwavering piety and steady virtue had caused him to stand highest and dearest in the estimation of his fellows, young and old, conjured her with a respectful deference, which vainly sought to calm the passionate affection of his soul, to bless him with her love, her trust—the long-hidden feelings of Josephine were betrayed, their inmost depths revealed. Blessed, indeed, was that moment to them both. Fondly did Imri combat her arguments, that she had no right to burden him with the aged Asher and her helpless Aréli, yet from them she could never consent to part.
“Had not Aréli ever been dear to him as a brother—had he not always intended to prove himself such?” he asked, with many other arguments of love; and how might Josephine reply, save with tears of strong emotion to consent to become his bride?
Josef Asher heard of their engagement with delight; but he would not consent to burden them with his continued company. True, he was old, but neither infirm nor ailing. He would retain possession of his own dwelling, which had descended to him from many generations; but the nearer his children resided, the greater happiness for him.
Imri understood the hint, and, as if by magic, a picturesque little cottage, not two hundred yards from her native home, rose before the wondering eyes of Josephine; and Aréli, as he watched its progress, clapped his hands in childish joy, and sought to aid the workmen in their tasks. Presents from all, as is the custom of the Hebrew nation, were showered on the youthful couple, to enable them to commence housekeeping with comfort, or add some little ornament or useful article of furniture to the house or its adjoining lands. The more the fiancées were beloved, the greater source of public joy was a wedding in Eshcol.
The conversation which the commencement of our tale in part records took place a few evenings previous to the day fixed for the nuptials.
On leaving his sister and her betrothed, Aréli betook himself, as was his custom, ere he joined the evening meal, to his mother’s grave, to water the flowers around it, and peruse, in his simple and innocent devotion, the little Bible which Josephine and Imri’s love had rendered into the simplest Spanish, from the Hebrew Scriptures of their race. The shades of evening had already fallen around the leafy shadowed place of tombs, but there was sufficient light remaining for the boy to discern a cloaked and muffled figure prostrate before his mother’s grave, the head resting in a posture of inexpressible anguish on the cold marble of the tomb. The stranger’s form moved convulsively, and though Aréli could distinguish no sound, he knew that it was grief on which he gazed. Softly he approached and laid his little hand on that of the stranger, who started in evident alarm, looking upon that angelic face with a strange mixture of bewilderment and love. He spoke, but Aréli shook his head mournfully, putting his arm around his neck caressingly, as if beseeching him to take comfort; then, as if failing in his desired object, he hastily drew his tablets from his vest, and wrote rapidly—
“Poor Aréli cannot speak nor hear, but he can feel; do not weep, it is so sad to see tears in eyes like thine!”
“And why is it sad, sweet boy?” the stranger wrote in answer, straining him as he did so involuntarily closer to his bosom.
“Oh, man should not weep, and man like thee, who can list the sweet voice of nature, and the tones of all he loves; who can breathe forth all he thinks, and feels, and likes. Tears are for poor Aréli, and yet they do not come now as they did once, for I have a father who loves, and who can hear me too, though none else can.”
“A father?” wrote the stranger. “Who is thy father, gentle boy? Thou bearest a name I know not. Tell me who thou art.”
“Oh, I have no father that I may see and hear—none, that is, on earth; but I love Him, for He smiles on me, through the sweet flowers, and sparkling brooks, and beautiful trees; and I know He loves me and cares for me, deaf and dumb and afflicted as I am, and he hears me when I ask him to bless me and my sweet sister, and reward her for all she does for me. He is up—up there, and all around.” He stretched out his arms, pointing to the star-lit heavens and beautiful earth. “My Father’s house is everywhere; and when my body lies here, as my mother’s does, my breath will go up to Him, and Aréli will be so happy—so happy!”
“Thy mother!” burst from the stranger’s lips, as though the child could hear him; and his hand so trembled that he could hardly guide the steel pencil which traced the word “Who is thy mother—where does she lie?”
Aréli laid his hand on the tomb, pointing to the name of Rachel Castello, there simply engraved. The effect almost terrified him. The stranger caught him in his arms—he pressed repeated kisses on his cheek, his brow, his lips—clasping him, as if to release him were death. The child returned his caresses without either impatience or dissatisfaction. After a while the stranger again wrote—
“Thy sister, sweet boy—is it she who hath taught thee these things—doth she live—is she happy?”
“Oh, so happy! and Imri, kind Imri, will make her happier still. Aréli loves him next to Josephine, and grandfather and I am to live with them, and we are all happy. Oh, how I love Josephine! I should have been so sad—so sad, had she not loved me, taught me all; but come to her—she will make thee happy too, and thou wilt weep no more. The evening meal waits for us both—wilt thou not come? Josephine will love thee, for thou lovest Aréli.”
A deep agonized groan escaped from the stranger, vibrating through his whole frame. Several minutes passed ere he could make reply, and then he merely wrote, in almost illegible characters—
“I am not good enough to go with you, my child. Pray for me—love me; I shall remember thee.”
And then again he folded him in his arms, kissed him passionately, and disappeared in the gloom, ere Aréli could detain him or perceive his path, though he sprang forward to do so.
The child watered his flowers more hastily than usual, evidently preoccupied by some new train of thought, which was shown by a rapid return to his grandfather’s cottage, and an animated recital, through signs and his tablets, of all that had occurred, adding an earnest entreaty to Imri to seek and find him.
Josephine started from the table—the rich glow of her cheek faded into a deathlike paleness, and, without uttering a syllable, she threw her mantle around her and hastily advanced to the door. Imri and even the aged Josef threw themselves before her.
“Whither wouldst thou go, Josephine, dearest Josephine? this is not well—whom wouldst thou seek?”
“My father,” she replied, in a voice whose low deep tone betrayed her emotion. “Shall he be lingering near, unheeded, uncared for by his child? Imri, stay me not; I must see him once again.”
“Thou must not, thou shalt not!” was Imri’s agonized reply, clasping her in his arms to prevent her progress. “Josephine, thy life is no longer thine own, to fling from thee thus as a worthless thing; it is mine—mine by thine own free gift; thou shalt not wrest it from me thus.”
“My child, seek not this stranger; draw not the veil aside which he has wisely flung around him. The penalty to both may not be waived—thou mayest not see him, save to proclaim—or die. My child, my child, leave me not in my old age alone.”
The mournful accents of the aged man completed what the passionate appeal had begun. Josephine sunk on a seat near him, and burst into an agony of tears. Aréli clung round her, terrified at the effect of his simple tale; and for him she roused herself, warning him to repeat the tale to none, but indeed to grant the stranger’s boon, and remember him in lowly prayers. Fearfully both Imri and Asher waited the morning, dreading lest its light should betray the stranger; and thankfully did they welcome the close of that day and the next without his reappearance. A very different feeling actuated the afflicted Aréli; he sought him with the longing wish to look on his face again, for it haunted his fancy, lingered on his love—and a yet more hallowed spot became his mother’s tomb.
The intervening days had passed, the affection of Imri bearing from the heart of Josephine its last lingering sadness, and enabling her to feel the anguish her impetuosity might have brought not only on her father and herself, but on all whom she loved. The first of May, her bridal morn, found her composed and smiling like herself. She had placed her future fate, without one doubt or fear, in the keeping of Imri Benalmar, for the tremors and emotions of modern brides were unknown to the maidens of Eshcol; once only her calmness had been disturbed, when her young brother had approached her, had clasped his arms about her neck, and with glistening eyes had written his boyish love.
“Look at the sun, sweet sister; how brightly and beautifully he shines, how soft and blue the sky, and the sweet flowers, and the little birds! Oh, they all love thee, and can smile and sing their joy! and gentle friends throng round thee, and speak loving words. Oh, why is poor Aréli alone silent, when his heart is so full? But he can pray, sweet sister; pray as thou hast taught him; and he will pray his Father to give back to thee all which thou hast done for him.”
Was it marvel that Josephine’s tears should fall over those fond words? But the boy’s caresses turned that dewy joy to softer smiles, as surrounded by her youthful companions she waited the entrance of her aged relative to conduct her to the temple.
Three hours after noon the nuptial party there assembled, marriages among the Hebrews seldom being performed at an earlier hour. Twenty young girls dressed alike, and half that number of matrons, attended the bride; and proudly did old Josef gaze upon her, as she leaned on his arm in all the grace and loveliness of beautiful womanhood, unconscious how well it contrasted with his sinewy and athletic form; his silvery beard and hair alone betrayed his four score and fourteen years. There was no shadow of age upon his features, beaming as they were, in his quick sympathy, with all around him. The path was strewed with the fairest flowers, and the freshest moss, of varied hues, while rich garlands, interwoven with the blushing fruits, festooned the trees. The whole village wore the aspect of rejoicing, and every shade passed from the brow of the young Aréli; the flush deepened on his fair cheek, the intense blue of his beautiful eye so sparkled in light, that the eyes of all were upon him, till they glistened in strange tears.
The bridegroom awaited the bride and her companions in the temple, attended by an equal number. The little edifice was filled, for marriages in Eshcol were ever solemnized in public; the number that attended evincing the feelings with which the betrothed were regarded. The ceremony commenced, and, save the voice of the officiating priest, there was silence so profound, that the faintest sound could have been distinguished.
As Josephine flung back her veil, at once to taste the sacred wine, and prove to Imri that no Leah had been substituted for his Rachel, a distant trampling fell clearly on the still air. The service continued, but many looked up to the high casements as if in wonder. The sun still poured down his golden flood of light; no passing cloud announced an approaching storm, so to explain the unwonted sounds as distant thunder. They came nearer and nearer still; the trampling of many feet seemed echoing from the mountain ground; and at the moment Imri flung down the crystal goblet on the marble at his feet, as the conclusion of the solemn rites, the shrill blast of many trumpets and the long roll of the pealing drum were borne on the wings of a hundred echoes, far and near. Wild birds, whose rest had never before been so disturbed, rose screaming from their haunts, darkening the air with their flapping wings. Again and again, at irregular intervals, this unusual music was repeated; but though alarm blanched many a maiden’s cheek, and the brows of the sterner sex became knit with indefinable emotion, the afternoon service, which ever follows the Jewish nuptials, continued undisturbed.
The eyes of Josephine were fixed on Imri more in wonder than alarm, and Benalmar had folded his arm round her and whispered, “Mine, mine in woe or in weal; mine thou art, and wilt be, love! whatever ill these martial sounds forbode.”
A smile so bright, so confiding, was the answer, that even had he not felt her cling closer to his heart, Imri would have been satisfied. A sudden paleness banished the rich flush from the cheek of the deaf and dumb; he relinquished his station under the canopy which had been held over the bride and bridegroom during the ceremony, and drew closer to them. He had heard indeed no sound; but so keen are the other senses of the deaf and dumb, that many have been known to feel what they cannot hear. Aréli could read, in a moment’s glance, the countenances of those around him, and at the same instant he became conscious of a thrilling sensation creeping through his every vein. He took the hand of Imri and looked up inquiringly in his face. The answer was given, and the child resumed the posture of devotion, which his strange feelings had disturbed.
The last words of the presiding priest were spoken, and there was silence; even the sounds without were hushed, and a voiceless dread appeared to withhold those within from seeking the cause. There was evidently a struggle ere the usual congratulations could be offered to the young couple; and so preoccupied was the attention of all, that the absence of Aréli was unnoticed, till, as trumpet and drum again pierced the thin air, he darted back, and with hasty and agitated signs related what he had beheld.
“Soldiers, many soldiers! It may be so; yet wherefore this alarm, my children?” exclaimed the aged Asher, stepping firmly forward, and speaking in an accent of mild reproof. “What can ye fear? Nazarene and Mahommedan have oft-times found a shelter in this peaceful valley: fearlessly they came, uninjured they departed. Wrong we have never done to man: peace and goodwill have been our watchword; wherefore, then, should we tremble to meet these strangers? My children, the God of Israel is with us still.”
The cloud passed from the brows of his hearers. The young maidens emulated the calm firmness of the bride, and gathering round her, followed their male companions from the temple. The spot on which the sacred edifice stood commanded a view of the village market-place, which, from its occupying the only level ground half a mile square, was surrounded by all the low dwellings of the artizans, and was often the place of public meeting, when any point was discussed requiring the suffrages of all the male population. This space was now filled with Spanish soldiers, some on horseback, others on foot; while far behind, scattered in groups amongst the rocks, many a steel morion flung back the sun’s glistening rays. The villagers, startled and amazed, had assembled on all sides, and even Josef Asher for a moment paused, astonished.
“Let us on, my children,” he said, “and learn the meaning of this unusual muster. Yet stay,” he added, as several young men hastened forward to obey him; “they are about to speak; we will hear first what they proclaim.”
Another flourish of drums and trumpets sounded as he spoke, and then one of the foremost cavaliers, attired as a herald, drew from his bosom a parchment roll. The officers around doffed their helmets, and he read words to the following import:—
“From the most high and mighty sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, joint-sovereigns of Arragon and Castile, to whose puissant arms the grace of God hath given dominion over all heretics and unbelievers, before whose banner of the Holy Cross the Moorish abominations have crumbled into dust—to our loyal subjects of every principality and province, of every rank, and stage, and calling, of every grade and every state, these—to which we charge you all in charity give good heed.
“Whereas we have heard and seen that the Jews of our states induce many Christians to embrace Judaism, particularly the nobles of Andalusia; for THIS they are BANISHED from our domains. Four months from this day, we grant them to forswear their abominations and embrace Christianity, or to depart; pronouncing DEATH on every Jew found in our kingdom after that allotted time.
(Signed) Ferdinand and Isabella.
“Given at our palace of Segovia this thirtieth day of March, of the year of grace one thousand four hundred and ninety-two.”
As a thunderbolt falling from the blue and cloudless sky—as the green and fertile earth yawning in fathomless chasms beneath their feet, so, but more terribly, more vividly still, did this edict fall on the faithful hearts who heard. A sudden pause, and then a cry, an agonized cry of horror and despair, burst simultaneously from young and old, woman and child; and then, as awakened from that stupor of woe, wilder shouts arose, and the fiery youth of Eshcol gathered tumultuously together, and shrill cries of “Vengeance, vengeance! cut them down—rend the lying parchment into shreds, and scatter it to the four winds of heaven—thus will we defend our rights!” found voice amid groans and hisses of execration and assault. A volley of stones fell among the Spaniards, who, standing firmly to their arms, appeared in the act of charging, when both parties were arrested by the aged patriarch of Eshcol rushing in their very centre, heeding not, nay, unconscious of personal danger, calling on them to forbear.
“Are ye all mad?” he cried. “Would ye draw down further ruin on your devoted heads! Think ye to cope with those armed by a sovereign mandate, backed by a mighty kingdom? Oh, for the love of your wives, your children, your aged, helpless parents, keep the peace and let your elders speak!”
Even at that moment their natural veneration for old age had influence. Reproved and sorrowful, they shrunk back—the angry gesture calmed, the muttered execration silenced. Surrounded by his brother elders, Asher drew near the Spaniards, who struck by his venerable age and commanding manner, consented to accompany him to the council-room near at hand, desiring their men on the severest penalties to create no disturbance. The edict was laid before them, its purport explained, enforced emphatically, yet kindly; for the Spaniards felt awed, in spite of themselves. But vainly the old men urged that the given cause of their banishment could not extend to them. They had had no dealing with the Nazarene; they lived to themselves alone; they interfered not with the civil or religious government of the country, which had sheltered them from age to age; they warred with none, offended none; their very existence was often unsuspected; they asked but liberty to live on as they had lived; and would the sovereigns of Spain deny them this? It could not be. The Spaniards listened mildly; but the edict had gone forth, they said, unto all and every class of Jews within the kingdom, and not one individual was exempt from its sentence, save on the one condition—their embracing Christianity. It was true that many of their nation might be faithful subjects; but even did their banishment involve loss to Spain, her sovereigns, impressed with religious zeal, welcomed the temporal loss as spiritual gain. If, indeed, they could not comply with the very simple condition, they urged the old men instantly to depart, for one month out of the four had already elapsed, the edict bearing date the last day but one of the month of March. They added, the secluded situation of the valley had caused the delay, and might have delayed its proclamation yet longer, had not chance led them to these mountains in search of an officer of rank, who had wandered from them, and they feared had perished in the hollows.
Even at that moment a chilling dread shot through the heart of the aged Asher. Could that officer be he whom Aréli had seen but seven days previous? He dared not listen to his heart’s reply, and gave his whole attention to that which followed. A second edict, the Spaniards continued to state, had been issued prohibiting all Christians to supply the fugitives with bread or wine, water or meat, after the month of April.
The old men heard: there was little to answer, though much to feel; and sorrowing council occupied some time after the officers had retired. They wished to learn the condition of their wretched countrymen, and the real effects of this most cruel edict. The blow had descended so unexpectedly, it seemed as if they could not, unless from the lips of an eye-witness, believe it true, and they decided on sending twenty of their young men to learn tidings, under the control of one, calm, firm, and dispassionate enough to restrain those acts of violence to which they had already shown such inclination. But who was this one? How might they ask him?
The old men together sought the various groups, and, expressing their wishes, all were eager to obey. Josef Asher alone approached his children, who sat apart from their companions. He related all that had passed between them and the Spaniards, and then awhile he paused.
“Imri,” he said at length, “my son, thou hast seen the misguided passion of our youth; they must not go forth on this mission of unimpassioned observation alone. Our elders, the wise and moderate, must husband their little strength for their weary pilgrimage. Thou, my son, hast their wisdom, with all the activity and energy of youth. We would that thou shouldst head this band; but a very brief absence is needed. Canst thou consent?”
A low cry of suffering broke from the pale lips of Josephine, and she threw her arms round Imri, as thus to chain him to her side. “In such an hour wilt thou leave me, Imri?” His lip quivered, his cheek paled, and the few words he uttered were heard by her alone. “Yes, yes, thou shalt go, my beloved; heed not my woman’s weakness. Thou wilt return; and then—then we will depart together.” Oh, what a world of agony did that one word speak!
The instant departure of the younger villagers occasioned some surprise, but without further interference. The Spaniards began to pitch their tents amongst the rocky eminences, as preparing for some months’ encampment. Had not the inhabitants of Eshcol felt that their cup of bitterness was already full to the brim, the appearance of an armed force in the very centre of their peaceful dwellings would have added gall; but every thought, feeling, and energy were merged in one engrossing subject of anguish. Some there were who rejected all belief in the edict’s truth. They could not be banished from scenes in which they and their fathers had dwelt, from age to age, in peace and bliss. Others felt their minds a void; they asked no question of their elders, spoke not to each other, but in strange and moody silence awaited the return of Imri and his companions. Nor could the obnoxious sight of a huge wooden crucifix, which the next morning greeted the eyes of every villager, rouse them effectually from the lethargy of despair.
And Josephine, did she weep and moan, now that the fate she so instinctively dreaded had fallen? Her tears were on her heart, lying there like lead, slowly yet surely undermining strength, and poisoning the gushing spring of life. In sobs and tears her young companions gathered round her, and she spoke of comfort and resignation, her gentle kindness soothing many, and rousing them to hope, on the return of the young men, things might not be found so despairing as they now seemed. But when twilight had descended and all was hushed, Josephine led her young brother to her mother’s grave. She looked on his sweet face, paled with sympathetic sorrow, though as yet he knew not why he wept; and she sought to speak and tell him all, but the thought that his young joys, yet more than her own, were blighted—that, weakly and afflicted as he was, he too must be torn from familiar scenes and objects which formed his innocent pleasures, and encounter hardships and privation that stood in dread perspective before her—oh, was it strange that that noble spirit lost its firmness for the moment, and that, sinking on the green sward, she buried her face in her hands, and sobbed in an intensity of suffering which found not its equal even midst the deep woe around her? Aréli knelt beside her; he clasped her cold hands within his own; he hid his head in her lap—seeking by all these mute caresses, which had never before appealed in vain, to restore her to composure. For his sake she roused herself; she raised her tearful eyes to the star-lit heavens in silent prayer, and drawing him closer to her, commenced her painful task. Too well his ready mind conceived her meaning. His beautiful lip grew white and quivering—the dew of suffering stood upon his brow; but he shed no tear—nay, he sought to smile, as thus to lessen his sister’s care. But when she told him the condition which was granted, and bade him choose between the land of his love or the faith of his fathers—a change came over his features: he started from her side, the red flush rushing to his cheek; he drew his little Bible from his bosom, pressed it fervently to his lips and heart, shook his clenched fist in direction of the Spanish encampment, and then laid down beside the grave. “My boy, my boy, there spoke the blessed spirit of our race!” and tears of inexpressible emotion coursed down the cheek of Josephine, as she clasped him convulsively to her aching heart. “Death and exile, aye, torture, thou wilt brave rather than desert thy faith. My God, my God, thou wilt be with us still!”
It was not till the ninth day from their departure that Imri Benalmar and his companions returned. One glance sufficed to read their mournful tale. On all sides, they said, they had beheld but cruelty and ruin, perjury or despair. From every town, from every province, their wretched brethren were flocking to the sea-coast—their homes, their lands left to the ruthless spoiler, or sold for one-tenth of their value. They told of a vineyard exchanged for a suit of clothes—a house with all its valuables, for a mule. Their gold, silver, and jewels, prohibited either to be exchanged or carried away with them, became the prey of their cruel persecutors. Famine and horror on every side assailed them; many they had seen famishing on the roads, for none dared give them a bit of bread or a draught of water; and even mothers were known to slay their own children, husbands their wives, to escape the agony of watching their lingering deaths. Their illustrious countryman, Isaac Abarbanel, Imri said, had offered an immense sum to refill the coffers of Spain, emptied as they were by the Moorish war, would his sovereigns recall the fatal edict. They had appeared to hesitate, when Thomas de Torquemada, advancing boldly into the royal presence, raised high before them a crucifix, and bade them beware how they sold for a higher price Him whom Judas betrayed for thirty pieces of silver—to think how they would render an account of their bargain before God. He had prevailed, and the edict continued in full force.
On a towering rock, in the centre of the mourning populace, the aged Asher stood. He stretched forth his hands in an attitude of supplication, and tears and groans were hushed to a voiceless pause. There was a deep-red spot on the old man’s either cheek, but his voice was still firm, his attitude commanding.
“My children,” he said, “we have heard our doom, and even as our brethren we must go forth. Let us not in our misery blaspheme the God who so long hath blessed us with prosperity and peace, and pour down idle curses on our foes. My children, cruel as they seem, they are but His tools; and therefore, as to His decree, let us bow without a murmur. Have we forgotten that on earth the exiles of Jerusalem have no resting—that for the sins of our fathers the God of Justice is not yet appeased? Oh, if we have, this fearful sentence may be promulgated to recall us to Himself, ere prosperity be to us, as to our misguided ancestors, the curse, hurling us into eternal misery. We bow not to man; it is the God of Israel we obey! We must hence; for who amongst us will deny Him? Tarry not, then, my children; we are but few days’ journey from the sea, and in this are blest above our fellows. Waste not, then, the precious time allowed us in fruitless sorrow. There are some among ye who speak of weakness and timidity, in thus yielding to our foes without one blow in defence of our rights. Rights! unhappy men, ye have no rights! Sons of Judah, have ye yet to learn we are wanderers on the face of the earth, without a country, a king, a judge in Israel? My children, we have but one treasure, which, if called upon, we can DIE to defend—the glorious faith our God himself hath given. To Him, then, let us unite in solemn prayer, beseeching His guidance in our weary pilgrimage—His forgiveness on our cruel foes; and fearless and faithful we will go forth where His will may lead.”
The old man knelt, and all followed his example; and silence, deep as if that wild scene were desolate, succeeded those emphatic words. A fervent blessing was then pronounced by the patriarch, and all departed to their homes.
And now day after day beheld the departure of one or two families from the village. We may dwell no longer on their feelings, nor on those of their brethren in other parts of Spain. We envy not those who feel no sympathy in that devotedness to a persecuted faith, which could bid men go forth from their homes, their temples, the graves of their fathers, the schools where for centuries they had presided, honoured even by their foes, and welcome exile, privation, misery of every kind, woes far worse than death, rather than depart from it. If they think we have exaggerated, let the sceptic look to the histories of every nation in the middle ages, and they will acknowledge this simple narrative is but a faint outline of the sufferings endured by the persecuted Hebrews, and inflicted by those who boast their religion to be peace on earth and goodwill to all men.
Reduced from affluence to poverty, from every comfort to the dim vista of every privation, without the faintest consciousness where to seek a home, or how to cross the ocean, did Imri Benalmar regret that he had now a wife and a young, helpless boy for whom to provide? Nay; that Josephine was his, ere this dread edict was proclaimed, was even at this moment a source of unalloyed rejoicing. He knew her noble spirit, and that, had not the solemn service been actually performed, she would have refused his protection, his love, and, rather than burden him with such increase of care, have lingered in that vale to die. That she was inviolably his own, endowed him, however, with an energy to bear, which, had he been alone, would have failed him. He thought but of her sufferings; for, though from her lips they had never found a voice, he knew what she endured. He told her there were some of their unhappy countrymen, who, rather than lose the honourable situations they enjoyed, the riches they possessed, had made a public profession of Christianity, and received baptism at the very moment they made a solemn vow, in secret, to act up to the tenets of their fathers’ faith.
“Alas! are there indeed such amongst us, thus doubly perjured?” was the sole observation of Josephine, looking up sorrowfully in his face.
“They do not think it perjury, my beloved: they say the God of Israel will pardon the public falsehood, in consideration of their secret allegiance to Himself.”
“But thou, Imri, canst thou approve this course of acting? Couldst thou rest in such fatal security?”
“Were I alone, my Josephine, with none to love or care for, death itself were preferable; but oh, when I look on thee, and remember thy deep love for this fair soil—when I think on Aréli, on all that he must suffer—the misery we must all endure—I could wish my mind would reconcile itself to act as others do; that to serve my God in secret, and those of wood and stone in public, were no perjury.”
“Oh, do not say so, Imri; think not of me, my beloved: I love not my home better than my God—I would not accept peace and prosperity at such a price! Had I been alone, death, even by the sword of slaughter, would have been welcome, would have found me here, for I could not have gone forth. But now I am thine, Imri, thine, and whither thou goest I will go; and thou shalt make me another home than this, my husband, where we may worship our God in peace and joy, and there shall be blessing for us yet.”
She had spoken with a smile so inexpressibly affecting in its plaintive sweetness, that her husband could only press her to his heart in silence, and inwardly pray it might be as she said. Of Aréli she had not spoken, and he guessed too truly wherefore. From the hour of their banishment, a change had come over the spirit of the boy; his smiles still greeted those he loved, but he was longer away than was his wont, and Imri, following him at a distance, could see him ever lingering amid his favourite haunts; and when far removed, as he believed, from the sight of man, he would fling himself on the grass, and weep, till sometimes, from very exhaustion, sleep would steal over him, and then, starting up, he would make hasty sketches of some much-loved scenes, to prove to his sister how well he had been employed.
These painful proofs of the poor boy’s sorrow Imri could conceal, but not the decay of bodily strength; or deny, when Josephine appealed to him, that his frame became yet more shadowy in its beautiful proportions,—that the rose which had spread itself on either cheek, the unwonted lustre of the eye, the increased transparency of his complexion, told of the loveliness of another world; yet for him how might they grieve?
It happened that one of the Spanish soldiers, a father himself, and less violently prejudiced than his fellows, had taken a fancy to the beautiful and afflicted boy always wandering about alone; and he thought it would be doing a kind action to prevent his accompanying the fugitives, by adopting him as his own; believing it would be easy to rear him to the Catholic church, as one so young, and moreover, deaf and dumb, could have imbibed little of the Jewish misbelief. Kindly and tenderly he sought and won the child’s affection, and found means to converse with him intelligibly.
Incapable of thinking evil, Aréli doubted not his companion’s kindness, and though aware he was a Spaniard and a Catholic, artlessly betrayed the deep suffering his banishment engendered. Fadrique worked on this; he told him he should not leave them, that he would bring his family and live there, and Aréli should be loved by all. He worked on the boy’s fancy till he felt he had gained his point, then erecting a small crucifix, bade him kneel and worship.
The film passed from the eyes of the child, indignation flashed from every feature, and springing up, he tore the cross to the earth, and trampled it into the dust. Ten or twelve soldiers who had been carelessly watching Fadrique’s proceedings from a distance, enraged beyond measure at this insult from a puny boy, darted towards him, flung him violently to the earth, and pointed their weapons at his throat. At that instant Josephine stood before them; for she too had watched, with the anxious eye of affection, the designs of Fadrique.
“Are ye men!” she exclaimed, and the rude soldiers shrunk abashed from her glance, “that thus ye would take the blood of an innocent helpless child—one whose very affliction should appeal to mercy, denied as it may be to others? On yourselves ye called this insult to your faith. How else could he tell ye he refused your offers? You bade him acknowledge that which his soul abhors; and was it strange his hand should prove that which he hath no voice to speak? And for this would ye take his life? Oh, shame, shame on your coward hearts!”
Sullenly the men withdrew, at once awed by her mien, and remembering that in assaulting any Hebrew before the time specified in the edict was over, they were liable to military severity. Fadrique lingered.
“This was not my seeking,” he said respectfully; “I sought but the happiness of that poor child: I would save him from the doom of suffering chosen by the elders of his race. Leave him with me, and I pledge my sacred word his life shall be a happy one.”
“I thank thee for thy offer, soldier,” replied Josephine, mildly, “but my brother has chosen his own fate; I have used neither entreaties nor commands.”
The boy, who had betrayed no fear even when the deadly weapons were at his throat, now took the hand of Fadrique, and by a few expressive signs craved pardon for the insult he had been led to commit, and firmly and expressively refused his every offer.
“Thou hast yet to learn the deep love borne to our faith by her persecuted children, my good friend,” said Josephine, perceiving the man’s surprise was mingled with some softer feeling; “that even the youngest Jewish child will prefer slavery, exile, or death, to forswearing his father’s God. May the God of Israel bless thee for the kindness thou hast shown this poor afflicted boy, but seek him not again.”
She drew him closer to her, and they disappeared together. A tear rose to the Spaniard’s eye, but he hastily brushed it away, and then telling his rosary, as if it were sin thus to care for an unbeliever, rejoined his comrades.
The family of Imri Benalmar was the last to quit the vale. Each was mounted on a mule, and there were two led or sumpter mules, on which was strapped as much clothing as they could conveniently stow away, and provisions which they hoped would last them till they reached the vessel, knowing well they could procure no more. Some few valuables Imri contrived to secrete, but his fortune, principally consisting in land and its produce, was of necessity irretrievably ruined.
Josef Asher accompanied them; he had been active in consoling, encouraging, and assisting his weaker brethren. Not a family departed without receiving some token of his sympathy and love; and young and old crowded round him, ere they went, imploring his blessings and his prayers.
It was, however, observed that of his own departure, his own plans, Asher never spoke. That he would accompany his children, all believed, and so did Josephine herself; but all were mistaken.
On the evening of their first day’s journey, as they halted for rest and refreshment, some unusual emotion was observable in the mien and features of the old man. He asked them to join him in prayer, and as he concluded, he spread his hands upon their heads, and blessed each by name, emphatically, unfalteringly, as in his days of youth.
“And now,” he said, as they arose, “farewell, my beloved children. The God of Israel go with ye, and lead ye, even as our ancestors of old, with the daily cloud and nightly pillar. I go no further with ye.”
“No further! what means our father?” exclaimed Imri and Josephine together.
“That I am too old to go forth to another land, my children. The God of Judah demands not this from his old and weary servant. Fourscore and fifteen years I have served Him in the dwelling-place of mine own people, and there shall His Angel find me. My sand is well-nigh run out, my strength must fail ere I reach the shore. Wherefore, then, should I go forth, and by my infirmities bring down danger and suffering on my children? Oppose me not, beloved ones; refuse not your aged father the blessing of dying beside his own hearth.”
“Alone, untended, and perchance by the sword of slaughter? Oh, my father, ask us not this!” exclaimed Josephine, with passionate agony throwing herself at his feet and clinging to his knees.
“My child, the Spirit of my God will tend me: I shall not be alone, for His ministering angels will hover round me ere He takes me to Himself; and if it be by the sword of slaughter, ’twill be perchance an easier passage for this sorrowing soul than the lingering death of age.”
“Then let me return and die with you!”
“Not so, my child! thy life hath barely passed its spring; ’twould be sin thus to sport with death. The God who calls me to death, bids thee go forth to serve Him—to proclaim His great name in other lands. Thy husband, thy poor Aréli, both call on thee to live for them; thou wouldst not turn from the path of duty, my beloved child, dark and dreary as it may seem. See, thine Imri weeps; and thou, who shouldst cheer, hast caused these unmanly tears.”
She turned towards her husband, and with a painful sob, sunk into his extended arms. Asher gave one long lingering look of love, folded the weeping Aréli to his bosom, and ere Imri could sufficiently recover his emotion to speak, the old man was gone.
The death he sought was speedily obtained. The Spanish officers and several of the men had quitted Eshcol, leaving only the lowest rank of soldiery to keep watch lest any of the fugitives should return, and, taking advantage of the secluded situation of the vale, set the edict at defiance. Effectually to prevent this, the men were commanded to turn the little temple to a place of worship for true believers. Workmen, with images, shrines, and pictures, were sent to assist them, and a pension promised to every Catholic family who would reside there, thus to exterminate utterly all trace of heresy and its abominations.
The men thus employed, ignorant and bigoted, exulted in the task assigned them, and only lamented that no human blood had been shed to render their holocausts to their patron saints more efficacious still. The return of Asher excited some surprise, but believing he would depart ere the allotted period had expired, they took little heed of his movements. The work continued, crosses were affixed to every side, images decked the interior, and all promised fair completion, when one night a wild cry of fire resounded, and hurrying to the spot, they beheld their work in flames. It was an awful picture. The night was pitchy dark, but far and near the thick woods and blackened heavens suddenly blazed up with lurid hue. There were dusky forms hurrying to and fro; oaths and execrations mingled with the stormy gusts which fanned the flames into greater fury; and, amidst them all, calmly looking on the work his hand had wrought, there stood an aged man, whose figure, in that glow of light, appeared gigantically proportioned, his silvery hair streamed back from his broad unwrinkled brow, and stern, unalterable resolution was impressed upon his features. He was seen, recognised, and with a yelling shout the murderers darted on their prey.
“Come on!” he cried, waving his arms triumphantly above his head. “Come on, and wreak your vengeance on these aged limbs; ’tis I have done this! Better flames should hurl it to the dust, than the temple of God be profaned by the abominations He abhors. Come on, I glory in the deed!”
He spoke, and fell pierced with a hundred wounds. A smile of peculiar beauty lighted up his features. “Blessed be the God of Israel, the sole One, the Holy One!” he cried, and his spirit fled rejoicing to the God he served.
Slowly and painfully did Imri’s little family pursue their way. They chose the most secluded paths, but even there traces of misery and death awaited them, and they shrank from suffering they could not alleviate. There might be seen a group dragging along their failing limbs, their provisions exhausted, and the pangs of hunger swallowing up all other thoughts. There lay the blackening bodies of those who had sunk and died, scarcely missed, and often envied by the survivors. Often did the sound of their footsteps scare away large flocks of carrion birds, who, screaming and flapping their heavy wings, left to the travellers the loathsome sight of their half-devoured prey. And they saw, too, the fearful fascinated gaze of those in whom life was not utterly extinct, as they watched the progress of these horrible birds, dreading lest they should dart upon them ere death had rendered them insensible. Josephine looked on these things, and then on her young brother, whose strength each day too evidently declined.
Aréli’s too sensitive spirit shrank in shuddering anguish from every fresh scene of human suffering. He, whose young life had been so full of peace and bliss, knowing but love and goodwill passing from man to man, how might he sustain the change? He had no voice to speak those feelings, no time to give them vent in the sweet language of poesy, which, in happier hours, had been the tablet of his soul. As the invisible worm at the root of a blooming flower, secretly destroying its sap, its nourishment, and the flower falls ere one of its leaves hath lost its beauty, so it was with the orphan boy. Each day was Imri compelled to shorten more and more their journey, for often would Aréli drop fainting from his mule, though the cheek retained its exquisite bloom, his eye its lustre. Imri became fearfully anxious; from the comparative vicinity of the sea-shore, he had believed their provisions would be more than sufficient to last them on their way, but from these unlooked-for delays, the horrors of famine, thirst, that most horrible death, stood darkly before him. Josephine, his own, his loved, would she encounter horrors such as they had witnessed? Imri shuddered.
One evening, Aréli lay calmly on the soft bed of moss and heath his sister’s love had framed; his hand clasped hers; his eyes seemed to speak the unutterable love and gratitude he felt. They were in the wildest part of a thick forest in the Sierra Nevada; and Imri, unable to look on the sufferings of his beloved ones, had wandered forth alone. Distant sounds of the chase fell at intervals on the ears of Josephine; but they were far away, and her soul was too enwrapt to heed them. Suddenly, however, her attention was effectually roused by the large crashing of the bushes near them, accompanied by low yet angry growls. Aréli marked the sudden change in her features, his eye too had caught an object by her still unseen. He sprang up with that strength which energy of feeling so often gives when bodily force has gone, and grasped tightly the hunting spear he held; scarcely had he done so, when a huge boar sprung through the thicket, his flanks streaming with blood, his tusks upraised, his mouth gaping, covered with foam, and uttering growls, denoting pain and fury yet more clearly than his appearance. He stood for a second motionless, then, as if startled by the agonized scream of terror bursting from Josephine, he sprung upon the daring boy. Undauntedly Aréli met his approach. His spear, aimed by an eye that never failed, pierced him for a second to the earth, but, alas! the strength of the boy was not equal to his skill. The boar, yet more enraged, tore the weapon from the ground, which it had not pierced above an inch. Once more he fell, struck down by a huge stick, which Aréli, with the speed of lightning, had snatched up. Again he rose, and fastened on the child. A blow from behind forced him to relax his stifling hold; furious, he turned on the slight girl who had dared attack him, and Josephine herself would have shared her brothers fate, when the spear of Imri whizzed through the air, true to its mark, and the huge animal, with a cry of pain and fury, rolled lifeless on the ground.
The voice of his beloved had startled Imri from his mournful trance; the roar which followed explained its source, and winged by terror, he arrived in time. Josephine was saved indeed, but no word of thankfulness broke from that heart, which, in grateful devotion, had never been dumb before. She knelt beside the seemingly lifeless body of her Aréli, scarcely conscious of the presence of her husband; his hands, his neck, his brow, were deluged in blood; she bathed him plentifully with cold water. Could she remember at such a moment that no springs were near, and that, if overwhelmed with thirst, the pure element would be denied them? Oh, no, no; she saw only the helpless sufferer, to whom her spirit clung with a love that, in their affliction, had with each hour grown stronger.
But death was still a brief while deferred, though so fearfully had Aréli been injured, they could not move him thence. His wounds were numerous and painful, and strength to support himself, even in a sitting position, never again returned. Yet never was that sweet face sad; his smiles, his signs were ever to implore his sister not to weep for him—to take comfort and be happy in another land; that the blissfulness of heaven was already on his soul—that if it might be, he would pray for her before his God, and hover like a guardian spirit over her weary wanderings, till he led her to a joyous home. For him, indeed, Josephine might not grieve, but for Imri she felt the deepest anxiety. The horrors to which this unlooked-for delay exposed him had startled her into consciousness, and on her knees she besought him to seek his own safety; she would not weakly shrink, but when all was over she would follow him, and, in all probability, they would meet again in another land; not to risk his precious life and strength by lingering with her beside the dying boy. She pleaded with all a woman’s unselfish love, but, need we say, in vain?—that Imri’s sole answer was to lift his right hand to heaven and swear, by all they both held most sacred, NEVER to leave her—they would meet their fate together? Days passed; their small portion of food and water, economised as it was, dwindled more and more away, and so did the strength of Aréli. It was a night of unclouded beauty; millions and millions of stars spangled the deep blue heavens; the moon in her full glory walked forth to silver many a dark tree, and dart her most refulgent rays on that little group of human suffering. Yet all was not suffering; the purest happiness beamed on the features of the dying, and an unconscious calm pervaded the weary spirit of these lonely watchers. Nature was so still, they spoke almost in whispers, as fearing to disturb her.
A sudden change spread on the features of the dying boy. Imri started: “Josephine, the chains are rent—he HEARS us!” he cried; and Josephine, raising him in her arms, almost involuntarily spoke in uttered words, “Aréli, my own, my beautiful!”
He HEARD; the film was removed one brief moment from his ear; her voice, sweet as thrilling music, fell upon his soul: his lips moved, and one articulate word then came, unearthly in its sweetness, “Josephine!” He raised his clasped hands to heaven, and sunk back upon her bosom: his soul had hovered on the earth one moment FREE, then fled for ever.
Imri and Josephine joined in prayer beside the loved. They neither mourned nor wept, and calmly Josephine wrapped the fadeless flower in the last garment of mortality, while Imri formed his resting-place. They laid him in that humble grave, strewed flowers and moss upon it, prayed that their God would in mercy guard his body from the ravening beasts, then turned from that hallowed spot, and silently pursued their journey.
It wanted but two days to the completion of the allotted period, when, faint, weak, and well-nigh exhausted, Imri and his Josephine stood on the sea-shore, and there horrible indeed was the sight that presented itself. Hundreds of the wretched fugitives lay famishing on the scorching sands. Many who had dragged on their failing limbs through all the horrors of famine, of thirst, of miseries in a thousand shapes, which the very pen shrinks from delineating, arrived there but to die; for there were but few vessels to bear them to other lands, and these often sailed with half their number, either because the bribes they demanded were refused (for the wretched victims had nought to give), or that their captains swore so many heretics would sink their ships, and they would take no more. Then it was that, with a crucifix in one hand, and bread and wine in the other, the Catholic priests advanced to the half senseless sufferers, and offered the one, if they acknowledged the other. Was it marvel that at such a moment there were some who yielded? Oh, there is a glory and a triumph in the martyr’s death! Men look with admiring awe on those who smile when at the stake; but the faith that inspired courage and firmness and constancy ’mid suffering which we have but faintly outlined—’mid lingering torments ’neath which the heart, yet more than the frame, was crushed—that FAITH is regarded with scorn as a blinded, wilful misbelief. Could man endow his own spirit with this devotedness? Pride might lead him to the stake, but not to bear what Israel had borne, aye, and will bear till the wrath of his God is turned aside. No; the same God who strengthened Abraham to offer up his son, enables His wretched people to give up all for Him. Would He do this, had they denied and mocked Him?
Imri saw the cold shuddering creeping over the blighted form of his beloved, and he led her to a sheltering rock, whose projecting cliffs partly concealed the wretched objects on the beach. There was one vessel on the broad ocean, and in her he determined at once to secure a passage, if to do so cost the forfeit of the few valuables he had been enabled to secrete. He lingered awhile by the side of his Josephine, for he saw, with anguish, the noble spirit, which had so long sustained and consoled her, now for the first time appear to droop. The sudden appearance of a Spanish officer, and his apparent advance towards them, arrested him as he was about to depart. He was attired richly, his whole bearing seeming to denote a person of some rank and consequence. Josephine’s gaze became almost unconsciously riveted upon him. He came nearer, nearer still; they could trace his features, on which sorrow or care had fixed its stamp. A moment he removed the plumed cap from his head, and passed his hand across his brow. An exclamation of recognition escaped the lips of Imri, and in another moment Josephine had bounded forward and was kneeling at his feet. “My father! my father!” she sobbed forth. “O God, I thank Thee for this unlooked-for mercy. I have seen him once again.”
“Thou—art thou my child, my Josephine, whom I left in such bright, blooming beauty—whom I have sought in such trembling anguish from the moment I might reach these shores? Child of my Rachel, art thou, canst thou be? Oh, yes, yes, yes! ’Twas thus she looked when I departed. Could I hope to see thee as I left thee, when blight and misery fell upon thy native vale, as on all the dwellings of thy wretched race? And I—O God!—my child, my child, curse me, hate me—I hurled down destruction on thy house.”
But even as he spoke in those wild accents of ungovernable passion, but too familiar to the ears that heard, he had raised and strained her convulsively to his breast, covering her cheeks and lips with kisses, till his burning tears of agonized remorse mingled with those of softer feeling on the cheeks of Josephine. But not long might she indulge in the blessed luxury of tears; shuddering, she repeated his last words, gazing up in his face with eyes of horrified inquiry.
“Yes, I, even I, my child. I was not sufficiently wretched—the bitter cup of remorse was not yet full. The edict was proclaimed. On all sides there was but wretchedness and unutterable misery, beyond all this woe-built world hath known. Then came a wild yearning to look again upon my native vale—to know if in truth its concealed and sheltered caves had escaped uninjured by the wide-spreading, devastating scourge that edict brought—to look on thee, my child, if I might without endangering that precious life—to know the fate of my unborn babe. I dared not dream my wife yet lived. Josephine, I looked upon her tomb, and by its side beheld my own, my beautiful, my unknown boy. O God! O God! my crime was visited upon his innocent head; and where—oh, where is he? Why may I not look upon his sweet face again?”
He ceased, choked by overwhelming emotion, and some minutes passed ere either of his agitated listeners could summon sufficient composure to reply. But the anguish of Castello seemed incapable of increase. For several minutes, indeed, he was silent; the convulsive workings of his features denoting how deeply that simple narrative had sunk.
When he spoke, it was briefly and hurriedly to relate how he had lingered in the vicinity of Eshcol, till at length discovered by a party of Spaniards sent to seek him, with a message from the sovereigns. His wanderings had been tracked, and that which he had most desired to avert he had been the means of accomplishing—the discovery of the vale. And then convulsively clasping the hands of Josephine and Imri in his own, he besought them to remove in part the load of misery from his heart—to say they would not leave him more.
“Goest thou then forth, my father? Hast thou indeed tarried for us, that we may seek a home together?” The father’s eyes shrunk beneath those mild inquiring eyes.
“My child, I go not forth,” he said at length, and his voice trembled. Josephine gently withdrew herself from his arms, and laid her hand on her husband’s.
“My child! my noble child,” he said, in smothered accents, “I am not perjured. I am still a son of Israel, though to the world a Catholic. Oh, do not turn from me. Come with me to my home, and thou shall see how the exiled and the persecuted can defy the power of their destroyers. Life, with every luxury, shall be thy portion; thine Imri shall have every dream of ambition and joy fulfilled. The children of Sigismund Castello will be courted, cherished, and loved. ’Tis but to kneel in public before the cross of the Nazarene—in private, we are sons of Israel still.”
“Father, urge me not; it cannot be,” was her calm and firm reply.
“Hast thought on all that must befall thee in other, perchance equally hostile, lands? My child, thou knowest not all thou mayest have to endure.”
“It is welcome,” she answered; “the more rugged the path to heaven, the more blessed will seem my final rest.”
“And thou wilt leave me to all the agonies of remorse; to struggle on with the blackening thought, that not only have I murdered those I love best on earth—my wife, my boy—but sent ye forth to poverty, privation, and misery. Josephine, Josephine, have mercy!” and the father threw himself before his child, grovelling in the sand, and clasping his hands in the wild energy of supplication.
“Father, father, drive me not mad! I cannot, cannot bear this. Imri, my husband, if thou wouldst save my heart from treachery, raise him—in mercy raise him. I cannot answer with him there! God, God of Israel! leave me not now. My brain is reeling—save me from myself.”
She staggered back, and terrified at those accents of almost madness, her father sprang from the ground, he caught her again in his arms, while Imri, kneeling beside her, chafed her cold hands in his, imploring her to speak, to look on him again.
“My child, my child, wake, wake! I will not grieve thee thus again. But oh, thy husband’s look would pray thee not to go forth! The God of love, of pity, demands not this self-sacrifice. Imri, one word from thee would be sufficient. Look on her. Think to what thou bearest her, when peace, comfort, and luxuries await ye, with but one word. Speak, speak! Thou canst not, wilt not take her hence.”
Though well-nigh senseless, well-nigh so exhausted alike in body and mind that further exertion seemed impossible, Josephine roused herself from that trance of faintness to gaze wildly and fearfully on the face of her husband. It was terribly agitated. She threw herself on his neck, and gasped forth, “Canst thou bid me do this thing, my husband?” He struggled to answer, but there came no word. Strength, the mighty strength of virtue, returned to that sinking frame. She stood erect, and spoke without one quivering accent or one failing word.
“Imri, my husband! by the love thou bearest me, by all we both hold sacred, by that great and ineffable name we are forbidden to pronounce, I charge thee answer me truly. Didst thou stand alone—were Josephine no more—how wouldst thou decide? The eye of God is upon thee—deceive me not!”
He turned from that searching glance, his strong frame shook with emotion; his voice was scarcely audible, yet these words came—
“I NEVER could deny my God! Exile and death were welcome—but for thee!”
“Enough, my husband!” she exclaimed, and throwing her arms around him, she turned again to her father, a glow of holy triumph tinging her pallid cheek. “And wouldst thou tempt him to perjury for my sake? On, no, no! father, beloved, revered, from the first hour I could lisp thy name, oh, pardon me this first disobedience to thy will! Did I linger, how might I save thee from remorse; when each day, each hour, thou wouldst see me fade beneath the whelming weight of perjury and falsity? No, no! Bless me, oh, bless me, ere I go, and the prayers of thy child shall rise each hour for thee!”
Again she knelt before him, and Castello, inexpressibly affected, felt he dared urge no more. How might he agonize that heart; when in neither word, nor hint, nor sign did she utter reproach on him? Again and again he reiterated blessings on her sainted head; and when he could release her from his embrace, it was to secure their speedy passage in the vessel, which his command had detained in her moorings; though the hope that he should once more look upon his child had well-nigh faded ere she came.
The exiles stood upon the deck. A hundred other of the miserable fugitives had found a refuge in this same vessel, whose captain, somewhat more humane than many of his fellows, and richly bribed by Castello, set food before the famishing wanderers directly they had weighed anchor. But even the cravings of nature were lost in the one feeling, that they gazed for the last time on the land they loved. There were dark thunder-clouds sweeping over the sky, mingled with others of brilliant colouring, that proclaimed the hour of sunset. The ocean-horizon seemed buried in murky gloom; but the shores of Spain stood forth bathed in a glow of warm red light, as if to bid the unhappy wanderers farewell in unrivalled brilliance. For awhile there was silence on the vessel, so deep, so unbroken, that the flapping of the sails against the masts was alone distinguishable. It was then a wild and wailing strain burst simultaneously from the fugitives; the young and the old, the strong man and exhausted female, joined almost unconsciously. In the language of Jerusalem they chanted forth their wild farewell, which may thus be rendered in English verse.
Farewell! farewell! we wander forth,
Doom’d by th’ Eternal’s awful wrath;
With nought to bless our lonely path,
Across the stormy wave.
Cast forth as wanderers on the earth;
Torn from the land that hailed our birth,
From childhood’s cot, from manhood’s hearth,
From temple and from grave.
Farewell! farewell! thou beauteous sod,
Which Israel has for ages trod;
We leave thee to the oppressor’s rod,
Weeping the exiles’ doom.
We go! no more thy turf we press;
No more thy fruits and vineyards bless;
No land to love—no home possess,
Save earth’s cold breast—the tomb.
Where we have roamed the strangers roam;
The stranger claims each cherished home;
And we must ride on ocean’s foam,
Accursed and alone.
False gods pollute our holy fane,
False hearts its sacred precincts stain;
False tongues our fathers’ God profane;
But WE are still His own.
Farewell! farewell! o’er land and sea,
Where’er we roam, our soul shall be,
Land we have loved so long, with thee,
Though sad and lone we dwell.
Thou land, where happy childhood played;
Where youth in love’s sweet fancies strayed;
Where long our fathers’ bones have laid;
Our own bright land—farewell!
Wilder and louder thrilled the strain until the last verse, when mournfully the voices for a few seconds swelled, and then gradually died away to silence, broken only by sobs and tears. Imri and Josephine alone sat apart; they had not joined the melody, but their souls in silence echoed back its mournful wailing. Josephine half sat, half reclined on a pile of cushions, where she might command the last view of Spain. Imri leaned against a mast, close beside her; but few words passed between them, for each felt the effort to speak was made only for the other, and they ceased to war thus with nature.
A sudden gloom darkened the heavens. The glow passed from the beautiful shores. A heavy fall of dense clouds hung over them, and concealed them from the eyes which in that direction lingered still. The last gleam of light disclosed to Imri his Josephine in the attitude of calm and happy slumber. Her head reclined upon her arm, and the long dark curls had fallen over her face and neck. He rejoiced; for he thought nature had at length found the repose she so much needed. His own eyelids felt heavy, and his limbs much exhausted; but he remained watching, untired, the sleep of his beloved. Heavy gusts now at intervals swept along the ocean. The blackened waves rolled higher and higher at the call, now crested by the snowy foam. The vessel rocked and heaved, and speedily driven from her course, mocked every effort to guide her southward, one moment riding proudly on the topmost wave, the next sinking in a deep valley, as about to be whelmed by huge mountains of roaring water. Distant thunder, mingled with the moaning gust, coming nearer and nearer, till it burst above their heads, louder and longer than the discharge of a hundred cannons. The foiled lightning streamed through the ebon sky, illumining all around for above a minute by that blue and vivid glare, and then vanishing in darkness yet more terrible.
The elements were at war around them, cries of human terror joined with the roar of the ocean, the rolling thunder, the groaning blasts; but there was no movement in the form of Josephine. Could she still sleep? Could exhaustion render her insensible to sounds like these? Imri knelt beside her and called her by name:—“Josephine, my beloved! Oh, waken!”
There was no answer. At that moment a bright flash darted through the gloom, and sea and sky appeared on fire. A strange and crashing sound succeeded, followed by a cry of agony, which, bursting from a hundred throats, echoed far and near, drowning even the noise of the raging storm, for it was the deep tone of human terror and despair. The topmast fell, shivered by the lightning, in the very centre of the deck; flames burst forth where it fell, and on went the devoted vessel, a blazing pile on the booming waters.
Imri Benalmar moved not from his knee—he heard not the cries of suffering echoing round—he knew not the cause of that livid glare, which had so suddenly illumined every object—he knew nothing, felt nothing, save that he gazed on the face of the DEAD.
A fearful sound, seeming distinct from the warring elements, called forth many of the hardy inhabitants of Malaga from their homes. They hurried to the beach, and appalled and startled, beheld one part of the horizon completely bathed in living fire; sea and sky united by a sheet of flame. Presently it appeared to divide, and borne onwards by the winds and waves, a ball of fire floated on the water. It came nearer—and horror and sympathy usurped the place of superstition, as a burning vessel rose and fell with every heaving wave. The storm was abated, though the sea yet raged, and many a hardy fisherman pushed out his boat in the pious hope of saving some of the unfortunate crew. Their efforts were in vain; ere half the distance was accomplished, there came a hissing sound; the flames for one brief moment blazed with appalling brilliance—then sunk, and there was a void on the wide waste of waters.
The Escape.
A TALE OF 1755.
“Dark lowers our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us;
But nothing, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from nature shall unloose
This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house;
In the terrific force of armed law;
Yea! on the scaffold, if it needs must be,
I never will forsake thee.”—Joanna Baillie.
About the middle of the eighteenth century, the little town of Montes, situated some forty or fifty miles from Lisbon, was thrown into most unusual excitement by the magnificence attending the nuptials of Alvar Rodriguez and Almah Diaz; an excitement which the extraordinary beauty of the bride, who, though the betrothed of Alvar from her childhood, had never been seen in Montes before, of course not a little increased. The little church of Montes looked gay and glittering, for the large sums lavished by Alvar on the officiating priests, and in presents to their patron saints, had occasioned every picture, shrine, and image to blaze in uncovered gold and jewels, and the altar to be fed with the richest incense, and lighted with tapers of the finest wax, to do him honour.
The church was full; for, although the bridal party did not exceed twenty, the village appeared to have emptied itself there; Alvar’s munificence to all classes, on all occasions, having rendered him the universal idol, and caused the fame of that day’s rejoicing to extend many miles around.
There was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of either bride or bridegroom, except that both were decidedly more calm than such occasions usually warrant. Nay, in the fine, manly countenance of Alvar, ever and anon an expression seemed to flit, that in any but so true a son of the church would have been accounted scorn. In such a one, of course, it was neither seen nor regarded, except by his bride; for at such times her eyes met his with an earnest and entreating glance, that the peculiar look was changed into a quiet, tender seriousness which reassured her.
From the church they adjourned to the lordly mansion of Rodriguez, which, in the midst of the flowering orange and citron trees, stood about two miles from the town.
The remainder of the day passed in festivity. The banquet and dance and song, both within and around the house, diversified the scene and increased hilarity in all. By sunset, all but the immediate friends and relatives of the newly wedded had departed. Some splendid and novel fireworks from the heights having attracted universal attention, Alvar, with his usual indulgence, gave his servants and retainers permission to join the festive crowds; liberty, to all who wished it, was given for the next two hours.
In a very brief interval the house was cleared, with the exception of a young Moor, the secretary or book-keeper of Alvar, and four or five middle-aged domestics of both sexes.
Gradually, and it appeared undesignedly, the bride and her female companions were left alone, and for the first time the beautiful face of Almah was shadowed by emotion.
“Shall I, oh, shall I indeed be his?” she said, half-aloud. “There are moments when our dread secrets are so terrible; it seems to forbode discovery at the very moment it would be most agonizing to bear.”
“Hush, silly one!” was the reply of an older friend; “discovery is not so easily or readily accomplished. The persecuted and the nameless have acquired wisdom and caution at the price of blood—learned to deceive, that they may triumph—to conceal, that they may flourish still. Almah, we are not to fall!”
“I know it, Inez. A superhuman agency upholds us; we had been cast off, rooted out, plucked from the very face of the earth long since else. But there are times when human nature will shrink and tremble—when the path of deception and concealment allotted for us to tread seems fraught with danger at every turn. I know it is all folly, yet there is a dim foreboding, shadowing our fair horizon of joy as a hovering thunder-cloud. There has been suspicion, torture, death. Oh, if my Alvar—”
“Nay, Almah; this is childish. It is only because you are too happy, and happiness, in its extent is ever pain. In good time comes your venerable guardian, to chide and silence all such foolish fancies. How many weddings have there been, and will there still be, like this? Come, smile, love, while I re-arrange your veil.”
Almah obeyed, though the smile was faint, as if the soul yet trembled in its joy. On the entrance of Gonzolas, her guardian (she was an orphan and an heiress), her veil was thrown around her, so as completely to envelope face and form. Taking his arm, and followed by all her female companions, she was hastily and silently led to a sort of ante-room or cabinet, opening, by a massive door concealed with tapestry, from the suite of rooms appropriated to the private use of the merchant and his family. There Alvar and his friends awaited her. A canopy, supported by four of the youngest males present, was held over the bride and bridegroom as they stood facing the east. A silver salver lay at their feet, and opposite stood an aged man, with a small richly-bound volume in his hand. It was open and displayed letters and words of unusual form and sound. Another of Alvar’s friends stood near, holding a goblet of sacred wine; and to a third was given a slight and thin Venetian glass. After a brief and solemn pause, the old man read or rather chanted from the book he held, joined in parts by those around; and then he tasted the sacred wine, and passed it to the bride and bridegroom. Almah’s veil was upraised, for her to touch the goblet with her lips, now quivering with emotion, and not permitted to fall again. And Alvar, where now was the expression of scorn and contempt that had been stamped on his bold brow and curling lip before? Gone—lost before the powerful emotion which scarcely permitted his lifting the goblet a second time to his lips. Then, taking the Venetian glass, he broke it on the salver at his feet, and the strange rites were completed.
Yet no words of congratulation came. Drawn together in a closer knot, while Alvar folded the now almost fainting Almah to his bosom, and said, in the deep, low tones of intense feeling, “Mine, mine for ever now—mine in the sight of our God, the God of the exile and the faithful; our fate, whatever it be, henceforth is one;” the old man lifted up his clasped hands, and prayed.
“God of the nameless and homeless,” he said, and it was in the same strange yet solemn-sounding language as before, “have mercy on these Thy servants, joined together in Thy Holy name, to share the lot on earth Thy will assigns them, with one heart and mind. Strengthen Thou them to keep the secret of their faith and race—to teach it to their offspring as they received it from their fathers. Pardon Thou, them and us, the deceit we do to keep holy Thy law and Thine inheritance. In the land of the persecutor, the exterminator, be Thou their shield, and save them for Thy Holy name. But if discovery and its horrible consequences—imprisonment, torture, death—await them, strengthen Thou them for their endurance—to die as they would live for Thee. Father, hear us! homeless and nameless upon earth, we are Thine own!”
“Aye, strengthen me for him, my husband; turn my woman weakness into Thy strength for him, Almighty Father,” was the voiceless prayer with which Almah lifted up her pale face from her husband’s bosom, where it had rested during the whole of that strange and terrible prayer; and in the calmness stealing on her throbbing heart, she read her answer.
It was some few minutes ere the excited spirits of the devoted few then present, male or female, master or servant, could subside into their wonted control. But such scenes, such feelings were not of rare occurrence; and ere the domestics of Rodriguez returned, there was nothing either in the mansion or its inmates to denote that anything uncommon had taken place during their absence.
The Portuguese are not fond of society at any time, so that Alvar and his young bride should, after one week of festivity, live in comparative retirement, elicited no surprise. The former attended his house of business at Montes as usual; and whoever chanced to visit him at his beautiful estate, returned delighted with his entertainment and his hosts; so that, far and near, the merchant Alvar became noted alike for his munificence and the strict orthodox Catholicism in which he conducted his establishment.
And was Alvar Rodriguez indeed what he seemed? If so, what were those strange mysterious rites with which in secret he celebrated his marriage? For what were those many contrivances in his mansion, secret receptacles even from his own sitting-rooms, into which all kinds of forbidden food were conveyed from his very table, that his soul might not be polluted by disobedience? How did it so happen that one day in every year Alvar gave a general holiday—leave of absence for four and twenty hours, under some well-arranged pretence, to all save those who entreated permission to remain with him? And that on that day, Alvar, his wife, his Moorish secretary, and all those domestics who had witnessed his marriage, spent in holy fast and prayer—permitting no particle of food or drink to pass their lips from eve unto eve; or if, by any chance, the holiday could not be given, their several meals to be laid and served, yet so contriving that, while the food looked as if it had been partaken of, not a portion had they touched? That the Saturday should be passed in seeming preparation for the Sunday, in cessation from work of any kind, and in frequent prayer, was perhaps of trivial importance; but for the previous mysteries—mysteries known to Alvar, his wife, and five or six of his establishment, yet never by word or sign betrayed; how may we account for them? There may be some to whom the memory of such things, as common to their ancestors, may be yet familiar; but to by far the greater number of English readers, they are, in all probability, as incomprehensible as uncommon.
Alvar Rodriguez was a Jew. One of the many who, in Portugal and Spain, fulfilled the awful prophecy of their great lawgiver Moses, and bowed before the imaged saints and martyrs of the Catholic, to shrine the religion of their fathers yet closer in their hearts and homes. From father to son the secret of their faith and race descended, so early and so mysteriously taught, that little children imbibed it—not alone the faith, but so effectually to conceal it, as to avert and mystify all inquisitorial questioning, long before they knew the meaning or necessity of what they learned.
How this was accomplished, how the religion of God was thus preserved in the very midst of persecution and intolerance, must ever remain a mystery, as, happily for Israel such fearful training is no longer needed. But that it did exist, that Jewish children, in the very midst of monastic and convent tuition, yet adhered to the religion of their fathers, never by word or sign betrayed the secret with which they were intrusted; and, in their turn, became husbands and fathers, conveying their solemn and dangerous inheritance to their posterity—that such things were, there are those still amongst the Hebrews of England to affirm and recall, claiming among their own ancestry, but one generation removed, those who have thus concealed and thus adhered. It was the power of God, not the power of man. Human strength had been utterly inefficient. Torture and death would long before have annihilated every remnant of Israel’s devoted race. But it might not be; for God had spoken. And, as a living miracle, a lasting record of His truth, His justice, aye, and mercy, Israel was preserved in the midst of danger, in the very face of death, and will be preserved for ever.
It was no mere rejoicing ceremony, that of marriage, amongst the disguised and hidden Israelites of Portugal and Spain. They were binding themselves to preserve and propagate a persecuted faith. They were no longer its sole repositors. Did the strength of one waver, all was at end. They were united in the sweet links of love—framing for themselves new ties, new hopes, new blessings in a rising family—all of which, at one blow, might be destroyed. They existed in an atmosphere of death, yet they lived and flourished. But so situated, it was not strange that human emotion, both in Alvar and his bride, should, on their wedding-day, have gained ascendency; and the solemn hour which made them one in the sight of the God they worshipped, should have been fraught with a terror and a shuddering, of which Jewish lovers in free and happy England can have no knowledge.
Alvar Rodriguez was one of those high and noble spirits, on whom the chain of deceit and concealment weighed heavily; and there were times when it had been difficult to suppress and conceal his scorn of those outward observances which his apparent Catholicism compelled. When united to Almah, however, he had a stronger incentive than his own safety; and as time passed on, and he became a father, caution and circumspection, if possible, increased with the deep passionate feelings of tenderness towards the mother and child. As the boy grew and flourished, the first feelings of dread, which the very love he excited called forth at his birth, subsided into a kind of tranquil calm, which even Almah’s foreboding spirit trusted would last, as the happiness of others of her race.
Though Alvar’s business was carried on both at Montes and at Lisbon, the bulk of both his own and his wife’s property was, by a strange chance, invested at Badajoz, a frontier town of Spain, and whence he had often intended to remove it, but had always been prevented. It happened that early in the month of June, some affairs calling him to Lisbon, he resolved to delay removing it no longer, smiling at his young wife’s half solicitation to let it remain where it was, and playfully accusing her of superstition, a charge she cared not to deny. The night before his intended departure his young Moorish secretary, in other words, an Israelite of Barbary extraction, entered his private closet, with a countenance of entreaty and alarm, earnestly conjuring his master to give up his Lisbon expedition, and retire with his wife and son to Badajoz or Oporto, or some distant city, at least for a while. Anxiously Rodriguez inquired wherefore.
“You remember the Senor Leyva, your worship’s guest a week or two ago?”
“Perfectly. What of him?”
“Master, I like him not. If danger befall us it will come through him. I watched him closely, and every hour of his stay shrunk from him the more. He was a stranger?”
“Yes; benighted, and had lost his way. It was impossible to refuse him hospitality. That he stayed longer than he had need, I grant; but there is no cause of alarm in that—he liked his quarters.”
“Master,” replied the Moor, earnestly, “I do not believe his tale. He was no casual traveller. I cannot trust him.”
“You are not called upon to do so, man,” said Alvar, laughing. “What do you believe him to be that you would inoculate me with your own baseless alarm?”
Hassan Ben Ahmed’s answer, whatever it might be, for it was whispered fearfully in his master’s ear, had the effect of sending every drop of blood from Alvar’s face to his very heart. But he shook off the stagnating dread. He combated the prejudices of his follower as unreasonable and unfounded. Hassan’s alarm, however, could only be soothed by the fact, that so suddenly to change his plans would but excite suspicion. If Leyva were what he feared, his visit must already have been followed by the usual terrific effects.
Alvar promised, however, to settle his affairs at Lisbon as speedily as he could, and return for Almah and his son, and convey them to some place of greater security until the imagined danger was passed.
In spite of his assumed indifference, however, Rodriguez could not bid his wife and child farewell without a pang of dread, which it was difficult to conceal. The step between life and death—security and destruction—was so small, it might be passed unconsciously, and then the strongest nerve might shudder at the dark abyss before him. Again and again he turned to go, and yet again returned; and it was with a feeling literally of desperation he at length tore himself away.
A fearful trembling was on Almah’s heart as she gazed after him, but she would not listen to its voice.
“It is folly,” she said, self-upbraidingly. “My Alvar is ever chiding this too doubting heart. I will not disobey him, by fear and foreboding in his absence. The God of the nameless is with him and me,” and she raised her eyes to the blue arch above her, with an expression that needed not voice to mark it prayer.
About a week after Alvar’s departure, Almah was sitting by the cradle of her boy, watching his soft and rosy slumbers, with a calm, sweet thankfulness that such a treasure was her own. The season had been unusually hot and dry, but the apartment in which the young mother sat opened on a pleasant spot, thickly shaded with orange, lemon, and almond trees, and decked with a hundred other richly-hued and richly-scented plants; in the centre of which a fountain sent up its heavy showers, which fell back on the marble bed, with a splash and coolness peculiarly refreshing, and sparkled in the sun as glittering gems.
A fleet yet heavy step resounded from the garden, which seemed suddenly and forcibly restrained into a less agitated movement. A shadow fell between her and the sunshine, and, starting, Almah looked hastily up. Hassan Ben Ahmed stood before her, a paleness on his swarthy cheek, and a compression on his nether lip, betraying strong emotion painfully restrained.
“My husband! Hassan. What news bring you of him? Why are you alone?”
He laid his hand on her arm, and answered in a voice which so quivered that only ears eager as her own could have distinguished his meaning.
“Lady, dear, dear lady, you have a firm and faithful heart. Oh! for the love of Him who calls on you to suffer, awake its strength and firmness. My dear, my honoured lady, sink not, fail not! O God of mercy support her now!” he added, flinging himself on his knees before her, as Almah one moment sprang up with a smothered shriek, and the next sank back on her seat rigid as marble.
Not another word she needed. Hassan thought to have prepared, gradually to have told his dread intelligence; but he had said enough. Called upon to suffer, and for Him, her God—her doom was revealed in those brief words. One minute of such agonized struggle, that her soul and body seemed about to part beneath it; and the wife and mother roused herself to do. Lip, cheek, and brow vied in their ashen whiteness with her robe; the blue veins rose distended as cords; and the voice—had not Hassan gazed upon her, he had not known it as her own.
She commanded him to tell her briefly all, and even while he spoke, seemed revolving in her own mind the decision which not four and twenty hours after Hassan’s intelligence she put into execution.
It was as Ben Ahmed had feared. The known popularity and rumoured riches of Alvar Rodriguez had excited the jealousy of that secret and awful tribunal, the Inquisition, one of whose innumerable spies, under the feigned name of Leyva, had obtained entrance within Alvar’s hospitable walls. One unguarded word or movement, the faintest semblance of secrecy or caution, were all-sufficient; nay, without these, more than a common share of wealth or felicity was enough for the unconscious victims to be marked, tracked, and seized, without preparation or suspicion of their fate. Alvar had chanced to mention his intended visit to Lisbon; and the better to conceal the agent of his arrest, as also to make it more secure, they waited till his arrival there, watched their opportunity, and seized and conveyed him to those cells whence few returned in life, propagating the charge of relapsed Judaism as the cause of his arrest. It was a charge too common for remark, and the power which interfered too mighty for resistance. The confusion of the arrest soon subsided; but it lasted long enough for the faithful Hassan to escape, and, by dint of very rapid travelling, he reached Montes not four hours after his master’s seizure. The day was in consequence before them, and he ceased not to conjure his lady to fly at once; the officers of the Inquisition could scarcely be there before nightfall.
“You must take advantage of it, Hassan, and all of you who love me. For my child, my boy,” she had clasped him to her bosom, and a convulsion contracted her beautiful features as she spoke, “you must take care of him; convey him to Holland or England. Take jewels and gold sufficient; and—and make him love his parents—he may never see either of them more. Hassan, Hassan, swear to protect my child!” she added, with a burst of such sudden and passionate agony, it seemed as if life or reason must bend beneath it. Bewildered by her words, as terrified by her emotion, Ben Ahmed gently removed the trembling child from the fond arms that for the first time failed to support him, gave him hastily to the care of his nurse, who was also a Jewess, said a few words in Hebrew, detailing what had passed, beseeching her to prepare for flight, and then returned to his mistress. The effects of that prostrating agony remained, but she had so far conquered, as to seem outwardly calm; and in answer to his respectful and anxious looks, besought him not to fear for her, nor to dissuade her from her purpose, but to aid her in its accomplishment. She summoned her household around her, detailed what had befallen, and bade them seek their own safety in flight; and when in tears and grief they left her, and but those of her own faith remained, she solemnly committed her child to their care, and informed them of her own determination to proceed directly to Lisbon. In vain Hassan Ben Ahmed conjured her to give up the idea; it was little short of madness. How could she aid his master? why not secure her own safety, that if indeed he should escape, the blessing of her love would be yet preserved him?
“Do not fear for your master, Hassan,” was the calm reply; “ask not of my plans, for at this moment they seem but chaos, but of this be assured, we shall live or die together.”
More she revealed not; but when the officers of the Inquisition arrived, near nightfall, they found nothing but deserted walls. The magnificent furniture and splendid paintings which alone remained, of course were seized by the Holy Office, by whom Alvar’s property was also confiscated. Had his arrest been deferred three months longer, all would have gone—swept off by the same rapacious power, to whom great wealth was ever proof of great guilt—but as it was, the greater part, secured in Spain, remained untouched; a circumstance peculiarly fortunate, as Almah’s plans needed the aid of gold.
We have no space to linger on the mother’s feelings, as she parted from her boy; gazing on him, perhaps, for the last time. Yet she neither wept nor sighed. There was but one other feeling strong in that gentle bosom—a wife’s devotion—and to that alone she might listen now.
Great was old Gonzalos’ terror and astonishment when Almah, attended only by Hassan Ben Ahmed, and both attired in the Moorish costume, entered his dwelling and implored his concealment and aid. The arrest of Alvar Rodriguez had, of course, thrown every secret Hebrew into the greatest alarm, though none dared be evinced. Gonzalos’ only hope and consolation was that Almah and her child had escaped; and to see her in the very centre of danger, even to listen to her calmly proposed plans, seemed so like madness, that he used every effort to alarm her into their relinquishment. But this could not be; and with the darkest forebodings, the old man at length yielded to the stronger, more devoted spirit with whom he had to deal.
His mistress once safely under Gonzalos’ roof, Ben Ahmed departed, under cover of night, in compliance with her earnest entreaties, to rejoin her child, and to convey him and his nurse to England, that blessed land, where the veil of secrecy could be removed.
About a week after the incarceration of Alvar, a young Moor sought and obtained admission to the presence of Juan Pacheco, the secretary of the Inquisition, as informer against Alvar Rodriguez. He stated that he had taken service with him as clerk or secretary, on condition that he would give him baptism and instruction in the holy Catholic faith; that Alvar had not yet done so; that many things in his establishment proclaimed a looseness of orthodox principles, which the Holy Office would do well to notice. Meanwhile he humbly offered a purse containing seventy pieces of gold, to obtain masses for his salvation.
This last argument carried more weight than all the rest. The young Moor, who boldly gave his name as Hassan Ben Ahmed (which was confirmation strong of his previous statement, as in Leyva’s information of Alvar and his household the Moorish secretary was particularly specified), was listened to with attention, and finally received in Pacheco’s own household, as junior clerk and servant to the Holy Office.
Despite his extreme youthfulness and delicacy of figure, face, and voice, Hassan’s activity and zeal to oblige every member of the Holy Office, superiors and inferiors, gradually gained him the favour and goodwill of all. There was no end to his resources for serving others; and thus he had more opportunities of seeing the prisoners in a few weeks, than others of the same rank as himself had had in years. But the prisoner he most longed to see was still unfound, and it was not till summoned before his judges, in the grand hall of inquisition and of torture, Hassan Ben Ahmed gazed once more upon his former master. He had attended Pacheco in his situation of junior clerk, but had seated himself so deeply in the shade that, though every movement in both the face and form of Alvar was distinguishable to him, Hassan himself was invisible.
The trial, if trial such iniquitous proceedings may be called, proceeded; but in nought did Alvar Rodriguez fail in his bearing or defence. Marvellous and superhuman must that power have been which, in such a scene and hour, prevented all betrayal of the true faith the victims bore. Once Judaism confessed, the doom was death; and again and again have the sons of Israel remained in the terrible dungeons of the Inquisition—endured every species of torture during a space of seven, ten, or twelve years, and then been released, because no proof could be brought of their being indeed that accursed thing—a Jew. And then it was that they fled from scenes of such fearful trial to lands of toleration and freedom, and there embrace openly and rejoicingly that blessed faith, for which in secret they had borne so much.
Alvar Rodriguez was one of these—prepared to suffer, but not reveal. They applied the torture, but neither word nor groan was extracted from him. Engrossed with the prisoner, for it was his task to write down whatever disjointed words might escape his lips, Pacheco neither noticed not even remembered the presence of the young Moor. No unusual paleness could be visible on his embrowned cheek, but his whole frame felt to himself to have become rigid as stone; a deadly sickness had crept over him, and the terrible conviction of all which rested with him to do alone prevented his sinking senseless on the earth.
The terrible struggle was at length at an end. Alvar was released for the time being, and remanded to his dungeon. Availing himself of the liberty he enjoyed in the little notice now taken of his movements, Hassan reached the prison before either Alvar or his guards. A rapid glance told him its situation, overlooking a retired part of the court, cultivated as a garden. The height of the wall seemed about forty feet, and there were no windows of observation on either side. This was fortunate, the more so as Hassan had before made friends with the old gardener, and pretending excessive love of gardening, had worked just under the window, little dreaming its vicinity to him he sought.
A well-known Hebrew air, with its plaintive Hebrew words, sung tremblingly and softly under his window, first roused Alvar to the sense that a friend was near. He started, almost in superstitious terror, for the voice seemed an echo to that which was ever sounding in his heart. That loved one it could not be, nay, he dared not even wish it; but still the words were Hebrew, and, for the first time, memory flashed back a figure in Moorish garb who had flitted by him on his return to his prison, after his examination.
Hassan, the faithful Hassan! Alvar felt certain it could be none but he; though, in the moment of sudden excitement, the voice had seemed another’s. He looked from the window; the Moor was bending over the flowers, but Alvar felt confirmed in his suspicions, and his heart throbbed with the sudden hope of liberty. He whistled, and a movement in the figure below convinced him he was heard.
One point was gained; the next was more fraught with danger, yet it was accomplished. In a bunch of flowers, drawn up by a thin string which Alvar chanced to possess, Ben Ahmed had concealed a file; and as he watched it ascend, and beheld the flowers scattered to the winds, in token that they had done their work, for Alvar dared not retain them in his prison, Hassan felt again the prostration of bodily power which had before assailed him for such a different cause, and it was an almost convulsive effort to retain his faculties; but a merciful Providence watched over him and Alvar, making the feeblest and the weakest, instruments of His all-sustaining love.
We are not permitted space to linger on the various ingenious methods adopted by Hassan Ben Ahmed to forward and mature his plans. Suffice it that all seemed to smile upon him. The termination of the garden wall led, by a concealed door, to a subterranean passage running to the banks of the Tagus. This fact, as also the secret spring of the trap, the old gardener in a moment of unwise conviviality imparted to Ben Ahmed, little imagining the special blessing which such unexpected information secured.
An alcayde and about twenty guards did sometimes patrol the garden within sight of Alvar’s window; but this did not occur often, such caution seeming unnecessary.
It had been an evening of unwonted festivity among the soldiers and servants of the Holy Office, which had at length subsided into the heavy slumbers of general intoxication. Hassan had supped with the gardener, and plying him well with wine, soon produced the desired effect. Four months had the Moor spent within the dreaded walls, and the moment had now come when delay need be no more. At midnight all was hushed into profound silence, not a leaf stirred, and the night was so unusually still that the faintest sound would have been distinguished. Hassan stealthily crept round the outposts. Many of the guards were slumbering in various attitudes upon their posts, and others, dependent on his promised watchfulness, were literally deserted. He stood beneath the window. One moment he clasped his hands and bowed his head in one mighty, piercing, though silent prayer, and then dug hastily in the flower-bed at his feet, removing from thence a ladder of ropes, which had lain there some days concealed, and flung a pebble with correct aim against the bars of Alvar’s window. The sound, though scarcely loud enough to disturb a bird, reverberated on the trembling heart which heard, as if a thousand cannons had been discharged.
A moment of agonized suspense, and Alvar Rodriguez stood at the window, the bar he had removed, in his hand. He let down the string, to which Hassan’s now trembling hands secured the ladder and drew it to the wall. His descent could not have occupied two minutes, at the extent; but to that solitary watcher what eternity of suffering did they seem! Alvar was at his side, had clasped his hands, had called him “Hassan! brother!” in tones of intense feeling, but no word replied. He sought to fly, to point to the desired haven, but his feet seemed suddenly rooted to the earth. Alvar threw his arm around him, and drew him forwards. A sudden and unnatural strength returned. Noiselessly and fleetly as their feet could go, they sped beneath the shadow of the wall. A hundred yards alone divided them from the secret door. A sudden sound broke the oppressive stillness. It was the tramp of heavy feet and the clash of arms; the light of many torches flashed upon the darkness. They darted forward in the fearful excitement of despair; but the effort was void and vain. A wild shout of challenge—of alarm—and they were surrounded, captured, so suddenly, so rapidly, Alvar’s very senses seemed to reel; but frightfully they were recalled. A shriek, so piercing, it seemed to rend the very heavens, burst through the still air. The figure of the Moor rushed from the detaining grasp of the soldiery, regardless of bared steel and pointed guns, and flung himself at the feet of Alvar.
“O God, my husband—I have murdered him!” were the strange appalling words which burst upon his ear, and the lights flashing upon his face, as he sank prostrate and lifeless on the earth, revealed to Alvar’s tortured senses the features of his wife.
How long that dead faint continued Almah knew not, but when sense returned she found herself in a dark and dismal cell, her upper garment and turban removed, while the plentiful supply of water, which had partially restored life, had removed in a great degree the dye which had given her countenance its Moorish hue. Had she wished to continue concealment, one glance around her would have proved the effort vain. Her sex was already known, and the stern dark countenances near her breathed but ruthlessness and rage. Some brief questions were asked relative to her name, intent, and faith, which she answered calmly.
“In revealing my name,” she said, “my intention must also be disclosed. The wife of Alvar Rodriguez had not sought these realms of torture and death, had not undergone all the miseries of disguise and servitude, but for one hope, one intent—the liberty of her husband.”
“Thus proving his guilt,” was the rejoinder. “Had you known him innocent, you would have waited the justice of the Holy Office to give him freedom.”
“Justice!” she repeated, bitterly. “Had the innocent never suffered, I might have trusted. But I knew accusation was synonymous with death, and therefore came I here. For my faith, mine is my husband’s.”
“And know you the doom of all who attempt or abet escape? Death—death by burning! and this you have hurled upon him and yourself. It is not the Holy Office, but his wife who has condemned him,” and with gibing laugh they left her, securing with heavy bolt and bar the iron door. She darted forwards, beseeching them, as they hoped for mercy, to take her to her husband, to confine them underground a thousand fathoms deep, so that they might but be together; but only the hollow echo of her own voice replied, and the wretched girl sunk back upon the ground, relieved from present suffering by long hours of utter insensibility.
It was not till brought from their respective prisons to hear pronounced on them the sentence of death, that Alvar Rodriguez and his heroic wife once more gazed upon each other.
They had provided Almah, at her own entreaty, with female habiliments; for, in the bewildering agony of her spirit, she attributed the failure of her scheme for the rescue of her husband to her having disobeyed the positive command of God, and adopted a male disguise, which in His eyes was abomination, but which in her wild desire to save Alvar she had completely overlooked, and she now in consequence shrunk from the fatal garb with agony and loathing. Yet despite the haggard look of intense mental and bodily suffering, the loss of her lovely hair, which she had cut close to her head, lest by the merest chance its length and luxuriance should discover her, so exquisite, so touching, was her delicate loveliness, that her very judges, stern, unbending as was their nature, looked on her with an admiration almost softening them to mercy.
And now, for the first time, Alvar’s manly composure seemed about to desert him. He, too, had suffered almost as herself, save that her devotedness, her love, appeared to give him strength, to endow him with courage, even to look upon her fate, blended as it now was with his own, with calmness in that merciful God who called him thus early to Himself. Almah could not realize such thoughts. But one image was ever present, seeming to mock her very misery to madness. Her effort had failed; had she not so wildly sought her husband’s escape—had she but waited—they might have released him; and now, what was she but his murderess?
Little passed between the prisoners and their judges. Their guilt was all-sufficiently proved by their endeavours to escape, which in itself was a crime always visited by death; and for these manifold sins and misdemeanours they were sentenced to be burnt alive, on All Saints’ day, in the grand square of the Inquisition, at nine o’clock in the morning, and proclamation commanded to be made throughout Lisbon, that all who sought to witness and assist at the ceremony should receive remission of sins, and be accounted worthy servants of Jesus Christ. The lesser severity of strangling the victims before burning was denied them, as they neither repented nor had trusted to the justice and clemency of the Holy Office, but had attempted to avert a deserved fate by flight.
Not a muscle of Alvar’s fine countenance moved during this awful sentence. He stood proudly and loftily erect, regarding those that spake with an eye, bright, stern, unflinching as their own; but a change passed over it as, breaking from the guard around, Almah flung herself on her knees at his feet.
“Alvar! Alvar! I have murdered—my husband, oh, my husband, say you forgive—forgive—”
“Hush, hush, beloved! mine own heroic Almah, fail not now!” he answered, with a calm and tender seriousness, which seeming to still that crushing agony, strengthened her to bear; and raising her, he pressed her to his breast.
“We have but to die as we have lived, my own! true to that God whose chosen and whose firstborn we are, have been, and shall be unto death, aye, and beyond it. He will protect our poor orphan, for He has promised the fatherless shall be His care. Look up, my beloved, and say you can face death with Alvar, calmly, faithfully, as you sought to live for him. God has chosen for us a better heritage than one of earth.”
She raised her head from his bosom; the terror and the agony had passed from that sweet face—it was tranquil as his own.
“It was not my own death I feared,” she said, unfalteringly, “it was but the weakness of human love; but it is over now. Love is mightier than death; there is only love in heaven.”
“Aye!” answered Alvar, and proudly and sternly he waved back the soldiers who had hurried forward to divide them. “Men of a mistaken and bloody creed, behold how the scorned and persecuted Israelites can love and die. While there was a hope that we could serve our God, the Holy and the only One, better in life than in death, it was our duty to preserve that life, and endure torture for His sake, rather than reveal the precious secret of our sainted faith and heavenly heritage. But now that hope is at an end, now that no human means can save us from the doom pronounced, know ye have judged rightly of our creed. We are those chosen children of God, by you deemed blasphemous and heretic. Do what ye will, men of blood and guile, ye cannot rob us of our faith.”
The impassioned tones of natural eloquence awed even the rude crowd around; but more was not permitted. Rudely severed, and committed to their own guards, the prisoners were borne to their respective dungeons. To Almah, those earnest words had been as the voice of an angel, hushing every former pang to rest; and in the solitude and darkness of the intervening hours, even the thought of her child could not rob her soul of its calm, or prayer of its strength.
The first of November, 1755, dawned cloudless and lovely, as it had been the last forty days. Never had there been a season more gorgeous in its sunny splendour, more brilliant in the intense azure of its arching heaven than the present. Scarcely any rain had fallen for many months, and the heat had at first been intolerable, but within the last six weeks a freshness and coolness had infused the atmosphere and revived the earth.
As it was not a regular auto da fé (Alvar and his wife being the only victims), the awful ceremony of burning was to take place in the square, of which the buildings of the Inquisition formed one side. Mass had been performed before daybreak, in the chapel of the Inquisition, at which the victims were compelled to be present, and about half-past seven the dread procession left the Inquisition gates. The soldiers and minor servitors marched first, forming a hollow square, in the centre of which were the stakes and huge faggots piled around. Then came the sacred cross, covered with a black veil, and its body-guard of priests. The victims, each surrounded by monks, appeared next, closely followed by the higher officers and inquisitors, and a band of fifty men, in rich dresses of black satin and silver, closed the procession.
We have no space to linger on the ceremonies always attendant on the burning of Inquisitorial prisoners. Although, from the more private nature of the rites, these ceremonies were greatly curtailed, it was rather more than half an hour after nine when the victims were bound to their respective stakes, and the executioners approached with their blazing brands.
There was no change in the countenance of either prisoner. Pale they were, yet calm and firm; all of human feeling had been merged in the martyr’s courage, and the martyr’s faith.
One look had been exchanged between them—of love spiritualized to look beyond the grave—of encouragement to endure for their God, even to the end. The sky was still cloudless, the sun still looked down on that scene of horror; and then was a hush—a pause—for so it felt in nature, that stilled the very breathing of those around.
“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One—the Sole and Holy One; there is no unity like His unity!” were the words which broke that awful pause, in a voice distinct, unfaltering, and musical as its wont; and it was echoed by the sweet tones from woman’s lips, so thrilling in their melody, the rudest nature started. It was the signal of their fate. The executioners hastened forward, the brands were applied to the turf of the piles, the flames burst up beneath their hand—when at that moment there came a shock as if the very earth were cloven asunder, the heavens rent in twain. A crash so loud, so fearful, so appalling, as if the whole of Lisbon had been shivered to its foundations, and a shriek, or rather thousands and thousands of human voices, blended in one wild-piercing cry of agony and terror, seeming to burst from every quarter at the self-same instant, and fraught with universal woe. The buildings around shook, as impelled by a mighty whirlwind, though no sound of such was heard. The earth heaved, yawned, closed, and rocked again, as the billows of the ocean were lashed to fury. It was a moment of untold horror. The crowd assembled to witness the martyr’s death fled, wildly shrieking, on every side. Scattered to the heaving ground, the blazing piles lay powerless to injure; their bonds were shivered, their guards were fled. One bound brought Alvar to his wife, and he clasped her in his arms. “God, God of Mercy, save us yet again! Be with us to the end!” he exclaimed, and faith winged the prayer. On, on he sped; up, up, in direction of the heights, where he knew comparative safety lay; but ere he reached them, the innumerable sights and sounds of horror that yawned upon his way! Every street, and square, and avenue was choked with shattered ruins, rent from top to bottom; houses, convents, and churches presented the most fearful aspect of ruin; while every second minute a new impetus seemed to be given to the convulsed earth, causing those that remained still perfect to rock and rend. Huge stones, falling from every crack, were crushing the miserable fugitives as they rushed on, seeking safety they knew not where. The rafters of every roof, wrenched from their fastenings, stood upright a brief while, and then fell in hundreds together, with a crash perfectly appalling. The very ties of nature were severed in the wild search for safety. Individual life alone appeared worth preserving. None dared seek the fate of friends—none dared ask, “Who lives?” in that one scene of universal death.
On, on sped Alvar and his precious burden, on, over the piles of ruins; on, unhurt amidst the shower of stones, which, hurled in the air as easily as a ball cast from an infant’s hand, fell back again laden with a hundred deaths; on, amid the rocking and yawning earth, beholding thousands swallowed up, crushed and maimed, worse than death itself, for they were left to a lingering torture—to die a thousand deaths in anticipating one; on, over the disfigured heaps of dead, and the unrecognised masses of what had once been magnificent and gorgeous buildings. His eye was well-nigh blinded with the shaking and tottering movement of all things animate and inanimate before him; and his path obscured by the sudden and awful darkness, which had changed that bright glowing blue of the sunny sky into a pall of dense and terrible blackness, becoming thicker and denser with every succeeding minute, till a darkness which might be felt, enveloped that devoted city as with the grim shadow of death. His ear was deafened by the appalling sounds of human agony and Nature’s wrath; for now, sounds as of a hundred water-spouts, the dull continued roar of subterranean thunder, becoming at times loud as the discharge of a thousand cannons; at others, resembling the sharp grating sound of hundreds and hundreds of chariots driven full speed over the stones; and this, mingled with the piercing shrieks of women, the hoarser cries and shouts of men, the deep terrible groans of mental agony, and the shriller screams of instantaneous death, had usurped the place of the previous awful stillness, till every sense of those who yet survived seemed distorted and maddened. And Nature herself, convulsed and freed from restraining bonds, appeared about to return to that chaos whence she had leaped at the word of God.
Still, still Alvar rushed forwards, preserved amidst it all, as if the arm of a merciful Providence was indeed around him and his Almah, marking them for life in the very midst of death. Making his rapid way across the ruins of St. Paul’s, which magnificent church had fallen in the first shock, crushing the vast congregation assembled within its walls, Alvar paused one moment, undecided whether to seek the banks of the river or still to make for the western heights. There was a moment’s hush and pause in the convulsion of nature, but Alvar dared not hope for its continuance. Ever and anon the earth still heaved, and houses opened from base to roof and closed without further damage. With a brief fervid cry for continued guidance and protection, scarcely conscious which way in reality he took, and still holding Almah to his bosom—so supernaturally strengthened that the weakness of humanity seemed far from him, Rodriguez hurried on, taking the most open path to the Estrella Hill. An open space was gained, half-way to the summit, commanding a view of the banks of the river and the ruins around. Panting, almost breathless, yet still struggling with his own exhaustion to encourage Almah, Alvar an instant rested, ere he plunged anew into the narrower streets. A shock, violent, destructive, convulsive as the first, flung them prostrate; while the renewed and increased sounds of wailing, the tremendous and repeated crashes on every side, the disappearance of the towers, steeples, and turrets which yet remained, revealed the further destructiveness which had befallen. A new and terrible cry added to the universal horror.
“The sea! the sea!” Alvar sprung to his feet, and, clasped in each other’s arms, he and Almah gazed beneath. Not a breath of wind stirred, yet the river (which being at that point four miles wide appeared like the element they had termed it) tossed and heaved as impelled by a mighty storm—and on it came, roaring, foaming tumbling, as if every bound were loosed; on, over the land to the very heart of the devoted city, sweeping off hundreds in its course, and retiring with such velocity, and so far beyond its natural banks, that vessels were left dry which had five minutes before ridden in water seven fathoms deep. Again and again this phenomenon took place; the vessels in the river, at the same instant, whirled round and round with frightful rapidity, and smaller boats dashed upwards, falling back to disappear beneath the booming waters. As if chained to the spot where they stood, fascinated by this very horror, Alvar and his wife yet gazed; their glance fixed on the new marble quay, where thousands and thousands of the fugitives had congregated, fixed, as if unconsciously foreboding what was to befall. Again the tide rushed in—on, on, over the massive ruins, heaving, raging, swelling, as a living thing; and at the same instant the quay and its vast burthen of humanity sunk within an abyss of boiling waters, into which the innumerable boats around were alike impelled, leaving not a trace, even when the angry waters returned to their channel, suddenly as they had left it, to mark what had been.
“’Twas the voice of God impelled me hither, rather than pausing beside those fatal banks. Almah, my best beloved, bear up yet a brief while more—He will spare and save us as He hath done now. Merciful Providence! Behold another wrathful element threatens to swallow up all of life and property which yet remains. Great God, this is terrible!”
And terrible it was: from three several parts of the ruined city huge fires suddenly blazed up, hissing, crackling, ascending as clear columns of liquid flame; up against the pitchy darkness, infusing it with tenfold horror—spreading on every side—consuming all of wood and wall which the earth and water had left unscathed; wreathing its serpent-like folds in and out the ruins, forming strange and terribly beautiful shapes of glowing colouring; fascinating the eye with admiration, yet bidding the blood chill and the flesh creep. Fresh cries and shouts had marked its rise and progress; but, aghast and stupefied, those who yet survived made no effort to check its way, and on every side it spread, forming lanes and squares of glowing red, flinging its lurid glare so vividly around, that even those on the distant heights could see to read by it; and fearful was the scene that awful light revealed. Now, for the first time, could Alvar trace the full extent of destruction which had befallen. That glorious city, which a few brief hours previous lay reposing in its gorgeous sunlight—mighty in its palaces and towers—in its churches, convents, theatres, magazines, and dwellings—rich in its numberless artizans and stores—lay perished and prostrate as the grim spectre of long ages past, save that the fearful groups yet passing to and fro, or huddled in kneeling and standing masses, some bathed in the red glare of the increasing fires, others black and shapeless—save when a sudden flame flashed on them, disclosing what they were—revealed a strange and horrible PRESENT, yet lingering amid what seemed the shadows of a fearful PAST. Nor was the convulsion of nature yet at an end;—the earth still rocked and heaved at intervals, often impelling the hissing flames more strongly and devouringly forward, and by tossing the masses of burning ruin to and fro, gave them the semblance of a sea of flame. The ocean itself, too, yet rose and sunk, and rose again; vessels were torn from their cables, anchors wrenched from their soundings and hurled in the air—while the warring waters, the muttering thunders, the crackling flames, formed a combination of sounds which, even without their dread adjuncts of human agony and terror, were all-sufficient to freeze the very life-blood, and banish every sense and feeling, save that of stupefying dread.
But human love, and superhuman faith, saved from the stagnating horror. The conviction that the God of his fathers was present with him, and would save him and Almah to the end, never left him for an instant, but urged him to exertions which, had he not had this all-supporting faith, he would himself have deemed impossible. And his faith spake truth. The God of infinite mercy, who had stretched out His own right hand to save, and marked the impotence of the wrath and cruelty of man, was with him still, and, despite of the horrors yet lingering round them, despite of the varied trials, fatigues, and privations attendant on their rapid flight, led them to life and joy, and bade them stand forth the witnesses and proclaimers of His unfailing love, His everlasting providence!
With the great earthquake of Lisbon, the commencement of which our preceding pages have faintly endeavoured to portray, and its terrible effects on four millions of square miles, our tale has no further connection. The third day brought our poor fugitives to Badajoz, where Alvar’s property had been secured. They tarried there only long enough to learn the blessed tidings of Hassan Ben Ahmed’s safe arrival in England with their child; that his faithfulness, in conjunction with that of their agent in Spain, had already safely transmitted the bulk of their property to the English funds; and to obtain Ben Ahmed’s address, forward tidings of their providential escape to him, and proceed on their journey.
An anxious but not a prolonged interval enabled them to accomplish it safely, and once more did the doubly-rescued press their precious boy to their yearning hearts, and feel that conjugal and parental love burned, if it could be, the dearer, brighter, more unspeakably precious, from the dangers they had passed; and not human love alone. The veil of secrecy was removed, they were in a land whose merciful and liberal government granted to the exile and the wanderer a home of peace and rest, where they might worship the God of Israel according to the law he gave; and in hearts like those of Alvar and his Almah, prosperity could have no power to extinguish or deaden the religion of love and faith which adversity had engendered.
The appearance of old Gonzalos and his family in England, a short time after Alvar’s arrival there, removed their last remaining anxiety, and gave them increased cause for thankfulness. Not a member of the merchant’s family, and more wonderful still, not a portion of his property, had been lost amid the universal ruin; and to this very day, his descendants recall his providential preservation by giving, on every returning anniversary of that awful day, certain articles of clothing to a limited number of male and female poor.
Red Rose Villa, and its Inhabitants.
A SKETCH.
On the outskirts of a certain country town, which for euphony we will call Briarstone, from its being situated in one of the most picturesque but least known parts of old England, and almost imbedded in hills and lanes, where the wood or briar-rose grew redundantly, was a certain castellated-looking mansion, glowing with red bricks and bright blue slates, storied with large-paned windows, framed with such fresh green, that it would seem as if the painter’s brush could never have been absent above a month together. The entrance-door, of most aristocratic dimensions, was of bright glazed yellow, never sullied by dust or dimness. Below the portentous-looking circular knocker (Briarstone was yet in happy ignorance of the un-aristocracy of knockers) was a large brass plate, glittering in the sunshine like burning gold, and bearing thereon, in large and dignified letters, as if the name was of such importance in itself that it required no engraver’s ornament, the monosyllables—portentous in their very brevity—Miss Brown. The gravel walk which led up to the imposing flight of steps (white as the most scrupulous care could make them) that the yellow door surmounted, was kept so particularly neat, that the very birds feared to alight upon it, lest they should be swept off for some intrusive leaf or twig, quicker even than their voluntary flight. It was impossible to look upon the exterior of the mansion without being impressed with a grand idea of its as yet invisible interior.
Standing, as Red Rose Villa did, in a spacious garden, full ten minutes’ walk out of the town, it was marvellous how the daily events of this said town became known within its walls, as if a train had been laid—a sort of electrical conductor—to the interior of every dwelling which conveyed back to its starting-place all the information required. However invisible the means of communication, the effects were certain: for Miss Brown knew everything, even before the persons affected knew it themselves.
Now, Miss Brown, though her dignified name appeared on the brass plate solus, was not the sole inmate of this stately mansion by any means. She was, in fact, one of a multitude; for there were times when the capacious walls of Red Rose Villa enshrined no fewer than fifty living souls. The truth must out on our paper, though Miss Brown would have been shocked almost to annihilation had any one suggested the propriety of permitting it to speak on her cherished brass plate—Miss Brown kept a first-rate finishing academy for young ladies of the first families, and a boarding house for all who needed kind friends, cheerful lodgings, and comfortable board. Then she had an English, and a French, and an Italian, and of course a German teacher—all exemplary young women. Masters were rarely admitted, it being a gross impropriety in Miss Brown’s educational code to accustom young ladies to male tuition.
One indeed there was, a Mr. Gilbert Givevoice; but then Miss Brown and his lamented mother had been such friends, that at one time they had thought of becoming another Miss Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler, and causing a sensation by retiring to live on friendship; but, unfortunately, before this could be carried into effect, a Mr. Givevoice appeared, and Miss Brown was left to mourn the inconsistency of those professions which had declared friendship all-sufficient for life. The offence was not forgiven for many years; but when Mrs. Givevoice was left a widow, Miss Brown generously relented, and Gilbert showing some musical talent (magnified by the Briarstonians into marvellous genius), he was gradually installed as music-master general, and aid extraordinary in all the concerns of Red Rose Villa.
Besides five-and-twenty pupils, a dozen boarders, four teachers, and half a dozen servants, Miss Brown was blessed with two brothers and two sisters, to all of whom she had performed most inimitably a mother’s part. Many marvelled that such grown men as Mr. Gustavus and Mr. Adolphus Brown should so contentedly succumb to female domination, and not seek homes for themselves; but petticoat government was so supreme in Red Rose Villa, that even the hint of such a thing would have been far too great a stretch of masculine audacity; and, in fact, they were very well contented where they were. Mr. Adolphus was a banker’s clerk, and was only known at home as going to sleep upon the sofa. Mr. Gustavus had been (according to his own account), at one time, a land-surveyor, at another, an architect, and then an engraver; but he was, he declared, one of the unlucky ones, and so quietly sunk down in his sister’s establishment, as merely a domestic man, who could set his hand to anything. He taught writing and arithmetic, and oriental tinting, and lead tinting, and a variety of finishing accomplishments; and copied music, and invented patterns for all the young lady-boarders who were worth something more than smiles. Mr. Adolphus was always asleep. Mr. Gustavus never seemed to sleep at all; thin as a lath, he was here, there, and everywhere, busying himself in everybody’s concerns, but never succeeding in forwarding his own.
Miss Brown, portly and majestic in carriage as of imperturbable gravity in look, possessed a fund of high-sounding, choice-worded, conversational powers—that is to say, her speech, once entered upon, flowed on in such a continuous gently-murmuring stream, that to break or interrupt it by a rejoinder was utterly impossible. The voice was as imperturbable and unvarying as the face. She was wondrously learned; schooled in the lore of the ancient, and wise in the ways of the modern world. No scheme could be set afloat at Briarstone unless Miss Brown had been consulted; no shop was the fashion unless Miss Brown had patronised; no case of distress worth relieving, unless forwarded by Miss Brown; and, in sober truth, Miss Brown was benevolent—was generous—did the kindest deeds imaginable; but as she never left her pinnacle of ice to look into human hearts, lest their warmth should thaw hers, she received neither the regard nor esteem which her sterling qualities in reality merited. Miss Wilhelmina Brown was her antipodes—all sweetness—all graciousness—all fascination! Miss Brown was learned, and not accomplished; Miss Wilhelmina accomplished, and not learned. Miss Brown was all sobriety, Miss Wilhelmina all smiles. At thirty, she learnt the harp; at five-and-thirty the guitar; at forty, she discovered she had a voice, and could sing inimitably—all the Briarstone soirées said so, and of course it must be true. Whole scenes from the French tragedians—stanzas from Dante—long lines from Schiller—Miss Wilhelmina would recite with such pathos, such expression, there was no occasion to understand the languages to enter into such charming recitations. English poetry was not ventured upon: Byron and Moore were charming, certainly; but then her sister’s responsible position—she dared not admit them upon the drawing-room tables of Red Rose Villa—she could only indulge herself strictly in private.
Miss Angelica, the youngest of the family by some years, was different to either sister. Nature had not been very bountiful in the powers of the brain, but, in their stead, had endowed her with powers of housewifery in no common degree. She managed all the domestic concerns of this human Noah’s ark as no one else could. From morning till night she was moving; so overlooking every department, that at the farthest sound of her footsteps (none of the lightest, for Miss Angelica was as short and stout as Miss Wilhelmina was tall and languidly slim) every brush and broom seemed endowed with double velocity. Jingle, jingle, went a huge bunch of keys—pat, pat, her substantial feet, from kitchen to attic—scullery to roof. Even if she sat down, her fingers continued the same perpetual motion, in the creation of sundry caps, bonnets, head-dresses—all the paraphernalia of female elegancies. No one dressed so becomingly as the Misses Brown; and Miss Angelica was considered the originator and inventor of fashions which all Briarstone followed.
The pupils were like most misses in their teens. Originality of character always succumbed to system in Red Rose Villa. Miss Brown’s was a finishing academy for manners as well as morals; and so in the weekly soirées of her mansion, the young ladies, by alternate eights, appeared in the drawing-room, dressed very becomingly, to sit down and smile, and answer in monosyllables; to play their last specimen of Herz or Thalberg, or sing their last bravura, or make one in a quadrille; but in all they did to bear witness to the admirable code of tuition and government carried out in Red Rose Villa.
The boarders presented a variety of characters; but as our sketch only extends over one evening, we can merely mention them generally. Officers’ widows, on half-pay, who, by a residence in Miss Brown’s establishment, combined first-rate education for their daughters, and society for themselves; ancient spinsters, who had not given up the idea of becoming middle-aged matrons, well knowing that Miss Brown’s philanthropic disposition gave them opportunities for the cultivation of the tender passion, when any one else would have imagined the time for such juvenilities was over. In the fortnightly soirées, one, two, or three pairs of lovers were always found among Miss Brown’s guests—unfortunates, whose interminable engagements, from pecuniary difficulties, or the stern dissent of cruel guardians, would have seemed hopeless to all, but for the energetic encouragement of the benevolent Miss Brown, who always acted on the idea
“Passion, I see, is catching.”
And, still more urgent reason, never did a wedding party issue from the well-glazed portals of Red Rose Villa (and such events did really occur) but an accession of pupils and boarders immediately followed.
Amongst the boarders were two young ladies, sisters’ children, and both orphans, but the similitude went no further. Isabel Morland, the eldest by two years, was a sparkling brunette—satirical—clever; eccentric in habits, uneven in temper, and capricious as the wind. But what did all this signify? She was an heiress; and, reckoning according to the estimation of Briarstone, a rich one. She had been a pupil, and her love of display, and coquetry, and determination to get a husband, had occasioned her resolve to remain with a family whom in heart she detested, rather than reside with the only relations she possessed, old respectable folks in the country. She had sense enough to know that her fortune, inexhaustible as it seemed in Briarstone, would not endow her with the smallest consequence elsewhere. And though so highly gifted by nature as, had she selected the society of superior minds, to have become both estimable and happy; yet her love of power—of feeling herself superior to any one with whom she associated—made her voluntarily become a member of a family whom she lost no opportunity of turning into objects of satire and abuse; receiving the marked attentions of Mr. Gustavus Brown so graciously, when no better offered, as to give him every hope of ultimate success; but cold, distant, and disdainful, at the remotest chance of achieving a more desirable conquest.
Very different was Laura Gascoigne. Unusually retiring in manner, the peculiar charm hovering around her could better be felt than described. Possessing neither the wit nor the cleverness, or, as Coleridge so happily expresses it, “the brain in the hand,” which characterised her cousin, she had judgment, feeling, thought—the rare power of concentration, which enabled her to succeed in all she attempted—the quiet, persevering energy which leads to completion, even in the simplest trifles, and prevents all mere superficial acquirement. Perhaps early sorrow had deepened natural characteristics. From the time her mother became widowed, no pen can describe the devotedness which was the tie between them. The failing health of Mrs. Gascoigne had, during the last year of her life, compelled a residence in the south of England; and, when in the neighbourhood of Briarstone, the real kindness to the mother and daughter received from the Misses Brown induced Laura, after Mrs. Gascoigne’s death, to make their house her home, till she could decide on her future plans. She was indeed lonely upon earth; and the straitened means which had urged her to teach many hours in the day, to supply her mother with luxuries and comforts, by stamping them as poor, prevented her being known in those circles where her gentle virtues would have gained her real appreciating friends.
All that she had sacrificed in her filial devotion even her mother never knew, though that mighty sacrifice had been made full two years before her death. An invalid, whose life might pass from night till morning with none on earth to love and tend her but her child, Laura could not leave her. And when she had said this, her lover, in all the jealous irritation of an angry, passionate nature, reproached her that she did not, could not love him, else every other consideration would be waived—that the reports of her affections having been transferred to another were true, and therefore it was better they should part. She had meekly left him to resume her sad duties by her mother’s side, and they had never met again. She knew he had been on the eve of leaving England for an honourable appointment in the West Indies, to which he had been nominated. But the wish would rise that he would write; he could not continue in anger towards her; time must show the purity, the justice, of her motive in her refusal, at such a moment, to leave England. And gladly would she have remained in one spot, hoping, believing on; but her mother needed constant change, and they had gone from place to place, that perhaps, even if he had written, no letter could have reached her. Three years had passed; and if the hope to prove her truth still lingered, the expectation had indeed long gone. And so Laura’s early youth had passed, with not one flower cast upon it save those her own sweet disposition gave. Miss Brown’s establishment was not, indeed, a congenial home; but she had her own room, her own pursuits; and though often yearning—how intensely!—for sympathy and intellectual companionship, could be thankful and contented. She could not love the Miss Browns, but she respected their sterling qualities, and regretted their eccentricities; and so found some good point to dilate on when others quizzed and laughed at them, that her presence always checked ill-nature.
“What is the cause of all this unusual confusion and excitement, Isabel?” inquired Laura one morning, entering her cousin’s apartment; “do enlighten me. You always know everything as thoroughly as Miss Brown herself.”
“And you always know nothing, my most rustic cousin. Fortunate for you, you have so superior a person as myself to come to. There is to be a grand assembly in the lower regions to-night, and so of course sweet Wilhelmina is practising and tuning enough to terrify away all harmony, and Angelica is buried in all the mysteries of supper craft. Don’t look unbelieving, it is true.”
“And it is Wednesday, not Saturday, Isabel.”
“Granted, Laura; but such a grand event as receiving a baronet and his sister demands everything uncommon, even to a change of night. It would be doing him no honour to receive him on a usual soirée night. Learned Lucretia is deep in the last novel and this month’s most fashionable magazine. Folks report that Sir Sydney Harcourt likes literary conversation. I mean to try if Isabel Morland will not have more effect in captivating than the three graces, Lucretia, Wilhelmina, and Angelica altogether, backed by their whole corps of spinsters and schoolgirls. What has seized you, Laura, that you do not scold me, as usual, for my self-conceit? Do you begin to feel it is breath wasted? My dear, you shall see me in perfection to-night. Sir Sydney shall not depart heart-whole from Briarstone, though he does look as if nobody within it could be worth speaking to.”
Isabel was standing before a large mirror, much too engrossed in admiring her own face and studying various attitudes, and the best mode of arranging her glossy black hair, to notice how strangely and fitfully Laura’s colour varied, and the voice in which she said, “Sir Sydney Harcourt, is he a new resident at Briarstone?” was not sufficiently agitated to cause remark, save to a much quicker perception than Isabel’s.
“Yes, within the last few days; such a sensation has his arrival made, you must have heard of it even in your sanctum.”
“My dear Isabel, have I not been staying out the last fortnight, and only returned last night?”
“Oh, by-the-bye, so you have.”
“How much you must have missed me!”
“I did the first few days; but, my good child, how could I think of anything but the new lion, splendid as he is, too? He is only here for a month. Will you dare me to the field, Laura, to make that month two, or six, or something more into the bargain?”
“No, Isabel, you need no daring. Only remember your own peace may be endangered too.”
“My peace! my dear foolish child. I shall see Sir Sydney at my feet long before any such catastrophe. Lady Harcourt! how well it sounds!”
“And Mr. Brown, Isabel?”
“The wretch! we have quarrelled irretrievably.”
“And when I left you were giving him every encouragement you could.”
“Nonsense, Laura. You are always preaching of my giving encouragement. The poor wretch would die in despair if I did not relent sometimes.”
“Better, as I have always told you, put an end to his attentions at once. I am certain he would cease to persecute, if you did not encourage him, as you know you do.”
“I know I do. Poor dear Gussy—he is very well, when I can get no one else.”
“But indeed, Isabel, you are very wrong; your manner to him is the talk of every one.”
“I do not care for what every one thinks, as I have told you hundreds of times. I will just pursue my own inclination, whether the world approve of it or not. What is the world to me? You cannot possibly imagine I mean ever to become Mrs. Brown. Why, the very name is enough to make me drown myself first. No, I am free to receive all Sir Sydney’s attentions, which I fully mean to win. You know I have some power, Laura.”
“To attract, but not to keep, Isabel.”
“Laura, if you were not a thorough simpleton, I should say you had designs on Sir Sydney yourself. Come, will you run a tilt with me for him? I will be generous, and keep back some of my fascinations, that we may try as equals, if you will.”
“Thank you for the proposal, but it would hardly be fair. You will burst upon Sir Sydney in the freshness and brilliancy of novelty, in addition to all your other attractions. I have not even novelty to befriend me, for I rather think I have met him before.”
“Sir Sydney Harcourt! How sly of you not to tell me all this time. When?—how?—where?”
“How could I tell you before, Isabel, when you have scarcely given me breathing space?”
“But do you know anything of his former life? Report says he was jilted by a poor insignificant girl, and has been a professed woman-hater ever since. I do believe there he is in his curricle. What a splendid set-out!—do look, Laura. Stay—I shall see him better in the next room.”
And to the next room she flew, so engrossed with Sir Sydney’s splendid driving that she did not perceive that Laura had not accepted the invitation, but had quietly retired to her own room.
“Miss Gascoigne, I trust you will join us to-night. I expect the honour of Sir Sydney Harcourt’s and his accomplished sister’s company. Your manners and appearance are so completely comme il faut that they will, no doubt, be glad to meet you. I do not approve of young ladies hunting after gaiety and dissipation; but it is a great advantage to mix in such society as I can offer you to-night. I shall expect to see you, of course,” and without waiting for a reply—for such a thing as dissent to Miss Brown’s commands was not to be thought of—Miss Brown, or learned Lucretia, in Isabel Morland’s phraseology, majestically floated onwards.
“Laura, my sweet Laura, play over the accompaniment to this luscious ‘Ah te o cara.’ Mr. Givevoice will be here to-night, so I shall not want you; but now, if you will assist me, you will do me such a favour. The music is so mellifluous, it will quite repay you for the trouble.” And Laura complied, regretting most sincerely that a person possessing such real sense and goodness as Miss Wilhelmina should so expose herself to ridicule, but feeling that, young as she was, it was more her duty to bear with folly than reprove it.
“Laura, dear, put the finishing bows to Lucretia’s cap for me, there’s a love. I have such innumerable things to see after and get done before seven o’clock to-night, that I have no time to breathe.”
“You are always busy, my dear Miss Angelica. I wish you would make me of use. I shall finish this in ten minutes; so you had better give me something else to do.”
“You are the best girl in the world, Laura, my dear; but you can’t assist me in household concerns. No one can; they worry me to death—but I don’t grow thin upon them, that’s one comfort. Come, I am glad you are smiling, Laura, my dear. What a pity you are not more merry. By-the-bye, you may help me very much—I shall never get through the tea-making all by myself.”
“Let me take it off your hands entirely. I will with pleasure.”
“Thank you—thank you, my dear; but nothing would go right if I were not there too, depend upon it. If there is not Molly only going now to dust the rooms—the lazy huzzy!” and off trotted Miss Angelica, to scold and dust by turns.
The evening at length arrived. Confusion and noise, and sundry domestic jars, had subsided into silence and solemnity actually portentous. The pupils, with the exception of six most highly favoured, had been dismissed to their dormitories, and the schoolroom fitted up for the supper, which, under Miss Angelica’s auspices in the culinary department, Miss Wilhelmina’s in the elegant arrangement of fruit and flowers, and Miss Lucretia’s in the selection of sweets and solids least hurtful to the gastronomic and digestive powers, was to be unequalled.
In the front drawing-room the Misses and Messrs. Brown and their train of boarders sat in imposing state. The covers had all been removed from the couches, chairs-lounges, ottomans, etc., displaying a variety of embroidery by the fair fingers of Miss Wilhelmina, and the splendid designs of Mr. Gustavus. The harp was uncovered; the guitar, with its broad blue ribbon, laid carelessly on the grand piano-forte, which was open; and at his post on the music-stool sat Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, fair and famous, smiling very sweetly on his tall pupil, Miss Wilhelmina, who was in earnest conversation by his side. Miss Brown was on the sofa, looking wiser and grander than ever. A vacant place was left beside her, which no one thought of taking, for that it was designed for Miss Harcourt being as well known as if the name had been chalked up on the wall behind. Presently all the presentable inhabitants of Briarstone flocked in, attired in their very best, and satisfying Miss Brown as to the imposing appearance of her saloon. The back drawing-room, somewhat less brilliantly lighted, was occupied, as usual, by three or four sets of lovers. The blue room opened from it, and Laura was there ensconced as Miss Angelica’s aid extraordinary. The door being thrown open permitted a full view of the two drawing-rooms and all their proceedings, though from the blue room occupying a sort of angular corner, its inmates could not even be observed. Isabel Morland, looking actually dazzling from her becoming dress and indescribable tournure, had chosen to settle down into a regular flirtation with a Mr. Manby, a young man she sometimes deigned to notice, at others deemed too little even to be visible. Mr. Gustavus looked black as a thunder-cloud; his thin form moving in and out the circle, but always hovering nearest Isabel, who took no more notice of him than of his vacant chair.
At length the magic words, “Sir Sydney and Miss Harcourt,” were pronounced, and the door flung back as if its very hinges should suffer martyrdom to do them honour; and the whole roomful rose, as by one movement, except Isabel, who carelessly remained seated. Then came sundry flourishes and introductions, and mutual bows and curtseys, till Miss Harcourt fairly sank down on her seat of honour, casting a rueful glance at her brother, who returned it with one so irresistibly comic, that Isabel, to whom alone the look was visible, was compelled to smile too. Sir Sydney, whose eye was wandering round the room, caught the look, eagerly bowed recognition, and in another minute was at her side, leaving Mr. Gustavus with half his tale untold.
That Sir Sydney was handsome, and had all the ease and elegance of a polished gentleman, there could not be two opinions about; but there was something more about him, no one could exactly define what. He was too well bred to be haughty or repulsive when he had quite willingly accepted Miss Brown’s invitation; yet he certainly did not seem in his element. He did smile and talk well; but Miss Wilhelmina whispered to an intimate friend to observe how very melancholy his countenance was when at rest; she was certain he was not a happy man, and what could be the reason? Miss Harcourt was pronounced, after a trial of ten minutes, a most charming, accomplished, elegant girl; she was in reality merely an unaffected, genteel, quiet, little personage, without any pretension whatever, and somewhat past what she deemed girlhood.
The evening proceeded most harmoniously. Tea was accomplished elegantly, under Miss Angelica’s active surveillance. She was in the blue room, back and front drawing-rooms, so quickly, one after the other, that she seemed gifted with ubiquity for the evening. Then Miss Brown proposed music and dancing; she thought they were such delectable adjuncts to young people’s amusement—such social pleasure, etc.; to all of which Miss Harcourt gracefully assented. She would be happy to perform her part; her brother seldom danced. A general lamentation followed. What a loss to the dancers: perhaps he would prefer music; they could offer him some very passable; and a concert commenced, in appearance very naturally given, but, in reality performed in exact accordance with well-cogitated arrangements beforehand.
Whether Sir Sydney benefited by the succession of “sweet sounds,” or not, remained a problem; as Isabel, to Miss Brown, and Mr. Gustavus’s excessive annoyance, kept him so exclusively her attendant, that it required all his acquaintance with worldy tact to save him from rudeness to his hostesses, at the same time that he fully encouraged his companion. The only thought Isabel could spare from Sir Sydney, was for Laura to witness her triumph; but Laura was nowhere to be seen. If Isabel could have known that her cousin saw her and Sir Sydney too, and the sickness of heart that vision gave, she might have triumphed more.
Dancing was at length accomplished, and Sir Sydney actually joined in it, dancing two quadrilles successively with Isabel, and then remaining standing with her, leaning against the piano, in such apparent earnest conversation as allowed attention to nothing else. Mr. Manby and several other beaux of Briarstone, whom Isabel never disdained at the public balls, when none superior were to be had, came in humble adoration entreating the honour of her hand. The toss of the head and curl of the lip with which they were refused elicited an expression in Sir Sydney’s eye and very handsome mouth which must have startled Isabel, had she not been too engrossed with her own apparent conquest to perceive it.
“Sydney, you are wrong,” whispered Miss Harcourt, as Isabel, for an instant, disappeared to find a musical album on which she very much prided herself.
“Mary, I am right,” was the reply. “If young ladies choose to play the coquette, it is but fair in us to pay them back in their own coin. How ungracious I should be to let all these graceful arts be wasted.”
Miss Harcourt still looked disapproval, but further rejoinder was impossible; for Isabel, flushed with conquest, had returned, more animated and engrossing than before.
“Of course you sing, Miss Morland?”
“No, Sir Sydney; I abhor all pretension; and as I knew I could never sing like a professor, I never attempted it.”
“Pardon me, but I think you are wrong. There can be no necessity for private performers to equal professors; indeed I would banish all Italian bravuras from private rooms.”
“You will think my brother a sad Goth, Miss Morland; but he prefers a simple English ballad to anything else.”
“I admire his taste; but you surely do not think ballad-singing an easily-accomplished matter?”
“Easy enough for any one with natural feeling,” replied Sir Sydney, somewhat hastily, “and with boldness sufficient to express it. I would rather hear ‘Go, forget me,’ as I have heard it, than the finest Italian scena by a prima donna.”
“I am delighted, Sir Sydney, that we have it in our power to afford you that gratification,” energetically interposed Miss Wilhelmina. The baronet made her a graceful bow, looking at his sister, however, with eyes that plainly said, “Save me from this.”
“Laura!” (Sir Sydney actually started, but recovered himself so rapidly that the sudden flushing of his brow was unremarked even by Isabel.) “Dear me, where can the dear girl have hid herself? I assure you, Sir Sydney, though she sings very seldom, she is considered first-rate in English ballads,” and away gracefully glided Miss Wilhelmina in search of her.
“Who is this ‘dear girl,’ Miss Morland? Can she really sing that song? I would rather she chose any other,” said Sir Sydney in a tone almost of irritation.
Isabel looked up with one of her most mischievous smiles, which recalled him instantly to his artificial self; but before he could rally sufficiently to speak again, Miss Wilhelmina’s voice, in its most dulcet tones of encouragement, was close beside him.
“Come, Laura, my dear; we are all friends, you know—no one to be afraid of. Sir Sydney is so particularly partial to ‘Go, forget me:’ I am sure you will favour him.”
“Or any other song the young lady likes. I would not be so arbitrary as to select for her,” he exclaimed, springing up, with gentlemanly politeness, to relieve Miss Wilhelmina of the music-book she carried, and, as he took it from her, coming in close contact with the fair girl behind her, whom her flowing drapery had till then completely concealed.
“Laura! Miss Gascoigne! Is it possible?” he articulated, in a tone which, though suppressed, must, to any perception less obtuse than the Misses Brown’s, have betrayed intense emotion; but Miss Wilhelmina only read casual acquaintanceship, and supposed an introduction had taken place in the early part of the evening. Laura bowed, Sir Sydney thought, coldly, and quietly passed on to the piano. The song was selected and sung. She had often been heard before, but her voice had never seemed the same as at that moment. It might have been that what a baronet and his sister listened to with such interest, that the former had moved himself some distance from Miss Morland’s fascinations to look at and listen to the singer unobserved, must be of greater value than it had ever before been supposed, or that there really was some spell in the song which Laura had never been heard to sing before (Miss Wilhelmina, seeing it amongst her music, had spoken on supposition merely); but it fell upon the most thoughtless, the most obtuse, with such unaccountable power, that even when the strain ceased, the sudden and unusual hush continued, until rudely broken by Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert Givevoice clapping their hands most vehemently, exciting an uproar of applause, under which Laura tried to make her escape, but she was prevented by the friendly advance of Miss Harcourt, who, with both hands extended, exclaimed, so as to be heard by all, “Miss Gascoigne, will you permit me to thank you for your beautiful song and claim your acquaintance in the same breath? We have, in truth, never met before; but if you knew me as well as I know you from report, we should be friends—nay more, allies—already. You need not look so very terrified,” she added, with laughing earnestness; “I am not a very formidable person, though my want of ceremony may really be rather startling; but I am so glad to have found you, that I must entreat Miss Brown’s kind permission to excuse me, if I do forget everybody but you for a little while.”
Her ready tact met with the rejoinder she desired: she was entreated by all the sisters to make herself quite at home; they were delighted she should know their dear Laura. The blue room was quite deserted, and they could chat there quite comfortably; and to the blue room Miss Harcourt eagerly led her companion, who so trembled that she feared for the continuance of her composure. The door was not closed; to do so would have occasioned remark; but, as we said before, the room was so situated for its inmates to be completely retired from all observation.
Isabel Morland was furious. She had seen Sir Sydney’s suppressed emotion, and, with the quickness of thought, connected that and Miss Harcourt’s eager address with the floating rumours of Sir Sydney’s early life; but that her insignificant, unfashionable cousin, could be the heroine of the tale, and retain such hold of his recollection as to drive all her present fascinations from his mind, was a degradation not to be passively endured; in fact, it was impossible—she would not think about it—Sir Sydney should be caught yet; but at present there certainly was little hope of it. He had deserted her, and was in earnest, if not agitated, conversation with Miss Lucretia and Miss Wilhelmina Brown, who were listening and answering, and then gradually entering into detail, with so much interest, that all superficial folly gave way, for the time, before the real goodness of heart which they in general so strenuously contrived to conceal.
“Disagreeable, designing old women!” Isabel thought, “what can he see in them to hold his attention so chained? He shall not listen any longer,” and she glided close to the sofa where the two were seated. Sir Sydney rose, and offered her his seat. No; she would rather stand. Sir Sydney bowed, and quietly sat down again. Something seemed the matter with Isabel’s bracelet; she clasped and unclasped it vehemently, but the movement did not disturb the earnest conversation, which Sir Sydney, in a low voice, still continued. The trinket broke, and fell at his feet. He gracefully raised and presented it, regretting the accident, and turned again to the Misses Brown. An exclamation of “What could have become of her beautiful bouquet?” was the young lady’s next effort to recall the deserter to his allegiance; but Sir Sydney did not even seem to hear it, or, if he did, before he could make a move to seek it, it was presented to her by the officious Gussy, with a most malicious bow. Isabel did not quite throw it at his head, as inclination prompted, but in a very few seconds every flower lay in fragments at her feet; one beautiful exotic fell, uninjured, so close to Miss Wilhelmina, that she raised it with an expression of lamentation; but Isabel snatched it from her, and hastily stamped her pretty little foot upon it, with such a very unequivocal expression of temper, that Sir Sydney almost unconsciously fixed an astonished gaze upon her. It was too much to be borne quietly; she turned angrily away, sauntering through the rooms, deigning to hold converse with none, and would have so far sacrificed all propriety, as to enter the blue room to solve the mystery at once, had not Laura and Miss Harcourt at that instant reappeared. The countenance of the latter bore such evident traces of emotion, spite of the strong control she was practising, that Isabel was on the point of making some bitterly satirical remark, but those dark reproving eyes were again upon her, and Sir Sydney spoke before she did; but it was to Laura, not to her.
“Has my sister pleaded in vain, or may I indeed claim an old friend—and forgiveness?” he added, speaking the last word in so low a tone as only to be heard by his sister, Laura, and Isabel. Laura’s lip so quivered, that no word would come; but her hand was unhesitatingly placed in that which Sir Sydney so eagerly extended, and her eyes met his. He drew her arm in his, and led her, to all appearance, so easily and naturally to a quadrille that was forming, that few suspected more than that they had been old friends; and how strange it was they should meet there and then; and, if he should talk to her, and make her sing twice again, during the short remainder of the evening, it was nothing remarkable!
Isabel had thrown herself moodily on one of the sofas in the blue room, half concealed by the curtains of the window, trying, in vain, to connect Sir Sydney’s conduct and the report of his former life. It seemed clear enough, but she would not believe it. There was nothing in his manner but old acquaintanceship; she would conquer him yet. How could Laura vie with her? Alas, for the delusion! Miss Harcourt’s shawl, by the provident care of Miss Angelica, had been brought to the blue room, and there, with Laura, she repaired; the Misses Brown, in trio, assembled to do them great honour; and Isabel remained wholly unperceived. After being well shawled, Miss Harcourt disappeared with her body-guard of Browns. Sir Sydney, who had come ostensibly to hurry her, lingered—
“Laura! my own beloved! forgiven—loved through all! How could I doubt—how could I make myself and you so miserable? Can I ever repay you, even by a long life of love? If you but knew the remorse, the wretchedness I have endured, you would forgive still more,” were the somewhat incoherent sentences that fell distinctly on Isabel’s ear; and, though there was no answer, no words, she could see Sir Sydney’s arm thrown round her cousin, and that she shrunk not from his parting kiss. Another moment, and both had disappeared; Sir Sydney to take such farewell of the really worthy women who had befriended his Laura, that he left them in perfect raptures; and Laura to fly to the security of her own room, where, burying her face in her hands, the tears burst forth like a torrent, giving relief, vent, calm to a heart which, though so sustained in grief, had been so unused to joy, that its presence had well-nigh prevented its realization.
Our readers must imagine all the various crosses and vexatious contretemps which had prevented Sir Sydney Harcourt from discovering Laura, as he had so ardently desired to do; for ours is a mere sketch, not a tale. They must recollect he had, only the last six months, returned from the West Indies, a residence in which had entirely frustrated his wishes for a reconciliation, even by a letter; for, as we have said before, Mrs. Gascoigne’s constant removals had prevented the possibility of any letter from such a distance finding them. When he had first loved her he was dependent on a coarse-minded worldly relation, to whom an affection for a poor girl dared not be breathed. He had sought an appointment abroad, to escape a matrimonial connection which was being forced upon him, and he had wished Laura to consent to a private marriage, and accompany him abroad as the companion of his sister, who preferred daring the miseries of the West Indies with her brother, to remaining in England without him. Sir Sydney (then plain Sydney Harcourt, with little hope of the baronetcy and independence for many years), naturally of a fiery and somewhat jealous temper, materially increased from the privations and checks he was constantly enduring, chose to believe Laura’s calm, reasoning indifference, and her refusal to leave her ailing mother, only a cover to reject his affection for that of some richer lover. Time, his sister’s representations, and the bitter pain of separation cooled these unjust suspicions, and he only recollected Laura’s look of suffering and tone of suppressed agony, with which she had bade him farewell.
The unexpected demise of his relation, the baronetcy, and a moderate independency recalling him to England much sooner than he had dreamed of, every effort was put in force to find Laura, but in vain, till chance led him to Briarstone, and some magnetic instinct urged him to accept an invitation which it was more in his nature to have travelled some miles to avoid. He always declared his belief in mesmeric influences henceforward.
Isabel’s schemes to prevent the course of true love from running smooth were fruitless. The old adage had already had its more than quantum of fulfilment, and Laura Gascoigne became Lady Harcourt before she was two months older. The delight and self-complacency of the Misses Brown were beyond description; Miss Lucretia looked grander, Miss Wilhelmina more gracious, and Miss Angelica more bustling than ever. An accession of pupils and boarders was almost the immediate consequence of Laura’s marriage, and the fair fame of Red Rose Villa was so well established, as fortunately to receive no diminution from an affair which so scandalized Miss Brown, that she herself could not rally from it for months. After alternately encouraging Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, till each gentleman so believed himself the favoured individual as to be ready to call his rival out, if he dared to deny it, Isabel Morland, one fine summer morning, eloped with an Italian emigrant count, who, much against Miss Brown’s ideas of propriety, she would have to teach her Italian, leaving both lovers in the somewhat disagreeable predicament of having been most egregiously deceived and laughed at, at the very moment they were anticipating the gold, far more than the hand, of an heiress; and as such was the origin of their dreams and the source of their disappointment, we can better forgive Isabel’s conduct to them, than we can her conduct to herself. Alas, indeed, for those whom Nature has so gifted, and over whom principle has no sway!
2. A fact.