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 acting5. “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 peril6 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 heeded7 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 perfectly9 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 agonizing10 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 fervent12 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 condemned13 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 piety14, 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 humility15, our readers of every class and grade, to recall any one single instance in which parental16 violence and severity, even coupled with malediction17, 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 engrossed18 her so much—that it was as distinct from him temporally as from herself. A rude shock awakened19 her from this dream, and oh, so fearfully! The wild tumult20 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 mingled21 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 soothing22 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 elasticity23, and consequent impatience24 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 stagnant25, it seemed as it were, the power of prayer was gone—there could be no darker woes26 in store. Perhaps her very determination to conceal27 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 respite28.
“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 indifference29 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 misery30 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 mere31 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 Christian32, 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 kindly33 terms. Ruth’s appeal had touched his heart, for the remembrance of his father was as omnipotent34 as his wishes had been during his lifetime. The interests of the brothers, alike temporal as eternal, were, however, too widely severed35 to permit confidence between them, and so they passed on their separate ways; loving perhaps in their inward hearts, but each year apparently36 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 affluence37 and a cessation from all labour, if she liked to join him. We know also that Sarah refused those offers, feeling that both inclination38 and duty bade her remain with the benefactors39 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 distress40, and seriously ill. His suspiciously-amassed riches had been, like his former, partly squandered41 away in unnecessary luxuries for house and palate, and partly sunk in large speculations42, 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 interval43 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 ordained44 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 forsake45 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 mandate46. 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 dissuade47 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 sojourn48. Your duty is indeed trying, but fear not, you will be strengthened to perform it.”
Yet however determined49 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 perseveringly50 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 proffer51 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 earnings52 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 solitary53 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 desolate54, she knew she was not forsaken55. 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 dreary56 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 subdue57 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 alleys58 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 alley59, and hastily to open the one wanted. A long curious stare greeted Sarah, from an old woman, repulsive60 in feature and slovenly61 and dirty in dress, who to Sarah’s faltering62 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 softened63 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 proceeding64 which caused the woman to look at her with increasing astonishment65, and to exclaim, when Sarah was fairly in the dirty miserable66 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 repulsiveness67, 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 hearty68, 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 awe69, “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?” reiterated70 old Esther eagerly.
“In God’s own book, the Bible,” answered Sarah. The old woman’s countenance71 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 presumptuous72.
“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, meekly74, taking the old woman’s withered75 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 steadfastly76 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!” entreated78 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 virtue80, you have come to misery and vice77. As the niece of the worthy81 widow Perez you have been respected, and always found employment; as the daughter of Isaac Levison you will be shunned82, 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 forsook83 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 assail84 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 deserted85; the beloved friends of her youth; the happy hours that were gone; all rose so vividly86 before her, conjuring87 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 ominous88 words. But Sarah was no weak, wavering child of impulse; her principles were steady, her faith was fixed89, and the inward petition arose, with a fervour and faith which gave it power to penetrate90 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 abide91 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 lighter92, 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 recollected93 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 heed8 it, and only made the effort to partake of it, in gratitude94 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 procured95 employment in various humble96 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 literally97 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 lodged98 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 miserably99 attired101, and pale from recent illness. He greeted his daughter with affection, for in the lowest and most debased amongst Israel that redeeming102 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 erase103 from her heart the pang104 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 moroseness105 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 dwelling106 and in her father’s slender wardrobe. To look on him, any one would have believed him a very mendicant107; 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 perseverance108, and the quiet easy way in which she did everything, Esther Cardoza, old, and often ailing109 as she was, did not disdain110 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 ardent111 desire in the old woman’s mind to become thoroughly112 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 treasury113 of promises did Sarah open to her longing114 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 vent11, and which, from their strangeness and laxity, often actually appalled115 her, seemed to her utterly116 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 shuddered117 with agony as she heard it—that awful name, which she never dared pronounce save with reverence118 and love, which should be kept far from all moods and tempers of sin—that name, the holiness of which was enjoined119 as strictly120, 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 irritation121 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 agonized122 supposition that for such as he even the long suffering of an infinitely123 compassionate124 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 exhausted125, 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 vowing126 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 patronage127 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 deference128 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 insolence129 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 humbly130 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 truthful131 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 alleviate132 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 waived133 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 obedience134 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 accomplished135,” 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 insolent136. 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 intruding137 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 exclamation138 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 contrives139 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 rheumatism140 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. Entreat79 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 consolation141 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 decided142 manner and kind speech of which Esther had spoken; the plain attire100 with which, to avert143 notice, she ever went her rounds of charity; and even had there been none of these peculiarities144, the very fact of her coming to that poor place at all proclaimed Miss Leon. She gently upbraided145 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 judicious146 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, fervently147; “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 garrulity148, 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 delusive150 hopes, yet somehow leaving such comfort behind her, that on her departure Sarah sought her own room to pour forth151 her swelling152 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 censure153 had to be encountered, but Adelaide Leon was not to be daunted154; 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 intercourse155 convinced Miss Leon that Sarah certainly was a superior person, and her benevolent156 intentions did not terminate in merely getting her daily work. She had not enough in her own family to occupy her sufficiently157, 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 pious158, and withal better informed on many subjects than very many who profess149 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 dilate159 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. Secondly160 she could not have a Jewess; she would give the children all sorts of superstitious161 ignorant ideas, and was as helpless and exacting162 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 meddled163 and found fault; and if Sarah did not suit, why Adelaide would take the blame for that too, and never torment164 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 meek73 persuasions165 were successful. His anger subsided166 at first into sullenness167, 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 sobbed168 from many varied169 feelings on his bosom170, she thanked God that He had called her to her father, and permitted her even in the midst of sorrow and sin to cling to him still.
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1
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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41
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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43
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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44
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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45
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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48
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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49
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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51
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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52
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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53
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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54
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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56
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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57
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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58
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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59
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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61
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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63
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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66
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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repulsiveness
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68
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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70
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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72
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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73
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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74
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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75
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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76
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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81
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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82
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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84
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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85
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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86
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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87
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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88
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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89
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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90
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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91
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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92
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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93
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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95
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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96
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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97
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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98
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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99
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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100
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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101
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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103
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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104
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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105
moroseness
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106
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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107
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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108
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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109
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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110
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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111
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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112
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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113
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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114
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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115
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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116
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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117
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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118
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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119
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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121
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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122
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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123
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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124
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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125
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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126
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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127
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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128
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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129
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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130
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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131
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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132
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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133
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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134
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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135
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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136
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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137
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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138
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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139
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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140
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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141
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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142
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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143
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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144
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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145
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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147
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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148
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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149
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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150
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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151
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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152
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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153
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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154
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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156
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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157
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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158
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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159
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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160
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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161
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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162
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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163
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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165
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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166
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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167
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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168
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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169
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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170
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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