Another moment, and the brothers were clasped in each others arms.
CHAPTER III.
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?