“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.