CHAPTER IV.

Sabbath Hours.

MARTIN found the time spent in church a time of refreshing, and returned to his home in a quiet, tranquil mood, better able to bear and to forbear, with the charity which hopeth and endureth all things. It grieved him, however, to see his wife dressed in as flaunting a style as their narrow means would allow, and his child also decked out in tawdry finery, wearing a faded red sash, and a blue bead necklace round her neck.

The dinner was as uncomfortable a meal as the breakfast had been, though Mrs. Laver now put on gaiety of manner, in a spirit of defiance to her husband. She took pleasure in talking to her child of the delights of the coming treat, the band that would play on the deck of the steamer, and all the mirth and fun there would be amongst the company there.

Annie was too young to understand or to care much about such things; she was rather frightened at the idea of going amongst strangers, and looking up with her arch innocent eyes into her father's face, she lisped out, "Daddy come too!"

Martin shook his head, and replied, as he stroked the soft hair of his child, "No, Annie, father is not going in the steamer, father is stopping behind."

"Then Annie 'top too!" cried the little one, thrusting her small hand into that of her parent.

"You little goose, do you mean that you will not go with me, and have all the fun?" asked Ann, in an angry tone, which certainly had not the effect of making the child desire to do so.

"No, Annie 'top with Daddy!" repeated the little one, beginning to cry at the idea of being taken away.

"Oh! I'm sure I don't want you, you'd be only a plague; there's nothing so tiresome as having children dangling about one in a steamer; one's always afraid of the stupid brats falling overboard," cried Ann, with a passionate jerk. "It's time I was off," she said, rising from the table; "your father will have had enough of your company, I guess, before I come back in the evening."

But here Mrs. Laver was wrong. Never had the invalid more enjoyed a walk than he did the quiet stroll which he took into Kensington Gardens on that warm afternoon, to give his pale little girl fresh air. How pleasant felt the breeze on his cheek, how bright were the rays of sunshine that streamed here and there through the trees, what a thankful heart was lifted up to God from him who so lately had left a sick-bed, as he sat quietly on the green grass, with his darling playing at his feet!

Annie's simple prattle was to her father's ear sweeter than any music, and scarcely disturbed the holy thoughts which were passing through his mind.

"Much as I delight in my child, should I be willing that she should remain always what she is now, small, weak, and knowing little? I look for growth in her young frame, and if from month to month she never grew taller, I should know that some disease must be stunting my child. So we are told in the Scripture to 'grow in grace,' * every passing month should leave us more earnest, devout, and humble. If our religion be not a growing one, it is a stunted one, nay, we have reason to fear lest it be dead altogether. Faith, true living faith, must expand into holiness, as the bud opens into the flower, and the dawn brightens into the day!"

* 2 Peter iii. 18.

Annie and her father were very happy together; and when Martin slowly walked homewards, holding the hand of the little prattler who trotted by his side, it seemed to him that but for one trial, he would be one of the happiest men upon earth. But the remembrance of his wife was to Martin like a heavy black cloud in an otherwise brilliant sky. Silently, he prayed for Ann as he walked, though little knowing how much at that moment she needed his prayers.

Scanty as was the evening meal, Annie made it a very merry one. No butter had been left from the breakfast, so she played at spreading the dry bread with her spoon, and when her father cut it into pieces, and called them soldiers, the child ate it as contentedly as if it had been iced-cake. Then a few empty reels to play with, made the little one perfectly happy; and while she rolled them backwards and forwards on the floor, Martin could quietly enjoy the pleasure of reading.

First, he read his Bible, then a book which had been lent to him by the chaplain of the hospital which he had recently quitted. It contained the Memoir of a missionary's wife, * who had laboured amongst the Jews in the Turkish province of Moldavia. Martin felt particularly interested in the account given of Nahum, a convert, as conveyed in such passages as these, which I extract from the published letters of the lady:—

"I wish I could bring before you an aged man, highly esteemed among the Jews, and also by the Rabbis, a respectable shopkeeper, a good Hebrew scholar . . . He is of an acute and philosophical turn of mind, and was a bitter opposer of Christianity. Fancy this man brought to the feet of Jesus, and you will see our most interesting Rabbi Nahum . . . He says that in hours of need he has prayed in the name of Christ, and is now praying for strength to confess Christ openly; but he says Abraham was praised because he was willing to give up his one child; but he would need to be nine times as strong as Abraham to give up his nine. He desires the prayers of Christ's people."

* Memoir and Letters of Mrs. Edwards.

"Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" murmured Martin, pausing for a moment in his reading. "His was a hard test of faith indeed; but could he not take his children with him?" And the father glanced fondly at his Annie, before he went on with his book.

Some way farther on in the volume, he again found mention of Nahum.

"His mind seems more and more decided; he speaks now of baptism, though still indirectly. He acknowledges that faith should trust all things to the Lord, that He is able to do all things for us. But who can withhold sympathy from the father of nine children, when taking a step which probably will involve them all in ruin.

"I feel for him from the bottom of my soul!" exclaimed Martin.

After reading several more pages in the volume, Martin came to the account of the baptism of Nahum with three of his children, after bitter opposition from his unconverted wife.

"She would not eat nor drink, she abused and upbraided him," but she could not hold him back from his purpose of openly confessing his Saviour. Martin eagerly read the account of Nahum's first meeting with his wife, after the decisive step had been taken, and her passionate exclamations of sorrow for her three baptised children.

"I hear not—I hear not! I die—I die! I will kill them, then I will die! And indeed," wrote the missionary's wife, "she threw herself on the balcony ready to die. We feared more for the old man. Twenty-five years have they lived together, true, faithful, attached. After she went, his anguish was fearful."

"Anguish, indeed!" exclaimed Martin. "When I think of this poor Jew's heavy cross, I take shame to myself for shrinking from taking up mine, which is so much lighter. I daresay that he had other troubles to bear besides the fierce opposition of his wife."

Martin read on as follows:—

"The dear old man determined on Monday to open his shop, his own shop, in a street where there are none but Jews. He did so, it almost cost him his life. Upwards of a thousand Jews assembled, stones were thrown, and all manner of abuse heaped on him."

"And I," thought Martin, with self-reproach "have deemed it a sacrifice merely to close my shop upon Sundays, to run the risk of a little loss, of having, maybe, one meal less in the day, or a more threadbare coat on my back! What a small—what a paltry sacrifice seems mine by the side of that of this brave old man, with a thousand of his old neighbours and countrymen baiting him, yelling at him, trying to stone, so fierce against him, that I see that it is written a little farther on, 'could they have gotten him they would have minced him into shreds!'—Ah! I am glad that the Germans were able to protect him a little."

In Mrs. Edwards' next letter, Martin read more of the dangers of Nahum and his Christian children, who had taken refuge under the missionary's protection.

"The Jews collected in vast multitudes, the uproar became great, the police could not keep peace. Our house had been beset with Jews all day looking over the paling, beating any of the lads whom they found in the streets, throwing stones into the court, &c. At length, at night I was awakened by loud noises at the gate; they were trying to break in. Nahum and his children were sleeping in a little room near the gate; their object certainly was to beat or to murder him, and carry off the children . . . A boy on horseback was sent to the Consul for assistance . . . Meantime several Germans had encountered the Jews, and driven them back."

"This poor Nahum seems to have led the life of a hunted hare," observed Martin; "but the worst of all must have been the division between him and his wife. Ah! There seems to be something more about her on the very next page."

He read on—

"His poor wife held out ten days, begging for a divorce, which he would not grant. At length, both she and her eldest son came at night to our house with the young child, and there they all are now. They are very anxious to be baptised."

"Anxious to be baptised!" exclaimed Martin, joyfully, half-closing the book. "Then the tie between man and wife held fast after all the hard strain upon it, and when she could not drag him back from the Lord, her husband drew her towards the Saviour! Here are Christian and Christiana in that far-away place, Moldavia!"

Martin went on with his reading again.

"Ah! I see that the missionary wisely refused to baptise the wife till she should shew that she really desired to be Christ's, and not merely to please her husband. But Nahum had won the victory; his home was to be a Christian home."

Here is something more about him in a letter from the lady farther on in the book:—

"In the old man we have exceeding great joy; he reads each morning the Scriptures with his family, expounds and prays."

"That story of Nahum, the converted Jew, seems as if it were just written for me," cried Martin, laying down the volume on the table. "Here am I, an Englishman, in a Christian land, half-afraid to say to my neighbours, 'I will close my shop on Sundays, because I will honour the law of God,' lest they should, perchance, laugh at me for being 'a Saint.' There was Nahum, openly confessing his faith at the risk of losing both property and life! Here am I, grieved and discouraged by a few hasty words from poor Ann; there was Nahum standing firm against the persuasions, the anger, the despair, of his wife, though he dearly loved her! A poor kind of Christian must I be! I fear but a coward at heart, and ill-fitted to bear the burden and heat of the day. God help me, and give me more grace and more courage, and then, perhaps, He will one day give to me, as to faithful Nahum, more cause to rejoice over a converted and loving wife!"