Kitabı oku: «Aaron the Jew: A Novel», sayfa 23
CHAPTER XLII
A MOTHER'S JOY
For the first time in their lives these two beings, whose fates were so strangely linked together, faced each other-the mother who believed her child to be dead, the father who had brought up that child in ignorance of her birthright. It was a solemn moment, as trying to the man who had erred as to the woman who had fallen. To him the truth was as clear as though it were proclaimed with a tongue of fire, to her it had yet to be revealed. How feeble was the human act when brought into juxtaposition with destiny's decree!
Aaron's sin had been ever before him; the handwriting had been ever on the wall. Scarcely for one day during the last twenty years had the voice of conscience been stilled, and it had been part of his punishment that the inherited instincts of the child had worked inexorably against all his efforts; her silent resistance to the lessons he would have inculcated had been too powerful for him; and in the end she had turned resolutely from the path into which, with inward reproaches, he had endeavoured to lead her, and had obeyed the promptings of her nature in mapping out her own future.
Keen as were Aaron's sufferings, he experienced a sense of relief that the bolt had fallen, and that the hour of retribution had arrived; the agony of suspense had been almost unbearable, and he accepted with mournful resignation the decree which ordained that he should pass judgment upon himself.
A difficult task lay before him; the revelation he had to make must be made with tact and delicacy, in consideration for the mother's feelings. Joy, as well as sorrow, has its fears.
Forgetful for the moment of his own domestic grief, a sympathetic pity for the bereaved woman stirred Aaron's heart. Her tribulation was expressed in her face, which was pale with woe; her eyes were suffused with tears; her limbs trembled as she sank into the chair which he placed for her. It was not he alone who was experiencing the tortures of remorse.
Mrs. Gordon was in mourning, and Aaron knew it was as much for her child as for her husband. Except that time had told its tale there was little change in her, and few persons who had known her in her springtime would have failed to recognise her in her middle age. Her union with Mr. Gordon had not been entirely unhappy; he had performed his duty towards her, as she had done towards him, and though he had a suspicion that through all the long years she never lost sight of her secret sorrow, he made no reference to it, and she, on her part, did not intrude it upon him. Only on his deathbed had he spoken of her child, and had given her an imperfect clue, which she was now following up. Bitter was the knowledge she had gained. Her child was dead. Free, and in possession of great wealth, she was alone, without a tie in the world. All her bright dreams had faded. She had indulged the hope that her child still lived, and as she travelled back to England had raised up mental pictures of her daughter which filled her with joy. The presumption was that the young girl was living in a poor home, and was perhaps working for a livelihood. To lift her from poverty to wealth, to make a lady of her, to load her with gifts, to educate her for the new and higher station in life in which she was now to move, to love and caress her, to travel with her through the pleasure grounds of Europe-these were the dreams in which she had indulged. Innumerable were the pictures she had raised on her voyage home of the joy and delight of her daughter, and of the happy days in store for them. The information she received from Dr. Spenlove had killed these hopes, and her yearning desire now was to visit the grave of the babe she had deserted, and to weep over it tears of bitter repentance. It was not so much to reclaim the iron box containing the clue to a shameful episode in her youthful life, as to learn where her babe was buried, that she wished to learn into whose care her child had been given. There was a time when she nursed a fierce desire for revenge upon the man who had betrayed her, but this desire had burnt itself away, and she would be content that the melancholy memories of the past should be buried in oblivion. No good result would accrue from rekindling the smouldering ashes of an experience so mournful. She had lived down the shame; no word of reproach had been uttered against her; let the dead past bury its dead.
For a few moments there was silence between her and Aaron, and she was the first to speak.
"Dr. Spenlove has told me all," she said.
"He has told you what he knows," said Aaron, "but you have something more to hear. Mrs. Gordon, it was I who undertook the charge of your child. Mr. Moss brought her to me in Gosport, and delivered to me also the casket which you entrusted to Dr. Spenlove. I return it to you now, in the same condition as it was handed to me. You will oblige me by convincing yourself that it has not been tampered with."
She unlocked the box with a key she carried in her purse, and taking from it the letters she had deposited therein, glanced over them with a bitter smile, then replaced them in their hiding-place, and relocked the casket.
"There was nothing else in it?" asked Aaron.
"Nothing else," she replied; "it is as I delivered it to Dr. Spenlove. Tell me about my child. Did she live long? Was she buried in Gosport? You will tell me the truth; you will conceal nothing from me?"
"I will tell you the truth; I will conceal nothing from you; but what I have to say must be said in my own way. Prepare yourself for a strange story, but have no fear. You are the first person to whom it will be revealed. When Mr. Moss left your child with me there were two babes in my house of the same age, and we were in deep poverty and distress. My wife-my beloved wife lay at the point of death" – he covered his eyes with his hands. "Bear with me; these recollections overcome me." Presently he resumed. "But a short time before her confinement she had been stricken with blindness. Her own child, whose face she had never seen, lay quiet and still in her arms. The doctor who attended her feared the worst, and said that her life depended upon the life of her babe. If our child died on the morrow the mother would die; if our child lived, the mother would live. Temptation assailed me, and to save the life of my beloved wife I yielded to it. How can I expect you to forgive me for what I did in the agony of my heart?"
Again he paused, and tears gushed from his eyes. Mrs. Gordon sank back in her chair; there was not a vestige of colour in her face.
"My God! My God!" she murmured. "Have I not suffered enough?"
The words recalled him to himself. He begged her to have courage, to be strong; there was no new suffering in store for her, he said; what he had to relate would bring joy into her life. He gave her wine, and when she had recovered he proceeded with his story, and gradually and tenderly revealed to her the truth. As he proceeded her face shone with incredulous joy, her heart beat tumultuously with the prospect of this unexpected happiness; and when his story was finished, and he sat before her with bowed head, there was a long, long silence in the room. He dared utter no further words; in silent dread he waited for his condemnation.
He felt a hand upon his knee, and looking down he saw her kneeling at his feet. She was transfigured; the spirit of youth shone in her countenance, and she took his hand, and kissed it again and again, bedewing it with happy tears. He gazed at her in wonder. He had expected revilings, and she was all tenderness.
"Is it true?" she murmured. "Oh! is it true? At such a time as this you would not deceive me!"
"Heaven forbid!" he answered. "What I have related is the solemn truth."
"And my child lives?"
"She lives."
"God in heaven bless you! She lives-my daughter lives!"
"And you do not blame me-you do not reproach me?"
"I shall bless you to my dying day! Oh, my heart, my heart! It will burst with happiness!"
He entreated her to be composed, and in a little while she was calmer. Then for the first time he wrested himself from the environment of his own selfish sorrows; he put himself in her place, and understood the sacred joy which animated her. She was all eagerness to see her child, but Aaron bade her restrain her impatience; he had much more to relate which it was necessary she should hear.
"But I must see her to-night!" she cried.
"You shall see her to-night. I will take you to her."
She was fain to be satisfied with this assurance, but she would not be content till she saw a portrait of Ruth. He gave her a cabinet photograph, and she gazed at it longingly, yearningly.
"She is beautiful, beautiful!"
"Yes, she is a beautiful girl," said Aaron; and then proceeded with the story, saying nothing, however, of what he had done for the young couple. At first she was grieved to hear that Ruth was married, but she found some consolation in the reflection that she had married into an honourable family. When Aaron related the particulars of the lawyer's visit to him, commissioned by Lord Storndale because of his stern objection to his son marrying a Jewess, she exclaimed, -
"But Ruth is not a Jewess!" and was appalled by the thought that her daughter was not born in wedlock. A child of shame! How would she be received? It was her turn now to fear, and Aaron, whose native shrewdness had returned to him, divined her fear; but it was not for him to moot the subject.
"My child," she said, with hot blushes on her face, "believes herself to be your daughter?"
"She does. It was my intention to undeceive her to-night."
"You know my story?"
"It was imparted to me," he replied, with averted head, "when I was asked to receive your child."
"Who knows the truth," she asked, trembling and hesitating, "about me?"
"I, Mr. Moss, Dr. Spenlove, and your husband's lawyers."
"No other persons?"
"No other persons." He took her hand. "Dear lady, from my heart I pity and sympathise with you. If I can assist you in any way-"
"You can-you can!" she cried. "For God's sake do not destroy the happiness that may be mine!"
"As Heaven is my judge, no word shall pass my lips. Be comforted, be comforted. The lawyers' lips are sealed, as you have already learned, and I will answer for Mr. Moss and Dr. Spenlove. Say to her and to her husband's family what you will-it will be justified. Your secret is safe."
She thanked him humbly and gratefully; it was she who was abashed; it was she who had to implore for mercy; and it was due to his wisdom that her aching heart was eased.
"If I can repay you-if I can repay you!" she murmured.
"You can repay me by saying you forgive me for the sin I committed."
"Your sin!" she cried, in amazement. "You, who have brought up my child in virtue and honour! At my door lies the sin, not at yours."
"You forget," he groaned; "I have sinned against my wife, whom I love with a love dearer than life itself, and she has yet to receive the confession I have made to you. It was my love for her that led me into the error."
"An error," said Mrs. Gordon, in tender accents, "that has saved a daughter from regarding her mother with abhorrence. Dear friend, God sees and judges, and surely He will approve what you have done. A grateful mother blesses you!"
"Remain here," said Aaron. "I will speak to my friends and yours, and then I will conduct you to your daughter."
CHAPTER XLIII
A PANIC IN THE CITY
On the following morning Aaron was up earlier than usual, and in the daily papers he read the confirmation of the intelligence which Mr. Moss had imparted to him. The panic on the Stock Exchange had grown to fever heat, and fortunes were already being won and lost. The bank in which his money was deposited, and in which he held a large number of shares, was tottering, and he knew that he was ruined if it could not weather the storm.
Mr. Moss found him reading the news over his breakfast-table. Business, as we know, had not prospered with Mr. Moss of late years; his investments had turned out badly, and he was in low water himself. He had placed his dependence upon Aaron to pull him through, and the rock he had depended upon was crumbling away.
"You are also in trouble, Mr. Moss," said Aaron, as his friend made his appearance.
"I have brought the second edition of the morning papers," replied Mr. Moss, with a white face. "The Stock Exchange is in a blaze, and the world is coming to an end."
"There will be misery in many homes," said Aaron. "It is the innocent who will chiefly suffer. I pity them sincerely."
"Everything is going to the dogs," groaned Mr. Moss.
"Have you breakfasted?"
"Had breakfast at seven o'clock. Couldn't sleep a wink all night, and could hardly eat a mouthful!"
"Why?"
"Why?" exclaimed Mr. Moss. "What a question to ask when ruin stares a man in the face!"
"I hope," said Aaron, gravely, "that you are not deeply involved."
"I am up to my neck. But what is my position compared with yours? Cohen, you are a mystery."
"Because I accept the inevitable? Can you show me how I can improve matters?"
"No, I can't," answered Mr. Moss, with a deep groan; "only if I had capital I could make a fortune."
"In what way?"
"By joining the bears. Cohen, you have a grand chance before you. Your credit is good. There is nothing for it but a plunge. It will set you right. Luck has been with you all your life; it will be with you now."
"How if it goes the other way, Mr. Moss?"
"What if it does? You will be no worse off than a thousand men who are plunging."
"The majority of whom, before another sun rises, will find themselves disgraced. No, Mr. Moss, no. I have never dabbled in stocks and shares at the risk of my good name, and I never will. There is but one way to meet misfortune, and that is the straight way. We will go to the City and ascertain, if we can, exactly how matters stand. Rachel and Esther do not return from Bournemouth till the afternoon."
In the City they learned the worst, and Aaron realised that he was beggared.
"Can you save nothing from the wreck?" asked Mr. Moss.
"Nothing," replied Aaron. "It may be that all I possess will not be sufficient to clear me. I think you had better take Esther back with you to Portsmouth; you have been absent from your business too long."
"I must go this evening," said Mr. Moss; "but Esther can stay. She will be a comfort to Mrs. Cohen."
"No, take her with you. In this crisis Rachel, I know, would prefer to be alone with me. Besides," he added, with a sad smile, "I have to provide another home, and I must be careful of my shillings."
"Another home, Cohen! What do you mean?"
"With certain ruin staring me in the face, and with claims coming upon me which I may not be able to meet, I must begin immediately to retrench. Our establishment is an expensive one, and I dare not carry it on a day longer than is necessary. Rachel and I will sleep in the house to-night for the last time. To-morrow I will pay off the servants, and we shall move into humbler quarters. So tumble down all our grand castles. Well, it has happened to better men, who, after many years of toil, have to begin life all over again. Rachel will not mind; we have faced poverty before to-day, and will face it again cheerfully."
"It drives me wild to hear you speak like that," exclaimed Mr. Moss. "You are looking only on the black side. If you had the money you have got rid of the last two or three weeks-"
"Hush, Mr. Moss, hush!" said Aaron, interrupting him. "It is a consolation to me to know that the greater part of my legitimately earned fortune has been so well bestowed. I am glad I did not wait to make reparation for the great error of my life. Rachel has yet to hear my confession. If I obtain her forgiveness I can face the future bravely and cheerfully."
Under the seal of confidence Aaron had made Mr. Moss and Dr. Spenlove acquainted with the particulars of the story of the two babes, and of the deception he had practised in his home in Gosport. Mr. Moss was not greatly astonished, for the hints lately dropped by his friend had prepared him for some disclosure of a strange nature. "Besides," he said inwardly to himself, "Ruth bears no likeness to either Mr. or Mrs. Cohen. It is a mercy she fell in love with that Storndale fellow; it would never have done for her to marry a Jew. Cohen would not have permitted it. But how blind we have all been!" In his weak moments Mr. Moss was rather inclined to be wise after the event. Both he and Dr. Spenlove had pledged themselves to secrecy, but when they proceeded to commend Aaron for the act and to find justification for it he stopped them. "It is a matter between me and my conscience," he said, and added mentally, "and between me and my beloved."
On this disastrous morning, as they walked from the City, Mr. Moss asked Aaron when he intended to reveal the secret to his wife.
"As soon as I can summon courage to speak," Aaron answered. "She has first to hear that we are beggared; it will be as much, perhaps, as she can bear in one day, but in any case I must not delay too long."
"If I were in your place," said Mr. Moss, "I should not delay at all. There are women who become strong through misfortune, and Mrs. Cohen is one. I wish Mrs. Moss were like her-don't think I am complaining of her. She is the best wife in the world, but she breaks down under reverses. If only I could be of some assistance to you, Cohen-"
"Your friendship counts for much, Mr. Moss," responded Aaron, pressing his companion's hand, "but every man must fight his own battle. I am not without hope, hard as is the trial through which I am passing. It is kind of you to be so solicitous about my affairs when you have such heavy troubles of your own to contend with. Are things very bad with you?"
"Oh, I shall weather the storm, but it will leave me rather crippled. What matters? Nil desperandum. And there is just one ray which may become a perfect sunbeam."
"Ah, I am glad to hear that."
"My eldest boy has started in business as a dentist, and has commenced well. Once a dentist makes his name the money rolls in. It is a favourite business with our people."
"Yes," said Aaron, somewhat absently, "I have observed it."
"It is a kind of revenge, Cohen."
"A kind of revenge!" echoed Aaron. "How so?"
"Well, you know, in old times the Christians used to extract our teeth to get our money from us, and now it's our turn. We extract theirs at a guinea a tooth. See?"
Aaron could not help smiling at the joke, and the friends parted with mutual expressions of goodwill.
CHAPTER XLIV
THE CONFESSION
On the evening of the same day Aaron and Rachel were alone in their house in Prince's Gate, which was soon to know them no more. Esther had taken an affectionate leave of them, and she and her father were travelling to Portsmouth. Esther was bright and cheerful, but Mr. Moss's heart was heavy; he was older than Aaron, and confident as he was in speech he was not inwardly so courageous in the hour of adversity. Ordinarily, when he and his daughter were travelling together, his blithe spirits found vent in song; on this occasion, however, he was moody and silent. Esther looked at him in surprise, and asked what made him so melancholy.
"When you reach my age," he replied, "I hope you will not discover that life is a dream."
The remark seemed to him rather fine and philosophical, and afforded him some kind of melancholy satisfaction; but had he been asked to explain its precise meaning he would have found it difficult to do so.
"I hope I shall, father," said Esther, as she leant back and thought of her lover; "a happy dream."
"I am glad to get back to you and to our dear home," Rachel was saying to her husband at the same moment. "You must not send me away again. Indeed, dear Aaron, if you ever have such an intention I shall for once in my life be rebellious, and shall refuse to go. I am happiest by your side."
She spoke tenderly and playfully, and held his hand in hers, as in the olden days.
"Nevertheless, my love, your short visit to the seaside has done you good."
"Yes, dear, I am almost well; I feel much stronger."
"There is the justification," said Aaron. "Neither am I happy away from you, but there are occasions when it is our duty to make sacrifices. This is the longest separation there has been between us in the twenty-six years of our married life."
"How time has flown!" she mused. "Twenty-six years of peace and joy. It has always been the same, dear husband, whether we were poor or rich. I cannot recall a day in the past without its flower of dear remembrance which money could not purchase."
"You make my task easier, Rachel," said Aaron. "I have something to disclose to you."
"And it is not good news, love," she said, in a tone of much sweetness.
"It is not good news, Rachel. By what means have you divined that?"
"I see without eyes. In the early days of my blindness I used to tell you that I was acquiring new senses. It is true. Some accent in your voice, the touch of your hand, conveys the message to my mind, and I wait in patience, as I am waiting now. Aaron, my dear husband, I have known for some time past that you have a sorrow which one day you would ask me to share. How have I known it? I cannot tell, but it is clear to me. You have not had a joy in your life apart from me. It is my right, is it not, to share your sorrows?"
"It is your right, Rachel, and you shall share them. I have not been without my errors; once in the past my footsteps strayed, but in the straying I inflicted suffering upon no human being."
"Of that I am sure, my love. It is human to err, but it is not in your nature to inflict suffering or commit an injustice. I am not pressing you to confide in me before in your judgment the proper time arrives. Nothing can shake my faith and trust in you."
He regarded her in silence awhile. The turn the conversation had taken favoured the disclosure of his secret respecting Ruth, but he still feared to speak of that and of his ruin in the same hour. The latter was the more imperative, because it demanded immediate action, and he nerved himself to the task.
"Your loving instinct, Rachel, has not misled you. For many years I have had a secret which I have concealed from you."
"Fearing to give me pain, dear husband?"
"Yes; and fearing that it would disturb the faith you have in me. I place so high a value upon it that my life would be dark indeed were I to lose it."
"That is impossible, dear. Banish the fear from your mind. Were the hands of all men raised against you I would stand before you as your shield, and they would not dare to strike. So long as we are together I am happy and content."
"Dear life of my life, you inspire me with hope. But it is not of this secret I must speak first. There is another trouble which has come upon me quite suddenly, and which demands immediate action. Rachel, for twenty years Heaven has showered prosperity upon me; not a venture I have made has failed, and many of my undertakings have succeeded far beyond my expectations. I have heard it said, 'Everything Aaron Cohen touches turns to gold.' It really has been so. I accumulated a large fortune, and-with humbleness I say it-no man, however high or low his station, was the loser by it. But a breath may destroy what the labours of a lifetime have created. If such a reverse has come to me, Rachel, how would you accept it?"
"Without murmuring, love," she said, drawing him close to her, and kissing his lips. "I should have but one regret-that I could not work for you as you have worked for me. But that, also, was God's will, and I have never repined. Who would presume to question His wisdom? His name be praised for ever and ever!"
"Amen. In our old home in Gosport you were happy."
"I have never been happier, Aaron. I have sometimes felt pride in your successes, but surely that is pardonable. Many and many a time have I thought of our early life and struggles with gratitude, because of the love which sustained us and gave us strength. It is the most precious gift that life can bestow. All else is nought. It is our soul-life, and dies not with the body."
"You do not value money, Rachel?"
"For the good it may do to others, not for the good it can do to the possessor; for the suffering it may be made the means of relieving, for the blessings it may bring into the lives of the afflicted and unfortunate. Then it becomes God-like, and when so used the angels smile approval."
"Dear love, you lighten my burden. When I won you my life was blessed. Listen, Rachel. This is a dark day for many men who find themselves fallen from their high estate. Despair sits in many homes at this hour."
"But not in ours, Aaron, whatever has happened."
"Thank God! It is my happy belief that this hour is not dark for us. It was my intention, Rachel, to retire altogether from business and public life, and to that end I took advantage of your absence from London to settle my affairs. My resolution was prompted by the secret, the burden of which, although I have not yet disclosed it to you, you have made lighter for me to reveal. Brought to public knowledge, which I fear its peculiar nature will render inevitable, it will be immediately said that I am unfitted to retain my position as a leader and teacher. To tarry until that judgment was pronounced upon me would be to aggravate the disaster, and I resolved to anticipate the verdict by resigning the honours which have been conferred upon me. I have done so, and I have withstood the pressure that has been put upon me to withdraw my resignation. An examination of my worldly affairs resulted in my finding myself in possession of nearly a hundred thousand pounds. I divided this into three portions, one of which I intended to retain in order that we might pass what years of life remained to us in comfort; the second portion I devoted to charity, and it has thus been distributed; the third portion was devoted to repairing to some extent the error of which I have been guilty."
He looked at Rachel after he uttered these words, which he had spoken with averted head. There was no change in her. Sweetness and sympathy were expressed in her beautiful face, and it seemed as if her soul's light dwelt thereon.
"Do you approve, Rachel?"
"Entirely, love. Let me hold your hand."
He continued. "The money I intended for our private use was lodged in a City bank, and in this bank I hold shares for which I am liable to the depositors. Yesterday Mr. Moss brought me news of a commercial crisis in which I discerned-"
"Go on, dear husband. I am prepared for the worst."
"In which I discerned my ruin. This morning I convinced myself that the news was true."
"And we are poor again," said Rachel, in a gentle voice.
"And we are poor again. Everything is lost. I do not know the extent of my liabilities upon the shares I hold in the bank, but it is certain that my property-even down to the smallest possession-will scarcely be sufficient to meet them. I have nothing more to tell of my worldly trouble, Rachel."
"Dear love," said Rachel, sweetly, with her arms around him, "it is a small trouble, and we will meet it bravely. With all my heart and strength I will help you to meet it, and it will not make the future less happy. We cannot remain in this house; the expenses are too great."
"You echo my thought, Rachel. I have already discharged the servants, and have paid what is due to them. They expressed their sorrow, for I think they have an affection for us, but the separation is unavoidable. To-morrow they take their departure, and to-morrow, dear love, we must move into humbler quarters."
"I am content," said Rachel, "I am happy. We have each other. Do all the servants go-all?"
"No; one insists upon remaining. I could not convince her that it would be for her good to leave us."
"Prissy!" cried Rachel.
"Yes, Prissy, the foolish woman. With or without my consent she insists upon sharing our poverty."
"Dear, faithful Prissy! Do you remember the first night she came to us in Gosport? What changes there have been since that time! Let it be as she wishes, love; I know her constant, devoted nature. She will be a comfort to both of us."
"It shall be as you say, Rachel; a faithful heart like hers is a treasure."
Rachel paused before she spoke again, and Aaron, gazing upon her, held his breath, for he divined what was coming. She took his hand, and held it between her own.
"Kiss me, love," she said, her voice trembling from emotion. He pressed his lips to hers in silence. "I have been a great trouble to you, dear."
"You have been the blessing of my life, Rachel," he said in a low tone.
"Not only your love, dear, but the thought that you believed me worthy of your confidence, has brought great sweetness into mine. You have made me truly happy; and yet, dear husband, my heart is aching-not for myself, not because we are poor again, but for you, for you; for your heart, also, is charged with sorrow. We commence a new life to-morrow, and it affects not ourselves alone, but those who are dear to us. Let this night end your sorrows, and let me share them now, before I sleep. Aaron, not once have you mentioned the name of Ruth. Is it the thought of her that oppresses you? It oppresses me, too, and it is no new grief. For a long time past I have felt as if something had come between us, weakening the tie which should unite mother and child. If anything has been hidden from me which I should know, let it be hidden no longer. I am well, I am strong. Give me all your confidence. There is nothing I cannot bear for your dear sake."
He could not resist the appeal. In a voice as tremulous as her own he related the story of his sin. He recalled all the incidents of their life in Gosport, of the calamities which had trodden upon each others' heels, of the desperate state of poverty he was in when the fire occurred which deprived her of sight, of the birth of their child, of the doctor's words that Rachel's life depended upon the life of her babe and upon his taking her away to a warmer clime, of his giving her the sleeping draught and leaving her, wrapt in slumber, to admit Mr. Moss who had come from Portsmouth charged with a startling commission, the acceptance of which would be the saving of Rachel, of his reluctance to accept the guardianship of a strange child, and of his requesting time to consider it. Here he faltered; he stood, as it were, upon the threshold of his sin, and but for Rachel's tender urging he would have been unable to proceed.
