Some twelve months before the occurrence of the events recorded in the preceding chapters a Jew, bearing the name of Aaron Cohen, had come to reside in the ancient town of Gosport. He was accompanied by his wife Rachel. They had no family, and their home was a home of love.
They were comparatively young, Aaron being twenty-eight and Rachel twenty-three, and they had been married five years. Hitherto they had lived in London, and the cause of their taking up their residence in Gosport was that Aaron had conceived the idea that he could establish himself there in a good way of business. One child had blessed their union, whom they called Benjamin. There was great rejoicing at his birth, and it would have been difficult to calculate how many macaroons and almond and butter cakes, and cups of chocolate, and glasses of aniseed were sacrificed upon the altar of hospitality in the happy father's house for several days after the birth of his firstborn. "Aaron Cohen does it in style," said the neighbors, and as both he and Rachel were held in genuine respect by all who knew them, the encomium was not mere empty praise. Seldom even in the locality in which the Cohens then resided--the east end of London, where charity and hospitality are proverbial--had such feasting been seen at the celebration of a circumcision. "If he lived in Bayswater," said the company, "he couldn't have treated us better." And when the father lifted up his voice and said, "Blessed art thou, the Eternal, our God, King of the universe, who hath sanctified us with his commandments, and commanded us to introduce our sons into the covenant of our father Abraham," there was more than usual sincerity in the response, "Even as this child has now entered this covenant, so may he be initiated into the covenant of the law, of marriage, and of good works." Perhaps among those assembled there were some who could not have translated into English the Hebrew prayers they read so glibly, but this reproach did not apply to Aaron, who was an erudite as well as an orthodox Jew, and understood every word he uttered. On this memorable day the feasting commenced in the morning, and continued during the whole day. "I wish you joy, Cohen, I wish you joy"--this was the formula, a hundred and a hundred times repeated to the proud father, who really believed that a prince had been born among Israel; while thepale-faced mother, pressing her infant tenderly to her breast, and who in her maidenhood had never looked so beautiful as now, received in her bedroom the congratulations of her intimate female friends. The poorest people in the neighborhood were welcomed, and if the seed of good wishes could have blossomed into flower a rose-strewn path of life lay before the child.
"He shall be the son of my right hand," said Aaron Cohen; and Rachel, as she kissed her child's mouth and tasted its sweet breath, believed that Heaven had descended upon earth, and that no mother had ever been blessed as she was blessed. This precious treasure was the crowning of their love, and they laid schemes for baby's youth and manhood before the child was out of long clothes--schemes destined not to be realized.
For sixteen months Benjamin filled the hearts of his parents with ineffable joy, and then the Angel of Death entered their house and bore the young soul away. How they mourned for the dear one who was nevermore on earth to rejoice them with his beautiful ways need not here be related; all parents who have lost their firstborn will realize the bitterness of their grief.
But not for long was this grief bitter. In the wise and reverent interpretation of Aaron Cohen their loss became a source of consolation to them. "Let us not rebel," he said to his wife, "against the inevitable and divine will. Give praise unto the Lord, who has ordained that we shall have a child in heaven waiting to receive us." Fraught with tenderness and wisdom were his words, and his counsel instilled comfort into Rachel's heart. Benjamin was waiting for them, and would meet them at the gates. Beautiful was the thought, radiant the hope it raised, never, never to fade, nay, to grow brighter even to her dying hour. Their little child, dead and in his grave, brought them nearer to God. Heaven and earth were linked by the spirit of their beloved, who had gone before them; thus was sorrow sweetened, and happiness chastened by faith.
Sitting on their low stools during the days of mourning, they spoke, when they were alone, of the peace and joy of the eternal life, and thereby were drawn spiritually closer to each other. The lesson they learned in the darkened room was more precious than jewels and gold; it is a lesson which comes to all, high and low alike, and rich indeed are they who learn it aright. For some time thereafter, when the mother opened the drawer in which her most precious possessions were kept, and kissed the little shoes her child had worn, she would murmur amid her tears:
"My darling is waiting for me--my darling is waiting for me!"
God send to all sorrowing mothers a comfort so sweet!
Aaron Cohen had selected a curious spot in Gosport for his habitation. The windows of the house he had taken overlooked the quaint, peaceful churchyard of the market town. So small and pretty was this resting place for the dead that one might almost have imagined it to be a burial ground for children's broken toys. The headless wooden soldiers, the battered dolls, the maimed contents of cheap Noah's arks, the thousand and one treasures of childhood, might have been interred there, glad to be at rest after the ruthless mutilations they had undergone. For really, in the dawning white light of a frosty morning, when every object for miles around sharply outlined itself in the clear air and seemed to have lost its rotund proportions, it was hard to realize that, in this tiny churchyard, men and women whose breasts once throbbed with the passions and sorrows of life should be crumbling to that dust to which we must all return. No, no; it could be nothing but the last home of plain and painted shepherds, andbald-headed pets, and lambs devoid of fleece, and mayhap--a higher flight which we all hope to take when the time comes for us to claim our birthright of the grave--of a dead bullfinch or canary, carried thither on its back, with its legs sticking heavenward, and buried with grown-up solemnity, and very often with all the genuineness of grief for a mortal bereavement. Have you not attended such a funeral, and has not your overcharged heart caused you to sob in your dreams as you lay in your cot close to mamma's bed?
But these fantastic fancies will not serve. It was a real human churchyard, and Rachel Cohen knew it to be so as she stood looking out upon it from the window of her bedroom on the first floor. It was from no feeling of unhappiness that her sight became dimmed as she gazed upon the tombstones. Shadows of children rose before her, the pattering of whose little feet was once the sweetest music that ever fell on parent's ears, the touch of whose little hands carried with it an influence as powerful as a heart-stirring prayer; children with golden curls, children with laughing eyes, children with wistful faces--but there was one, ah! there was one that shone as a star amid the shadows, and that rose up, up, till it was lost in the solemn clouds, sending therefrom a divine message down to the mother's heart: "Mamma, mamma, I am waiting for thee!"
Quiet as was everything around her, Rachel heard the words; in the midst of the darkness a heavenly light was shining on her.
She wiped the tears from her eyes, and stole down to the room in which her husband was sitting.
It was the front room of the house on the ground floor which Aaron Cohen had converted into a shop. The small parlor windows had been replaced by larger ones, a counter had been put up, behind which were shelves fitted into the walls. These shelves at present were bare, but Aaron hoped to see them filled. Under the counter were other shelves, as empty as those on the walls.
When Rachel entered her husband was engaged counting out his money, like the king in his counting house. There was a studious expression on his face, which was instantly replaced by one of deep tenderness as he looked up and saw traces of tears in her eyes. He gathered his money together, banknotes, silver, gold, and coppers, and motioned her into the room at the rear of the shop. This was their living room, but a large iron safe in a corner denoted that it was not to be devoted entirely to domestic affairs. In another corner was the symbol of his business, which was to be affixed to the front of the premises, over the shop door--the familiar device of three golden balls.
Letting his money fall upon the table, he drew his wife to his side, and passed his arm round her.
"The house," he said, "is almost in order."
"Yes, Aaron; there is very little to do."
"I am also ready for business. I have the license, and to-morrow those glittering balls will be put up and the name painted. They are rather large for so small a shop, but they will attract all the more attention." He gazed at her anxiously. "Do you think you will be contented and happy here?"
"Contented and happy anywhere with you," she replied in a tone of the deepest affection.
"In this town especially, Rachel?"
"Yes, in this town especially. It is so peaceful."
"But," he said, touching her eyes with his fingers, "these?"
"Not because I am unhappy," she said, and her voice was low and sweet. "I was looking out upon the churchyard from our bedroom window."
"Ah!" he said, and he kissed her eyes.
He divined the cause of her tears, and there was much tenderness in his utterance of the monosyllable and in the kisses he gave her, Man and wife for five years, they were still the fondest of lovers.
"My dear," said Aaron presently, "the spirit of prophecy is upon me. We shall lead a comfortable life in this town; we shall prosper in this house. It was a piece of real good fortune my hitting upon it. When I heard by chance that the man who lived here owned the lease and wished to dispose of it I hesitated before parting with so large a sum as a hundred pounds for the purchase. It was nearly half my capital, but I liked the look of the place, and a little bird whispered that we should be lucky in it, so I made the venture. I am certain we shall not regret it. There is a knock at the street door."
"Who can it be?" asked Rachel anxiously. "We know no one in Gosport, and it is night."
"Which is no excuse for our not opening the door," said Aaron Cohen, sweeping the money off the table into a small chamois leather bag, which he tied carefully at the neck, and put into his pocket. "True we believe we are not known here, but there may nevertheless be an old acquaintance in Gosport who has heard of our arrival, and comes to welcome us; or Judah Belasco may have told a friend of his we are here; or it may be an enterprising baker or grocer who wishes to secure our custom. No," he added as the knock was repeated, "that is not a tradesman. Let us see who it is that expresses himself so impatiently."
Aaron went to the street door, and Rachel followed him into the passage, carrying a candle. The night was dark, and Rachel stood a little in the rear, so that Aaron could not distinguish the features of his visitor. He was a big man, and that was all that was apparent to the Cohens.
"Mr. Cohen?" queried the visitor.
"Yes," said Aaron.
"Mr. Aaron Cohen?"
"That is my name."
"Can I speak with you?"
"Certainly." And Aaron waited to hear what the stranger had to say.
"I am not accustomed to be kept waiting on the doorstep. I should prefer to speak to you in the house."
Rachel, who was naturally timid, moved closer to her husband, who took the candle from her hand, and held it up in order to see the face of the stranger.
"Step inside," he said.
The stranger followed Aaron and Rachel into the little parlor, and without taking off his hat, looked at Aaron, then at Rachel, and then into every corner of the room; the last object upon which his eyes rested was the device of the three golden balls, and a frown gathered on his features as he gazed. Aaron noted these movements and signs with attention and amusement.
"Do you detect any blemish in them?" he asked.
"I do not understand you," said the stranger.
"In those balls. There was an expression of disapproval on your face as you gazed on them."
"I disapprove of them altogether," said the stranger.
"I am sorry, but we cannot please everybody. I am not responsible for the insignia; you will find the origin in the armorial bearings of the Medici. That is a beautiful hat you have on your head." The stranger stared at him. "Really," continued Aaron blandly, "a beautiful hat; a fine protection against the hot rays of the sun; a protection, also, against the wind and rain. But in this room, as you may observe, we have neither wind nor rain nor sun." The stranger, reddening slightly, removed his hat, and placed it on the table. "My wife," then said Aaron.
The stranger inclined his head, with the air of a man acknowledging an introduction to one of a lower station. The manner of this acknowledgment was not lost upon Aaron.
"My wife," he repeated courteously, "Mrs. Cohen."
"I see," said the stranger, glancing again at Rachel with condescension. "With your permission I will take a seat."
It was distinctly at variance with the hospitable instincts of Aaron Cohen that he did not respond to this request.
"You have the advantage of us," he said. "I have had the pleasure of introducing my wife to you. Afford me the pleasure of introducing you to my wife."
Somewhat stiffly the stranger handed Aaron a visiting card, upon which was inscribed the name of Mr. Edward Whimpole, and in a corner the word, "Churchwarden." Mr. Whimpole's movements were slow, and intended to be dignified, but Aaron exhibited no impatience.
"My dear, Mr. Edward Whimpole, churchwarden."
Rachel bowed gracefully, and Aaron, with an easy motion of his hand, invited Mr. Whimpole to a chair, in which he seated himself. Then Aaron placed a chair for his wife, and took one himself, and prepared to listen to what Mr. Whimpole had to say.
Mr. Whimpole was a large-framed man with a great deal of flesh on his face; his eyes were light, and he had no eyebrows worth speaking of. The best feature in his face was his mouth, and the most insignificant his nose, which was really not a fair nose for a man of his build. It was an added injury inflicted upon him by nature that it was very thin at the end, as though it had been planed on both sides. But then, as Aaron had occasion to remark, we don't make our own noses. A distinct contrast presented itself in the two noses which, if the figure of speech may be allowed, now faced each other.
Mr. Whimpole had not disclosed the nature of his visit, but he had already made it clear that he was not graciously disposed toward the Jew; the only effect this had upon Aaron was to render him exceedingly affable. Perhaps he scented a bargain, and was aware that mental irritation would interfere with the calm exercise of his judgment in a matter of buying and selling.
"May I inquire," he said, pointing to the word "churchwarden" on the card, "whether this is your business or profession?"
"I am a corn-chandler," said Mr. Whimpole.
"Churchwarden, my dear," said Aaron, addressing his wife in a pleasant tone, "andcorn-chandler."
For the life of him Mr. Whimpole could not have explained to the satisfaction of those not directly interested why he was angry at the reception he was meeting. That Aaron Cohen was not the kind of man he had expected to meet would not have been accepted as a sufficient reason.
"I am not mistaken," said Mr. Whimpole, with a flush of resentment, "in believing you to be a Jew?"
"You are not mistaken," replied Aaron with exceeding urbanity. "I am a Jew. If I were not proud of the fact it would be folly to attempt to disguise it, for at least one feature in my face would betray me."
"It would," said Mr. Whimpole, dealing a blow which had the effect of causing Aaron to lean back in his chair, and laugh gently to himself for fully thirty seconds.
"When you have quite finished," said Mr. Whimpole coldly, "we will proceed."
"Excuse me," said Aaron, drawing a deep breath of enjoyment. "I beg you will not consider me wanting in politeness, but I have the instincts of my race, and I never waste the smallest trifle, not even a joke."
A little tuft of hair which ran down the center of Mr. Whimpole's head--the right and left banks of which were devoid ofverdure--quivered in sympathy with the proprietor's astonishment. That a man should make a joke out of that which was generally considered to be a reproach and a humiliation was, indeed, matter for amazement, nay, in this instance, for indignation, for in Aaron Cohen's laughter he, Mr. Whimpole himself, was made to occupy a ridiculous place.
"We are loath," continued Aaron, "to waste even the thinnest joke. We are at once both thrifty and liberal."
"We!" exclaimed Mr. Whimpole in hot repudiation.
"We Jews, I mean. No person in the world could possibly mistake you for one of the chosen."
"I should hope not. The idea is too absurd."
"Make your mind easy, sir; you would not pass muster in a synagogue without exciting remark. Yes, we are both thrifty and liberal, wasting nothing, and in the free spending of our money seeing that we get good value for it. That is not a reproach, nor is it a reproach that we thoroughly enjoy an agreeable thing when we get it for nothing. There are so many things in life to vex us that the opportunity of a good laugh should never be neglected. Proceed, my dear sir, proceed; you were saying that you believed you were not mistaken in taking me for a Jew."
"Is it your intention," asked Mr. Whimpole, coming now straight to the point, "to reside in Gosport?"
"If I am permitted," replied Aaron meekly.
"I hear, Mr. Cohen, that you have purchased the lease of this house."
"It is true, sir. The money has been paid and the lease is mine."
"It has twenty-seven years to run."
"Twenty-seven years and three months. Who can tell where we shall be, and how we shall be situated at the end of that time?"
Mr. Whimpole waved the contemplation aside. "You gave a hundred pounds for the lease."
"The precise sum; your information is correct."
"I had some intention, Mr. Cohen, of buying it myself."
"Indeed. It is a case of the early bird, then."
"If it gratifies you to put it that way. I have, therefore, no option but to purchase the lease of you."
"Mr. Whimpole," said Aaron after a slight pause, "I am agreeable to sell you the lease."
"I thought as much." And Mr. Whimpole disposed himself comfortably in his chair.
Rachel's eyes dilated in surprise. Their settlement in Gosport had not been made in haste, and all arrangements for commencing business were made. She could not understand her husband's willingness to give up the house.
"I do not expect you to take what you gave for it," said Mr. Whimpole; "I am prepared to give you a profit, and," he added jocosely, "you will not be backward in accepting it."
"Not at all backward. You speak like a man of sense."
"How much do you want for your bargain? How much, Mr. Cohen? Don't open your mouth too wide.
"If you will permit me," said Aaron, and he proceeded to pencil down a calculation. "It is not an undesirable house, Mr. Whimpole?"
"No, no; I don't say it is."
"It is compact and convenient?"
"Fairly so, fairly so!"
"I will accept," said Aaron, having finished his calculation, "five hundred pounds."
"You cannot be in earnest!" gasped Mr. Whimpole his breath fairly taken away.
"I am quite in earnest. Are you aware what it is you would buy of me?"
"Of course I am aware; the lease of this house."
"Not that alone. You would buy my hopes for the next twenty-seven years; for I declare to you there is not to my knowledge in all England a spot in which I so desire to pass my days as in this peaceful town; and there is not in all Gosport a house in which I believe I shall be so happy as in this. You see, you propose to purchase of me something more than a parchment lease."
"But the--the things you mention are of no value to me."
"I do not say they are. I am speaking from my point of view, as all men are bound to do. There is no reason why we should bandy words. I am not anxious to sell the lease; wait till it is in the market."
"A most unhealthy situation," observed Mr. Whimpole.
"It concerns ourselves, and we are contented."
"I cannot imagine a more unpleasant, not to say obnoxious, view."
"The view of the churchyard? The spot has already acquired an inestimable value in my eyes. God rest the souls of those who lie in it! The contemplation of the peaceful ground will serve to remind me of the vanity of life, and will be a constant warning to me to be fair and straightforward in my dealings. The warning may be needed, for in the business I intend to carry on there are--I do not deny it--many dangerous temptations."
"Tush, tush!" exclaimed Mr. Whimpole petulantly. "Straightforward dealings, indeed! The vanity of life, indeed!"
Aaron Cohen smiled.
Only once before in his life had Mr. Whimpole felt so thoroughly uncomfortable as at the present moment, and that was when he was a little boy, and fell into a bed of nettles, from which he was unable to extricate himself until he was covered with stings. It was just the same now; he was smarting all over from contact with Aaron Cohen, who was like a porcupine with sharp-pointed quills. But he would not tamely submit to such treatment; he would show Aaron that he could sting in return--he knew well enough where to plant his poisoned arrow.
It is due to Mr. Whimpole to state that he was not aware that the manner in which he was conducting himself during this interview was not commendable. Being a narrow-minded man, he could not take a wide and generous view of abstract matters, which, by a perversion of reasoning, he generally regarded from a personal standpoint; such men as he, in their jealous regard for their own feelings, are apt to overlook the feelings of others, and, indeed, to behave occasionally as if they did not possess any. This was Mr. Whimpole's predicament, and having met a ready-witted man, he was made to suffer for his misconduct. He sent forth his sting in this wise:
"You speak, Mr. Cohen, of being straightforward in your dealings, but for the matter of that we all know what we may expect from a----"
And having got thus far in his ungenerously prompted speech, he felt himself unable, in the presence of Rachel, and with her reproachful eyes raised to his face, to conclude the sentence. Aaron Cohen finished it for him.
"For the matter of that," he said gently, "you all know what you may expect from a Jew. That is what you were going to say. And with this thought in your mind you came to trade with me. Well, sir, it may be that we both have something to learn."
"Mr. Cohen," said Mr. Whimpole slightly abashed, "I am sorry if I have said anything to hurt your feelings."
"The offense, sir, is atoned for by the expression of your sorrow."
This was taking high ground, and Mr. Whimpole's choler was ready to rise again; but he mastered it and said in a conciliatory tone:
"I will disguise nothing from you; I was born in this house."
"The circumstance will make it all the more valuable to us. Mydear"--impressing it upon Rachel with pleasant emphasis--"Mr. Whimpole was born in this house. A fortunate omen. Good luck will come to us, as it has come to him. It is a low-rented house, and those who have been born in it must have been poor men's children. When they rise in the world, as Mr. Whimpole has done, it is better than a horseshoe over the door. In which room were you born, Mr. Whimpole?"
"In the room on the back of the first floor," replied Mr. Whimpole, making a wild guess.
"Our bedroom. There should be a record on the walls; there should, indeed, be a record, such as is placed outside those houses in London which have been inhabited by famous people. Failing that, it is in the power of every man, assuredly of every rich man, to make for himself a record that shall be imperishable--far better, my dear sir, than the mere fixing of a plate on a cold stone wall."
Mr. Whimpole gazed at Aaron Cohen to discover if there was any trace of mockery in his face, but Aaron was perfectly grave and serious.
"A man's humility," said Mr. Whimpole, raising his eyes to the ceiling, "his sense of humbleness, would prevent him from making this record for himself. It has to be left to others to do it when they have found him out."
"Aha, my dear sir!" said Aaron softly, "when they have found him out. True! true! but how few of us are! How few of us receive our just reward! How few of us, when we are in our graves, receive or deserve the tribute, 'Here lies a perfect man'! But the record I speak of will never be lost by a rich man's humility, by his humbleness, for it can be written unostentatiously in the hearts of the poor by the aid of silver and gold."
"I understand you, Mr. Cohen," said Mr. Whimpole inwardly confounding Aaron's flow of ideas, "by means of charity."
"Yes, sir, by means of charity. There is an old legend that a man's actions in life are marked in the air above him, in the places in which they are performed. There, in invisible space, are inscribed the records of his good and bad deeds, of his virtues, of his crimes; and when he dies his soul visits those places, and views the immortal writing which is visible to all the angels in heaven, and which covers him with shame or glory. Gosport, doubtless, has many such records of your charity."
"I do my best," said Mr. Whimpole, very much confused and mystified, "I hope I do my best. I said I would disguise nothing from you; I will, therefore, be quite frank, with no intention of wounding you. I am a strictly religious man, Mr. Cohen, and it hurts me that one whose religious belief is opposed to my own should inhabit the house in which I was born. I will give you a hundred and twenty pounds for the lease; that will leave you a profit of twenty pounds. Come, now!"
"I will not accept less for it, sir, than the sum I named."
"Is that your last word?"
"It is my last word."
Mr. Whimpole rose with a face of scarlet, and clapped his hat on his head.
"You are a--a----"
"A Jew. Leave it at that. Can you call me anything worse?" asked Aaron with no show of anger.
"No, I cannot. You are a Jew."
"I regret," said Aaron calmly, "that I cannot retort by calling you a Christian. May our next meeting be more agreeable! Good-evening, Mr. Whimpole."
"You do not know the gentleman you have insulted," said Mr. Whimpole as he walked toward the door. "You do not know my position in this town. I am in the expectation of being made a justice of the peace. You will live to repent this."
"I think not," said Aaron, taking the candle to show his visitor out. "I trust you may."
"You may find your residence in Gosport, where I am universally respected, not as agreeable as you would wish it to be."
"We shall see, we shall see," said Aaron, still smiling. "I may also make myself respected here."
"There is a prejudice against your race----"
"Am I not aware of it? Is not every Jew aware of it? Is it not thrown in our teeth by the bigoted and narrow-minded upon every possible occasion? We will live it down, sir. We have already done much; we will yet do more. Your use of the word prejudice is appropriate, for, as I understand its meaning, it represents a judgment formed without proper knowledge. Yes, sir, it is not to be disputed that there exists a prejudice against our race."
"Which, without putting any false meaning upon it, will make this ancient and respectable town"--here Mr. Whimpole found himself at a loss, and he was compelled to wind up with the vulgar figure of speech--"too hot to hold you."
"This ancient town," said Aaron with a deeper seriousness in his voice, "is known to modern men as Gosport."
"A clever discovery," sneered Mr. Whimpole. "Are you going to put another of your false constructions on it?"
"No, sir. I am about to tell you a plain and beautiful truth. When in olden times a name was given to this place it was not Gosport. It was God's Port; and what God's port is there throughout the civilized world in which Jew and Christian alike have not an equal right to live, despite prejudice, despite bigotry, and despite the unreasonable anger of large corn-chandlers and respected churchwardens? I wish you, sir, good-night."
And having by this time reached the street door, Aaron Cohen opened it for Mr. Whimpole, and bowed him politely out.
Upon Aaron's return to the little parlor he saw that Rachel was greatly disturbed.
"My life!" he said, and he folded her in his arms and tenderly embraced her. "Don't let such a little thing as this distress you; it will all come right in the end."
"But how you kept your temper," she said, "that is what surprised me."
"It gave me the advantage of him, Rachel. I was really amused." He pinched her cheeks to bring the color back to them. "Some men must be managed one way, some another. And now for our game of bezique. Mr. Whimpole's visit"--he laughed at the recollection--"will make me enjoy it all the more."
There was no resisting his light-heartedness, and he won a smile from her, despite her anxiety. Rachel was not clever enough to discover that it was only by the cunning of her husband that she won the rubber of bezique. He was a keen judge of human nature, and he knew that this small victory would help to soothe her.
The next day was Friday, and the three golden balls were put up, and the name of Aaron Cohen painted over the shop door. A great many people came to look, and departed to circulate the news. At one o'clock the painting was done, and then Aaron said to his wife, "I shall be out till the evening. Have you found anyone to attend to the lights and the fire?" They were not rich enough to keep a regular servant, and Aaron never touched fire on the Sabbath.
"I have heard of a woman," said Rachel; "she is coming this afternoon to see me."
"Good," said Aaron, and, kissing Rachel, went away with a light heart.
In the afternoon the woman, Mrs. Hawkins, called, and Rachel explained the nature of the services she required. Mrs. Hawkins was to come to the house every Friday night to put coals on the fire and extinguish the lights, and four times on Saturday to perform the same duties. Rachel proposed eightpence a week, but Mrs. Hawkins stuck out for tenpence, and this being acceded to, she departed--leaving a strong flavor of gin behind her. When Aaron came home the two Sabbath candles were alight upon the snow-white tablecloth, and on the tablecloth a supper was spread--fried fish, white bread and white butter, and in the fender a steaming coffeepot. He washed and said his prayers, and then they sat down to their meal in a state of perfect contentment. Aaron, having besought the customary blessing on the bread they were about to eat, praised the fish, praised the butter, praised the coffee, praised his wife, and after a full meal praised the Lord in a Song of Degrees for blessings received: "When the Eternal restored the captivity of Zion we were as those who dream. Our mouths were then filled with laughter, and our tongues with song." He had a rich baritone voice, and Rachel listened in pious delight to his intoning of the prayer.
The supper things were cleared away, the white tablecloth being allowed to remain because of the lighted candles on it, which it would have been breaking the Sabbath to lift, and then there came a knock at the street door.
"That is the woman I engaged," said Rachel, hurrying into the passage. There entered, not Mrs. Hawkins, but a very small girl, carrying a very large baby. The baby might have been eighteen months old and the girl ten years, and of the twain the baby was the plumper.
Without "with your leave," or "by your leave," the small girl pushed past Rachel before the astonished woman could stop her, and presented herself before the no less astonished Aaron Cohen. Her comprehensive glance took in the lighted candles, the cheerful fire, and the master of the house in one comprehensive flash. With some persons what is known as making up one's mind is a slow and complicated process; with the small girl it was electrical. She deposited the large baby in Aaron's lap, admonishing the infant to "keep quiet, or she'd ketch it," blew out the candles in two swift puffs, and kneeling before the grate, proceeded to rake out the fire. So rapid were her movements that the fender was half filled with cinders and blazing coals before Rachel had time to reach the room.
"In Heaven's name," cried Aaron, "what is the meaning of this?"
"It's all right, sir," said the small girl; "I've come for aunty."
"Put down the poker instantly," exclaimed Aaron; "your aunty, whoever she may be, is not here."
"Tell me somethink I don't know," requested the small girl. "This is Mr. Cohen's, the Jew, aint it?"
"It is," replied Aaron, with despairing gestures, for the baby was dabbing his face with hands sticky with crumbs of sugar stuff.
"Well, wot are yer 'ollerin for? I'm only doing wot aunty told me."
"And who is your aunty?"
"Mrs. 'Orkins. Pretend not to know 'er--do! She sed you'd try to do 'er out of 'er money, and want 'er to take fippence instid of tenpence."
"Did she? You have come here by her orders, I suppose?"
"Yes, I 'ave--to poke out the fire and blow out the candles--and I've done it."
"You have," said Aaron ruefully. "And now, little girl, you will do as I tell you. Put down that poker. Get up. Feel on the mantelshelf for a box of matches. I beg your pardon; you are too short to reach. Here is the box. Take out a match. Strike it. Light the candles. Thank you! Last, but not least, relieve me of this baby with the sticky hands."
The small girl snatched the baby from his arms, and stood before him in an attitude of defiance. For the first time he had a clear view of her.
"Heaven save us!" he cried, falling back in his chair.
Her appearance was a sufficient explanation of his astonishment. To say that she was ragged and dirty and forlorn, and as utterly unlike a little girl living in civilized society as any little girl could possibly be, would be but a poor description of her. Her face suggested that she had been lying with her head in a coal scuttle; she wore no hat or bonnet; her hair was matted; her frock reached just below her knees, and might have been picked out of a dust heap; she had no stockings; on her feet were two odd boots several sizes too large for her and quite worn out, one tied to her ankle with a piece of gray list, the other similarly secured with a piece of knotted twine. Her eyes glittered with preternatural sharpness; her cheek bones stuck out; her elbows were pointed and red; she was allbone--literally all bone; there was not an ounce of flesh uponher--not any part of her body that could be pinched with a sense of satisfaction. But the baby! What a contrast! Her head was round and chubby, and was covered with a mass of light curls; her hands were full of dimples; her face was puffed out with superabundant flesh; the calves of her legs were a picture. In respect of clothes she was no better off than Mrs. Hawkins' niece.
"Wot are yer staring at?" demanded the girl.
"At you, my child," replied Aaron with compassion in his voice.
"Let's know when yer done," retorted the girl, "and I'll tell yer wot I charge for it."
"And at baby," added Aaron.
"That'll be hextra. Don't say I didn't warn yer."
There were conflicting elements in the situation: its humor was undeniable, but it had its pathetic side. Aaron Cohen was swayed now by one emotion, now by another.
"So you are Mrs. Hawkins' niece?" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Yes, I am. Wot 'ave yer got to say agin it?"
"Nothing. Is baby also Mrs. Hawkins' niece, or nephew?"
"If you've no objections," said the girl with excessive politeness, "she's Mrs. Pond's little gal, and I nusses 'er."
"I have no objection. What is your name?"
"Wot it may be, my lordship," replied the girl, her politeness becoming Arctic, "is one thing--wot it is is another."
"You are a clever little girl," said Aaron, smiling and rubbing his hands--"a sharp, clever little girl."
"Thank yer for nothink," said the girl.
She had reached the North Pole; it was necessary to thaw her.
"Upon the mantelshelf," said Aaron, "just behind that beautiful blue vase, are two penny pieces. Step on a chair--not that cane one, you'll go through it; the wooden one--and see if you can find them."
"I see 'em," said the girl, looking down upon Aaron in more senses than one.
"They are yours. Put them in your pocket."
The girl clutched the pennies, jumped from the chair--whereat the baby crowed, supposing it to be a game provided for her amusement--and having no pocket, held the money tight in her hand. Visions of sweet stuff rose before her. The pennies getting warm, the ice at the North Pole began to melt.
"And now perhaps you will tell me your name."
"Prissy. That's the short un."
"The long one is----"
"Priscilla."
"A grand name. You ought to have a silk gown and satin shoes and a gold comb." Prissy opened her eyes very wide. The ice was melting quickly, and the buds were coming on the trees. "And baby's name?"
"Wictoria Rejiner. That's grander, aint it?"
"Much grander! Victoria Regina--a little queen!" Prissy gave baby a kiss, with pride and love in her glittering eyes. "What makes your face so black, Prissy?"
"Coals. Aunty deals in 'em--and cabbages and taters and oranges and lemons. And she takes in washing."
So genial was Aaron Cohen's voice that spring was coming in fast. "You look, Prissy, as if you had very little to eat."
"I don't 'ave much," said Prissy, with a longing sigh. "I could eat all day and night if I 'ad the chance."
"My dear," said Aaron to his wife, "there is some coffee left in the pot. Do you like coffee, Prissy?"
"Do I like corfey? Don't I like corfey! Oh, no--not me! Jest you try me!"
"I will. Give me Victoria Regina. Poke the fire. That's right; you are the quickest, sharpest little girl in my acquaintance. Pour some water from the kettle into the coffeepot. Set it on the fire. Rachel, my dear, take Prissy and baby into the kitchen and let them wash themselves, and afterward they shall have some supper."
The buds were breaking into blossom; it really was a lovely spring.
In a few minutes Rachel and the children re-entered the room from the kitchen, baby with a clean face, and Prissy with a painfully red and shining skin. Following her husband's instructions, Rachel cut half a dozen slices of bread, upon which she spread the butter with a liberal hand. Prissy, hugging Victoria Regina, watched the proceedings in silence. By this time the coffee was bubbling in the pot.
"Take it off the fire, Prissy," said Aaron Cohen; and in another minute the little girl, with baby in her lap, was sitting at the table with a cup of hot smoking coffee, well sugared and milked, which she was so eager to drink that she scalded her throat. The bread and butter was perhaps the sweetest that Prissy had ever ate, and the coffee was nectar. The baby ate more than Prissy; indeed, she ate so much and so quickly that she occasionally choked, and had to be violently shaken and patted on the back; but she became tired out at last, and before Prissy had finished her bounteous meal she was fast asleep in her nurse's arms.
Aaron Cohen leaned back in his chair, and gazed with benevolent eyes upon the picture before him; and as he gazed the sweetest of smiles came to his lips and did not leave them. Rachel, stealing to the back of his chair, put her arms round his neck, and nestled her face to his.
It was a most beautiful summer, and all the trees were in flower.