The shock of this revelation was so overwhelming that for a few moments Aaron was unable to speak. In the words of the prophet, "His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth." His soul was plunged in darkness, and a feeling of passionate rebellion racked his heart. That upon his sweet and innocent wife should have fallen an infliction so awful seemed to blot all brightness out of the world. Nay, more--it seemed to blot out the principle of justice, to render it a mockery and a snare. The sentiment which animated him was one of horror and indignation, and he yielded to it unresistingly. What had Rachel done to deserve the cruel blow? Not with a crown of sorrow but with a crown of glory should she have been crowned. And was it not natural that he should rebel against it? He was her champion, her protector, her defender; she had no one else. Should he stand tamely by and show no sense of the injustice which had been inflicted upon her!
Very, very rarely had Aaron been dominated by so stubborn a mood; very, very rarely had he allowed it to take possession of him; and never in a single instance on his own account. Mere worldly misfortune, however disastrous in its effect, he had invariably met with philosophic calm and fortitude. Many reverses had attended him, and he had borne them bravely, as a man should, as it is a man's duty to do. With a courage which may be said to be heroic had he accepted each successive stroke, and had immediately applied himself to the task of repairing the breach. No faint-hearted soldier he, sitting down and weeping by the roadside when he received a wound. To be up and doing--that was his creed. These were but ordinary checks which a man must be prepared to encounter in his course through life; weak, indeed, would he prove himself to be who did not at once set to work manfully and energetically to make the best instead of the worst of each rebuff. Aaron's keen gift of humor and his talent for justifiable device were of immense assistance to him in these encounters, and in his conversations with Rachel he was in the habit of throwing so droll a light upon the difficulties with which he was contending that he lifted from her heart and from his own a weight which otherwise would have remained there and impeded his efforts. He treated every personal ailment which visited him, and every little incident he met with, in the same spirit, laughing away Rachel's distress and bearing his pain without the least symptom of querulousness. "You seem almost to like pain, my dear," she had said. "There is pleasure in pain," he had answered; "think of the relief." Thus did he make the pack upon his shoulders easy to carry, and thus did he contribute to Rachel's enjoyment of life.
Over and above these lesser features in his character reigned the great factors truth and justice. He took no credit to himself that he was never guilty of a meanness; it was simply that it was not in his nature to fall so low, and that he walked instinctively in the right path. He had frequently conversed with Rachel upon the doctrine of responsibility, arguing that children born of vicious parents should not be made accountable for their evil acts to the fullest extent. "It is an inheritance," he argued, "and it is not they who are wholly guilty. My parents gave me an inheritance of cheerfulness and good temper, and I am more grateful for it than I should be if they had left me a bag of gold." Upon questions of right and wrong his good sense and his rectitude led him unerringly to the just side, and when his own interests were involved in a decision he was called upon to make in such and such an issue he never for a moment hesitated. To have benefited himself at the expense of justice would have been in his eyes a sin which was not to be forgiven. A sin of unconscious omission could be expiated, but a sin of deliberate commission would have weighed forever on his soul. Could such a man as this, a devout and conscientious Jew, faithful every day of his life in the observances of his religion, with a firm belief in the mercy and goodness of the Eternal God, and with the principles of truth and justice shining ever before him, be guilty of such a sin? It will be presently seen.
So far himself, considered as an entity. Had he been alone in life, with no other life so welded into his own as to be inseparable from it, it is scarcely possible that he could have been guilty of a conscious wrong, for his soul would have risen in revolt against the suggestion. Had he been alone misfortunes might have fallen upon him unceasingly, poverty might have been his lot through all his days, disease might have racked his bones--he would have borne all with tranquillity and resignation, and would have lifted up his voice in praise of the Most High to his last hour. Of such stuff are martyrs made; from such elements springs the lofty ideal into which, once in a generation, is breathed the breath of life, the self-sacrificing hero who sheds his blood and dies with a glad light on his face in the battle of right against might, in the battle of weak innocence against the ruthless hand of power. But Aaron was not alone; Rachel was by his side, leaning upon his heart, looking to him for joy, for peace, for happiness. And when he suffered it was through her he suffered; and when he was oppressed with sorrow it was through her he sorrowed. So keen was his sympathy with her, so intense was his love for her, that if only her finger ached he was in pain. We are but human after all, and no man can go beyond a man's strength. Legends are handed down to us of divine inspiration falling upon a man who, thus inspired, becomes a leader, a hero, a prophet; but in that man's heartstrings are not entwined the tender fingers of wife and children. As blades of grass which we can rub into nothingness between our fingers force their upward way to air and sunshine through adamantine stones, as rocks are worn away by the trickling of drops of water, so may a man's sublimest qualities, so may a man's heart and soul be pierced and reft by human love.
It was this absorbing sentiment that agitated Aaron when Rachel revealed to him that she was blind; it was this that struck him dumb.
Meekly and patiently she stood before him--he had fallen back astep--and waited for him to speak. He did not utter a word.
Presently her sweet voice stole upon his senses.
"Aaron, my beloved, why are you silent? Why do you not speak to me?"
He lifted his head and groaned.
"Ah, do not groan, dear husband," she continued. "It is for me you suffer, but I am not suffering--did I not tell you so? It is, indeed, the truth. Look into my face; you will see no pain there. I need you more than ever now. Next to God you are my rock, my salvation. He has cast this affliction upon me out of his goodness and wisdom. Let us lift our voices in his praise."
And from her lips flowed in the ancient tongue the sublime prayer:
"Hear, O Israel, the Eternal, our God! the Eternal is One. And thou shalt love the Eternal, thy God, with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. And these words which I command thee this day shall be in thine heart. And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall speak of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way; when thou liest down, and when thou risest up."
An angel's voice could not have been more melodious and sweet, and the beauty of the prayer acquired truly a divine strength through Rachel's intoning of the pious words. But it was not only her voice that resounded in the room. The moment she commenced to pray rebellion against fate's decree melted out of Aaron's heart, and pity took its place; he was restored to his better self. Holding her hand, he joined her in prayer, but not in so loud a voice as usual; he followed her, as it were, and was led by her, and when the prayer was ended her head sank upon his breast, and her arms entwined themselves around his neck.
"You are resigned, my dear?" she whispered.
"I bow my head," he answered; "the Lord's will be done!"
"I could not keep it from you any longer. I was blind when I opened my eyes in the house of the good people who gave me shelter; I was blind when you sat by my side there; but I feared to tell you; I wished to speak to the doctor first. It was so strange, so sudden, that I hoped it would not last. I awoke with the cry of fire in my ears, and as I leaped from bed the bright glare of the flames seemed to strike sight out of my eyes. I fainted, and remember nothing more; only that when I opened my eyes again I could not see. It was merciful that there was no pain. Oh, my dear husband, I am so sorry for you, so sorry, so sorry!"
"Rachel, dear Rachel, dear life of my life, it is not for me you should grieve--it is for yourself."
"No, dear love, I do not grieve for myself. Should I not rather rejoice? Because I know, I know"--she put his hand to her lips and kissed it, then held it to her heart--"that you will bear with me, that I shall not be a trouble to you."
"A trouble to me, Rachel! You are dearer to me than ever--more precious to me than ever. Oh, my dear, I never loved you as I love you now!"
"How sweet, how sweet!" she murmured. "How beautiful is life! No woman was ever blessed as I am blessed! And soon, dear love, we shall have with us another evidence of the Lord's great mercy. Our child, our darling, will be here. Ah, what happiness!"
Was there already in her heart the shadow of an abiding sorrow springing from the knowledge that she would never see the face of her unborn child, that she would never be able to look into the beautiful eyes which in a short time would open upon the world? Aaron had hoped that baby's eyes would be like hers, but she would never know from personal evidence whether they were or not. If such a sorrow was making itself felt she kept it to herself and guarded it jealously, lest Aaron should participate in it. Her face was radiant as they continued to converse, and by her loving words she succeeded in thoroughly banishing from Aaron's soul the rebellious promptings by which he had first been agitated. Thus did Rachel, to whom the light of the universe was henceforth as night, become the divine consoler in the home.
"I am tired, dear. Will you lead me to our room?"
He took her in his arms and carried her up, as he would have carried a child, and this new office of love, and indeed everything he did for her, drew them spiritually closer to each other.
When she was in bed she asked him to tell her about the fire, and if he would be a great loser by it. He softened the loss, said that he was well insured, that they had a good friend in Mr. Moss, and that it would not be long before he was on his feet again. Content and happiness were expressed on her face as she listened.
"It will be a comfort to you to know," he said, "that no one will lose anything by me; every demand will be met; every penny will be paid. In my mansion"--his study of the law and his devotion to his faith led him occasionally into a biblical phrase--"are three stars: First, the Eternal God; next, you, my beloved; next, our good name."
"That is safe in your keeping, dear," she said.
"And will ever be, so far as human endeavor can aid me. You will be glad to hear, too, that the townspeople sympathize with us in our trouble."
"I am very glad; it could hardly have been otherwise. Who that lives to know you does not learn to honor you?" She held his hand in a tender clasp and kissed it repeatedly. "I will tell you something. I am beginning already to acquire a new sense. When you look at me I feel it--you are looking at me now. When your eyes are not on my face I know it. I shall learn a good deal very soon, very soon! I do not intend to be a burden to you." This was said with tender gayety.
"You can never be that." He touched her eyes. "Henceforth I am your eyes. It is a poor return, for you, Rachel, are my very life."
"Dear husband! Dear love! Kiss me. I want to fall asleep with those words in my ears. You will not stop up long?"
"I will go down and put out the lights, and see that all is safe. Then I will come up at once. Sleep, my life, sleep!"
He passed his fingers caressingly across her forehead, and she fell asleep with a smile on her lips.
He stole softly from the room in his stocking feet, and went down and made the house safe; then he returned to the bedroom.
The smile had left Rachel's lips; her face was paler, and there was a worn look on it. A terrible fear entered his heart. "O God, if she should die! O God, if I should lose her!" He took his silk taleth from its bag, and wrapping it around him put on his hat, and stood and prayed, with his face to the east.
"How precious is thy mercy, O God! The children of men take refuge under the shadow of thy wing. They are satisfied with the richness of thy house, and thou causeth them to drink of the stream of thy delight. For with thee is the fountain of life, by thy light only do we see light. Oh, continue thy mercy unto them who know thee and thy righteousness to the upright of heart!"
One line in the prayer he repeated again and again: "For with thee is the fountain of life, and by thy light only do we see light." And so he prayed till midnight, and the one supplication into which all else was merged was sent forth with touching pathos from his very heart of hearts: "O Lord of the Universe, Giver of all good, humbly I beseech thee to spare my beloved! Take her not from me! Let her live, let her live to bless my days! Let not darkness overwhelm me! It is thy hand that directs the fountain of life."
And Rachel slept on, and dreamed of the child whose face she was never to see upon earth.
Three weeks of great anxiety followed. Despite the courage with which Rachel had borne the sudden visitation of blindness her physical strength did not hold out, and, by the doctor's orders, she kept her bed. During these weeks Aaron had enough to do to put his affairs in order, and he had the additional trouble that matters turned out worse than he had anticipated. For security's sake, and to set the borrowers at ease, he transferred all the pledges that had been saved to another pawnbroker; those that were destroyed he considered himself bound in honor and common honesty to make good; he made no demur to the claims that were brought against them, but settled them promptly, and settled also all his trade debts. What with all this harassing business and his domestic sorrows he was occupied day and night, but he was careful that Rachel should not suspect how things were with him. The doctor came daily, and Rachel's time was very near. At every visit Aaron watched his face for hopeful news of Rachel's condition, but the doctor volunteered no information, and only gave instructions to do this or that. This reticence was torture to Aaron, and one day he begged the doctor to conceal nothing from him.
"There is nothing to conceal," said the doctor. "Her state is critical, but what else could be expected? Consider what she has passed through."
"I think of nothing else, of nothing else," said Aaron, his fingers working convulsively, for a question was trembling on his lips which he felt he must ask, but to which he could scarcely give utterance. "Doctor, will she live?"
The doctor bit his lip as he gazed upon Aaron's misery. "We will do our best; but remember, we are all in God's hands." And with these words, and a look of compassion, he departed.
Aaron stood motionless a while. We are all in God's hands! How often has that been said, and how terrible is its import! Human science and skill have done all it is in their power to do--the rest is with God. Aaron reasoned the true meaning away.
"We are all in God's hands," he murmured, "old and young, rich and poor, the strong and the feeble alike. It is so with one and all. I thank God he did not tell me to prepare for the worst!"
He drew comfort not from what was said, but from what was not said. He continued to commune with himself.
"How can she be otherwise than weak? And doctors sometimes think it their duty not to look on the brightest side. My Rachel will be spared to me. God will not take her away."
He went up to her; a nurse he had engaged was in the room; she could come for only a week, her services at the end of that time being required elsewhere. She put her fingers to her lips as he entered.
"Is she asleep?" he asked in a whisper.
She nodded in reply, but when he approached the bed Rachel held out her hand to him.
"Nurse thought you were asleep, dear," he said, bending down to her.
"I may have been," she answered. "I fall off into a doze a dozen times an hour, it seems, but I always know when you are near me." She put her hand to her head.
"Are you in pain, my life?"
"Oh, no. I am rather weak, but I shall get strong soon. Whenever I doze I see our dear one. Aaron, dear love, do not be anxious for me; I shall soon hold our darling in my arms."
The nurse gave him a warning look not to encourage her to talk, and understanding the silent monition, he kissed Rachel tenderly and went down to muse and pray.
The settlement of all his debts had left him almost a beggar. He owed not a shilling, except to the doctor, who had said nothing about his account; the week's money for the nurse was carefully put away; he could not have afforded to engage her for a longer term, for all the money he had left in the world amounted to barely two pounds. What was he to do when that was spent? Commence business again upon borrowed capital? But who would lend it to him? It was no small sum that would be required, and all his friends, with the exception of Mr. Moss, were poor. Mr. Moss was comparatively a new friend, and he could not expect him to render such substantial assistance. It would be unreasonable to ask for so large a loan, say, as fifty pounds, for that was the least that he could begin again with; besides, he would be sure to be met with a refusal. But what was he to do?
He thrust these worldly contemplations aside, and, indeed, it was impossible for him to dwell upon them with a heavier sorrow at his door. He trusted in God--yes; but he knew that a man must work for his livelihood. Well, he would work; he was willing and ready for any honest occupation; but he must wait--for what? He stepped into the passage, and softly ascending the stairs, listened at Rachel's door. As he stood there the nurse came out.
"Go for the doctor," she whispered.
He flew. There was no thought in his mind now of his worldly troubles; he thought only of his beloved wife and unborn child. The doctor was not in, but was expected in a quarter of an hour, and would be sure to come round at once. Leaving an urgent entreaty not to delay a moment, Aaron hastened back to his house, and on the road found himself intercepted by Prissy, who had grown taller but no stouter since the night upon which she introduced herself to him. By reason of her increased height she looked thinner and scraggier than ever; as usual Victoria Regina, who had grown plumper and rounder, was in the girl's arms.
"Mr. Cohen, Mr. Cohen!" cried Prissy.
"I can't stop now," he replied, passing her quickly.
But Prissy's long legs were as active as his, and though Victoria Regina was a heavy weight to carry, she kept pace with him.
"D'yer know wot everybody's saying about yer, Mr. Cohen?"
"Never mind, never mind, my good girl; I have no time to listen."
"They're saying, everybody is," continued Prissy, "that yer as good as ruined, and that you 'aven't got a shilling left to pay yer way with."
"What does it matter what people say, Prissy? Never listen totittle-tattle."
"'Ow's it to be 'elped, Mr. Cohen, when they ding it in yer ears? Mr. Whimpole, he ses he sor wot was coming all along, and when I ups and gives 'im a bit o' my mind he slaps my face, he does, and pushes me into the gutter. I don't mind that, but no one's going to speak agin yer when I'm by. It aint likely after all yer've done for me."
"You are a good girl, but take no notice of what Mr. Whimpole says. There are many here who still have a good word for me."
"Plenty, sir, and that's wot makes Mr. Whimpole mad; he can't make 'em think as he wants 'em to. You look ill, Mr. Cohen. I 'ope missis is no wus, I do."
"She is still weak and ill, Prissy; but she will get well soon--eh, Prissy?--she will get well soon?"
He cast a swift, anxious look upon her; even from the lips of this poor girl he sought the comfort of a consoling word.
"Yes, sir, she's sure to. Don't you worry yerself, Mr. Cohen. Gawd won't let nothink wrong 'appen to 'er. Wot did she say 'erself to me more nor once? 'Be a good gal,' she ses, 'and tell the truth, and be as kind as yer can to everybody, and Gawd 'll look after yer.' And aint she good, sir? and does she ever say anythink but the truth? and aint she as kind as kind can be to everybody about 'er? Why, it's in everybody's mouth, 'xcept Mr. Whimpole's. She's sure to get well, Mr. Cohen, and then yer'll let me see 'er, sir, won't yer?"
"Yes, Prissy, yes," said Aaron, laying his hand for a moment on Prissy's tangled hair; he had reached the door of his house, and was unlocking the door. "She will get well, please God, and you shall see her. Thank you, thank you, my good girl, and now run away."
"I'm off, Mr. Cohen," said Prissy; "this is going to bring yer luck, it is," and slipping a large paper parcel into his hand, she scuttled away.
He did not know what it was he held until he reached his room, and then he examined it. When he removed the paper he saw a horseshoe and two penny pieces, which had been rubbed bright with sand, so that they shone like gold. Something shone in Aaron's eyes as he gazed at the humble offering; he smiled wistfully, and muttering, "It is an omen of good fortune; God bless you, little Prissy!" put the shoe and the pennies carefully aside. Then he stepped softly upstairs, and softly tapped at the bedroom door.
"How is she, nurse?"
"Bearing up wonderfully, sir."
"Thank God! The doctor will be here presently. I will wait for him at the street door."
He had not long to wait; in a very short time he saw the welcome form turning the corner, and the doctor, with a friendly, smiling nod, passed into the house.
Aaron paced to and fro in the room below, and waited for the word that was to bring joy or sorrow to his soul. He had put his slippers on, in order that his footsteps should not be heard. In such times of tribulation his thoughts were invariably directed to the divine footstool; as with all devout Jews prayer was part of his life, and never, since the day of his birth, had he prayed so earnestly and fervently as now. Every few moments he paused in the supplications he was sending forth, and stepped softly into the passage, and listened. He heard no sound, not a sob, not a cry; then he returned to his room, and resumed his prayers. His heart was with Rachel, and he knew that she was thinking of him. In the light of the perfect love that existed between them, in the anxious expectancy of these lagging minutes, what mattered poverty or riches, what mattered mere worldly misfortune? A stout spirit, a strong shoulder to the wheel, and all would be well; thus much could a man do with a cheerful heart. But here and now he was helpless, impotent; here and now was impending a graver issue which he was powerless to influence. A life--the life of hisbeloved--was hanging in the balance; and all that he could do was to wait and hope and pray.
Hush! What was that? An infant's wail--the cry of a newborn child! With his heart in his ears he stood in the passage, then sank upon the stairs, with his face in his hands. His child lived--but Rachel! how was it with her?
The bedroom door opened and closed, and the doctor came down. The passage was dark, for it was now evening, and Aaron could not see the doctor's face. Taking Aaron's arm, which shook in his grasp like a leaf in a strong wind, the doctor led Aaron into the sitting room and lit the gas.
"Doctor!" implored Aaron, with clasped hands.
"You have a little girl."
"And Rachel--my wife!"
"Be comforted. She is in no immediate danger. She is a brave and noble woman. I will return in a couple of hours. The nurse will tell you when you can go up and see her."
Aaron laid his head upon the table and wept.
"Aaron!"
"My beloved!"
"Is our darling beautiful?"
"Very beautiful--like you."
"You spoil me, dear; you think too much of me."
"It is not possible, Rachel. Loving you as I do, with my whole heart, there is still some wisdom in my love. Rachel, without you my life would not be perfect; without you I should be a broken man."
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she said, clasping his hand tight. "It is out of my power to repay you for all your goodness to me."
"You repay me every moment of your life. Not for a throne would I exchange my place by your side; not for a palace would I exchange my humble home with you to hallow it." Their lips met, and there was silence in the room a while.
"Dear husband, you are not disappointed that our child is a girl?"
"I am rejoiced that we have with us a daughter in Israel. What greater happiness could I desire? When you are strong, when I hear your footsteps about the house again, all will be well."
A holy joy dwelt in her face. "My darling, my darling!" she murmured as she held the sleeping babe to her breast. "I had a fear, but it is gone--a fear that our precious one would be born blind, as I am. Thank God, I did not bring that misfortune upon her. What happiness entered my heart when the doctor told me that her eyes were bright and beautiful. If only the gracious Lord will not take her--if only he will spare her to live to an honored old age!"
"He will, he will, my beloved! We must not talk any more. Sleep and grow strong."
He sat by her bedside in silence, gazing upon her face, which was as the face of an angel, and then he stole softly downstairs. He had much to occupy his thoughts; Rachel's danger happily passed, as he hoped, he could turn his attention to his worldly affairs, which indeed, being at a desperate pass, would have forced themselves to the front under any circumstances. By the doctor's orders he had been compelled to make certain purchases which had not only emptied his purse, but had driven him to the necessity of parting with the few articles of jewelry which he and Rachel possessed. These proceeds gone he was an absolute beggar.
Never in his life had he been placed in so serious a position. Difficulties had been encountered and confronted with courage and success, times of embarrassment had been tided over, losses had been made good, and he had fought his way cheerfully; but now his heart sank within him at the prospect that was opening out. Rachel needed not only care and unremitting attention, but delicacies in the shape of food to keep up her strength. Nourishing soups, a glass of port wine, a chicken--these were no trifles to a man in Aaron's position; and unable to afford the regular services of a servant, he had to look after these matters himself, to perform domestic work, to cook, and to keep the whole house in order. The nurse's attention was devoted solely to the sick room, and he could not therefore look to assistance from her; Prissy made her appearance daily, but Aaron dismissed her quickly, feeling the injustice of accepting services for which he could not pay. It was no easy matter to get rid of Prissy, who was not only willing but anxious to remain, and she feebly protested against being turned away so unceremoniously; her protests would have been more vigorous had she not entertained a certain awe of Aaron's strength of character, before which she, as it were, was compelled to prostrate herself. Thus Aaron, from force of circumstance and from his inherent sense of justice, was thrown entirely upon his own resources.
Counting the money in his purse, he calculated that it was sufficient to last for nine or ten days. In four days the nurse would take her departure, and then he and Rachel and their babe would be left alone in the house. At the expiration of less than a week after that he must be prepared to face the most serious difficulties. He had friends in London, to whom he had already written, and had received replies of regret that they were unable to assist him. Mr. Moss had been so good a friend that he hardly dared appeal again to him, and he resolved to leave it to the last moment. With a troubled heart, and hardly having the strength to hope against hope, he went about the house and attended to his duties. The four days passed, the nurse, having taken her leave of Rachel, came down to Aaron to receive her wages and bid him good-by. He paid her with a sad smile, and thanked her for her services. The "good-day" exchanged, she lingered a moment. With quick apprehension he divined why she delayed.
"You have something to say to me, nurse, about my wife."
"Yes, Mr. Cohen, I have," she replied, "and I am glad you have mentioned it, as I did not know how to bring it out." She paused again.
"Well, nurse?"
"I think you ought to know, Mr. Cohen, that your wife is not so well as you suppose."
"Nurse!"
"She keeps it from you, sir, and has begged me not to alarm you, but it is my duty. No, sir, she is far from well, and is not getting on as she ought. She grows weaker and weaker--and baby, too, is not thriving. It is that which keeps Mrs. Cohen back."
"What can be done, nurse?" asked Aaron, the agony of his feelings depicted on his countenance.
"It isn't for me to say, Mr. Cohen. If I were you I would ask the doctor to tell me plainly."
"I will, I will. Nurse, does she suffer?"
"She's just the one to suffer, sir, and to say nothing.
It would be a dreadful thing for you, sir, if----" But here the woman stopped suddenly and bit her lip. She had said more than she intended. "Good-day, sir, and I hope we may all be wrong."
He caught her arm. "No, no, nurse. I will ask the doctor to speak plainly to me, but he will not be here till to-morrow, and I cannot go to him and leave my wife and child alone in the house. Finish what you were about to say. 'It would be a dreadful thing if----'"
"Well, sir, it is best to face the truth. If your poor lady was to die."
"Great God! There is danger, then?"
"I am afraid there is, sir. Don't take on so, sir, don't! I am sorry I spoke."
"You have done what is right," Aaron groaned.
"We must all of us be prepared, sir; trouble comes to all of us."
"Alas, it is a human heritage! But you do not know what this means to me--you do not know what it means to me!"
"Perhaps I have made things out worse than they are; I hope so, I am sure. But you ask the doctor, sir, and don't give way. I shall think of your lady a good deal when I am gone."
With that, and with a sympathetic look at him, the woman departed.
At length, at length, the truth had been spoken; at length, at length, he knew the worst. It was as if a sentence of death had been pronounced. His Rachel, his beloved wife, the tenderest, the truest that man had ever been blessed with, was to be taken from him. His child, also, perhaps; but that was a lesser grief, upon which he had no heart to brood. His one overwhelming anxiety was for Rachel, who, as it now seemed to him, was lying at death's door in the room above.
He had some soup ready, and he took a basin up to her.
"Can you drink this, dear?"
"I will try."
He assisted her to rise, and put a pillow at her back. As he fed her he watched her face, and he saw that it had grown wan and thin. It was well for both of them that she could not see him; the sight of his agony would have deepened her sufferings and added to his own. With wonderful control he spoke to her with some semblance of cheerfulness, and his voice and words brought a smile to her lips. So through the day he ministered to her, and every time he left her room his fears grew stronger. He did not expect the doctor till the following day, and was surprised when he made his appearance at nightfall.
"I happened to be passing," he said to Aaron, "and I thought I would drop in to see how you are getting along."
When they came down from the sick-room Aaron observed a graver expression on his face.
"It is unfortunate that you have no nurse, Mr. Cohen," he said; "your wife needs constant care and watchfulness."
"She will have it, doctor. Is she any better, sir? How is she progressing?"
"She is still the same, still the same; no better and no worse."
"It is not in her favor, doctor, that she remains the same?"
"No, I cannot conscientiously say it is. At this stage a little additional strength would be of great assistance to her. Nature's forces require rallying--but we will hope for the best, Mr. Cohen."
"We will, doctor, but will hope avail?"
His sad voice struck significantly upon the doctor's ears. "Perhaps not, but it is a consolation."
"There are human griefs, sir, for which there is no consolation. I cannot wrest my thoughts from the selfish view. There are sorrows that come so close home as to take complete possession of us."
"It is human, Mr. Cohen, it is natural; but we must not shut out resignation, fortitude, submission."
"Doctor, will you speak plainly to me? It will be merciful."
"What is it you wish to know?"
"Tell me exactly how my wife and child are, so that I may be prepared"--his voice faltered--"for the worst."
"You do not know, then?"
"I fear--but I do not know."
"We doctors have frequently hard duties to perform, Mr. Cohen--duties which to others appear cruel. I will speak plainly; it will be best. It is due to your wife's gentle and loving nature that I have not done so before, and I yielded to her imploring solicitations, deeming it likely that you would discover the state of the case from your own powers of observation. Mr. Cohen, I have rarely had so sad and affecting an experience as I find here. It would be wrong for me to say that your wife is not in danger; she has been in danger for some days past, and it is only an inward moral strength that has supported her through the crisis. She has still a vital power which, under certain conditions, will be of immense assistance to her, which will enable her--so far as it is in human power to judge--to pull through. You will gather from my words that her safety, nay, her life, depends not so much upon herself as upon others--upon you to some extent, but to a much greater extent upon her babe. It is her deep love for you both that has sustained her, that still sustains her. Were anything to happen to either of you I should fear the gravest results. It would react upon her, and in her delicate state there would be no hope."
"I am physically strong and well, doctor; nothing is likely to happen to me. Her danger, then, lies in our child?"
"You have clearly expressed it. Her life hangs upon the life of her child. So fine and delicate are her susceptibilities, so profound is her love for those who are dear to her, that I, a doctor, who is supposed to be nothing if he is not scientific, am compelled to confess that here my learned theories are at fault. I will no longer disguise from you that her life hangs upon the balance."
"And our child, doctor, how is it with her?"
"I can answer you with less certainty. Something of the delicate susceptibilities of the mother has in the course of nature entered her child's being. The baby is not strong, but she may grow into strength; it is as yet a problem to be solved, and a physician's skill is almost powerless to help to a happy issue. Hope, Mr. Cohen, hope; and in bidding you hope, and in explaining matters to you, I have not said all that it is necessary for me to say. There remains something more."
"One question first, doctor," said Aaron in a hushed voice; "if our child lives there is hope that my wife will live."
"A strong hope; I speak with confidence."
"And if our child dies?"
"The mother will die. Forgive me for my cruel frankness."
"It is the best kindness you can show me. You have something more to tell me."
"Something almost as cruel, but it must be spoken. Mr. Cohen, your wife has been severely tried; the shock of the fire, the shock of her sudden blindness, coming so close upon her expected confinement, have left their effects upon her. If things take a favorable turn with her it will be imperative, in the course of the next three or fourweeks--earlier if possible, and if she can be removed with safety--that you take her to a softer climate, where she can be nursed into permanent strength. We are going to have a severe winter, and I will not answer for its effects upon her. From three or four weeks hence till the spring in a warmer atmosphere, where there are no fogs or east winds, will be of invaluable service to her, will set her up probably for many years to come. You must recognize this yourself, and if by any possibility or sacrifice you can manage it you must do so."
"It is vitally necessary, doctor?"
"It is, I have no hesitation in saying, vitally necessary. And now good-night, Mr. Cohen. I leave my best wishes behind me."
Each day, each hour, Aaron became more anxious and troubled. In the doctor's plain speaking there was no reading between the lines, and no possible mistaking of his meaning. Aaron saw clearly what was before him, but he could not see a way out of his difficulties, nor to doing what he was told it was imperative upon him that he should do, in the happy event of Rachel's coming safely through her present crisis. There was no apparent change in her; she lay weak and powerless in her bed, receiving Aaron always with sweet and patient words, and nursing her child as well as her feeble state would allow her. The condition of the babe pained and troubled him. There was no indication of suffering, no querulousness in the child; it was simply that she lay supine, as though life were flowing quietly out of her. Every time Aaron crept up to the bedside and found the babe asleep he leaned anxiously over her to catch the sound of her breathing; and so faint and soft was her respiration that again and again he was smitten with a fear that she had passed away. Acutely sensitive and sensible now of every sign in his wife, it became with him an absolute conviction that the doctor spoke the truth when he declared that her life and the life of her babe were inseparable--that if one lived the other would live, that if one died the other would die. During this torturing time strange thoughts oppressed him, and oppressed him more powerfully because he scarcely understood them. The tenor of these thoughts resolved itself into the one burning desire to do something to keep his wife with him even if she should lose her babe, but toward the accomplishment of this he felt that he could do nothing. He was but an instrument; if he were to be successful in steering his beloved to a haven of peace and health it must be through outside influences which up to the present were not visible to him. "Show me the way, oh, gracious Lord, show me the way!" This was his constant prayer, and although in less agitated times he would have blamed himself for praying for a seeming impossibility, he encouraged himself in it now, in the dim and despairing hope that some miracle would occur to further his agonizing desire.
Meanwhile his funds had run completely out, and with spiritual sight he saw the wolf approaching the door. He had not the means to pay for the necessaries of the next twenty-four hours. Then it was that he resolved to make his appeal to Mr. Moss. He would tell him everything, he would reveal his hapless position in the plainest terms, and he would beg for an immediate temporary loan of money which he would promise to faithfully repay when the cloud was lifted from his house.
It was evening, a cold and bitter evening. The snow had been falling heavily, a fierce wind was raging. He thought of Rachel, homeless and hungry, and his heart was torn with woe. It seemed as if her life depended upon him; he was her shield; could he not keep desolation and despair from her--could he not keep death from her? He did not know that the angel was already in his house.
The doctor had paid a visit earlier in the day, and had spoken even more gravely of Rachel.
"Much depends," he said, "upon the next day or two. For some days past she has been silently suffering, and I have succeeded in piercing the veil of sorrow which hangs upon her soul. She fears that her child will not live, and if unhappily her fears are confirmed----"
He did not finish the sentence; there was no need for further words to convey his meaning.
"This harrowing thought," he continued, "keeps her from rest, prevents her sleeping. There are periods of sickness when sleep means life; I will send round a sleeping draught, which you will give her at eight o'clock to-night; it will insure her oblivion for a good twelve hours, and if when she wakes all is well with the child all will be well with her."
"Can you tell me, doctor, why this fear has grown stronger within her these last few days?"
"The babe lies quietly in her arms; she does not hear its voice, and only by its soft breathing can she convince herself that it lives. Tender accents from the child she has brought into the world would fall as a blessing upon her sorrowing heart. At any moment the child may find its voice; let us hope that it will very soon."
The sleeping draught was sent to Aaron, and it was now on the table. The hour was six; in a couple of hours he would give it to her; and while he waited he sat down to write his letter to Mr. Moss. It was a long letter, for he had much to say, and he was but halfway through when a postman's knock summoned him to the street door. He hurried there quickly, so that the knock should not be repeated, and to his surprise received a telegram. It was from Mr. Moss, and it informed him that that gentleman was coming to see him upon a very important matter, and that he was to be sure not to leave home that night. Aaron wondered what this important matter could be, and there was a joyful feeling in his heart that the telegram might be the presage of good fortune; he knew enough of Mr. Moss' kindly nature to be convinced that he would not be the herald of bad news.
"There is a rift in the clouds," he murmured as he pondered over the message; "I see the light, I see the light!"
Would Mr. Moss' errand open up the means of giving Rachel the benefit of soft air and sunshine in a more genial clime? He prayed that it might, and he had never prayed more fervently. But the night was inclement, and Mr. Moss might not be able in consequence to pay the promised visit. Time pressed; the necessity was imminent, and would brook no delay; therefore he determined to finish his letter, and to post it this night in the event of Mr. Moss not making his appearance.
It wanted a few minutes to eight when his task was completed. He read the letter over and addressed an envelope, but did not stamp it; he had but one stamp, and every penny was of importance. He looked at the clock; eight o'clock. With gentle steps he went up to Rachel.
"It is time for the draught, my love," he said.
"I will take it, dear."
He poured it into a glass, and she drank it reclining in his arms.
"If our dear one lives, Aaron," said Rachel, "we will call her Ruth, after your mother."
"It shall be so, love," answered Aaron, laying her head upon the pillow. "God will vouchsafe the mercy to us. She will live, Rachel, she will live." Desirous that she should not talk now that she had taken the sleeping draught he kissed her tenderly and would have left her, but she held him by the hand.
"Has the doctor told you that I am in sorrow, Aaron?"
"You have the gift of divinity, love. Yes, he has told me, and he said that to-morrow perhaps, please God, you will hear our darling's voice."
"Did he say so? Heaven bless him. She is sleeping?"
"Yes, beloved."
"I pray that the good doctor may be right. I shall dream of it.To-morrow--perhaps to-morrow! Ah, what happiness! It needs but that, dear husband, it needs but that! How tired you must be with all that you are doing for me! Kiss me again. God guard you."
And so she fell asleep.
The small fire in the room required attention, and Aaron arranged each piece of coal and cinder with scrupulous care; never had there been so much need for thrift as now. In all his movements there was not the least sound; so softly did he step that his feet might have been shod with velvet pile. One of Rachel's arms was lying exposed on the counterpane, he gently shifted it beneath the warm coverings; then he quitted the apartment and closed the door upon his wife and child--and upon the angel of death, who was standing by the bedside to receive a departing soul.
Aaron did not return to his room below; he stood by the open street door, looking anxiously up and down for Mr. Moss, and thinking with sadness that if that gentleman delayed his visit he would be compelled in the morning to part for a time with his silver-mounted pipe, which was the only article of any value that was left to him. Of all his personal belongings he cherished this pipe the most; it was Rachel's gift, and she had often filled it for him. It was not between his lips at the present moment; he had no heart to smoke. For nearly an hour he stood upon the watch, interrupting it only for the purpose of creeping upstairs to see if Rachel were still sleeping. At nine o'clock Mr. Moss made his welcome appearance in the street; even as he turned the corner at a distance of many yards Aaron recognized him. He was enveloped in his great fur coat, which was pulled up close to his ears; a lighted cigar was between his lips, and he was humming an operatic air as he puffed at it.
"Why, Cohen," said Mr. Moss in a hearty tone, "what are you standing at the door for on such a cold night?"
"I have been expecting you," Aaron answered, "and I did not wish you to knock. Rachel has taken a sleeping draught, and must not be disturbed."
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Mr. Moss, accompanying his friend into the house. "How is she?"
"Not well, not at all well, I am grieved to say. Mr. Moss, my heart is almost broken." He turned aside with a little sob.
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Mr. Moss. "That will never do, Cohen. Look on the best side. Things will right themselves; they will, mark my words. I am here to set them right. What is this? An envelope addressed to me?"
"I was writing you a letter when your telegram arrived."
"And then you did not stop to finish it?"
"I did finish it, Mr. Moss, in case you did not come."
"May I read it?"
"Yes; it will explain matters; you will learn from it what it would pain me to tell you in any other way."
"Smoke a cigar while I read."
Aaron took the cigar and laid it aside, and then Mr. Moss, who had taken off his thick coat, sat down and perused the letter.
"I have come in the nick of time, Cohen," he said--"in the nick of time. There is a silver lining to every cloud. I have brought it with me."
"I felt," said Aaron, his hopes rising, "that you could not be the bearer of bad news."
"Not likely, friend Cohen--not likely. I am the bearer of good news, of the best of news. Don't be led away; it isn't a legacy--no, no, it isn't a legacy, but something almost as good, and I hope you will not throw away the chance."
"If it is anything that will relieve me from my terrible embarrassments it is not likely that I shall throw it away."
"It will do that for a certainty, and there is money attaching to it which I have in my pocket, and which you can have this very night."
"How can I thank you--how can I thank you?"
"Don't try to, and don't be surprised at what you hear. It is a strange piece of business, and I should have refused to undertake it if I had not said to myself, 'This will suit my friend Cohen; it will lift him out of his trouble.' But, upon my word, now that I'm here I don't know how to commence. I never met with anything like it in all my life, and if you were well off you would be the last man in the world I should have dreamed of coming to. But you are not well off, Cohen; you have lost everything; Rachel is ill, and the doctor says she must be taken out of this cold and dismal climate to a place where she can see the sun, and where the air is mild and warm. I dare say you're thinking, 'Moss is speaking in a strange way'; and so I am; but it's nothing to what I've got to tell you. Cohen, what will happen if you can't afford to do as the doctor advises you?"
"Do not ask me," groaned Aaron. "I dare not think of it--I dare not, I dare not!"
"I don't say it unkindly, Cohen, but it seems to be a matter of life and death." Aaron clasped his forehead. "Very well, then; and don't forget that it is in your own hands. Before I commence I must say a word about myself. I can't do all you ask me in this letter; as I'm a living man I should be glad to assist you, but I have entered into a large speculation which has taken all my spare cash, and the most I could afford would be eight or ten pounds. How long would that last you? In two or three weeks it would be gone, and you would be no better off than you were before; and as to taking Rachel to the south of France, that would be quite out of the question."
"But you held out hope to me," said the trembling Aaron; "you said you were the bearer of good news."
"I said what is true, Cohen, but it is not my money that I have to deal with. I have brought fifty pounds with me, another man's money, intrusted to me for special purposes, and which you can have at once if you will undertake a certain task and accept a certain responsibility. It is only out of my friendship for you; it is only because I know you to be so badly off that you hardly know which way to turn; it is only because Rachel is ill, and requires what you can't afford to pay for, that it entered my mind to offer you the chance."
"Fifty pounds would be the saving of me, Mr. Moss," said Aaron in an agony of suspense. "It would restore my Rachel to health, it would bring happiness into my life. Surely Heaven has directed you to come to my assistance."
"You shall judge for yourself. Listen patiently to what I am going to tell you; it will startle you, but don't decide hastily or rashly. And bear in mind that what passes between us is not to be disclosed to another person on earth."