Mr. Moss then proceeded to unfold the nature of the mission he had undertaken for Mr. Gordon, with the particulars of which the reader has been made acquainted through the earlier chapters of this story. Aaron listened with attention and surprise, with attention because of his anxiety to ascertain whether the proposal was likely to extricate him from his cruel position, with surprise because the wildest stretch of his imagination would not have enabled him to guess the purport of the singular disclosure. When Mr. Moss ceased speaking the afflicted man rose and paced the room in distress and disappointment.
"I told you I should startle you," said Mr. Moss with a shrewd observance of his friend's demeanor, and for the good of that friend preparing for a battle. "What do you say to it?"
"It is impossible--impossible!" muttered Aaron.
"I told you also," continued Mr. Moss calmly, "not to decide hastily or rashly. In the way of ordinary business I should not, as I have said, have dreamed of coming to you, and I should not have undertaken the mission. But the position in which you are placed is not ordinary, and you are bound to consider the matter, not upon its merits alone, but in relation to your circumstances. I need not say that I shall make nothing out of it myself."
"Indeed, you need not," said Aaron, pressing Mr. Moss' hand. "Pure friendship has brought you here--I know, I know; but surely you must see that it is impossible for me to undertake the responsibility."
"I see nothing of the kind. Honestly and truly, Cohen, I look upon it as a windfall, and if you turn your back upon it you will repent it all your life. What is it I urge you to do? A crime?"
"No, no, I do not say that. Heaven forbid!"
"You are naturally startled and agitated. Cohen, you are a man of intelligence and discernment. My wife has often said, 'If Mr. Cohen was a rich man he would be one of the heads of our people.' She is right; she always is. But there are times when a man cannot exercise his judgment, when he is so upset that his mind gets off the balance. It has happened to me, and I have said afterward, 'Moss, you are a fool'; it happens to all of us. Let me put the matter clearly before you. Have you ever been in such trouble as you are in now?"
"Never in my life."
"Misfortune after misfortune has fallen upon you. All your money is gone; everything is gone; you can't get through this week without assistance. You have tried all your friends, and they cannot help you; you have tried me, and I can only offer you what will meet the necessities of the next few days. It is known that you are badly off, and you cannot get credit; if you could it would cut you to the soul, because you know you would be owing people money that there was no expectation of your being able to pay. You would be ashamed to look people in the face; you would lose your sense of self-respect, and every fresh step you took would be a step down instead of up. Poor Rachel is lying sick almost to death; she has a stronger claim than ever upon your love, upon your wisdom. The doctor has told you what she requires, and of the possible consequences if you are unable to carry out his directions. Cohen, not one of these things must be lost sight of in the answer you give to what I propose."
Great beads of perspiration were on Aaron's forehead as he murmured, "I do not lose sight of them. They are like daggers in my heart."
"Strangely and unexpectedly," pursued Mr. Moss, "a chance offers itself that will extricate you out of all your difficulties. You will not only receive immediately a large sum of money, but you will be in receipt of a hundred a year, sufficient to keep your family in a moderate way. What are you asked to do in return for this good fortune? To take care of an innocent child who has no one to look after her, who will never be claimed, and about whom you will never be troubled. You can engage a servant to attend to her, and when you explain everything to Rachel she will approve of what you have done. Before I came to you I consulted a gentleman--Dr. Spenlove--who has a kind heart and correct principles, and agreed with me that the transaction was perfectly honorable. I have no doubt of it myself, or I should not be here. Be persuaded, Cohen; it will be a benevolent as well as a wise act, and all your difficulties will be at an end. What is it Shakspere says? 'There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood,'--you know the rest. Why, there are thousands who would jump at the opportunity. Come, now, for Rachel's sake?" Mr. Moss was genuinely sincere in his advice, and he spoke with earnestness and feeling.
"The child is a girl, Mr. Moss?"
"A dear little girl, of the same age as your own."
"Hush! You forget. This little stranger is born of Christian parents."
"That is no crime, Cohen."
"Do I say it is? But we are Jews. The stipulation is that she should be brought up as one of our family, and indeed it could scarcely be otherwise. She would live her life in a Jewish household. It is that I am thinking of Mr. Moss, I am at war with my conscience."
"She will be none the worse off for living with you and Rachel. Your character is well known, and Rachel is the soul of kindness. You would be committing no sin, Cohen."
"I am not so sure."
"Then who is to know? You and Rachel are alone, and when she is able to be moved you will take her for a time to another place. You need not return here. Rachel's health restored, you should go to London or Liverpool or Manchester, where your talents would have a larger field. I always thought it wrong for you to bury yourself in so small a town as this. There is no scope for you in it; you would never make your fortune here."
"If I go from this place I shall not return to it. You ask who is to know, Mr. Moss. God would know; Rachel and I would know. How can I reconcile it with my conscience to bring up a child in a faith in which she is not born? It would weigh heavily upon me."
"That is because your views are so strict. I do not see why it should weigh heavily upon you. If it were a boy I should not press it upon you; but girls are different. There is very little for them to learn. To pray--there is only one God. To be good and virtuous--there is only one code of morality. You know that well enough."
"I do know it, but still I cannot reconcile it with my conscience."
"In your position," continued Mr. Moss, perceiving that Aaron was wavering, "I should not hesitate; I should thank God that such a chance fell in my way. Even as it is, if I did not have eleven children, and expecting the twelfth, I would take this lamb into my fold--I would, indeed, Cohen. But my hands are full. Cohen, let me imagine a case. It is a cold and bitter night, and the world is filled with poor struggling creatures, with little children who are being brought up the wrong way. Rachel is asleep upstairs. You are here alone. Suddenly you hear a cry in the street, the cry of a babe. You go to the door, and upon the step you see an infant lying, unsheltered, without a protector. What would you do?"
"I should bring it into my house."
"With pity in your heart, Cohen."
"I hope so. With pity in my heart."
"Poor as you are, you would share what you have with the deserted babe; you would nourish it, you would cherish it. You would say to Rachel, 'I heard a cry outside the house on this bitter night, and upon the doorstep I discovered this poor babe; I brought it in, and gave it shelter.' What would Rachel answer?"
"She is a tender-hearted woman; she would answer that I did what was right."
"Look upon it in that light, and I will continue the case. In the child's clothes you find a fifty-pound note, and a letter, unsigned, to the effect that the little one has no protector, is alone in the world, and beseeching you to take charge of it and save it from destitution and degradation. No scruples as to the child being a Christian would disturb you then; you would act as humanity dictated. In the case I have imagined you would not be at war with your conscience; why should you be at war with it now?"
"Still I must reflect; and I have a question or two to ask. The name of the mother?"
"Not to be divulged."
"The name of the father?"
"The same answer. Indeed, I do not know it myself."
"Where is the child?"
"At the Salutation Hotel, in the charge of a woman I brought with me."
"My decision must be made to-night?"
"To-night."
"Supposing it to be in the affirmative, what position do you occupy in the matter in the future?"
"None whatever. The task undertook executed, I retire, and have nothing further to do with it. Anything you choose to communicate with me would be entirely at your discretion. Voluntarily I should never make reference to it."
"What has passed between us, you informed me, is not to be disclosed to any other person?"
"To no other person whatever."
"Am I to understand that it has been disclosed to no other?"
"You are. Only Dr. Spenlove and the gentleman who intrusted me with the commission have any knowledge of it."
"How about the woman who is now taking care of the child at the Salutation Hotel?"
"She is in entire ignorance of the whole proceeding."
"Is she not aware that you have come to my house?"
"She is not. In the event of your deciding to undertake the charge I myself will bring the child here."
"Is the mother to be made acquainted with my name?"
"It is an express stipulation that she is to be kept in ignorance of it."
"And to this she consented willingly?"
"Willingly, for her child's good and her own."
"Is Dr. Spenlove to be made acquainted with it?"
"He is not."
"And the gentleman whose commission you are executing?"
"Neither is he to know. It is his own wish."
"The liberal allowance for the rearing of the child: by whom will it be paid?"
"By a firm of eminent London lawyers whose name and address I will give you, and to whom I shall communicate by telegram to-night. All the future business will be solely between you and them without interference from any living being."
"Mr. Moss, I thank you; you have performed the office of a friend."
"It was my desire, Cohen. Then you consent?"
"No. I must have time for reflection. In an hour from now you shall have my answer."
"Don't throw away the chance," said Mr. Moss very earnestly. "Remember, it is for Rachel's sake."
"I will remember it; but I must commune with myself. If before one hour has passed you do not see me at the Salutation Hotel you will understand that I refuse."
"What will you do then, Cohen? How will you manage?"
"God knows. Perhaps he will direct me."
Mr. Moss considered a moment, then took ten five pound banknotes from his pocket, and laid them on the table.
"I will leave this money with you," he said.
"No, no!" cried Aaron.
"Why not? It will do no harm. You are to be trusted, Cohen. In case you refuse I will take it back. If you do not come for me I will come for you, so I will not wish you good-night. Don't trouble to come to the door; I can find my way out."
Aaron was alone, fully conscious that this hour was, perhaps, the most momentous in his life. The money was before him, and he could not keep his eyes from it. It meant so much! It seemed to speak to him, to say, "Life or death to your beloved wife. Reject me, and you know what will follow." All his efforts to bring himself to a calm reflection of the position were unavailing. He could not reason, he could not argue with himself. The question to be answered was not whether it would be right to take a child born of Christian parents into his house, to bring her up as one of a Jewish family, but whether his dear wife was to live or die. And he was the judge, and if he bade his friend take the money back he would be the executioner. Of what value then would life be to him? Devout and full of faith as he was, he still, in this dread crisis, was of the earth earthy. His heart was torn with love's agony.
The means of redemption were within his reach. Why should he not avail himself of them?
Rachel enjoyed life for the pleasure it gave her; stricken with blindness as she was, he knew that she would still enjoy it, and that she would shed comfort and happiness upon all who came in contact with her. Was it for him to snap the cord, to say, "You shall no longer enjoy; you shall no longer bestow happiness upon others; you shall no longer live to lighten the trouble of many suffering mortals, to shed light and sweetness in many homes"? Was this the way to prove his love for her? No, he would not shut the door of earthly salvation which had been so providentially opened to him; he would not pronounce a sentence of death against the dear woman he had sworn to love and cherish.
Aaron was not aware that in the view he was taking he was calling to his aid only these personal and sympathetic affections which bound him and Rachel together and that out of a common, human selfishness he was thrusting from the scale the purely moral and religious obligations which usually played so large a part in his conduct of life. In this dark hour love was supreme and held him in its thrall; in this dark hour he was intensely and completely human; in this dark hour the soft breathing of a feeble woman was more potent than the sound of angels' trumpets from the Throne of Grace, the sight of a white, worn face more powerful than that of a flaming sword of justice in the skies.
He had arrived at a decision; he would receive the child of strangers into his home.
Before going to the Salutation Hotel to make the announcement to Mr. Moss he would see that his wife was sleeping, and not likely to awake during his brief absence from the house. The doctor had assured him that she would sleep for twelve hours, and he had full confidence in the assurance; but he must look upon her face once more before he left her even for a few minutes.
He stood at her bedside; she was sleeping peacefully and soundly; her countenance was now calm and untroubled, and Aaron believed that he saw in it an indication of returning health. Certainly the rest she was enjoying was doing her good. He stooped and kissed her, and she did not stir; her sweet breath fanned his cheeks. Then he turned his eyes upon his child. And as he gazed upon the infant in its white dress a terror for which there is no name stole into his heart. Why was the babe so still and white? Like a marble statue she lay, bereft of life and motion. He put his ear to her lips--not a breath escaped them; he laid his hand upon her heart--not the faintest flutter of a pulse was there. With feverish haste he lifted the little hand, the head, the body, and for all the response he received he might have been handling an image of stone. Gradually the truth forced itself upon him. The young soul had gone to its Maker. His child was dead!
"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."
No voice was speaking in the chamber of death, but Aaron heard again these words which had passed between the doctor and himself. If the child lived the mother would live; if the child died the mother would die.
A black darkness fell upon his soul. His mind, his soul, every principle of his being, was engulfed in the one despairing thought that Rachel was doomed, that although she was sleeping peacefully before his eyes, death would be her portion when she awoke to the fact that her babe had been taken from her.
"If when she wakes all is well with the child all will be well with her."
The spiritual echo of the doctor's words, uttered but a few hours ago. He heard them as clearly as he had heard the others.
How to avert the threatened doom? How to save his Rachel's life? Prayer would not avail, or he would have flown to it instinctively. It was not that he asked himself the question, or that in his agony he doubted or believed in the efficacy of prayer. It may be, indeed, that he evaded it, for already a strange and terrible temptation was invading the fortress of his soul. To save the life of his beloved was he ready to commit a sin? What was the true interpretation of sin? A perpetrated act which would benefit one human being to the injury of another. Then if an act were perpetrated which would insure the happiness and well-doing not of one human creature but of three, and would inflict injury upon no living soul, that act was not a sin. Unmistakably not a sin. But if this were really so, wherefore the necessity for impressing it upon himself? The conviction that he was acting justly in this hour of woe--that the contemplated act was not open to doubt in a moral or religious sense--was in itself sufficient. Wherefore, then, the iteration that it was not a sin?
He could not think the matter out in the presence of Rachel and of his dead child. He stole down to his room, and gave himself up to reflection. He turned down the gas almost to vanishing point, and stood in the dark, now thinking in silence, now uttering his thoughts aloud.
A friend had come to him and begged him to receive into his household a babe, a girl, of the same age as his own babe lying dead in the room above. She was deserted, friendless, alone. All natural claims had been abandoned, and the infant was thrown upon the world, without parents, without kith or kin. Even while he believed his own child to be alive he had decided to accept the trust. Why should he hesitate now that his child was dead? It was almost like a miraculous interposition, or so he chose to present it to himself.
"Even as we spoke together," he said aloud, "my child had passed away. Even as I hesitated the messenger was urging me to accept the trust. It was as if an angel had presented himself, and said, 'The life of your beloved hangs upon the life of a babe, and the Eternal has called her child to him. Here is another to take her place. The mother will not know; she is blind, and has never seen the face of her babe, has scarcely heard its voice. To-morrow she lives or dies--it is the critical day in her existence--and whether she lives or dies rests with you, and with you alone. Science is powerless to help her in the hour of her trial; love alone will lift her into life, into joy, into happiness; and upon you lies the responsibility. It is for you to pronounce the sentence--life or death for your beloved, life or death for a good woman who, if you do not harden your heart, will shed peace and blessings upon all around her. Embrace the gift that God has offered you. Allow no small scruples to drive you from the duty of love.' Yes," cried Aaron in a louder tone, "it was as if an angel spoke. Rachel shall live."
If there was sophistry in this reasoning he did not see it; but the still, small voice whispered:
"It is a deception you are about to practice. You are about to place in your wife's arms a child that is not of her blood or yours. You are about to take a Christian babe to your heart, to rear and instruct her as if she were born in the old and sacred faith that has survived long centuries of suffering and oppression. Can you justify it?"
"Love justifies it," he answered. "The good that will spring from it justifies it. A sweet and ennobling life will be saved. My own life will be made the better for it, for without my beloved I should be lost, I should be lost!"
Again the voice: "It is of yourself you are thinking."
"And if I am?" he answered. "If our lives are so interwoven that one would be useless and broken without the other, where is the sin?"
Again the voice: "Ah, the sin! You have pronounced the word. Remember, it is a sin of commission."
"I know it," he said, "and I can justify it--and if need arise I can atone for it in the future. The child will be reared in a virtuous home, and will have a good woman for a mother. With such an example before her she cannot fail to grow into a bright and useful womanhood. I pluck her from the doubtful possibilities which might otherwise attend her; no word of reproach will ever reach her ears; she will live in ignorance of the sad circumstances of her birth. Is all this nothing? Will it not weigh in the balance?"
Again the voice: "It is much, and the child is fortunate to fall into the hands of such protectors. But, I repeat, in using these arguments you are not thinking of the child; you think only of yourself."
"It is not so," he said; "not alone of myself am I thinking. I am the arbiter of my wife's earthly destiny. Having the opportunity of rescuing her from death, what would my future life be if I stand idly by and see her die before my eyes? Do you ask of me that I shall be her executioner? The heart of the Eternal is filled with love; he bestows upon us the gift of love as our divinest consolation. He has bestowed it upon me in its sweetest form. Shall I lightly throw away the gift and do a double wrong--to the child that needs a home, to the woman whose fate is in my hands? Afflict me no longer; I am resolved, and am doing what I believe to be right in the sight of the Most High."
The voice was silent and spake no more.
Aaron turned up the gas, gathered the money which Mr. Moss had left upon the table, and quietly left the house. As he approached the Salutation Hotel, which was situated at but a short distance, he saw the light of Mr. Moss' cigar in the street. That gentleman was walking to and fro, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his friend.
"You are here, Cohen," he cried, "and the hour has barely passed! In order that absolute secrecy should be preserved I thought it best to wait outside for you. You have decided?"
"I have decided," said Aaron; "I will receive the child."
"Good, good, good," said Mr. Moss, his eyes beaming with satisfaction. "You are acting like a sensible man, and you have lifted yourself out of your difficulties. I cannot tell you how glad you make me, for I take a real interest in you, a real interest. Remain here; I will bring the babe, and we will walk together to your house. It is well wrapped up, and we will walk quickly, to protect it from the night air. I shall not be a minute."
He darted into the hotel, and soon returned, with the babe in his arms. Upon Aaron's offering to take the child from him he said gayly:
"No, no, Cohen; I am more used to carrying babies than you. When you have a dozen of them, like me, I will admit that we are equal; but not till then, not till then."
Although his joyous tones jarred upon Aaron, he made no remark, and they proceeded to Aaron's house, Mr. Moss being the loquacious one on the road.
"The woman I brought with me does not know, does not suspect, where the child is going to, so we are safe. She goes back to Portsmouthto-night; I shall remain till the morning. The baby is fast asleep. What would the world be without children? Did you ever think of that, Cohen? It would not be worth living in. A home without children--I cannot imagine it. When I see a childless woman I pity her from my heart. They try to make up for it with a cat or a dog, but it's a poor substitute, a poor substitute. If I had no children I would adopt one or two--yes, indeed. There is a happy future before this child; if she but knew, if she could speak, her voice would ring out a song of praise."
When they arrived at the house Aaron left Mr. Moss in the room below, and ran up to ascertain if Rachel had been disturbed. She had not moved since he last quitted the room, and an expression of profound peace was settling on her face. His own child lay white and still; a heavy sigh escaped him as he gazed upon the inanimate tiny form. He closed the door softly, and rejoined his friend.
"I will not stay with you, Cohen," said Mr. Moss; "you will have enough to do. To-morrow you must get a woman to assist in the house. You have the fifty pounds safe?"
Aaron nodded.
"I have some more money to give you, twenty-five pounds, three months' payment in advance of the allowance to be made to you for the rearing of the child. Here it is, and here, also, is the address of the London lawyers, who will remit to you regularly at the commencement of every quarter. I shall not leave Gosport till eleven in the morning, and if you have anything to say to me I shall be at the Salutation till that hour. Good-night, Cohen; I wish you happiness and good fortune."
Alone with the babe, who lay on the sofa, which had been drawn up to the fire, Aaron stood face to face with the solemn responsibility he had taken upon himself, and with the still more solemn deception to which he was pledged. For a while he hardly dared to uncover the face of the sleeping child, but time was precious, and he nerved himself to the necessity. He sat on the sofa, and gently removed the wrappings which had protected the child from the cold night, but had not impeded its powers of respiration.
A feeling of awe stole upon him; the child he was gazing on might have been his own dead child, so startling was the resemblance between them. There was a little hair upon the pretty head, as there was upon the head of his dead babe; it was dark, as hers was; there was a singular resemblance in the features of the children; the limbs, the feet, the little baby hands, the pouting mouth, might have been cast in the same mold. The subtle instinct of a mother's love would have enabled her to know instinctively which of the two was her own babe, but it would be necessary for that mother to be blessed with sight before she could arrive at her unerring conclusion. A father could be easily deceived, and the tender age of the children would have been an important--perhaps the chief--factor in doubt. "Surely," Aaron thought as he contemplated the sleeping babe, "this is a sign that I am acting rightly." Men less devout than he might have regarded it as a divine interposition.
The next hour was occupied in necessary details which had not hitherto occurred to him. The clothing of the children had to be exchanged. It was done; the dead was arrayed as the living, the living as the dead. Mere words are powerless to express Aaron's feelings as he performed this task, and when he placed the living, breathing babe in the bed in which Rachel lay, and took his own dead child to an adjoining room and laid it in his own bed, scalding tears ran down his cheeks. "God forgive me, God forgive me!" he murmured again and again. He knelt by Rachel's bed and buried his face in his hands. He had committed himself to the deception; there was no retreat now. For weal or woe the deed was done.
And there was so much yet to do--so much that he had not thought of! Each false step he was taking was leading to another as false as that which preceded it. But if the end justified the means--if he did not betray himself--if Rachel, awaking, suspected nothing, and heard the voice of the babe by her side, without suspecting that it was not her own, why, then, all would be well! And all through his life, to his last hour, he would endeavor to make atonement for his sin. He inwardly acknowledged it now, without attempting to gloss it over. It was a sin; though good would spring from it, though a blessing might attend it, the act was sinful.
His painful musings were arrested by a knock at the street door. With a guilty start he rose to his feet and gazed around with fear in his eyes. What did the knock portend? Was it in some dread way connected with his doings? The thought was harrowing. But presently he straightened himself, set his lips firmly, and went downstairs to attend to the summons.
Mr. Moss stood at the street door, bearing in his arms the little iron safe which Dr. Spenlove, at the intercession of the mother who had consented to part with her child, had intrusted to him.
"In my excitement, Cohen," he commenced before Aaron could speak, "something slipped my memory when we were talking together. I rapped softly at first, fearing to disturb Rachel, but no one answering, I had to use the knocker. I hope I have not disturbed her."
"She is sleeping peacefully," replied Aaron, "and is taking a turn for the better, I am thankful to say. To-morrow, I trust, all danger will be over. Come in."
He closed the door gently, and they entered the parlor.
"I have come back about this little safe," said Mr. Moss, depositing it on the table; "it belongs to the task I undertook. The mother of the babe made it a stipulation that whoever had the care of the child should receive the safe, and hold it in trust for her until she claimed it."
"But I understood," said Aaron in apprehension, "that the mother had no intention of claiming her child."
"In a certain sense that is a fact. Don't look worried; there is no fear of any trouble in the future; only she made it a condition that the safe should go with the child, and that, when the girl wastwenty-one years of age, it should be given to her in case the mother did not make her appearance and claim the property. It stands this way, Cohen: The mother took into consideration the chance that the gentleman she is marrying may die before her, in which event she stipulated that she should be free to seek her child. That is reasonable, is it not?"
"Quite reasonable."
"And natural?"
"Quite natural. But I should have been informed of it."
"It escaped me--it really escaped me, Cohen; and what difference can it make? It is only a mother's fancy."
"Yes, only a mother's fancy."
"I'll lay a thousand to one you never hear anything more about it. Put the box away, and don't give it another thought."
Aaron lifted it from the table.
"It is heavy, Mr. Moss."
"Yes, it is heavy."
"Do you know what it contains?"
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"It must be something that the mother sets store on--jewels, perhaps."
"Nothing more unlikely. The poor woman didn't have a shilling to bless herself with. I shouldn't trouble about it if I were you."
"I have gone too far," said Aaron, sighing; "I cannot retreat."
"It would be madness to dream of such a thing. Remember what depends upon it. Cohen, in case anything occurs I think I ought to tell you what has been passing in my mind."
"In case anything occurs!" repeated Aaron in a hollow tone, and with a startled look.
"The poor child," continued Mr. Moss, "has had a hard time of it. We almost dug her out of the snow last night; the exposure was enough to kill an infant of tender years, and there's no saying what effect it may have upon her. If it had been a child of my own I should be alarmed for the consequences, and I should scarcely expect her to live through it." Aaron gasped. "The idea distresses you, but we must always take the human view. Should she not survive no one can be blamed for it. How is your own dear little girl?"
"She is well," replied Aaron mechanically. He passed his hand across his eyes despairingly.
"Good-night again," said Mr. Moss. "I have sent my telegram to the London lawyers. Don't forget that I shall be at the Salutation till eleven in the morning."
It was not only the incident of the iron safe that Mr. Moss in the first instance had omitted to impart to Aaron. In the agreement formulated by Mr. Gordon there was an undertaking that in the event of the child's death, or of her marriage if she grew to womanhood, the lawyers were to pay the sum of five hundred pounds to the person into whose home the child was received. Mr. Moss had not mentioned this, and Aaron was in consequence ignorant of the fact. Had he been aware of it, is it likely that he would have shrunk from carrying out the scheme inspired by his agony? It is hard to say. During these pregnant and eventful hours he was dominated by the one overpowering passionate desire to save the life of his beloved; during these hours all that was highest and noblest in his nature was deadened by human love.
There was no rest for him on this night; he did not dare to undress and seek repose. The moments were too precious; some action had to be taken, and to be taken soon, and, his mind torn with agony and remorse, he devoted himself to the consideration of it. In the course of this mental debate he was plunged at times into the lowest depths of self-abasement, but the strength of his character and the serious issues at stake lifted him out of these depths. Ever and anon he crept into Rachel's room, and derived consolation from the calm sleep she was enjoying. The doctor's prognostications of returning health seemed to be on the point of realization; when she awoke in the morning and clasped her child to her bosom, and heard its sweet voice, all would be well with her. What need, then, for further justification?
But his further action must be decided upon and carried out before Rachel awoke. And it was imperative that she should be kept in ignorance of what had taken place. On no account must it be revealed to her that he had taken a strange child into the house, and that it had died there within a few hours. In her delicate state the news might be fatal.
Gradually all that it was necessary for him to do unfolded itself, and was mentally arranged in consecutive order. He waited till three o'clock, and then he went from his house to the Salutation Hotel. The night porter, half asleep, was in attendance, and after some demur he conducted Aaron to Mr. Moss' sleeping apartment.
"Who is there?" cried Mr. Moss, aroused by the knocking at his door.
"It is I," replied Aaron. "I must speak to you at once."
Mr. Moss jumped from bed.
"Is it all right, sir?" asked the night porter.
"Of course it is all right," said Mr. Moss, opening the door, and admitting his visitor.
The night porter returned to his duties, and fell into a doze.
"What brings you here at this time of night?" exclaimed Mr. Moss, and then, seeing the distress in Aaron's face, "Good God! It is not about Rachel?"
"No, it is not about Rachel; it is bad enough, but not so bad as that. How shall I tell you--how shall I tell you?"
"Stop a moment," said Mr. Moss. "I ordered half a bottle of port before I went out, and there is a glass or two left. Drink this."
The wine gave Aaron courage to proceed with his task.
"I have dreadful news to tell you," he said, putting down the glass.
"I guess it," interrupted Mr. Moss. "The child!"
"Yes," answered Aaron, with averted eyes, "the child."
"Is she very ill?"
"Mr. Moss, the child is dead."
"Heavens!" cried Mr. Moss, slipping into his clothes as fast as he could. "What a calamity! But at the same time, Cohen, what a release! Tell me all about it. Does Rachel know?"
"Rachel does not know. She is still sleeping, and she must not know. It would kill her--it would kill her!"
"I see the necessity, Cohen; it must be kept from her, and I think I see how it can be managed. It is a fortunate thing that the woman who accompanied me here with the poor child has not returned to Portsmouth, as I bade her. She met with some friends in Gosport, who persuaded her to stop the night, and she was going back with me in the morning. I promised to call for her, but she will have to remain here now till the child is buried. She will not mind, because it will be something in her pocket. A sad ending, Cohen, a sad ending, but I feared it. Did I not prophesy it? What else was to be expected after last night's adventure? But you have not told me how it occurred."
"It was very simple," said Aaron in a low tone. "I laid the child in my own bed, intending to call in a woman as soon after daylight as possible to attend it till Rachel was well and able to get about. She seemed to be asleep, and was in no pain. I determined not to go to bed, but to keep up all night, to attend to the little one, and to Rachel and my own child. Bear with me, Mr. Moss, I am unstrung."
"No wonder. Take time, Cohen, take time."
"Now and again I went to look at the child, and observed nothing to alarm me. An hour ago I closed my eyes, and must have slept; I was tired out. When I awoke I went upstairs, and was startled by a strange stillness in the child. I lifted her in my arms. Mr. Moss, she was dead. I came to you at once to advise me what to do. You must help me, Mr. Moss; my dear Rachel's life hangs upon it. You know how sensitive she is; and the doctor has warned me that a sudden shock might be fatal."
"I will help you, Cohen, of course I will help you; it is my duty, because it is I who have brought this trouble upon you. But I did it with the best intentions. I see a way out of the difficulty. The woman I employed--how fortunate, how fortunate that she is still here!--is a godsend to us. She is a kind-hearted creature, and she will be sorry to hear of the child's death, but at the same time she is poor and will be glad to earn a sovereign. A doctor must see the child, to testify that she died a natural death. She must have passed away in her sleep."
"She did. Is it necessary that the doctor should visit my house in order to see the child?"
"Not at all. I have everything planned in my mind. Now I am ready to go out. First, to the telegraph office--it is open all night here--to dispatch a telegram to the London lawyers to send a representative down immediately, who, when he comes, will take the affair out of our hands, I expect. Afterward to the house of the woman's friends; she must accompany us to your house, and we will take the child away before daylight. Then we will call in a doctor, and nothing need reach Rachel's ears. Don't take it to heart, Cohen; you have troubles enough of your own. The news you give me of Rachel is the best of news. Joy and sorrow, Cohen--how close they are together!"
In the telegraph office Mr. Moss wrote a long message to Mr. Gordon's lawyers, impressing upon them the necessity of sending a representative without delay to take charge of the body, and to attend to the funeral arrangements.
"Between ourselves, Cohen," he said as they walked to the house of the woman's friends, "the lawyers will be rather glad of the news than otherwise; and so will Mr. Gordon when it reaches him. It clears the way for him, in a manner of speaking. I am not sure whether I made the matter clear to you, but there is no doubt whatever that, so far as Mr. Gordon is concerned, the child was an encumbrance--to say nothing of the expense, which perhaps he would not have minded, being almost a millionaire. But still, as it has turned out, he has got rid of a difficulty, and he will not be sorry when he hears of it."
"And the mother," said Aaron--"how will she take it?"
"That is another matter, and I will not pretend to say. There are mothers and mothers, and fathers and fathers. We know, Cohen, what we think of our own children, but there are people in the world with different ideas from ours. The mother of this little one will feel grieved at first, no doubt, but she will soon get over it. Then, perhaps, her husband will not tell her. Here we are at the woman's house."
They halted before a small cottage, evidently inhabited by people in humble circumstances. Before he aroused the inmates Mr. Moss said:
"I shall keep your name out of the affair, Cohen, but to a certain extent the woman must be taken into our confidence. Secrecy will be imposed upon her, and she will be paid for it. Remain in the background; I will speak to her alone."
The woman herself came to the door, and when she was dressed Mr. Moss had a conversation with her, the result of which was that she and the two men walked to Aaron's house, where she took charge of the dead child, and carried it to the cottage. Then she went for a doctor--to Aaron's relief not the doctor who attended his wife--and as there was no doubt that the child had died a natural death, a certificate to that effect was given. At six in the morning Aaron returned to Rachel, and sitting by her bedside, waited for her awakening. The potion she had taken was to insure sleep for twelve hours; in two hours he would hear her voice; in two hours she would be caressing a babe to which she had not given birth.
It seemed to Aaron as though months had passed since Mr. Moss had presented himself at his house last night, and for a while it almost seemed as though, in that brief time, it was not himself who had played the principal part in this strange human drama, but another being who had acted for him, and who had made him responsible for an act which was to color all his future life. But he did not permit himself to indulge long in this view of what had transpired; he knew and felt that he, and he alone, was responsible, and that to his dying day he would be accountable for it. Well, he would bear the burden, and would, by every means within his power, endeavor to atone for it. He would keep strict watch over himself; he would never give way to temptation; he would act justly and honorably; he would check the hasty word; he would make no enemies; he would be kind and considerate to all around him. He did not lay the flattering unction to his soul that in thus sketching his future rule of life he was merely committing himself to that which he had always followed in the past. This one act seemed to cast a shadow over all that had gone before; he had to commence anew.
At eight o'clock Rachel stirred; she raised her arm and put her hand to her eyes, blind to all the world, blind to his sin, blind to everything but love. Then instinctively she drew the babe nearer to her. A faint cooing issued from the infant's lips, and an expression of joy overspread the mother's features. This joy found its reflex in Aaron's heart, but the anxiety under which he labored was not yet dispelled. Was there some suitable instinct in a mother's love which would convey to Rachel's sense the agonizing truth that the child she held in her arms was not her own.
There was no indication of it. She fondled the child, she suckled it, the light of heaven shone in her face.
"Aaron!"
"My beloved!"
"Do you hear our child, our dear one? Ah, what happiness!"
"Thank God!" said Aaron inly. "Oh, God be thanked!"
"Is it early or late, dear love?" asked Rachel. "It is morning, I know, for I see the light; I feel it here"--with her hand pressing the infant's head to her heart.
"It is eight o'clock, beloved," said Aaron.
"I have had a long and beautiful sleep. I do not think I have dreamed, but I have been so happy--so happy! My strength seems to be returning. I have not felt so well since the night of the fire. Our darling seems stronger too; it is because I am so much better. I must think of that; it is a mother's duty to keep well for her child's sake, and, dear husband, for your sake also. I do not love you less because I love our child so dearly."
"I am sure of that, beloved. Should I be jealous of our child? That would be as foolish as it would be unwise."
"You speak more cheerfully, Aaron. Is that because of me?"
"It is because of you, beloved. We both draw life and happiness from you. Therefore get strong soon."
"I shall--I feel I shall. My mind is clear; there is no weight on my heart. Before many days have passed I shall be out of bed, learning my new duties. Aaron, our child will live!"
"She will live to bless and comfort us, beloved."
She passed her hand over his face. "You are crying, Aaron."
"They are tears of joy, Rachel, at seeing you so much better. A terrible fear has weighed me down; it is removed, thanks be to the Eternal! The world was dark till now; I dared not think of the future. Now all is well."
"Am I, indeed, so much to you, dear husband?"
"You are my life. As the sun is to the earth so are you to me."
The wife, the husband, and the child lay in each other's embrace.
"God is good," murmured Rachel. "I did so want to live, for you and for our child! But I feared, I feared; strength seemed to be departing from me. What will they do, I thought, when I am gone? But God has laid his hand upon us and blessed us. Praised be his name forever and ever!"
"Amen, amen! I have not yet said my morning prayers. It is time."
She sank back in bed, and he put on his taleth and phylacteries, and prayed fervently. He did not confine himself to his usual morning devotions, but sought his book for propitiatory supplications for forgiveness for transgression. "Forgive us, oh, our Father! for we have sinned; pardon us, oh, our King! for we have transgressed; for thou art ever ready to pardon and forgive. Blessed art thou, the Eternal, who is gracious and doth abundantly pardon." And while he supplicated forgiveness Rachel lay and sang a song of love.
His prayers ended, Aaron folded his taleth and wound up his phylacteries, and resumed his seat by Rachel's bed.
"While you slept last night, dear love," he said, "a piece of good fortune fell to my share, through our friend, Mr. Moss. I shall be able to take a servant in the house."
"How glad I am!" she answered. "It distressed me greatly to know that you had everything to attend to yourself. A woman, or a girl, is so necessary!"
"There is altogether a brighter outlook for us, Rachel. Do you think Prissy would do?"
"She is very handy, and very willing. If you could manage until I can get up I could soon teach her."
"I will go, then, and see if she is able to come. You must not mind being alone a little while."
"I shall not be alone, dear," said Rachel, with a bright smile at the child.
He prepared breakfast for her before he left, and she partook of it with a keen appetite. Then he went on his mission, and met Mr. Moss coming to the house.
"I have had a telegram," said that gentleman, "in reply to mine. A gentleman will arrive from London this afternoon to attend to matters. You look brighter."
"Rachel is much better," said Aaron.
"You are in luck all round, Cohen. There are men who always fall on their feet. I'm one of them; you're another. This time yesterday you were in despair; now you're in clover. Upon my word, I am as glad as if it had happened to myself. You know one of our sayings: 'Next to me my wife; next to my wife my child; next to my child my friend.' My good old father told me it was one of the wise sayings of Rabbi ben--I forgot who he was the son of. A friend of ours who used to come to our house said to my father that there was no wisdom and no goodness in the saying, because the rabbi put himself first, as being of more consequence than wife and child and friend. My father answered, 'You are wrong; there is wisdom, there is goodness, there is sense in it. Self is the greatest of earthly kings. Put yourself in one scale, and pile up all the world in the other, and you will weigh it down.' He was right. What comes so close home to us as our own troubles and sorrows?"
"Nothing," said Aaron rather sadly; "they outweigh all the rest. We are all human, and being human, fallible. Can you imagine an instance, Mr. Moss, where love may lead to crime?"
"I can, and what is more, I would undertake to justify it. Who is this little girl?"
The diversion in the conversation was caused by Prissy, who had run to Aaron, and was plucking at his coat.
"A good girl who attends to our Sabbath lights."
"'Ow's missis, please, sir?" inquired Prissy anxiously.
"Much better this morning, thank you."
"And the babby, sir?"
"Also better and stronger, Prissy." Prissy jumped up and down in delight. "I was coming to see you. Do you think your aunt would let you come to us as a regular servant, to live and eat and sleep in the house."
This vision of happiness almost took Prissy's breath away, but she managed to reply, "If yer'd make it worth 'er while she would, Mr. Cohen. She's allus telling me I'm taking the bread out of 'er mouth, and aint worth my salt. Oh, Mr. Cohen,willyer take me,willyer? I don't care where I sleep, I don't care wot yer give me to eat, I'll work for yer day and night, I will! Aunty makes my life a misery, she does, and I've lost Wictoria Rejiner, sir. She's got another nuss, and I aint got nobody to care for now. Aunty sed this morning I was a reg'lar pest, and she wished she could sell me at so much a pound."
"You don't weigh a great deal," said Aaron, gazing at Prissy in pity, and then, with a touch of his old humor, "How much a pound do you think she would take?"
"Come and arks 'er, Mr. Cohen, come and arks 'er," cried Prissy, running before Aaron, and looking back imploringly at him.
He and Mr. Moss followed the girl into the presence of Prissy's aunt, and although he did not buy Prissy by the pound weight, he made a bargain with the woman, and by the outlay of five shillings secured the girl's permanent services, it being understood that she was not to take her niece away without Prissy's consent. As they walked back to Aaron's house he spoke to Prissy about wages, but the girl, who felt as if heaven's gates had opened for her to enter, interrupted him by saying:
"Don't talk about wages, sir, please don't. I don't want no wages. Give me a frock and a bone, and I'll work the skin off my fingers for yer, I will!"
Extravagant as were her professions, never was a poor girl more in earnest than Prissy.