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. The stern truth had been revealed, and there was no arguing it away. Aaron saw clearly what was before him, but he could not see a way out of his difficulties, nor to doing what he was warned 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. He observed 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 leant anxiously over her to catch the sound of her breathing; and so faint and low 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 was not mistaken 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 passionate desire to do something--he knew not what--to keep his wife with him even if she should lose her babe, and towards the accomplishment of which he felt that a power outside the sphere of human influence was necessary. Normally he was a man of sound understanding, not given to mysticism nor to a belief in the effects of supernatural power upon mundane affairs; but during these agitating days there was a danger of his healthy mind becoming unbalanced. Human resource had failed him; he must seek elsewhere for aid; if he were to be successful in steering his beloved to a haven of peace and health it must be through outside influences which had not yet made themselves visible to him. "Show me the way, O 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 agonising desire.
Meanwhile his funds had run completely out, and he saw with terror 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 an urgent 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 a cold and bitter evening. The snow had been falling heavily; a fierce wind was raging. He thought of poor people he had seen in such inclement weather as this walking along with sad faces, homeless and hungry; he recalled the picture of a young good-looking woman whom he had seen years ago in a London park during a heavy snow-storm; she was thinly clad, want was in her face, she pressed a babe to her bosom. Shivering with cold she walked slowly onward, and looked around with despairing eyes for succour. He slipped a shilling into her hand, and as he hurried away, he heard, with a feeling of remonstrant shame, her gratitude expressed in the words "God Almighty bless you, sir!" as though he had performed an act of extraordinary generosity. Between this wretched woman and his beloved Rachel there seemed to be an affinity, and his heart was torn with woe. He was the breadwinner; to him she looked for food, for warmth, for shelter; 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 early in the morning, 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 ensure 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 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 half way 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's 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's errand open up a 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 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; so often had she filled it for him that he regarded it almost as part of herself. 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 recognised him. He was enveloped in his great fur coat, which was pulled up close to his ears; he was puffing at one of his large cigars, and between the puffs was humming a celebrated air from the latest operatic success--
"Toreador attento,Toreador, Toreador,Non obliarche un occhio tutt' ardorAdammirarti è intento,E che t' aspett' amor,Toreador t' aspett' aspetta amor."
"Toreador attento,Toreador, Toreador,Non obliarche un occhio tutt' ardorAdammirarti è intento,E che t' aspett' amor,Toreador t' aspett' aspetta amor."
He scorned the English tongue in operas, and though by no means a well-educated man, never sang but in Italian. The last flourish brought him close to Aaron.
"Why, Cohen" he said, 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 sob.
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Mr. Moss. "That will never do, Cohen. You mustn't give way--a strong, clever man like you. Look on the best side. Things will right themselves; they will, mark my words. I am here to set them right."
"To set them right!" exclaimed Aaron, all his pulses throbbing.
"Yes, 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. "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. 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 I can pay over to you 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 dreamt 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 me 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 all 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, entrusted to me for a special purpose, 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."
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 in the earlier chapters of this story. Aaron listened with attention and astonishment: with attention because of his anxiety to ascertain whether the proposal was likely to extricate him from his cruel position, with astonishment 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 demeanour, 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 dreamt 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 I shall make nothing out of it myself."
"Indeed you need not," said Aaron, pressing Mr. Moss's hand. "Pure friendship has brought you here, I know, I know; but surely you must see that it is impossible for me to assume 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 were 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 its balance. It has happened to me, and I have said afterwards, '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 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 take 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 modest 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, Cohen, I consulted a gentleman--Dr. Spenlove--who has a kind heart and correct principles, and he agreed with me that the transaction was perfectly honourable. 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 Shakespeare 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 fancy 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 I undertook executed, I retire, and have nothing further to do with it. Anything you chose to communicate to 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 entrusted 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 respectable 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 those 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 ensure 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 an 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 her hour of 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 practise. 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 can I not atone for it in the future? I will atone for it, if the power is given me, by charity, by good deeds. In atonement, yes, in atonement. If I can relieve some human misery, if I can lift a weight from suffering hearts, surely that will be reckoned to my account. I record here a solemn vow to make this a purpose of my life. And the child!--she will be reared in a virtuous home, she 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. That will be a good work done. 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 sublimest 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, took 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's 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. That is a good omen. How pale you are, and you are out of breath. 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, in a husky voice. "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 go 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, gaily, "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 Portsmouth to-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. You have only to give them your address, and they will send the money to you. 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 awhile 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 strong 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 mould. 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 the unconscious error. "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. But though he strove still to justify his act, doubt followed every argument he used in his defence.
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 had 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 endeavour to make atonement for his sin. He inwardly acknowledged it now, without attempting to gloss it over. Itwasa 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.