A Fair Jewess
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The carrying out of his intention to retire into private life, and to entirely give up the important business transactions in which he had been engaged for many years, necessitated his being in London the greater part of these two weeks; he would have liked to keep his proceedings from public knowledge, but in this he was not successful. One cause of the publicity which was given to his actions lay in the disposal of a portion of his fortune in charity; his benefactions were heralded far and wide, and he was made the subject of numberless laudatory articles in the newspapers. Another cause was his transference of large contracts, and especially of the last one for which he had successfully competed, to other firms. In the transference of these contracts he had laid down stipulations with respect to wages and hours of labor which, while they did not meet with the full approval of employers, earned for him renewed commendation from the working classes. Mr. Poynter had tried to obtain some of these contracts, but Aaron found him so shifty in his methods that he declined to have anything to do with him. For which defeat Mr. Poynter vowed revenge, and looked about for the means of compassing it.
At the end of the fortnight Aaron was in London, his labors ended, and at this time his fortune amounted to something over thirty thousand pounds, a larger sum than he anticipated would be left to him.
It must be mentioned that Ruth and her husband had just returned to London, as he was informed by letter, in consequence of Ruth's indisposition. It was she who wrote to him, and she was so earnest in the expression of her wish that he would come and see her that he had sent her a telegram saying that he would call at eight or nine o'clock, by which time he expected to be free.
At six o'clock on this evening he and Mr. Moss were together in Aaron's house, by appointment. Aaron had resolved to reveal his secret to his faithful friend, and he had set apart this evening as a fitting time for the disclosure. On the following day Rachel and Rose were to return to London, as Rachel did not wish to remain any longer in Bournemouth, and Mr. Moss was to return to Portsmouth.
Mr. Moss' face was flushed with excitement as he entered the room with an evening paper in his hand.
"Have you heard the rumor, Cohen?" he asked excitedly.
"What rumor?" inquired Aaron, rising to meet his friend.
"About your bank, the Equitable Alliance?"
"No, I have heard nothing. I have not been out of the house since the morning."
"It came on me like a thunderclap, but it cannot be true."
"What cannot be true, Mr. Moss?" Aaron spoke quite calmly.
"Well, there's nothing definite, but you know there has been something like a panic in the City."
"I know, but it cannot affect me. I have no investments now, with the solitary exception of my bank shares. All my affairs are settled, and the money in the bank until I decide how to invest it."
Mr. Moss groaned. "I wish you had it safely invested in consols. Is all your money there?"
"Every shilling. The only investments I have not realized are the shares I hold in the bank."
"That makes it all the worse. The shareholders are liable to the depositors."
"Yes."
The flush had died out of Mr. Moss' face, which was now white with apprehension. "They're calling it out in the streets-but here's the paper."
He pointed to a paragraph, which stated that one of the largest banks in the City had closed its doors half an hour before its time, and that the panic had in consequence reached an alarming height.
"There is no name mentioned, Mr. Moss."
"No, Cohen, no; but I passed through the City on my way here, and the name of the bank was on everyone's lips. If the bank stops payment to-morrow how will you stand?"
"If it stops payment for sufficient cause," said Aaron in a steady voice, "I shall be a ruined man!"
"Good Heavens! and you can speak of it so calmly!"
"Why not? To work myself into a frenzy will not help me. There are worse misfortunes."
"I cannot imagine them, Cohen. Ruined? Absolutely ruined?"
"Absolutely ruined," said Aaron, with a smile.
"And it was only yesterday that you were-"
He could not continue, and Aaron took up his words.
"It is only yesterday that I was on top of the tree. A dangerous height, Mr. Moss, but I must bear the fall. If, when they climb the ladder of fortune, men would but be careful to make the lower rungs secure! But prosperity makes them reckless. Do not look so mournful. Happiness is as easily found in poverty as in riches."
"It may be, after all, a false alarm," groaned Mr. Moss.
"Let us hope so. We will wait till to-morrow."
"Will you not go into the City now to ascertain whether it is true or false?"
"No; it will only trouble me, and it will not affect the result. I will wait till to-morrow."
So marked was the contrast between his cheerful and Mr. Moss' despondent mood that it really seemed as if it were his friend's fortune that was imperiled instead of his own. He was standing by the door, and hearing a knock, he opened it.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said a servant, "but this gentleman is below, and wants to see Mr. Moss."
Aaron took the card without looking at it, and handed it to Mr. Moss, who exclaimed:
"Dr. Spenlove!"
"Show him up," said Aaron to the servant.
"Had I not better see him alone?" asked Mr. Moss.
"If you have no objection," replied Aaron, "receive him here in my presence."
They both seemed to scent a coming danger, but Aaron appeared to hail it gladly, while Mr. Moss would rather have avoided it.
"A thousand apologies," said Dr. Spenlove to Aaron upon his entrance, "for intruding upon you, but hearing that Mr. Moss was here I took the liberty of following him. My errand is an urgent one."
"I am happy to see you, Dr. Spenlove," Aaron responded; "if your business with Mr. Moss is not quite private you can speak freely before me."
"I think," said Dr. Spenlove, half hesitating, "that it is quite private."
"I have a distinct reason," continued Aaron as though Dr. Spenlove had not spoken, "for making the suggestion, but men sometimes receive an inspiration for which there is no visible warranty. If it is of an incident in the past you wish to speak, when you and Mr. Moss were acquainted in Portsmouth-"
"How singular that you should have guessed it!" exclaimed Dr. Spenlove. "It is such an incident that brings me here."
"The time was winter," pursued Aaron, "the season an inclement one. I remember it well. For some days the snow had been falling-"
"Yes, yes. It was a terrible season for the poor."
"For one especially, a lady driven into misfortune and who had no friend but a stern and honorable gentleman who would only lift her from the depths into which she had fallen on the condition that she submitted to a cruel sacrifice. His demand was that she should give her infant into the care of strangers, and that only in the event of his death should she be free to seek to know its fate. Is that the incident, Dr. Spenlove?"
"It is. I see you know all, and with Mr. Moss' consent I will speak openly."
Mr. Moss looked at Aaron, who nodded, and Dr. Spenlove continued.
"There is no need to recall all the particulars of that bitter night when you so kindly assisted me in the search for the unfortunate?"
"None at all," said Mr. Moss; "they are very vivid in my memory."
"And in mine. Your kindness has not been forgotten either by me or by the lady whose life, and whose child's life, were saved by you. He shakes his head in deprecation, Mr. Cohen, but what I say is true. Had he not, out of the kindness of his heart, accompanied me these two hapless human beings would have perished in the snow. I had a motive to serve; he had none. On the night we parted in Portsmouth, Mr. Moss, you were on the point of seeking a home for the poor babe, for whom" – he turned to Aaron-"a liberal provision was made."
"I am acquainted with every detail of the strange story," said Aaron. "I was residing in Gosport at the time."
Dr. Spenlove gave him a startled look.
"It was in Gosport he hoped to find this home, with a friend of whom he spoke in the warmest terms. The commission intrusted to me by Mr. Gordon-I perceive you are familiar with the name-ended on that night, and what remained to be done was in the hands of Mr. Moss and Mr. Gordon's lawyers. The following morning I came to London, where I have resided ever since. From that day until two or three weeks ago Mr. Moss and I have not met. It was here in your house, Mr. Cohen, that, seeing him for the first time after so long an interval, I made inquiries concerning the infant intrusted to him. He informed me that she died very shortly, as I understand, after she entered her new home. I was not surprised to hear it; the exposure on that bitter night was sufficiently severe to kill a child much older. In order that my visit to Mr. Moss to-night may be properly understood I will briefly relate in a few words the subsequent history of the mother. She married Mr. Gordon and accompanied him to Australia, where she has resided for twenty years. She has had no children by him, and is now a widow, and very wealthy. Unknown to Mr. Gordon she, in her last interview with me, intrusted to me a small iron box-it was one I gave her, and I can identify it-in which she deposited some article of the nature of which I am ignorant. She entreated me to take steps that this box should be delivered to the people who received her child into their home, and to obtain from them a promise that if the child lived till she was twenty-one years of age it was to be handed over to her, or in the event of her child dying, or of herself claiming the box at any future time, to be handed over to her. I informed Mr. Moss of the mother's desire, and he promised that it should be attended to. I have looked through some old papers, and I find that, had the child lived, she would be twenty-one in the course of a couple of months. But the child is dead, and the mother has appealed to me to assist her to obtain the box which she delivered into my charge."
"The mother has appealed to you!" exclaimed Aaron. "In person?"
"In person," replied Dr. Spenlove. "She has returned to England, and is at this moment awaiting me in my carriage below. It is not the only appeal she has made to me. She is overwhelmed at the news of her child's death, and I have the sincerest pity for her. She desires to know where her child is buried. Mr. Gordon's lawyers, it appears, were so bound to secrecy by their client that they do not feel warranted in giving her any information or assistance. She has communicated with another firm of lawyers in London, who are unable to assist her. As a last resource she has come to me to entreat my aid, which, in the circumstances, I cannot refuse to give her. My errand is now fully explained. Mr. Moss, will you see the poor lady, and give her the information she has a right to demand?"
"I will reply for my friend," said Aaron. "Dr. Spenlove, I was the person to whose care the child was intrusted. The box is in this house, and it is for me to satisfy her. Will you step down and ask her to come up, or shall I send a servant to her?"
"It will be best for me to go," said Dr. Spenlove. "How strangely things turn out! It is fortunate that I came here to seek Mr. Moss."
"I must speak to Mrs. Gordon alone, without witnesses," said Aaron. "You and Mr. Moss will not mind waiting in the adjoining room for a few minutes. The poet's words are true: 'There is a Providence that shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we may.' The mother may have cause to bless this night."
He bent his head humbly and solemnly as Dr. Spenlove and Mr. Moss left the room together.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A MOTHER'S JOY
For the first time in their lives these two beings, whose fates were so strangely linked together, faced each other-the mother who believed her child to be dead, the father who had brought up that child in ignorance of her birthright. It was a solemn moment, more trying to the man who had erred than to the woman who had fallen. To him the truth was as clear as though it were proclaimed with a tongue of fire, to her it had yet to be revealed. How feeble was the human act when brought into juxtaposition with destiny's decree!
Aaron's sin had been ever before him; the handwriting had been ever on the wall. Scarcely for one day during the last twenty years had the voice of conscience been stilled, and it had been dart of his punishment that the inherited instincts of the child had worked inexorably against all his efforts; her silent resistance to the lessons he would have inculcated had been too powerful for him; and in the end she had turned resolutely from the path into which, with inward reproaches, he had endeavored to lead her, and had obeyed the promptings of her nature in mapping out her own future.
Keen as was Aaron's sufferings, he experienced a sense of relief that the bolt had fallen, and that the hour of retribution had arrived; the agony of suspense was over, and he accepted with mournful resignation the decree which ordained that he should pass judgment upon himself.
A difficult task lay before him; the revelation he had to make must be made with tact and delicacy, in consideration for the mother's feelings. Joy, as well as sorrow, has its fears.
Forgetful for the moment of his own domestic grief, a sympathetic pity for the bereaved woman stirred Aaron's heart. Her tribulation was expressed in her face, which was pale with woe; her eyes were suffused with tears; her limbs trembled as she sank into the chair which he placed for her. It was not he alone who was experiencing the tortures of remorse.
Mrs. Gordon was in mourning, and Aaron believed it was for her child. Except that time had left its marks upon her countenance there was but little change in her, and few persons who had known her in her springtime would have failed to recognize her in her middle age.
Her union with Mr. Gordon had not been entirely unhappy; he had performed his duty toward her, as she had done toward him, and though he had a suspicion that, through all the long years, she never lost sight of her secret sorrow, he made no reference to it, and she, on her part, did not intrude it upon him. Even on his deathbed he did not speak of it; she understood him well enough to feel convinced that he would answer no questions she put to him, and she sincerely desired not to distress him, for she had grown to be grateful for his faithful fulfillment of the promise he had made.
And now she was free, and in the possession of great wealth. But she was alone, without a tie in the world. All her bright dreams had faded. She had indulged the hope that her child still lived, and as she traveled back to England had raised up mental pictures of her daughter which filled her with joy. The information she received from Dr. Spenlove had killed that hope, and her yearning desire was to visit the grave of the babe she had deserted, and to weep over it tears of bitter repentance.
It was not so much now to reclaim the iron box containing the clew to a shameful episode in her youthful life as to learn where her babe was buried, that she wished to learn into whose care her child had been given. There was a time when she nursed a fierce desire for revenge upon the man who had betrayed her, but this desire had burned itself away, and she would be content that the melancholy memories of the past should be buried in oblivion. No good result would accrue from rekindling the smoldering ashes of an experience so sad. She had lived down the shame; no word of reproach had been uttered against her; let the dead past bury its dead.
For a few moments there was silence between her and Aaron, and she was the first to speak.
"Dr. Spenlove has told me all," she said.
"He has told you what he knows," said Aaron, "but you have something more to hear. It was I who undertook the charge of your child. Mr. Moss brought her to me in Gosport, and delivered to me also the box which you intrusted to Dr. Spenlove. I hand you now the box in the same condition as it was handed to me. You will oblige me by convincing yourself that it has not been tampered with."
She unlocked the box with a key she carried in her purse, and taking from it the half of the letter she had deposited therein, glanced over it with a bitter smile, then replaced it in its hiding place and relocked the box.
"There was nothing else in it?" asked Aaron.
"Nothing else," she replied; "it is as I delivered it to Dr. Spenlove. Tell me about my child. Did she live long? Was she buried in Gosport? You will tell me the truth-you will conceal nothing from me?"
"I will tell you the truth; I will conceal nothing from you; but what I have to say must be said in my own way. When Mr. Moss left your child with me there were two babes in my house of the same age, and we were in deep poverty and distress. My wife-my beloved wife lay at the point of death-" He covered his eyes with his hands. "Bear with me; these recollections overcome me." Presently he resumed. "But a short time before her confinement she had been stricken with blindness. Her own child, whose face she had never seen, lay quiet and still in her arms. The doctor who attended her feared the worst, and said her life depended upon the life of her babe. If our child died on the morrow the mother would die; if our child lived the mother would live. How can I expect you to forgive me for what I did in the agony of my heart?"
Again he paused, and tears gushed from his eyes. Mrs. Gordon sank back in her chair; there was not a vestige of color in her face.
"My God! my God!" she murmured. "Have I not suffered enough?"
These words recalled him to himself. He begged her to have courage, to be strong; there was no new suffering in store for her, he said; what he had to relate would bring joy into her life. He gave her wine, and when she had recovered he proceeded with his story, and gradually and tenderly revealed to her the truth. As he proceeded her face shone with incredulous joy, her heart beat tumultuously with the prospect of this unexpected happiness; and when his story was finished, and he sat before her with bowed head, there was a long, long silence in the room. He dared utter no further words; in silent dread he waited for his condemnation.
He felt a hand upon his knee, and looking down, he saw her kneeling at his feet. She was transfigured; the long pent up love of a mother made her young again; she took his hand, and kissed it again and again, bedewing it with happy tears. He gazed at her in wonder. He had expected revilings and she was all tenderness.
"Is it true?" she murmured. "Oh, is it true?"
"It is the solemn truth," he answered.
"And my child lives?"
"She lives."
"God in heaven bless you! She lives-my daughter lives!"
"And you do not blame me-you do not reproach me?"
"I shall bless you to my dying day! Oh, my heart, my heart! It will burst with happiness."
He entreated her to be composed, and in a little while she was calmer. Then for the first time he wrested himself from the environment of his own selfish sorrows; he put himself in her place, and understood the sacred joy which animated her. She was all impatience to see her child, but Aaron bade her restrain her impatience; he had much more to relate, which it was necessary she should hear.
"But I must see her to-night!" she cried.
"You shall see her to-night. I will take you to her."
She was fain to be satisfied with this assurance, but she would not be content till she saw a portrait of Ruth.
He gave her a cabinet photograph, and she gazed at it longingly, yearningly.
"She is beautiful, beautiful!"
"Yes, she is a beautiful girl," said Aaron, and then proceeded with the story, saying nothing, however, of what he had done for the young couple. At first she was grieved to hear that Ruth was married, but she found some consolation in the reflection that she had married into a peer's family. When Aaron related the particulars of the lawyer's visit to him, commissioned by Lord Storndale because of his stern objection to his son marrying a Jewess, she exclaimed: "But Ruth is not a Jewess!" and was appalled by the thought that her daughter was not born in wedlock. A child of shame! How would she be received? It was her turn now to fear, and Aaron, whose native shrewdness had returned to him, divined her fear; but it was not for him to moot the subject.
"My child," she said, with hot blushes on her face, "believes herself to be your daughter?"
"She does. It was my intention to undeceive her to-night."
"You know my story?"
"It was imparted to me," he replied, with averted head, "when I was asked to receive your child."
"Who knows the truth," she asked, trembling and hesitating, "about me?"
"I, Mr. Moss, Dr. Spenlove, and your husband's lawyers."
"No other persons?"
"No other persons." He took her hand. "Dear lady, from my heart I pity and sympathize with you. If I can assist you in any way-"
"You can-you can!" she cried. "For God's sake do not destroy the happiness that may be mine!"
"As Heaven is my judge, no word shall pass my lips. Be comforted, be comforted. The lawyers' lips are sealed, as you have already learned, and I will answer for Mr. Moss and Dr. Spenlove. Say to her and to her husband's family what you will-it will be justified. Your secret is safe."
She thanked him humbly and gratefully; it was she who was abashed; it was she who had to implore for mercy; and it was due to his wisdom that her aching heart was eased.
"If I can repay you-if I can repay you!" she murmured.
"You can repay me by saying you forgive me for the sin I committed."
"Your sin!" she cried in amazement. "You, who have brought up my child in virtue and honor! At my door lies the sin, not at yours."
"You forget," he groaned; "my wife, whom I love with a love dearer than life itself, has yet to receive the confession I have made to you. It was my love for her that led me into the error."
"An error," said Mrs. Gordon in tender accents, "that has saved a daughter from regarding her mother with abhorrence. Dear friend, God sees and judges, and surely he will approve what you have done. A grateful mother blesses you!"
"Remain here," said Aaron. "I will speak to my friends and yours, and then I will conduct you to your daughter."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A PANIC IN THE CITY
On the following morning Aaron was up earlier than usual, and in the daily papers he read the confirmation of the intelligence which Mr. Moss had imparted to him. There was a panic in the City, and fortunes were already being won and lost. The bank in which his money was deposited, and in which he held a large number of shares, was tottering, and he knew that he was ruined if it could not weather the storm.
Mr. Moss found him reading the news over his breakfast table. Business, as we know, had not prospered with Mr. Moss of late years; his investments had turned out badly, and he was in low water himself. He had placed his dependence upon Aaron to pull him through, and the rock he had depended upon was crumbling away.
"You are in trouble, Mr. Moss," said Aaron as his friend made his appearance.
"I have the second edition of the morning papers," replied Mr. Moss with a white face. "The Stock Exchange is in a blaze."
"Rather early to commence business," observed Aaron calmly; "the outlook is not improving, I suppose?"
"Everything is going to the dogs, Cohen."
"Have you breakfasted?" asked Aaron.
"Had breakfast at seven o'clock. Couldn't sleep a wink all night."
"Why?"
"Why!" exclaimed Mr. Moss. "What a question to ask when ruin stares a man in the face."
"I hope," said Aaron gravely, "that you are not deeply involved."
"I am up to my neck. But what is my position compared with yours? Cohen, you are a mystery."
"Because I accept the inevitable. Can you show me how I can improve matters?"
"No, I can't," answered Mr. Moss, with a deep groan; "only if I had capital I could make a fortune."
"How?"
"By joining the bears. Cohen, there is a chance for you. Your credit is good. There is nothing for it but a plunge. It will set you right."