Aaron the Jew: A Novel
by B. L. Farjeon · English · Gutenberg #42972 · 696,759 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Aaron the Jew: A Novel
Author: B. L. Farjeon
Release date: June 18, 2013 [eBook #42972]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AARON THE JEW: A NOVEL ***
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(Harvard University)
A FEW PRESS OPINIONS
ON
"AARON THE JEW."
BY
B. L. FARJEON.
* * * *
Globe.
"Aaron is a most engaging figure; nothing loftier, purer, sweeter, can
be imagined than the beautiful tie which unites him to his gentle,
true-hearted Rachel."
Speaker.
"In many respects a really powerful story, strong and sympathetic. The
book is infinitely superior in tone and motive to much of the current
fiction."
Guardian.
"A very tender and touching sketch, showing what a beautiful and noble
life is possible to a Jew who would really live in the true spirit of
his simple faith and the best traditions of his people. Charming
pictures of Jewish household life.... Exceedingly pleasant to read."
Daily Telegraph.
"Written with earnestness, sincerity, and lively sympathy with all that
is good, generous, and tender."
The Scotsman.
"Powerful studies of lofty human character. It is full of genuine
life, of real men and women, and of sustained interest.... A
delightful story. 'Aaron the Jew' is a strong and original piece of
work, and will well repay perusal."
Lady's Pictorial.
"This book has been received with such a chorus of praise that nothing
is left to say. It is the best novel that Mr. Farjeon has produced
since 'Grif.'"
Glasgow Herald.
"'Aaron the Jew' is a benevolent and beautiful character. The story is
an interesting one."
Western Morning News.
"Mr. Farjeon has never written a more natural and touching story than
this of 'Aaron the Jew.' All his characters are of an attractive and
noble-minded type."
Westminster Gazette.
"Very simply and touchingly written; rises to the level of real
pathos."
Jewish Chronicle.
"The book is interesting, and is a worthy addition to the Jewish
stories which are so much in fashion just now."
Jewish World.
"'Aaron the Jew' is a contribution to light fiction, all the more
welcome because its very slightness may cause it to be read by people
who still know nothing of Jews and Judaism, and so tend to remove
senseless prejudices."
Record.
"A powerfully written work."
World.
"Mr. Farjeon's new novel, 'Aaron the Jew,' is his best work since
'Grif' made him known to the reading world as a writer of fiction
gifted with exceptional power and originality. The story is finely
conceived and worked out with great care and lucidity."
Liverpool Daily Post.
"The book is, indeed, in every way an excellent production of Mr.
Farjeon's pen, and will no doubt attain the popularity it
unquestionably deserves."
_AARON THE JEW_
A Novel
_By_
_B. L. FARJEON_
AUTHOR OF
"_Great Porter Square_," "_Grif_," "_Blade o' Grass_,"
"_The Last Tenant_," _etc._, _etc_.
London, 1895
HUTCHINSON & CO
34, _PATERNOSTER ROW_
_All rights reserved_
_CHEAP AND POPULAR EDITION_.
* * * * * *
THE LAST TENANT
BY
B. L. FARJEON.
_In crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 2s. 6d.;_
_picture boards, 2s_.
* * * * * *
"A well written novel of absorbing interest."
_Scotsman_.
"The story enchains the reader's attention from the first page to the
last."--_Yorkshire Post_.
"Must be pronounced a successful piece of detective narration. Those
who like a good detective story will find what they want in 'The Last
Tenant.'"
_Manchester Guardian_.
* * * * * *
London: HUTCHINSON & CO., Paternoster Row.
CONTENTS.
BOOK THE FIRST.
_MOTHER AND CHILD_.
* * * *
CHAP.
I. THE POOR DOCTOR.
II. DR. SPENLOVE'S VISITOR.
III. DR. SPENLOVE UNDERTAKES A DELICATE MISSION.
IV. FLIGHT.
V. DEATH BETTER THAN LIFE.
VI. THE FRIEND IN NEED.
VII. DR. SPENLOVE ADVISES.
VIII. WHAT WAS PUT IN THE IRON BOX.
IX. MR. MOSS PLAYS HIS PART.
BOOK THE SECOND.
_RACHEL_.
* * * *
X. THE VISION IN THE CHURCHYARD.
XI. MR. WHIMPOLE INTRODUCES HIMSELF.
XII. THE COURSE OF THE SEASONS.
XIII. AARON COHEN PREACHES A SERMON ON LARGE NOSES.
XIV. A PROCLAMATION OF WAR.
XV. THE BATTLE IS FOUGHT AND WON.
XVI. JOY AND SORROW.
XVII. DIVINE CONSOLATION.
BOOK THE THIRD.
_THE TEMPTATION AND THE FALL_.
* * * *
XVIII. UNTO THEM A CHILD IS BORN.
XIX. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
XX. A MOMENTOUS NIGHT.
XXI. OVER A BRIGHT CLOUD A BLACK SHADOW FALLS.
XXII. THE LIVING AND THE DEAD.
XXIII. PLUCKED FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH.
XXIV. THE CURTAIN FALLS AWHILE.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
_HONOUR AND PROGRESS_.
* * * *
XXV. AFTER MANY YEARS.
XXVI. THE FOUNDATION OF AARON'S FORTUNE.
XXVII. THE FEAST OF PASSOVER.
XXVIII. RACHEL'S LIFE IN THE NEW LAND.
XXIX. THE FAREWELL.
XXX. AT THE GRAVE OF HIS CHILD.
BOOK THE FIFTH.
_THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUD_.
* * * *
XXXI. AARON IS ASKED FOR A SUBSCRIPTION, AND RELATES THE
STORY OF A CONVERT.
XXXII. AARON COHEN ADDRESSES A JEWISH AUDIENCE.
XXXIII. WHAT SHALL BE DONE TO THE MAN WHOM THE KING DELIGHTETH
TO HONOUR?
XXXIV. THE HONOURABLE PERCY STORNDALE.
XXXV. THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PAST.
XXXVI. BEFORE ALL, DUTY.
BOOK THE SIXTH.
_RETRIBUTION_.
* * * *
XXXVII. ESTHER MOSS RECEIVES A LETTER.
XXXVIII. RUTH'S SECRET.
XXXIX. THE HONOURABLE PERCY STORNDALE MAKES AN APPEAL TO
AARON COHEN.
XL. A DUTY PERFORMED.
XLI. THERE IS A PROVIDENCE THAT SHAPES OUR ENDS.
XLII. A MOTHER'S JOY.
XLIII. A PANIC IN THE CITY.
XLIV. THE CONFESSION.
XLV. A POISONED ARROW.
XLVI. RETRIBUTION.
AARON THE JEW.
* * *
BOOK THE FIRST.
_MOTHER AND CHILD_.
CHAPTER I.
THE POOR DOCTOR.
On a bright, snowy night in December, 1871, Dr. Spenlove, having been
employed all the afternoon and evening in paying farewell visits to
his patients, walked briskly towards his home through the narrowest
and most squalid thoroughfares in Portsmouth. The animation of his
movements may be set down to the severity of the weather, and not to
any inward cheerfulness of spirits, for as he passed familiar
landmarks, he looked at them with a certain regret, which men devoid
of sentiment would have pronounced an indication of a weak nature. In
this opinion, however, they would have been wrong, for Dr. Spenlove's
intended departure early the following morning from a field which had
strong claims upon his sympathies was dictated by a law of inexorable
necessity. He was a practitioner of considerable skill, and he had
conscientiously striven to achieve a reputation in some measure
commensurate with his abilities. From a worldly point of view his
efforts had been attended with mortifying failure; he had not only
been unsuccessful in earning a bare livelihood, but he had completely
exhausted the limited resources with which he had started upon his
career; he had, moreover, endured severe privation, and an opening
presenting itself in the wider field of London, he had accepted it
with gladness and reluctance. With gladness, because he was an
ambitious man, and had desires apart from his profession; with
reluctance, because it pained him to bid farewell to patients in whom
he took a genuine interest, and whom he would have liked to continue
to befriend. He had, indeed, assisted many of them to the full extent
of his power, and in some instances had gone beyond this limit,
depriving himself of the necessaries of life to supply them with
medicines and nourishing food, and robbing his nights of rest to
minister to their woes. He bore about him distinguishing marks of the
beautiful self-sacrifice. On this last night of his residence among
them, his purse was empty, and inclement as was the weather, he wore,
on his road home, but one thin coat, which was but a feeble protection
from the freezing air, which pierced to his skin, though every button
was put to its proper use. A hacking cough, which caused him to pause
occasionally, denoted that he was running a dangerous risk in being so
insufficiently clad; but he seemed to make light of it, and smiled
when the paroxysm was over. In no profession can be found displayed a
more noble humanity and philanthropy than in that which Dr. Spenlove
practised, and, needy as he was, and narrow as had been his means from
the start, his young career already afforded a striking example of
sweet and unselfish attributes. In the Divine placing of human hosts,
the poor doctor and the poor priest shall be found marching in the van
side by side.
During the whole of the day snow had been falling, and during the
whole of the day Dr. Spenlove had had but one meal. He did not
complain; he had been accustomed to live from hand to mouth, and well
knew what it was to go to bed hungry; and there was before him the
prospect of brighter times.
But cheering as was this prospect, his walk home through the falling
snow was saddened by the scenes he had witnessed in the course of the
day; and one especially dwelt in his mind.
"Poor creature!" he mused. "What will become of her and her baby? O
pitiless world! Does it not contain a single human being who will hold
out a helping hand?"
Before one of the poorest houses in one of the poorest streets he
paused, and, admitting himself with a private latchkey, unlocked a
door on the ground floor, and entered a room which faced the street.
There was a wire blind to the window, on which was inscribed,--
CONSULTATIONS FROM 9 TILL 11 A.M.
This room, with a communicating bedroom at the back, comprised his
professional and private residence.
Dr. Spenlove groped in the dark for the matches, and, lighting a
candle, applied a match to a fire laid with scrupulous economy in the
matter of coals. As he was thus employed, his landlady knocked at the
door and entered.
"Is it you, Mrs. Radcliffe?" he asked, not turning his head.
"Yes, sir. Let me do that, please."
The paper he had lit in the grate was smouldering away without
kindling the wood; the landlady knelt down, and with a skilful touch
the flame leapt up. Dr. Spenlove, unbuttoning his thin coat, spread
out his hands to the warmth.
"Any callers, Mrs. Radcliffe?"
"A gentleman, sir, who seemed very anxious to see you. He did not
leave his name or card, but said he would call again this evening."
"Did he mention the hour?"
"Nine, sir."
Dr. Spenlove put his hand to his waistcoat pocket, and quickly
withdrew it, with a smile of humour and self-pity. The landlady
noticed the action, and dolefully shook her head.
"Very anxious to see me, you say, Mrs. Radcliffe."
"Very anxious indeed, sir. Dear, dear, you're wet through!"
"It is a bitter night," he said, coughing.
"You may well say that, sir. Bad weather for you to be out, with that
nasty cough of yours."
"There are many people worse off than I am, without either fire or
food."
"We all have our trials, sir. It's a hard world."
"Indeed, indeed!" he said, thinking of the female patient whom he had
last visited.
"Where's your overcoat, sir? I'll take it down to the kitchen; it'll
dry sooner there." She looked around in vain for it.
"Never mind my overcoat, Mrs. Radcliffe."
"But you had it on when you went out, sir?"
"Did I? Don't trouble about it. It will dry quickly enough where it
is."
He was now busily employed making a parcel of books and instruments,
which he had taken from different parts of the room, and which were
the only articles of value belonging to himself it contained. The
landlady stood for a moment or two watching his movements, and then
she hurried down to her kitchen, and presently returned with a cup of
hot tea. As she passed through the passage, with the cup in one hand
and a candle in the other, she glanced at the empty umbrella stand.
"His umbrella, too, as well as his overcoat," she muttered. "The man's
heart's too big for his body!"
She re-entered the room.
"I've brought you a cup of tea, sir, if you don't mind taking it."
"Not at all, Mrs. Radcliffe. It is very kind of you."
He drank the tea, which warmed him through and through.
"We're all sorry at your leaving us, sir," said the landlady. "There's
plenty that'll miss you."
"I am sorry, too," he replied; "but when needs must, you know. I can
do no good to myself or others by remaining. If the gentleman calls
again, ask him to wait, if his business is of importance. You had
better tell him I am leaving Portsmouth to-morrow morning."
With his parcel under his arm he left the house, and trudging through
the snow again, halted at a pawnbroker's shop, lingering awhile before
he entered, as sensitive men do before putting the finishing touch to
a humiliating act. Then, shrugging his shoulders, and muttering, "I
ought to be used to it by this time," he plunged into the shop, where
he obtained upon his few last treasures as much as would pay his
third-class fare to London and the two weeks' rent he owed his
landlady. Thus safe-guarded for a few hours at least, he left the
shop, but instead of immediately retracing his steps to his lodgings
he lingered once more irresolutely, with the air of a man who was at
war with himself upon a momentous question. The sixteen shillings due
to his landlady was in his pocket, and undoubtedly it was but simple
honesty that it should be handed over to her without hesitation. But
the hapless female patient who had occupied his thoughts during the
last hour was at this moment in the throes of a desperate human
crisis, and dark as was the present to her suffering soul, the terrors
which the future held in store for her were still more agonising. She
had a young baby at her breast; she had no food in her cupboard, not a
loaf of bread, not a cup of milk; she had not a friend in the world to
whom she could appeal for help. She, too, was in debt to her landlord,
a hard man who was waiting for another sun to rise to thrust her and
her infant into the white and pitiless streets. It would have been
done to-day but for the intervention of Dr. Spenlove, who had pawned
his overcoat and umbrella to buy of the poor creature's landlord a
respite of twenty-four hours. The sixteen shillings due to Mrs.
Radcliffe would buy her another respite for a longer term, but when
this was expired there was still the hopeless future to face. Dr.
Spenlove thrust aside this latter consideration, and thought only of
the ineffable relief it was in his power to bring to a heart racked
with anguish and despair. He lost sight of the fact that the wretched
woman would still be without food, and that she was too weak to work
for it. Even when she was strong, and able to ply her needle
throughout the whole of the day and the greater part of the night, her
earnings had never exceeded six shillings a week; she had confessed as
much to the good doctor, but for whose timely aid the workhouse would
have been her only refuge. As he stood debating with himself the
sentiment of pity was strong within him, but he could not banish the
voice of justice which whispered that the money was not his to dispose
of. All the people with whom he was acquainted were poor, and his
landlady was as poor as the rest; he knew that she often depended upon
the payment of his rent to pay her own. It might be that just now she
could afford to wait awhile for what was due to her; if so, he would
dispose of the sixteen shillings as his benevolent instincts impelled
him to do; he must, however, ascertain how the land lay before he
acted. It may appear strange to many fortunate persons that issues so
grave and vital should hang upon a sum of money which to them would
not be worth a thought; but it would be a good lesson for them to
learn that opportunities are not scarce for bringing Heaven's
brightest sunshine to overcharged hearts by the judicious bestowal of
a few small coins out of the wealth which yields them all the material
comforts of life.
Having made up his mind upon the important matter, Dr. Spenlove turned
homewards, and as he walked he recalled the incidents in connection
with the unhappy woman in which he had played a part. She was a
stranger in the neighbourhood, and had lived her lonely life in a
garret for five months. No person with whom she came in contact knew
anything of her or of her antecedents, and it was by chance that he
became acquainted with her. Attending to his poor patients in the
street in which she resided, he passed her one afternoon, and was
attracted as much by her modest and ladylike appearance as by the
evidence of extreme weakness, which could hardly escape the
observation of a man so kindly-hearted as himself. He perceived at
once that she was of a superior class to those among whom she moved,
and he was impressed by a peculiar expression on her face when his
eyes rested on her. It was the expression of a hunted woman, of one
who was in hiding and dreaded being recognised. He made inquiries
about her, but no one could give him any information concerning her,
and in the press of onerous cares and duties she passed out of his
mind. Some weeks later he met her again, and his first impressions
were renewed and strengthened; and pity stirred his heart as he
observed from her garments that she was on the downward path of
poverty. It was clear that she was frightened by his observance of
her, for she hurried quickly on; but physical weakness frustrated her
desire to avoid him; she staggered and would have fallen had he not
ran forward and caught her. Weak as she was she struggled to release
herself; he kept firm hold of her, however, animated by compassion and
fortified by honest intention.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he said. "Allow me to assist you.
I am Dr. Spenlove."
It was the first time he had addressed her, but his name was familiar
to her as that of a gentleman to whom the whole neighbourhood was
under a debt of gratitude for numberless acts of goodness. She glanced
timidly at his face, and a vague hope stirred her heart; she knew that
the time was approaching when she would need such a friend. But the
hope did not live long; it was crushed by a sudden fear.
"Do you know me, sir?"
"No," replied Dr. Spenlove, in a cheerful tone. "You are a stranger to
me, as I have no doubt I am to you."
"You are not quite a stranger, sir," she said, timidly. "I have heard
of your kindness to many suffering people."
"Tush, tush!" he exclaimed. "A man deserves no credit for doing his
duty. You feel stronger now, do you not? If you have no doctor you
must allow me to come and see you. Do not hesitate; you need such
advice as I can give you; and," he added gently, "I will send in my
account when you are rich. Not till then, upon my honour; and
meanwhile I promise to ask no questions."
"I am deeply grateful to you, sir."
And, indeed, when they parted the world was a little brighter to the
poor soul.
From that day he attended her regularly, and she was strengthened and
comforted by his considerate conduct towards her. She was known as
Mrs. Turner; but it was strange, if she were wife or widow, that she
should wear no wedding-ring. As their intimacy ripened his first
impression that she was a lady was confirmed, and although he was
naturally curious about her history, he kept his promise by not asking
her any questions which he instinctively felt it would be painful to
her to answer. Even when he discovered that she was about to become a
mother he made no inquiries concerning the father of her unborn child.
On the day he bade her farewell, her baby, a girl, was two weeks old,
and a dark and terrible future lay before the hapless woman. His heart
bled for her, but he was powerless to help her further. Weak and
despairing, she sat in her chair with her child at her wasted breast;
her dark and deep-sunken eyes seemed to be contemplating this future
in hopeless terror.
"I am grieved to leave you so," he said, gazing sadly at her; "but it
is out of my power to do what I would wish. Unhappily, I am almost as
poor as yourself. You will try to get strong, will you not?"
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Remember," he said, taking her hand, "you have a duty to perform.
What will you do when you are strong?"
"I don't know."
"Nay, nay," he gently urged, "you must not speak so despondently.
Believe me, I do not wish to force your confidence, but I have
gathered from chance words you have let drop that you lived in London.
I am going there to-morrow. Can I call upon any person who would be
likely to assist you?"
"There is no one."
"But surely you must have some friends or relations----"
"I have none. When you leave me I shall be without a friend in the
world."
"God help you!" he sighed.
"Will He?"
The question was asked in the voice of one who had abandoned hope, who
had lost faith in human goodness and eternal justice, and who was
tasting the bitterness of death.
Dr. Spenlove remained with her an hour, striving to cheer her, to
instil hope into her heart, but his words had no effect upon her; and,
indeed, he felt at times that the platitudes to which he was giving
utterance were little better than mockery. Was not this woman face to
face with the practical issues of life and death in their most awful
aspect, and was it not a stern fact that there was but one practical
remedy for them? She asked for bread, and he was offering her a stone.
It was then he went from her room and learned the full truth from her
landlord, who was only waiting till he was gone to turn her into the
streets. We know by what means he bought a day's respite for her.
Finally he left her, and bore away with him the darkest picture of
human misery of which he had ever had experience.
CHAPTER II.
DR. SPENLOVE'S VISITOR.
His landlady, Mrs. Radcliffe, met him on the doorstep, and informed
him that the gentleman who had called to see him in the afternoon had
called again, and was in his room.
"A word, Mrs. Radcliffe," he said, hurriedly. "I am going to ask a
great favour of you. I owe you two weeks' rent."
"Yes, sir."
His heart sank within him; he divined immediately from her tone that
she was in need of the money.
"Would it inconvenience you to wait a little while for it?"
"I must, sir, if you haven't got it," she replied, "but I am
dreadfully hard pressed, and I reckoned on it. I'm behindhand myself,
sir, and my landlord's been threatening me----"
"Say no more, Mrs. Radcliffe. Justice must be first served. I have the
money; take it--for Heaven's sake take it quickly! I must not rob the
poor to help the poor."
He muttered the last words to himself as he thrust the sixteen
shillings into her hand.
"I am so sorry, sir," said the distressed woman.
He interrupted her with, "There, there, I am ashamed that I asked you.
I am sure no one has a kinder heart than you, and I am greatly obliged
to you for all the attention you have shown me while I have been in
your house. The gentleman is in my room, you say?"
It was a proof of Mrs. Radcliffe's kindness of heart that there was a
bright fire blazing in the room, made with her own coals, and that the
lamp had been replenished with her own oil. Dr. Spenlove was grateful
to her, and he inwardly acknowledged that he could not have otherwise
disposed of the few shillings which he had no right to call his own.
His visitor rose as he entered, a well-dressed man some forty years of
age, sturdily built, with touches of grey already in his hair and
beard, and with signs in his face and on his forehead indicative of a
strong will.
"Dr. Spenlove?" he asked, as they stood facing each other.
"That is my name."
"Mine is Gordon. I have come to see you on a matter of great
importance."
Dr. Spenlove motioned to the chair from which his visitor had risen,
and he resumed his seat; but although he had said that he had come
upon a matter of great importance, he seemed to be either in no hurry
to open it, or to be uncertain in which way to do so, for he sat for
some moments in silence, smoothing his bearded chin and studying Dr.
Spenlove's face with a stern and studious intentness.
"Can you spare me half an hour of your time?" he said at length.
"Longer, if you wish," said Dr. Spenlove.
"It may be longer, if you offer no opposition to the service I wish
you to render me; and perhaps it is as well to say that I am willing
and can afford to pay for the service."
Dr. Spenlove bent his head.
"It is seldom," continued Mr. Gordon, "that I make mistakes, and the
reason is not far to seek. I make inquiries, I clear the ground, I
resolve upon a course of action, and I pursue it to its end without
deviation. I will be quite frank with you, Dr. Spenlove; I am a hard,
inflexible man. Thrown upon the world when I was a lad, I pushed my
way to fortune. I am self-made; I can speak fair English. I have
received little education, none at all in a classical way; but I
possess common sense, and I make it apply to my affairs. That is
better than education if a man is resolved to get along in life--as I
was resolved to do. When I was a young man I said, 'I will grow rich,
or I will know the reason why.' I have grown rich. I do not say it as
a boast--it is only fools who boast--but I am worth to-day a solid
twenty thousand pounds a year. I make this statement merely as a proof
that I am in a position to carry out a plan in which I desire your
assistance and co-operation."
"My dear sir," said Dr. Spenlove, who could not but perceive that his
visitor was very much in earnest, "the qualities you mention are
admirable in their way, but I fear you have come to the wrong man. I
am a doctor, and if you do not need my professional advice----"
"Stop a moment," interrupted Mr. Gordon, "I have come to the right
man, and I do not need professional advice. I am as sound as a bell,
and I have never had occasion to pay a doctor's fee. I know what I am
about in the mission which brings me here. I have made inquiries
concerning you, and have heard something of your career and its
results; I have heard of your kindnesses and of the esteem in which
you are held. You have influence with your patients; any counsel you
might give them, apart from your prescriptions, would be received with
respect and attention; and I believe I am not wrong when I say that
you are to some extent a man of the world."
"To some slight extent only," corrected Dr. Spenlove, with a faint
smile.
"Sufficient," proceeded Mr. Gordon, "for my purpose. You are not blind
to the perils which lie before weak and helpless women--before, we
will say, a woman who has no friends, who is living where she is not
known, who is in a position of grave danger, who is entirely without
means, who is young and good-looking, and who, at the best, is unable
by the work of her hands to support herself."
Dr. Spenlove looked sharply at his visitor. "You have such a woman in
your mind, Mr. Gordon."
"I have such a woman in my mind, Dr. Spenlove."
"A patient of mine?"
"A patient of yours."
There was but one who answered to this description, and whose future
was so dark and hopeless. For the first time during the interview he
began to be interested in his visitor. He motioned him to proceed.
"We are speaking in confidence, Dr. Spenlove?"
"In perfect confidence, Mr. Gordon."
"Whether my errand here is successful or not, I ask that nothing that
passes between us shall ever be divulged to a third person."
"I promise it."
"I will mention the name of the woman to whom I have referred, or, it
will be more correct to say, the name by which she is known to you.
Mrs. Turner."
"You mean her no harm, sir?"
"None. I am prepared to befriend her, to save her, if my conditions
are accepted."
Dr. Spenlove drew a deep breath of relief. He would go to his new
field of labours with a light heart if this unhappy woman were saved.
"You have come at a critical moment," he said, "and you have
accurately described the position in which she is placed. But how can
my mediation, or the mediation of any man, be necessary in such a
case? She will hail you as her saviour and the saviour of her babe.
Hasten to her immediately, dear sir; or perhaps you do not know where
she lives, and wish me to take you to her? I am ready. Do not let us
lose a moment, for every moment deepens her misery."
He did not observe the frown which passed into Mr. Gordon's face at
his mention of the child; he was so eager that his hat was already on
his head and his hand on the handle of the door.
Mr. Gordon did not rise from his chair.
"You are in too great a hurry, Dr. Spenlove. Be seated, and listen to
what I have to say. You ask how your mediation can avail. I answer, in
the event of her refusal to accept the conditions upon which I am
ready to marry her."
"To marry her!" exclaimed Dr. Spenlove.
"To marry her," repeated Mr. Gordon. "She is not a married woman, and
her real name need not be divulged. When you hear the story I am about
to relate, when you hear the conditions, the only conditions, upon
which I will consent to lift her from the degraded depths into which
she has fallen, you will understand why I desire your assistance. You
will be able to make clear to her the effect of her consent or refusal
upon her destiny and the destiny of her child; you will be able to use
arguments which are in my mind, but to which I shall not give
utterance. And remember, through all, that her child is a child of
shame, and that I hold out to her the only prospect of that child
being brought up in a reputable way and of herself being raised to a
position of respectability."
He paused a moment or two before he opened fresh matter.
"I was a poor lad, Dr. Spenlove, without parents, without a home; and
when I was fourteen years of age I was working as an errand-boy in
London, and keeping myself upon a wage of four shillings a week. I
lost this situation through the bankruptcy of my employer, and I was
not successful in obtaining another. One day, I saw on the walls a
bill of a vessel going to Australia, and I applied at the agent's
office with a vague idea that I might obtain a passage by working
aboard ship in some capacity or other. I was a strong boy--starvation
agrees with some lads--and a willing boy, and it happened that one of
my stamp was wanted in the cook's galley. I was engaged at a shilling
a month, and I landed in Melbourne with four shillings in my pocket.
"How I lived till I became a man is neither here nor there; but when
gold was discovered I lived well, for I got enough to buy a share in a
cattle station, which now belongs entirely to me. In 1860, being then
on the high road to fortune, I made the acquaintance of a man whom I
will call Mr. Charles, and of his only child, a girl of fourteen, whom
I will call Mary. I was taken with Mr. Charles, and I was taken in by
him as well, for he disappeared from the colony a couple of years
afterwards, in my debt to the tune of a thousand pounds. He had the
grace to write to me from London, saying he would pay me some day; and
there the matter rested for seven years more, which brings me to two
years ago.
"At that time I had occasion to visit England on business; and in
London I hunted up my debtor, and we renewed our acquaintance. Mary
was then a young woman of twenty-one; and had it not been for her, it
is more than likely I might have made things unpleasant for her
father, who was leading the disreputable life of a gambler on
racecourses, and in clubs of a low character.
"Dr. Spenlove, you must have gathered from the insight I have given
you into my character that I am not a man of sentiment, and you will
probably consider it all the more strange that I should have
entertained feelings towards Mary which caused me to consider whether
she would not make me a creditable wife. Of these feelings I prefer
not to speak in a warmer strain, but shall leave you to place your own
construction upon them. While I was debating with myself as to the
course I should pursue, the matter was decided for me by the death of
Mr. Charles. He died in disgrace and poverty, and Mary was left
friendless and homeless.
"I stepped in to her rescue, and I made a proposal of marriage to her.
At the same time, I told her that I thought it advisable, for her sake
and mine, that a little time should elapse before this proposal was
carried into effect. I suggested that our marriage should take place
in two years; meanwhile, I would return to Australia, to build a
suitable house and to prepare a home for her, and she would remain in
England to fit herself for her new sphere of duties. She accepted me,
and I arranged with a lady of refinement to receive her. To this lady
both she and I were utter strangers, and it was settled between Mary
and myself that she should enter her temporary home under an assumed
name. It was my proposal that this pardonable deceit should be
practised; no person was wronged by it, and it would assist towards
Mary's complete severance from old associations. Our future was in our
own hands, and concerned nobody but ourselves.
"I returned to Australia, and made my preparations. We corresponded
once a month, and some few months ago I informed her of the date of my
intended arrival in England. To that letter I received no reply; and
when I landed and called at the lady's house, I learned that she had
fled. I set to work to discover the truth, and I have discovered it; I
set to work to track her, and I have succeeded. Her story is a common
story of betrayal and desertion, and I am not inclined to trouble you
with it. She has not the remotest hope of assistance from the man who
betrayed her; she has not the remotest hope of assistance from a
person in the world with the exception of myself.
"Dr. Spenlove, notwithstanding what has occurred I am here in
Portsmouth this night with the intention of carrying out the
engagement into which I entered with her; I am here, prepared to marry
her, on express conditions. The adoption of assumed names, the
obscurity she has courted, the absolute silence which is certain to be
observed by her, by me, by you, by the man who betrayed her, render me
safe. It is known that I have come to England to be married, and she
will be accepted as I present her when I return with her as my wife. I
will have no discussion as to my motives for taking what the world
would consider an unwise step; but you will understand that my
feelings for the woman who has played me false must be of a deep and
sincere nature, or I should not dream of taking it.
"It now only remains for me to state the conditions under which I am
prepared to save her from even a more shameful degradation than that
into which she has already fallen. I speak plainly. You know as well
as I the fate that is in store for her if my offer is rejected."
CHAPTER III.
DR. SPENLOVE UNDERTAKES A DELICATE MISSION.
Mr. Gordon had spoken throughout in a cold, passionless tone, and with
no accent of emotion in his voice. If anything could have been
destructive of the idea that he loved the woman he wished to marry, it
was his measured delivery of the story he had related; and yet there
could be no question that there was some nobility in the nature of the
sacrifice he was prepared to make for her sake. The contrast between
the man and the woman struck Dr. Spenlove very forcibly. The man was
hard and cold, the woman was sensitive and sympathetic. Had their
circumstances been equal, and had Dr. Spenlove been an interested
adviser, he would have had no hesitation in saying to her: "Do not
marry this man: there is no point of union between you; you can never
kindle in his heart the fire which burns within your own; wedded to
him, a dull routine of years will be your portion." But he felt that
he dared not encourage himself to pursue this line of argument.
Although the most pregnant part of Mr. Gordon's errand had yet to be
disclosed, it seemed to him that he would very likely presently be the
arbiter of her destiny. "You will be able," Mr. Gordon had said, "to
make clear to her the effect of her consent or refusal upon her
destiny and the destiny of her child." Whatever the conditions, it
would be his duty to urge her to accept the offer that would be made
to her; otherwise, he might be condemning her to a course of life he
shuddered to contemplate. The responsibility would be too solemn for
mere sentimental consideration. These were the thoughts that flashed
through his mind in the momentary pause before Mr. Gordon spoke again.
"I believe," his visitor then said, "that I am in possession of the
facts relating to Mrs. Turner"--he reverted to the name by which she
was generally known--"but you will corroborate them perhaps. She is in
want."
"She is in the lowest depths of poverty."
"Unless she pays the arrears of rent she will be turned into the
streets to-morrow."
"That is the landlord's determination."
"She would have been turned out to-day but for your intervention."
"You are well informed, I see," observed Dr. Spenlove, rather nettled.
"I have conversed with the landlord and with others concerning her.
She lives among the poor, who have troubles enough of their own to
grapple with, and are unable, even if they were inclined, to render
her the assistance of which she stands in need. She seems to have kept
herself aloof from them, for which I commend her. Now, Dr. Spenlove, I
will have no spectre of shame and degradation to haunt her life and
mine. Her past must be buried, and the grave must never be opened. To
that I am resolved, and no power on earth can turn me from it."
"But her child?" faltered Dr. Spenlove.
"She will have no child. She must part with her, and the parting must
be final and irrevocable. The steps I shall take to this end shall be
so effectual that if by chance in the future they should happen to
meet there shall be no possibility of recognition. I propose to have
the child placed with a family who will adopt her as a child of their
own--there will be little difficulty in finding such a family--to the
head of which a sum of one hundred pounds will be paid yearly for
maintenance. I name no limit as to time; so long as the child lives,
so long will the payment be made through my lawyers. Should the child
die before she reaches the age of twenty-one, the sum of five hundred
pounds will be paid to the people who undertake the charge. They will
know nothing of me or of the mother; our names will not be divulged to
them, and they will not be able to trace us. Should they evince a
disposition to be troublesome in this respect, the child will be taken
from them by my lawyers, and another home provided for her. A hundred
pounds a year is a liberal sum, and there will not be the least
difficulty in carrying out the proposed arrangement. In proof that I
desire the child to have every chance of leading a happy life, I will
engage to give her a marriage portion of five hundred pounds. Judge
for yourself whether a woman in Mrs. Turner's circumstances would be
acting wisely in rejecting my proposition."
"You have spoken in a most generous spirit," said Dr. Spenlove slowly,
"so far as money goes; but you seem not to have taken into
consideration a mother's feelings."
"I have not taken them into consideration: they are not part of my
plan. I have looked at the matter only from two points of view--its
worldly aspect, and my desire to carry out my personal wishes. I
decline to regard it or to argue upon it from the point of view of a
mother's feelings. I ask you to judge of it as a man of the world."
"Of which," said Dr. Spenlove, "as I have hinted to you, I am a poor
example. Do you expect me to provide for the babe such a home as that
you have described?"
"Not at all. It is my business to carry out my plan if she accepts the
conditions."
"What, then, do you wish me to do?"
"To lay my proposition before her as nearly as possible in my words,
to impress upon her that it is her duty to agree to it, for her own
sake and for the sake of the child."
"Why not do so yourself?"
"I have not seen her; I will not see her while she holds in her arms
her burden of shame. She shall come to me free and unencumbered, or
she shall not come at all. I could not speak to her as I have spoken
to you; I should not be able to command myself. She would plead to me,
and I should answer her in bitterness and anger. Such a scene would
set me so strongly against her that I should immediately relinquish my
purpose. You can reason with her; you can show her the path in which
her duty clearly lies. I do not deny that she is called upon to make a
sacrifice; but it is a sacrifice which will lead to good, it is a
sacrifice which every right-minded man would urge her to make.
Indifferent man of the world as you proclaim yourself to be, you
cannot be blind to the almost sure fate in store for her in the
circumstances in which she is placed. Your experiences must have made
you acquainted with the stories of women who have fallen as she has
fallen, and you will know how many of them were raised from the
depths, and how many of them fell into deeper shame. Dr. Spenlove, I
have entirely finished what I came here to say."
"Before I undertake to do what you require of me," said Dr. Spenlove,
who by this time understood the man he had to deal with, "I must ask
you a question or two."
"If they relate to the present business," responded Mr. Gordon, "I
will answer them."
"Failing me, will you employ some other person to act as your envoy to
Mrs. Turner?"
"I shall employ no other, for the reason that there is no other whose
counsel would be likely to influence her. And for another reason--I
have disclosed to you what I will disclose to no other person."
"Would you leave her as she is?"
"I would leave her as she is. Early in the morning I should take my
departure, and she would have to face the future unaided by me."
"If she will not listen to me, if she will not make the sacrifice, you
will surely give her out of your abundance some little assistance to
help her along?"
"Out of my abundance," replied Mr. Gordon, sternly, "I will give her
nothing--not the smallest coin. Make your mind easy upon one point,
Dr. Spenlove. So far as a practical man like myself is likely to go, I
will do what I can to make her happy if she affords me the
opportunity. She will live in a respectable atmosphere, she will be
surrounded by respectable people, she will have all the comforts that
money can purchase, and I shall never utter to her a word of reproach.
Her past will be as dead to me as if it had never been."
Dr. Spenlove rose. "It is your desire that I shall go to her
to-night?"
"It is. The matter must be settled without delay."
"If she asks for time to reflect----"
"I must have an answer to-night, yea or nay."
There was no more to be said. The man who had been wronged and
deceived, and who had made an offer so strange, and generous, and
cruel, was fixed and implacable.
"I may be absent some time," said Dr. Spenlove. "Where shall I see you
upon my return?"
"Here, if you will allow me to stay."
"You are welcome. My landlady will make you a bed on the sofa."
"Thank you; I need no bed. I can employ myself while you are away."
Dr. Spenlove stepped to the door, and turned on the threshold.
"One other question, Mr. Gordon. If I succeed, when will you require
her to give up her child?"
"To-morrow evening. I will have a carriage ready at the door. On the
following day Mrs. Turner and I will leave Portsmouth, and there is no
probability, after that, that you and I will ever meet again."
Dr. Spenlove nodded, and left the house.
CHAPTER IV.
FLIGHT.
The snow was falling more heavily, and a strong wind blew the flakes
into his face as he made his way to Mrs. Turner's garret. He walked as
quickly as he could, but his progress was impeded by the force of the
wind and by its driving the snow into his eyes. Despite these
obstacles he preserved his mental balance, and was observant of all
that was passing around him; and it was a proof of his kindly and
unselfish nature that, in the light of the vital errand upon which he
was engaged, he was oblivious of the sense of physical discomfort.
Conflicting questions agitated his mind. No longer under the influence
of the cold, cruel logic which distinguished Mr. Gordon's utterances,
he once more asked himself whether he would be acting rightly in
urging Mrs. Turner to renounce her maternal duties and obligations,
and to part for ever with the child of her blood. The human and the
Divine law were in conflict. On one side degradation and direst
poverty from which there seemed no prospect of escape, and driving the
mother perhaps to a course of life condemned alike by God and man; on
the other side a life of material comfort and respectability for
herself and her child. A fortuitous accident--a chance for which he
had prayed earlier in the night--had made him at once the arbiter and
the judge; his hand was on the wheel to steer these two helpless
beings through the voyage upon which they were embarked, and upon him
rested the responsibility of their future. There was no case here of
ploughing through unknown waters over hidden rocks; he saw the ocean
of life before him, he saw the rocks beneath. Amid those rocks lay the
forms of lost abandoned women who in their mortal career would surely
have been saved had an offer of rescue come, such as had come to the
woman who chiefly occupied his thoughts. They would have been spared
the suffering of despairing days, the horrors of a despairing death;
they would have been lifted from the gulf of shame and ignominy. New
hopes, new joys would have arisen to comfort them. The sacrifice they
would have been called upon to make would have been hallowed by the
consciousness that they had performed their duty. It was not alone the
happiness of the mortal life that had to be considered; if the
ministrations of God's ministers on earth were not a mockery and a
snare, it was the immortal life that was equally at stake. The soul's
reward sprang from the body's suffering.
And still the pitiless snow fell, and the wind howled around him; and
through the white whirlwind he beheld the light of heaven and the
stars shining upon him.
How should he act? He imagined himself steering the vessel through an
ocean of sad waters. On the right lay a haven of rest, on the left lay
a dark and desolate shore. Here, salvation; there, destruction. Which
way should he turn the wheel? His pity for her had drawn from him
during their last interview the exclamation, "God help you!" and she
had asked hopelessly, "Will He?" He had turned from her then; he had
no answer to make. There is, he said to himself now, no Divine
mediation in human affairs; the Divine hand is not stretched forth to
give food to the hungry. In so grave an issue as the starvation of a
human being, dependence upon Divine aid will not avail. Admitting
this, he felt it to be almost a heresy, but at the same time he knew
that it was true.
There were but few people in the white streets, and of those few a
large proportion tinged his musings with a deeper melancholy. These
were ragged shivering children, and women recklessly or despondently
gashing the white carpet, so pure and innocent and fair in its
sentimental, so hard and bitter and cruel in its material aspect. By a
devious process of reasoning he drew a parallel between it and the
problem he was engaged in solving. It was poetic, and it freezed the
marrow; it had a soul and a body, one a sweet and smiling spirit, the
other a harsh and frowning reality. The heart of a poet without boots
would have sunk within him as he trod the snow-clad streets.
Dr. Spenlove's meditations were arrested by a sudden tumult. A number
of people approached him, gesticulating and talking eagerly and
excitedly, the cause of their excitement being a couple of policemen
who bore between them the wet limp body of a motionless woman. He was
drawn magnetically towards the crowd, and was immediately recognised.
"Here's Dr. Spenlove," they cried; "he knows her."
Yes, he knew her the moment his eyes fell upon her, the people having
made way for him. The body borne by the policeman was that of a young
girl scarcely out of her teens, an unfortunate who had walked the
streets for two or three years past.
"You had better come with us, doctor," said one of the policemen, to
both of whom he was known. "We have just picked her out of the water."
A middle-aged woman pushed herself close to Dr. Spenlove.
"She said she'd do it a month ago," said this woman, "if luck didn't
turn."
Good God! If luck didn't turn! What direction in the unfortunate
girl's career was the lucky turn to take to prevent her from courting
death?
"You will come with us, sir?" said the policeman.
"Yes," answered Dr. Spenlove, mechanically.
The police station was but a hundred yards away, and thither they
walked, Dr. Spenlove making a hasty examination of the body as they
proceeded.
"Too late, I'm afraid, sir," said the policeman.
"I fear so," said Dr. Spenlove, gravely.
It proved to be the case. The girl was dead.
The signing of papers and other formalities detained Dr. Spenlove at
the police station for nearly an hour, and he departed with a heavy
weight at his heart. He had been acquainted with the girl whose life's
troubles were over since the commencement of his career in Portsmouth.
She was then a child of fourteen, living with her parents, who were
respectable working people. Growing into dangerous beauty, she had
fallen as others had fallen, and had fled from her home, to find
herself after a time deserted by her betrayer. Meanwhile the home in
which she had been reared was broken up; the mother died, the father
left the town. Thrown upon her own resources, she drifted into the
ranks of the "unfortunates," and became a familiar figure in low
haunts, one of civilisation's painted, bedizened night-birds of the
streets. Dr. Spenlove had befriended her, counselled her, warned her,
urged her to reform, and her refrain was, "What can I do? I must
live." It was not an uncommon case; the good doctor came in contact
with many such, and could have prophesied with unerring accuracy the
fate in store for them. The handwriting is ever on the wall, and no
special gift is needed to decipher it. Drifting, drifting, drifting,
for ever drifting and sinking lower and lower till the end comes. It
had come soon to this young girl--mercifully, thought Dr. Spenlove, as
he plodded slowly on, for surely the snapping of life's chord in the
springtime of her life was better than the sure descent into a
premature haggard and sinful old age. Recalling these reminiscences,
his doubts with respect to his duty in the mission he had undertaken
were solved. There was but one safe course for Mrs. Turner to follow.
He hastened his steps. His interview with Mr. Gordon and the tragic
incident in which he had been engaged had occupied a considerable
time, and it was now close upon midnight. It was late for an ordinary
visit, but he was a medical man, and the doors of his patients were
open to him at all hours. In the poor neighbourhood in which Mrs.
Turner resided, many of the street doors were left unlocked night and
day for the convenience of the lodgers, and her house being one of
these, Dr. Spenlove had no difficulty in obtaining admission. He shook
the snow from his clothes, and, ascending the stairs, knocked at Mrs.
Turner's door; no answer coming he knocked again and again, and at
length he turned the handle and entered.
The room was quite dark; there was no fire in the grate, no candle
alight. He listened for the sound of breathing, but none reached his
ears.
"Mrs. Turner!" he cried.
Receiving no response he struck a match, and looked around. The room
was empty. Greatly alarmed he went to the landing, and knocked at an
adjoining door. A woman's voice called,--
"Who's there?"
"It is I, Dr. Spenlove."
"Wait a moment, sir."
He heard shuffling steps, and presently the tenant appeared, only
partially dressed, with a lighted candle in her hand.
"I didn't send for you, doctor," she said.
"No. I want to ask you about Mrs. Turner. She is not in her room."
"I thought it was strange I didn't hear the baby crying, but I don't
know where she is."
"Did you not hear her go out?"
"No, sir; I came home at ten soaked through and through, and I was
glad to get to bed. It ain't a night a woman would care to keep out in
unless she couldn't help herself."
"Indeed it is not. Did you see anything of her before you went to
bed?"
"I didn't see her, I heard her. I was just going off when she knocked
at my door, and asked if I could give her a little milk for the baby;
but I hadn't any to give. Besides, she ain't got a feeding-bottle that
I know of. She's been trying to borrow one, but nobody in the house
could oblige her. She's having a hard time of it, doctor."
"She is, poor soul!" said Dr. Spenlove, with a sigh.
"It's the way with all of us, sir; no one ought to know that better
than you do. There ain't a lodger in the house that's earning more
than twelve shillings a week; not much to keep a family on, is it,
sir? And we've got a landlord with a heart of stone. If it hadn't been
for her baby, and that it might have got him in hot water, he'd have
turned her out weeks ago. He's bound to do it to-morrow if her rent
ain't paid. He told me so this morning when he screwed the last penny
out of me."
"Do you know whether she succeeded in obtaining milk for the child?"
"It's hardly likely, I should say. Charity begins at home, doctor."
"It is natural and just that it should; but it is terrible, terrible!
Where can Mrs. Turner have gone to?"
"Heaven knows. One thing I do know, doctor, she's got no friends; she
wouldn't make any, kept herself to herself, gave herself airs, some
said, though I don't go as far as that. I dare say she has her
reasons, only when a woman sets herself up like that it turns people
against her. Are you sure she ain't in her room?"
"The room is empty."
"It's enough to be the death of a baby to take it out such a night as
this. Listen to the wind."
A furious gust shook the house, and made every window rattle. To Dr.
Spenlove's agitated senses it seemed to be alive with ominous voices,
proclaiming death and destruction to every weak and helpless creature
that dared to brave it. He passed his hand across his forehead in
distress.
"I must find her. I suppose you cannot tell me of any place she may
have gone to for assistance?"
"I can't, sir. There's a bare chance that as she had no coals and no
money to buy 'em with, some one in the house has taken her in for the
night. I'll inquire, if you like."
"I shall be obliged to you if you will," said Dr. Spenlove, catching
eagerly at the suggestion; "and I pray that you may be right."
"You won't mind waiting in the passage, sir, till I've dressed myself.
I sha'n't be a minute."
She was very soon ready and she went about the house making inquiries;
and, returning, said that none of the lodgers could give her any
information concerning Mrs. Turner.
"I am sorry to have disturbed you," said Dr. Spenlove; and, wishing
her good-night, he once more faced the storm. The fear by which he was
oppressed was that the offer of succour had come too late, and that
Mrs. Turner had been driven by despair to the execution of some
desperate design to put an end to her misery. Instinctively, and with
a sinking heart, he took the direction of the sea, hurrying eagerly
after every person he saw ahead of him, in the hope that it might be
the woman of whom he was in search. The snow was many inches thick on
the roads, and was falling fast; the wind tore through the now almost
deserted streets, moaning, sobbing, shrieking, with an appalling human
suggestion in its tones created by Dr. Spenlove's fears. Now and then
he met a policeman, and stopped to exchange a few words with him, the
intention of which was to ascertain if the man had seen any person
answering to the description of Mrs. Turner. He did not mention her by
name, for he had an idea--supposing his search to be happily
successful--that Mr. Gordon would withdraw his offer if any publicity
were attracted to the woman he was ready to marry. The policemen could
not assist him; they had seen no woman with a baby in her arms
tramping the streets on this wild night.
"Anything special, sir?" they asked.
"No," he replied, "nothing special;" and so went on his way.
CHAPTER V.
DEATH BETTER THAN LIFE.
When Dr. Spenlove left Mrs. Turner she sat for some time in a state of
dull lethargy. No tear came into her eyes, no sigh escaped from her
bosom. During the past few months she had exhausted the entire range
of remorseful and despairing emotion. The only comfort she had
received through all those dreary months sprang from the helpful
sympathy of Dr. Spenlove; apart from, that she had never been buoyed
up by a ray of light, had never been cheered by the hope of a brighter
day. Her one prevailing thought was that she would be better dead than
alive. She did not court death; she waited for it, and silently prayed
that it would come soon. It was not from the strength of inward moral
support that she had the courage to live on; it was simply that she
had schooled herself into the belief that before or when her child was
born death would release her from the horrors of life. Young as she
was she so fostered this hope that it became a conviction, and she
looked forward to the end with dull resignation. "If I live till my
baby is born," she thought, "I pray that it may die with me."
Here was the case of a woman without the moral support which springs
from faith in any kind of religion. In some few mortals such faith is
intuitive, but in most instances it requires guidance and wise
direction in childhood. Often it degenerates into bigotry and
intolerance, and assumes the hateful narrow form of condemning to
perdition all who do not subscribe to its own particular creed. Pagans
are as worthy of esteem as the bigots who arrogate to themselves the
monopoly of heavenly rewards.
Mrs. Turner was neither pagan nor bigot; she was a nullity. Her
religious convictions had not yet taken shape, and though, if she had
been asked "Are you a Christian?" she would have replied, "Oh yes, I
am a Christian," she would have been unable to demonstrate in what way
she was a Christian, or what she understood by the term. In this
respect many thousands of human beings resemble her.
Faith is strength, mightier than the sword, mightier than the pen,
mightier than all the world's store of gold and precious stones; and
when this strength is displayed in the sweetness of resignation, and
in submission to the Divine will which chastens human life with
sorrow, its influence upon the passions is sustaining, and purifying,
and sublime. If Mrs. Turner had been blessed with faith which
displayed itself in this direction, she would have been the happier
for it, and hard as were her trials, she would to the last have looked
forward with hope instead of despair.
The story related by Mr. Gordon to Dr. Spenlove was true in every
particular. There was no distortion or exaggeration; he had done for
Mrs. Turner and her father all that he said he had done. He had not
mentioned the word "love" in connection with the woman he had asked to
be his wife. She, on her part, had no such love for him as that which
should bind a man and a woman in a life-long tie; she held him in
respect and esteem--that was all. But she had accepted him, and had
contemplated the future with satisfaction until, until----
Until a man crossed her path who wooed her in different fashion, and
who lavished upon her flatteries and endearments which made her false
to the promise she had given. For this man she had deserted the home
which Mr. Gordon had provided for her, and had deserted it in such a
fashion that she could never return to it, could never again be
received in it, and this without a word of explanation to the man she
had deceived. She was in her turn deceived, and she awoke from her
dream to find herself a lost and abandoned woman. In horror she fled
from him, and cast her lot among strangers, knowing full well that she
would meet with unbearable contumely among those to whom she was
known. Hot words had passed between her and her betrayer, and in her
anger she had written letters to him which in the eyes of the law
would have released him from any obligation it might otherwise have
imposed upon him. He was well pleased with this, and he smiled as he
put those letters in a place of safety--to be brought forward only in
case she annoyed him. She did nothing of the kind; her scorn for him
was so profound that she was content to release him unconditionally.
So she passed out of his life as he passed out of hers. Neither of
these beings, the betrayed or the betrayer, reckoned with the future;
neither of them gave a thought to the probability that the skeins of
Fate, which to-day separated them as surely as if they had lived at
opposite poles of the earth, might at some future time bring them
together again, and that the pages of the book which they believed was
closed for ever might be reopened for weal or woe.
The child's moans aroused the mother from her lethargy. She had no
milk to give the babe; nature's founts were dry, and she went from
door to door in the house in which she lived to beg for food. She
returned as she went, empty-handed, and the child continued to moan.
Dr. Spenlove, her only friend, had bidden her farewell. She had not a
penny in her pocket; there was not a crust of bread in the cupboard,
not an ounce of coal, not a stick of wood to kindle a fire. She was
thinly clad, and she did not possess a single article upon which she
could have obtained the smallest advance. She had taken the room
furnished, but even if what it contained had been her property a
broker would have given but a few shillings for everything in it.
The little hand instinctively wandered to the mother's wasted breast,
and plucked at it imploringly, ravenously. The woman looked around in
the last throes of an anguish too deep for expression, except in the
appalling words to which she gave despairing utterance.
"Come," she cried, "we will end it!"
Out into the cold streets she crept, unobserved. She shivered, and a
pitiful smile crossed her lips.
"Hush, hush!" she murmured to her babe. "It will soon be over. Better
dead--better dead--for you and for me!"
She crept towards the sea, and hugged the wall when she heard
approaching footsteps. She need not have feared; the night was too
inclement for any but selfish consideration. The soft snow fell, and
enwrapped her and her child in its pitiless shroud. She paused by a
lamp-post, and cast an upward look at the heavens, in which she could
see the glimmering of the stars. Then she went on, and fretfully
pressed her babe close to her breast, to stifle the feeble sobs.
"Be still, be still!" she murmured. "There is no hope in life for
either of us. Better dead--better dead!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE FRIEND IN NEED.
Desperately resolved as she was to carry her fatal design into
execution she had not reckoned with nature. Weakened by the life of
privation she had led for so many months, and also by the birth of her
child, her physical forces had reached the limit of human endurance.
She faltered and staggered, the ground slipped from beneath her weary
feet. Vain was the struggle, her vital power was spent. From her
overcharged heart a voiceless and terrible prayer went up to heaven.
"Give me strength, O God, give me but a little strength! I have not
far to go!" She fought the air with her disengaged hand, and tossed
her head this way and that; but her ruthless prayer was not answered,
and though she struggled fiercely she managed to crawl only a few more
steps. She had yet hundreds of yards to go to reach the sea when some
chord within her seemed to snap; her farther progress was instantly
arrested, and she found herself incapable of moving backward or
forward. Swaying to and fro, the earth, the sky the whirling snow, and
the dim light of the stars swam in her sight and faded from before
her. In that supreme moment she saw a spiritual vision of her
dishonoured life. Deprived early of a mother's counsel and
companionship, she had passed her days with a spendthrift father,
whose love for her was so tainted with selfishness that it was not
only valueless, but mischievous. When she grew to woman's estate she
was worse than alone; she had no guide, no teacher, to point out the
rocks and shoals of maidenhood, to inculcate in her the principles of
virtue which would act as a safeguard against the specious wiles of
men whose eyes were charmed by her beauty, and whose only aim was to
lure her to ruin. Then her father died, and a friend came forward who
offered her a home and an honourable position in the world. Friendless
and penniless, she accepted him, and gave him her promise, and
accepted his money. Love had not touched her heart; she thought it had
when a wilier man wooed her in another and more alluring fashion, and
by this man she had been beguiled and betrayed. Then she knew what she
had lost, but it was too late; her good name was gone, and she fled to
a strange part of the country and lived among strangers, a
heartbroken, despairing woman. All the salient features in her career
flashed before her. She saw the man who had trusted her, she saw the
man in whom she put her trust, she saw herself, an abandoned creature,
with a child of shame in her arms. These ghostly figures stood clearly
limned in that one last moment of swiftly fading light, as in the
moment of sunrise on a frosty morning every distant object stands
sharply outlined against the sky; then darkness fell upon her, and
with an inarticulate, despairing cry, she sank to the ground in a
deathlike swoon. The wind sobbed and shrieked and wailed around her
and her child; the falling snow, with treacherous tenderness, fell
softly upon them; herself insensible, she had no power to shake it
off; her babe was conscious, but its feeble movements were of small
avail against the white pall which was descending upon it and its
outcast mother. Thicker and thicker it grew, and in the wild outcry of
this bitter night Fate seemed to have pronounced its inexorable
sentence of death against these unfortunate beings.
Ignorant of the fact that chance or a spiritual messenger was guiding
him aright, Dr. Spenlove plodded through the streets. He had no clue,
and received none from the half-dozen persons or so he encountered as
he walked towards the sea. He was scarcely fit for the task he had
undertaken, but so intent was he upon his merciful mission that he
bestowed no thought upon himself. The nipping air aggravating the
cough from which he was suffering, he kept his mouth closed as a
protection, and peered anxiously before him for some signs of the
woman he was pursuing. A man walked briskly and cheerily towards him,
puffing at a large and fragrant cigar, and stamping his feet sturdily
into the snow. This man wore a demonstratively furred overcoat; his
hands were gloved in fur; his boots were thick and substantial; and in
the independent assertion that he was at peace with the world, and on
exceedingly good terms with himself, he hummed the words, in Italian,
of the Jewel Song in "Faust" every time he removed the cigar from his
lips. Although it was but a humming reminiscence of the famous and
beautiful number, his faint rendering of it was absolutely faultless,
and proved him to be a man of refined musicianly taste, quite out of
keeping with his demonstratively furred overcoat. Music, however, was
not his profession; the instincts of his race and a youthful ambition
had welded the divine art into his soul, and the instincts of his race
had made him--a pawnbroker. Singular conjunction of qualities--the
music of the celestial spheres and fourpence in the pound a month! A
vulgar occupation, that of a pawnbroker, which high-toned gentlemen
and mortals of aristocratic birth regard with scorn and contempt. But
the last vulgar and debasing music-hall ditty which was carolled with
delight by the majority of these gilded beings of a higher social
grade never found lodgment in the soul of Mr. Moss, which, despite
that he devoted his business hours to the lending of insignificant
sums of money upon any small articles which were submitted to his
judgment across the dark counter of his pawnbroking establishment, was
attuned to a far loftier height than theirs in the divine realms of
song. Puff, puff, puff at his cigar, the curling wreaths from which
were whirled into threads of fantastic confusion by the gusts of wind,
or hung in faint grey curls of beauty during a lull. The starry gleam
was transferred from the lips to the fur-covered hand:--
"E' strano poter il viso suo veder;
Ah! mi posso guardar mi pospo rimirar.
Di, sei tu? Margherita!
Di, sei tu? Dimmi su;
Dimmi su, di su, di su, di su presto!"
From hand to lips the starry gleam, and the soul of Mr. Moss followed
the air as he puffed his weed....
"E la figlia d'un re!...
Proseguiam l'adornamento.
Vo provare ancor se mi stan
Lo smaniglia ed il monil!"
The pawnbroker broke into ecstasy. From lips to hand again the starry
light, and his voice grew rapturous:--
"Ciel! E come una man
Che sul baaccio mi posa!
Ah! Io rido in poter
Me stessa qui veder!"
The last trill brought him close to Dr. Spenlove.
"Friend, friend!" cried the doctor. "A word with you, for charity's
sake!"
Mr. Moss did not disregard the appeal. Slipping off his right glove,
and thereby displaying two fingers decorated with massive rings
studded with diamonds, he fished a couple of coppers from a capacious
pocket, and thrust them into Dr. Spenlove's outstretched palm. He
thought it was a homeless beggar who had besought charity. Dr.
Spenlove caught his hand, and said,--
"No, no, it is not for that. Will you kindly tell me----
"Why," interrupted Mr. Moss, "it is Dr. Spenlove!"
"Mr. Moss," said Dr. Spenlove, with a sigh of relief, "I am glad it
is you, I am glad it is you."
"Not gladder than I am," responded Mr. Moss, jovially. "Even in
weather like this I shouldn't care to be anybody else but myself."
This feeble attempt at humour was lost upon Dr. Spenlove.
"You have come from the direction I am taking, and you may have seen a
person I am looking for--a woman with a baby in her arms, a poor
woman, Mr. Moss, whom I am most anxious to find."
"I've come from the Hard, but I took no account of the people I
passed. A man has enough to do to look after himself, with the snow
making icicles in his hair, and the wind trying to bite his nose off
his face. The first law of nature, you know, doctor, is----"
"Humanity," interrupted Dr. Spenlove.
"No, no, doctor," corrected Mr. Moss; "number one's the first
law--number one, number one."
"You did not meet the woman, then?"
"Not to notice her. You've a bad cough, doctor; you'll have to take
some of your own medicine." He laughed. "Standing here is enough to
freeze one."
"I am sorry I troubled you," said Dr. Spenlove, hurt by the tone in
which Mr. Moss spoke. "Good-night."
He was moving away, when Mr. Moss detained him.
"But look here, doctor, you're not fit to be tramping the streets in
this storm; you ought to be snuggled up between the blankets. Come
home with me, and Mrs. Moss shall make you a hot grog."
Dr. Spenlove shook his head, and passed on. Mr. Moss gazed at the
retreating figure, his thoughts commingling.
"A charitable man, the good doctor, a large-hearted gentleman....
'Tardi si fa ahdio!
Ah! ti scongiuro invan.'
And poor as a church mouse. What woman is he running after? Mrs. Moss
would give her a piece of her mind for taking out a baby on such a
night.
'Notte d'amor, tutta splendor,
Begli astra d'oro.
O celeste voluttà!
Udir si, t'amo, t'adoro!'
Too bad to let him go alone, such a good fellow as he is; but Mrs.
Moss will be waiting up for me.... She won't mind when I tell
her.... I've a good mind to--yes, I will."
And after the doctor went Mr. Moss, and caught up to him.
"Doctor, can I be of any assistance to you?"
"I shall be glad of your help," said Dr. Spenlove, eagerly. "I'm
rather worn out; I have had a hard day."
"It's a trying life, the' life of a doctor," said Mr. Moss,
sympathetically, as they walked slowly on, side by side. "We were
talking of it at home only a month ago, when we were discussing what
we should put Michael to, our eldest boy, doctor."
"You have a large family," observed Dr. Spenlove.
"Not too large," said Mr. Moss, cheerfully. "Only eleven. My mother
had twenty-five, and I've a sister with eighteen. Our youngest--what a
rogue he is, doctor!--is eight months; our eldest, Michael, is
seventeen next birthday. School days over, he buckles to for work. We
had a family council to decide what he should be. We discussed all the
professions, and reduced them to two--doctor, stockbroker. Michael had
a leaning to be a doctor--that's why we kept it in for discussion--but
we succeeded in arguing him out of it. Your time's not your own, you
see. Called up at all hours of the night, and in all weathers; go
to a dinner-party, and dragged away before it's half over, obliged to
leave the best behind you; can't enjoy a game of cards or billiards.
You've got a little bet on, perhaps; or you're playing for points and
have got a winning hand, when it's 'Doctor, you must come at once;
so-and-so's dying.' What's the consequence? You make a miscue, or you
revoke, and you lose your money. If you're married, you're worse off
than if you're single; you haven't any comfort of your life. 'No, no,
Michael,' says I, 'no doctoring. Stockbroking--that's what you'll go
for.' And that's what he _is_ going for. Most of our people, doctor,
are lucky in their children. They don't forget to honour their father
and their mother, that their days may be long in the land, and so on.
There's big fish on the Stock Exchange, and they're worth trying for.
What's the use of sprats? It takes a hundred to fill a dish. Catch one
salmon, and your dish is filled. A grand fish, doctor, a grand fish!
What to do with your sons? Why, put them where they can make money;
don't make scavengers or coal-heavers of them. _We_ know what we're
about. There's no brain in the world to compare with ours, and that's
no boast, let me tell you. Take your strikes, now. A strike of
bricklayers for a rise of twopence a day in their wages. How many of
our race among the strikers? Not one. Did you ever see a Jewish
bricklayer carrying a hod up a hundred-foot ladder, and risking his
neck for bread, cheese, and beer? No, and you never will. We did our
share of that kind of work in old Egypt; we made all the bricks we
wanted to, and now we're taking a rest. A strike of bootmakers. How
many of our race among the cobblers? One in a thousand, and he's an
addlepate. We deal in boots wholesale; but we don't make them
ourselves. Not likely. We send consignments of them to the colonies,
and open a dozen shops in every large city, with fine plate-glass
windows. We build houses with _our_ money and _your_ bricks and
mortar. When we're after birds we don't care for sparrows: we aim at
eagles, and we bring them down; we bring them down." He beat his
gloved hands together, and chuckled. "What's your opinion, doctor?"
"You are right, quite right," said Dr. Spenlove, upon whose ears his
companion's words had fallen like the buzzing of insects.
"Should say I was," said Mr. Moss. "I ought to have gone on the Stock
Exchange myself; but when I was a young man I fancied I had a voice;
so I went in for music, studied Italian and all the famous operas till
I knew them by heart almost, and found out in the end that my voice
wasn't good enough. It was a great disappointment, because I had
dreamt of making a fortune as a tenor. Signor Mossini--that was to be
my name. My money being all spent, I had to take what was offered to
me, a situation with a pawnbroker. That is how I became one, and I've
no reason to regret it. Eh? Why are you running away?"
For Dr. Spenlove suddenly left his companion, and hurried forward.
During the time that Mr. Moss was unbosoming himself they had not met
a soul, and Dr. Spenlove had seen nothing to sustain his hope of
finding Mrs. Turner. But now his observant eyes detected a movement in
the snow-laden road which thrilled him with apprehension, and caused
him to hasten to the spot. It was as if some living creature were
striving feebly to release itself from the fatal white shroud. Mr.
Moss hurried after him, and they reached the spot at the same moment.
In a fever of anxiety Dr. Spenlove knelt and pushed the snow aside,
and then there came into view a baby's hand and arm.
"Good God!" he murmured, and gently lifted the babe from the cold bed.
"Is it alive? is it alive?" cried Mr. Moss, all his nerves tingling
with excitement. "Give it to me--quick! there's some one else there."
He saw portions of female clothing in the snow which Dr. Spenlove was
pushing frantically away. He snatched up the babe, and, opening his
fur coat, clasped the little one to his breast, and enveloped it in
its warm folds. Meanwhile Dr. Spenlove was working at fever-heat. To
release Mrs. Turner from her perilous position, to raise her to her
feet, to put his mouth to her mouth, his ear to her heart, to assure
himself there was a faint pulsation in her body--all this was the work
of a few moments.
"Does she breathe, doctor?" asked Mr. Moss.
"She does," replied Dr. Spenlove; and added, in deep distress, "but
she may die in my arms."
"Not if we can save her. Here, help me off with this thick coat. Easy,
easy; I have only one arm free. Now let us get her into it. That's
capitally done. Put the baby inside as well; it will hold them both
comfortably. Button it over them. There, that will keep them nice and
warm. Do you know her? Does she live far from here? Is she the woman
you are looking for?"
"Yes, and her lodging is a mile away. How can we get her home?"
"We'll manage it. Ah, we're in luck. Here's a cab coming towards us.
Hold on to them while I speak to the driver."
He was off and back again with the cab--with the driver of which he
had made a rapid bargain--in a wonderfully short space of time. The
mother and her babe were lifted tenderly in, the address was given to
the driver, the two kind-hearted men took their seats, the windows
were pulled up, and the cab crawled slowly on towards Mrs. Turner's
lodging. Dr. Spenlove's skilful hands were busy over the woman,
restoring animation to her frozen limbs, and Mr. Moss was doing the
same to the child.
"How are you getting along, doctor? I am progressing famously,
famously. The child is warming up, and is beginning to breathe quite
nicely."
He was handling the babe as tenderly as if it were a child of his own.
"She will recover, I trust," said Dr. Spenlove; "but we were only just
in time. It is fortunate that I met you, Mr. Moss; you have been the
means of saving two helpless, unfortunate beings."
"Nonsense, nonsense," answered Mr. Moss. "I have only done what any
man would do. It is you who have saved them, doctor, not I. I am proud
to know you, and I shall be glad to hear of your getting along in the
world. You haven't done very well up to now, I fear. Go for the big
fish and the big birds, doctor."
"If that were the universal law of life," asked Dr. Spenlove, in a
tone of exquisite compassion, with a motion of his hands towards Mrs.
Turner and her child, "what would become of these?"
"Ah, yes, yes," responded Mr. Moss, gravely; "but I mean in a general
way, you know. To be sure, there are millions more little fish and
birds than there are big ones, but it's a selfish world, doctor."
"You are not an exemplification of it," said Dr. Spenlove, his eyes
brightening. "The milk of human kindness will never be frozen, even on
such bitter nights as this, while men like you are in it."
"You make me ashamed of myself," cried Mr. Moss, violently, but
instantly sobered down. "And now, as I see we are close to the poor
woman's house, perhaps you will tell me what more I can do."
Dr. Spenlove took from his pocket the money with which he had intended
to pay his fare to London, and held it out to Mr. Moss. "Pay the
cabman for me, and assist me to carry the woman up to her room."
Mr. Moss thrust the money back. "I will pay him myself; it is my cab,
not yours. I don't allow any one to get the better of me if I can help
it."
When the cab stopped he jumped out and settled with the driver, and
then he and Dr. Spenlove carried Mrs. Turner and her babe to the top
of the house. The room was dark and cold, and Mr. Moss shivered. He
struck a match, and held it while Dr. Spenlove laid the mother and
child upon their wretched bed.
"Kindly stop here a moment," said the doctor.
He went into the passage, and called to the lodger on the same floor
of whom he had made inquiries earlier in the night. She soon appeared,
and after they had exchanged a few words, accompanied him, but
partially dressed, to Mrs. Turner's room. She brought a lighted candle
with her, and upon Mr. Moss taking it from her, devoted herself, with
Dr. Spenlove, to her fellow-lodger and the babe.
"Dear, dear, dear!" she said, piteously. "Poor soul, poor soul!"
Mr. Moss was not idle. All the finer qualities of his nature were
stirred to action by the adventures of the night. He knelt before the
grate; it was empty; not a cinder had been left; some grey ashes on
the hearth--that was all. He looked into the broken coal scuttle; it
had been scraped bare. Rising to his feet he stepped to the cupboard;
a cracked cup and saucer were there, a chipped plate or two, a
mouthless jug, but not a vestige of food. Without a word he left the
room, and sped downstairs.
He was absent fifteen or twenty minutes, and when he returned it was
in the company of a man who carried a hundredweight of coals upon his
shoulders. Mr. Moss himself was loaded: under his armpits two bundles
of wood and a loaf of bread; in one hand tea and butter; in his other
hand a can of milk.
"God bless you, sir!" said the woman, who was assisting Dr. Spenlove.
Mr. Moss knelt again before the grate, and made a fire. Kettle in hand
he searched for water.
"You will find some in my room, sir," said the woman.
Mrs. Turner and her babe were now in bed, the child still craving for
food, the mother still unconscious, but breathing heavily. The fire
lit, and the kettle on, Mr. Moss put on his fur overcoat, whispered a
good-night to Dr. Spenlove, received a grateful pressure of the hand
in reply, slipped out of the house, and took his way home, humming--
"O del ciel angeli immortal,
Deh mi guidate con voi lassù!
Dio giusto, a te m'abbandono,
Buon Dio, m'accorda il tuo perdono!"
He looked at his hands, which were black from contact with the coals.
"What will Mrs. Moss say?" he murmured.
CHAPTER VII.
DR. SPENLOVE ADVISES.
An hour after Mr. Moss's departure Mrs. Turner opened her eyes. It was
a moment for which Dr. Spenlove had anxiously waited. He had satisfied
himself that both of his patients were in a fair way of recovery, and
thus far his heart was relieved. The woman who had assisted him had
also taken her departure after having given the babe some warm milk.
Her hunger appeased, the little one was sleeping calmly and peacefully
by her mother's side.
The room was now warm and cheerful. A bright fire was blazing, the
kettle was simmering, and a pot of hot tea was standing on the hearth.
Mrs. Turner gazed around in bewilderment. The one candle in the room
but dimly lighted it up, and the flickering flames of the fire threw
fantastic shadows on walls and ceiling; but so bright was the blaze
that there was nothing distressful in these shadowy phantasmagoria. At
a little distance from the bed stood Dr. Spenlove, his pale face
turned to the waking woman. She looked at him long and steadily, and
did not answer him when he smiled encouragingly at her and spoke a few
gentle words. She passed her hand over the form of her sleeping child,
and then across her forehead, in the effort to recall what had passed.
But her mind was confused; bewildering images of the stages of her
desperate resolve presented themselves--blinding snow, shrieking wind,
the sea which she had not reached, the phantoms she had conjured up
when her senses were deserting her in the white streets.
"Am I alive?" she muttered.
"Happily, dear Mrs. Turner," said Dr. Spenlove. "You are in your own
room, and you will soon be well."
"Who brought me here?"
"I, and a good friend I was fortunate enough to meet when I was
seeking you."
"Why did you seek me?"
"To save you."
"To save me! You knew, then----"
She paused.
"I knew nothing except that you were in trouble."
"Where did you find me?"
"In the snow, you and your child. A few minutes longer, and it would
have been too late. But an angel directed my steps."
"No angel directed you: a devil led you on. Why did you not leave me
to die? It was what I went out for. I confess it!" she cried,
recklessly. "It was my purpose not to live; it was my purpose not to
allow my child to live! I was justified. Is not a quick death better
than a slow, lingering torture which must end in death? Why did you
save me? Why did you not leave me to die?"
"It would have been a crime."
"It would have been a mercy. You have brought me back to misery. I do
not thank you, doctor."
"You may live to thank me. Drink this tea; it will do you good."
She shook her head rebelliously.
"What is the use? You have done me an ill turn. Had it not been for
you I should have been at peace. There would have been no more hunger,
no more privation. There would have been an end to my shame and
degradation."
"You would have taken it with you to the Judgment Seat," said Dr.
Spenlove, with solemn tenderness. "There would have been worse than
hunger and privation. What answer could you have made to the Eternal
when you presented yourself before the Throne with the crime of murder
on your soul?"
"Murder!" she gasped.
"Murder," he gently repeated. "If you went out to-night with an
intention so appalling, it was not only your own life you would have
taken, it was the life of the innocent babe now slumbering by your
side. Can you have forgotten that?"
"No," she answered, in a tone of faint defiance, "I have not forgotten
it, I do not forget it. God would have forgiven me."
"He would not have forgiven you."
"He would. What has she to live for? What have I to live for--a lost
and abandoned woman, a mother whose association would bring
degradation upon her child? How should I meet her reproaches when
she grew to be a woman herself? I am not ungrateful for what you
have done for me"--she glanced at the fire and the tea he held in his
hand--"but it cannot continue. To-morrow will come. There is always a
to-morrow to strike terror to the hearts of such as I. Do you know
what I have suffered? Do you see the future that lies before us? What
hope is there in this world for me and my child?"
"There is hope. You brought her into the world."
"God help me, I did!" she moaned.
"By what right, having given her life, would you rob her of the
happiness which may be in store for her?"
"Happiness!" she exclaimed, bitterly. "You speak to me of happiness!"
"I do, in truth and sincerity, if you are willing to make a sacrifice,
if you are willing to perform a duty."
"What would I not be willing to do," she cried, despairingly; "what
would I not cheerfully do, to make her life innocent and happy--not
like mine--oh, not like mine! But you are mocking me with empty
words."
"Indeed I am not," said Dr. Spenlove, earnestly. "Since I left you
some hours ago, not expecting to see you again, something has occurred
of which I came to speak to you. I found your room deserted, and
feared--what we will not mention again. I searched, and discovered you
in time to save you; and with all my heart I thank God for it! Now,
drink this tea. I have much to say to you, and you need strength to
consider it. If you can eat a little bread and butter--ah, you can!
Let me fill your cup again. That is right. Now I recognise the lady it
was my pleasure to be able to assist, not to the extent I would have
wished, because of my own circumstances."
His reference to her as a lady, no less than the respectful
consideration of his manner towards her, brought a flush to her cheeks
as she ate. And, indeed, she ate ravenously. Defiant and rebellious as
may be our moods, nature's demands are imperative, and no mortal is
strong enough to resist them.
When she had finished he sat by her side, and was silent awhile,
debating with himself how he should approach the task which Mr. Gordon
had imposed upon him.
She saved him the trouble of commencing. "Are you acquainted with the
story of my life?" she asked.
"It has been imparted to me," he replied, "by one to whom I was a
stranger till within the last few hours."
"Do I know him?"
"You know him well."
For a moment she thought of the man who had brought her to this gulf
of shame, but she dismissed the thought. It was impossible. He was too
heartless and base to send a messenger to her on an errand of
friendship, and Dr. Spenlove would have undertaken no errand of an
opposite nature.
"Will you tell me his name?"
"Mr. Gordon."
She trembled, and her face grew white. She had wronged this man; the
law might say that she had robbed him. Oh! why had her fatal design
been frustrated? why was not this torturing existence ended?
"You need be under no apprehension," continued Dr. Spenlove; "he comes
as a friend."
She tossed her head in scorn of herself as one unworthy of friendship.
"He has but lately arrived in England from the Colonies, and he came
with the hope of taking you back with him as his wife. It is from him
I learned the sad particulars of your life. Believe me when I say that
he is desirous to befriend you."
"In what way? Does he offer me money? I have cost him enough already.
My father tricked him, and I have shamefully deceived him. To receive
more from him would fill me with shame; but for the sake of my child I
will submit to any sacrifice, to any humiliation--I will do anything,
anything! It would well become me to show pride when charity is
offered to me!"
"Do not forget those words--'for the sake of your child you will
submit to any sacrifice.' It is your duty, for her sake, to accept any
honourable proposition, and Mr. Gordon offers nothing that is not
honourable." (He sighed as he said this, for he thought of the
sacredness of a mother's love for her first-born.) "He will not give
you money apart from himself. United to him, all he has is yours. He
wishes to marry you."
She stared at him in amazement.
"Are you mad!" she cried, "or do you think that I am?"
"I am speaking the sober truth. Mr. Gordon has followed you here
because he wishes to marry you."
"Knowing me for what I am!" she said, still incredulous. "Knowing that
I am in the lowest depths of degradation; knowing this"--she touched
her child with a gentle hand--"he wishes to marry me!"
"He knows all. There is not an incident in your career with which he
does not seem to be acquainted, and in the errand with which he has
charged me he is sincerely in earnest."
"Dr. Spenlove," she said, slowly, "what is your opinion of a man who
comes forward to pluck from shame and poverty a woman who has behaved
as I have to Mr. Gordon?"
"His actions speak for him," replied Dr. Spenlove.
"He must have a noble nature," she said. "I never regarded him in that
light. I took him to be a hard, conscientious, fair-dealing man, who
thought I would make him a good wife, but I never believed that he
loved me. I did him the injustice of supposing him incapable of love.
Ah, how I misjudged this man! I am not worthy of him, I am not worthy
of him!"
"Set your mind not upon the past, but upon the future. Think of
yourself and of your child in the years to come, and remember the fear
and horror by which you have been oppressed in your contemplation of
them. I have something further to disclose to you. Mr. Gordon imposes
a condition from which he will not swerve, and to which I beg you to
listen with calmness. When you have heard all, do not answer hastily.
Reflect upon the consequences which hang on your decision, and bear in
mind that you have to make that decision before I leave you. I am to
bear your answer to him to-night; he is waiting in my rooms to receive
it."
Then, softening down all that was harsh in the proposal and magnifying
all its better points, Dr. Spenlove related to her what had passed
between Mr. Gordon and himself. She listened in silence, and he could
not judge from her demeanour whether he was to succeed or to fail.
Frequently she turned her face from his tenderly-searching gaze, as
though more effectually to conceal her thoughts from him. When he
finished speaking she showed that she had taken to heart his counsel
not to decide hastily, for she did not speak for several minutes. Then
she said plaintively,--
"There is no appeal, doctor?"
"None," he answered, in a decisive tone.
"He sought you out and made you his messenger, because of his
impression that you had influence with me, and would advise me for my
good?"
"As I have told you, in his own words, as nearly as I have been able
to recall them."
"He was right. There is no man in the world I honour more than I
honour you. I would accept what you say against my own convictions,
against my own feelings. Advise me, doctor. My mind is distracted; I
cannot be guided by it. You know what I am, you know what I have been,
you foresee the future that lies before me. Advise me."
The moment he had dreaded had arrived. The issue was with him. He felt
that this woman's fate was in his hands.
"My advice is," he said, in a low tone, "that you accept Mr. Gordon's
offer."
"And cast aside a mother's duty?"
"What did you cast aside," he asked, sadly, "when you went with your
child on such a night as this towards the sea?"
She shuddered. She would not look at her child; with stern resolution
she kept her eyes from wandering to the spot upon which the infant
lay; she even moved away from the little body so that she should not
come in contact with it.
A long silence ensued, which Dr. Spenlove dared not break.
"I cannot blame him," she then said, her voice, now and again, broken
by a sob, "for making conditions. It is his respectability that is at
stake, and he is noble and generous for taking such a risk upon
himself. There is a law for the man and a law for the woman. Oh, I
know what I am saying, doctor; the lesson has been driven into my
soul, and I have learnt it with tears of blood. One of these laws is
white, the other black, and justice says it is right. It is our
misfortune that we bear the children, and that their little fingers
clutch our heart-strings. It would be mockery for me to say that I
love my child with a love equal to that I should have felt if she had
come into the world without the mark of shame with which I have
branded her. With my love for her is mingled a loathing of myself, a
terror of the living evidence of my fall. But I love her, doctor, I
love her--and never yet so much as now when I am asked to part with
her! What I did a while ago was done in a frenzy of despair. I had no
food, you see, and she was crying for it; and the horror and the
anguish of that hour may overpower me again if I am left as I am. I
will accept Mr. Gordon's offer, and I will be as good a wife to him as
it is in my power to be; but I, also, have a condition to make. Mr.
Gordon is much older than I, and it may be that I shall outlive him.
The condition I make is--and whatever the consequences I am determined
to abide by it--that in the event of my husband's death, and of there
being no children of our union, I shall be free to seek the child I am
called upon to desert. In everything else I will perform my part of
the contract faithfully. Take my decision to Mr. Gordon, and if it is
possible for you to return here to-night with his answer, I implore
you to do so. I cannot close my eyes, I cannot rest, until I hear the
worst. God alone knows on which side lies the right, on which the
wrong!"
"I will return with his answer," said Dr. Spenlove, "to-night."
"There is still something more," she said, in an imploring tone, "and
it must be a secret sacredly kept between you and me. It may happen
that you will become acquainted with the name of the guardian of my
child. I have a small memorial which I desire he shall retain until
she is of age, say until she is twenty-one, or until, in the event of
my husband's death, I am free to seek her in years to come. If you do
not discover who the guardian is, I ask you to keep this memorial for
me until I reclaim it; which may be, never! Will you do this for me?"
"I will."
"Thank you for all your goodness to me. But I have nothing to put the
memorial in. Could you add to your many kindnesses by giving me a
small box which I can lock and secure? Dear Dr. Spenlove, it is a
mother who will presently be torn from her child who implores you!"
He bethought him of a small iron box he had at home, which contained
some private papers of his own. He could spare this box without
inconvenience to himself, and he promised to bring it to her; and so,
with sincere words of consolation, he left her.
In the course of an hour he returned. Mr. Gordon had consented to the
condition she imposed.
"Should I be thankful or not?" she asked, wistfully.
"You should be thankful," he replied. "Your child, rest assured, will
have a comfortable and happy home. Here is the box and the key. It is
a patent lock; no other key can open it. I will show you how to use
it. Yes, that is the way." He paused a moment, his hand in his pocket.
"You will be ready to meet Mr. Gordon at two to-morrow?"
"And my child?" she asked, with tears in her voice. "When will she be
taken from me?"
"At twelve." His hand was still fumbling in his pocket, and he
suddenly shook his head, as if indignant with himself. "You may want
to purchase one or two little things in the morning. Here are a few
shillings. Pray accept them."
He laid on the table the money with which he had intended to pay his
fare to London.
"Heaven reward you," said the grateful woman, "and make your life
bright and prosperous."
Her tears bedewed his hand as she kissed it humbly, and Dr. Spenlove
walked wearily home, once more penniless, but not entirely unhappy.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHAT WAS PUT IN THE IRON BOX.
The mother's vigil with her child on this last night was fraught with
conflicting emotions of agony and rebellion. Upon Dr. Spenlove's
departure she rose and dressed herself completely, all her thoughts
and feelings being so engrossed by the impending separation that she
took no heed of her damp clothes. She entertained no doubt that the
renunciation was imperative and in the interest of her babe; nor did
she doubt that the man who had dictated it was acting in simple
justice to himself and in a spirit of mercy towards her; but she was
in no mood to regard with gratitude one who in the most dread crisis
in her life had saved her from destruction. The cause of this
injustice lay in the fact that until this moment the true maternal
instinct had not been awakened within her breast. As she had
faithfully expressed it to Dr. Spenlove, the birth of her babe had
filled her with terror and with a loathing of herself. Had there been
no consequences of her error apparent to the world she would have
struggled on and might have been able to preserve her good name; her
dishonour would not have been made clear to censorious eyes; but the
living evidence of her shame was by her side, and, left to her own
resources, she had conceived the idea that death was her only refuge.
Her acceptance of the better course that had been opened for her
loosened the floodgates of tenderness for the child who was soon to be
torn from her arms. Love and remorse shone in her eyes as she knelt by
the bedside and fondled the little hands and kissed the innocent lips.
"Will you not wake, darling," she murmured, "and let me see your dear
eyes? Wake, darling, wake! Do you not know what is going to happen?
They are going to take you from me. Perhaps we shall never meet again;
and if we do, you have not even a name by which I can call you. But
perhaps that will not matter. Surely you will know your mother, surely
I shall know my child, and we shall fly to each other's arms. I want
to tell you all this--I want you to hear it. Wake, sweet, wake!"
The child slept on. Presently she murmured, "It is hard, it is hard!
How can God permit such cruelty?"
Half an hour passed in this way, and then she became more composed.
Her mind, which had been unbalanced by her misfortunes, recovered its
equilibrium, and she could reason with comparative calmness upon the
future. In sorrow and pain she mentally mapped out the years to come.
She saw her future, as she believed, a joyless life, a life of cold
duty. She would not entertain the possibility of a brighter side, the
possibility of her becoming reconciled to her fate, of her growing to
love her husband, of her having other children who would be as dear to
her as this one was. In the state of her feelings it seemed to her
monstrous to entertain such ideas, a wrong perpetrated upon the babe
she was deserting. In dogged rebellion she hugged misery to her
breast, and dwelt upon it as part of the punishment she had brought
upon herself. There was no hope of happiness for her in the future,
there was no ray of light to illumine her path. For ever would she be
thinking of the child for whom now, for the first time since its
birth, she felt a mother's love, and who was henceforth to find a home
among strangers.
In this hopeless fashion did she muse for some time, and then a star
appeared in her dark sky. She might, as she had suggested to Dr.
Spenlove, survive her husband; it was more than possible, it was
probable, and, though there was in the contemplation a touch of
treason towards the man who had come to her rescue, she derived
satisfaction from it. In the event of his death she must adopt some
steps to prove that the child was hers, and that she, and she alone,
had the sole right to her. No stranger should keep her darling from
her, should rob her of her reward for the sufferings she had
undergone. It was for this reason that she had asked Dr. Spenlove for
the iron box.
It was a compact, well-made box, and very heavy for its size. Any
person receiving it as a precious deposit, under the conditions she
imposed, might, when it was in his possession, reasonably believe that
it contained mementoes of price, valuable jewels, perhaps, which she
wished her child to wear when she grew to womanhood. She had no such
treasure. Unlocking the box she took from her pocket a packet of
letters, which she read with a bitterness which displayed itself
strongly in her face, which made her quiver with passionate
indignation.
"The villain!" she muttered. "If he stood before me now, I would
strike him dead at my feet."
There was no lingering accent of tenderness in her voice. The love she
had for him but yesterday was dead, and for the father of her child
she had now only feelings of hatred and scorn. Clearly she was a woman
of strong passions, a woman who could love and hate with ardour.
The letters were four in number, and had been written, at intervals of
two or three weeks, by the man who had betrayed and deserted her. The
language was such as would have deceived any girl who had given him
her heart. The false fervour, the protestations of undying love, the
passionate appeals to put full trust in his honour, were sufficient to
stamp the writer as a heartless villain, and, if he aped
respectability, to ruin him in the eyes of the world. Cunning he must
have been to a certain extent, but it was evident that, in thus
incriminating himself and supplying proofs of his perfidy, he had
forgotten his usual caution. Perhaps he had been for a short time
under a delusion that in his pursuit of the girl he was acting
honourably and sincerely, or perhaps (which is more likely), finding
that she held back, he was so eager to win her that he addressed her
in the only way by which he could compass his desire. The last of the
four letters contained a solemn promise of marriage if she would leave
her home, and place herself under his protection. It even went so far
as to state that he had the license ready, and that it was only her
presence that was needed to ratify their union. There was a reference
in this letter to the engagement between her and Mr. Gordon, and the
writer declared that it would bring misery upon her. "Release yourself
from this man," he continued, "at once and for ever. It would be a
living death. Rely upon my love. All my life shall be devoted to the
task of making you happy, and you shall never have occasion for one
moment's regret that you have consented to be guided by me." She read
these words with a smile of bitter contempt on her lips, and a burning
desire in her heart for revenge.
"If there is justice in heaven," she muttered, "a day will come!"
Then she brought forward a photograph of the betrayer, which, with the
letters, she deposited in the box. This done, she locked the box, and
tying the key to a bit of string, hung it round her neck, and allowed
it to fall, hidden, in her bosom.
Seating herself by the bedside, she gazed upon the babe from whom she
was soon to be torn. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her sad
thoughts, shaped in words, ran somewhat in this fashion:
"In a few hours she will be taken from me; in a few short hours we
shall be separated, and then, and then--ah, how can I know it and
live!--an ocean of waters will divide us. She will not miss me; she
does not know me. She will receive another woman's endearments; she
will never bestow a thought upon me, her wretched mother, and I--I
shall be for ever thinking of her! She is all my own now; presently I
shall have no claim upon her. Would it not be better to end it as I
had intended--to end it now, this moment!" She rose to her feet, and
stood with her lips tightly pressed and her hands convulsively
clenched; and then she cried in horror, "No, no! I dare not--I dare
not! It would be murder, and he said that God would not forgive me.
Oh, my darling, my darling, it is merciful that you are a baby, and do
not know what is passing in my mind! If you do not love me now, you
may in the future, when I shall be free, and then you shall feel how
different is a mother's love from the love of a strange woman. But how
shall I recognise you if you are a woman before we meet again--how
shall I prove to you, to the world, that you are truly mine? Your eyes
will be black, as mine are, and your hair, I hope, will be as dark,
but there are thousands like that. I am grateful that you resemble me,
and not your base father, whom I pray God to strike and punish. Oh,
that it were ever in my power to repay him for his treachery, to say
to him, 'As you dragged me down, so do I drag you down! As you ruined
my life, so do I ruin yours!' But I cannot hope for that. The woman
weeps, the man laughs. Never mind, child, never mind. If in future
years we are reunited, it will be happiness enough. Dark hair, black
eyes, small hands and feet. Oh, darling, darling!" She covered the
little hands and feet with kisses. "And yes, yes"--with feverish
eagerness she gazed at the child's neck--"these two tiny moles, like
those on my neck. I shall know you, I shall know you, I shall be able
to prove that you are my daughter!"
With a lighter heart she resumed her seat, and set to work mending the
infant's scanty clothing, which she fondled and kissed as though it
had sense and feeling. A church clock in the distance tolled five. She
had been listening for the hour, hoping it was earlier.
"Five o'clock!" she muttered. "I thought it was not later than three.
I am being robbed. Oh, if time would only stand still! Five o'clock!
In seven hours she will be taken from me. Seven hours--seven short
hours! I will not close my eyes."
But after awhile her lids drooped, and she was not conscious of it.
The abnormal fatigues of the day and night, the relaxing of the
overstrung nerves, the warmth of the room, produced their effect; her
head sank upon the bed, and she fell into a dreamful sleep.
It was merciful that her dreaming fancies were not drawn from the
past. The psychological cause of her slumbers being beguiled by bright
visions may be found in the circumstance that, despite the conflicting
passions by which she had been agitated, the worldly ease which was
secured to her and her child by Mr. Gordon's offer had removed a heavy
weight from her heart. In her visions she saw her baby grow into a
happy girlhood; she had glimpses of holiday times, when they were
together in the fields or by the seaside, or walking in the glow of
lovely sunsets, gathering flowers in the hush of the woods, or winding
their way through the golden corn. In these fair dreams her baby
passed from girlhood to womanhood, and happy smiles wreathed the lips
of the woe-worn woman as she lay in her poor garments on the humble
bed by the side of her child.
"Do you love me, darling?" asked the sleeping mother.
"Dearly, dearly," answered the dream-child. "With my whole heart,
mother."
"Call me mother again. It is like the music of the angels."
"Mother, mother!"
"You will love me always, darling?"
"Always, mother; for ever and ever and ever."
"Say that you will never love me less, that you will never forget me."
"I will never love you less; I will never forget you."
"Darling child, how beautiful you are! There is not in the world a
lovelier woman. It is for me to protect and guard you. I can do so: I
have had experience. Come, let us rest."
They sat upon a mossy bank, and the mother folded her arms around her
child, who lay slumbering on her breast.
There had been a few blissful days in this woman's life, during which
she had believed in man's faithfulness and God's goodness, but the
dreaming hours she was now enjoying were fraught with a heavenly
gladness. Nature and dreams are the fairies of the poor and the
afflicted.
She awoke as the church clock chimed eight. Again had she to face the
stern realities of life. The sad moment of separation was fast
approaching.
CHAPTER IX.
MR. MOSS PLAYS HIS PART.
At five o'clock on the afternoon of that day Dr. Spenlove returned to
his apartments. Having given away the money with which he had intended
to pay his fare to London, he had bethought him of a gentleman living
in Southsea of whom he thought he could borrow a sovereign or two for
a few weeks. He had walked the distance, and had met with
disappointment; the gentleman was absent on business, and might be
absent several days.
"Upon my word," said the good doctor, as he drearily retraced his
steps, "it is almost as bad as being shipwrecked; worse, because there
are no railways on desert islands. What on earth am I to do? Get to
London I must, by hook or by crook, and there is absolutely nothing I
can turn into money."
Then he bethought himself of Mr. Moss, and in his extremity determined
to make an appeal in that quarter. Had it not been for what had
occurred last night, he would not have dreamed of going to this
gentleman, of whose goodness of heart he had had no previous
experience, and upon whose kindness he had not the slightest claim.
Arriving at Mr. Moss's establishment, another disappointment attended
him. Mr. Moss was not at home, and they could not say when he would
return. So Dr. Spenlove, greatly depressed, walked slowly on, his mind
distressed with troubles and perplexities.
He had seen nothing more of Mr. Gordon, who had left him in the early
morning with a simple acknowledgment in words of the service he had
rendered; nor had he seen anything further of Mrs. Turner. On his road
home he called at her lodgings, and heard from her fellow-lodger that
she had left the house.
"We don't know where she's gone to, sir," the woman said; "but the
rent has been paid up, and a sovereign was slipped under my door. If
it wasn't that she was so hard up I should have thought it came from
her."
"I have no doubt it did," Dr. Spenlove answered. "She has friends who
are well-to-do, and I know that one of these friends, discovering her
position, was anxious to assist her."
"I am glad to hear it," said the woman; "and it was more than kind of
her to remember me. I always had an idea that she was above us."
As he was entering his room his landlady ran up from the kitchen.
"Oh, doctor, there's a parcel and two letters for you in your room,
and Mr. Moss has been here to see you. He said he would come again."
"Very well, Mrs. Radcliffe," said Dr. Spenlove; and, cheered by the
news of the promised visit, he passed into his apartment. On the table
were the letters and the parcel. The latter, carefully wrapped in
thick brown paper, was the iron box he had given to Mrs. Turner. One
of the letters was in her handwriting, and it informed him that her
child had been taken away and that she was on the point of leaving
Portsmouth.
"I am not permitted," the letter ran, "to inform you where I am going,
and I am under the obligation of not writing to you personally after I
leave this place. This letter is sent without the knowledge of the
gentleman for whom you acted, and I do not consider myself bound to
tell him that I have written it. What I have promised to do I will do
faithfully, but nothing further. You, who of all men in the world
perhaps know me best, will understand what I am suffering as I pen
these lines. I send with my letter the box you were kind enough to
give me last night. It contains the memorial of which I spoke to you.
Dear Dr. Spenlove, I rely upon you to carry out my wishes with respect
to it. If you are acquainted with the guardian of my child, convey it
to him, and beg him to retain it until my darling is of age, or until
I am free to seek her. It is not in your nature to refuse the petition
of a heartbroken mother; it is not in your nature to violate a
promise. For all the kindnesses you have shown me receive my grateful
and humble thanks. That you will be happy and successful, and that God
will prosper you in all your undertakings, will be my constant prayer.
Farewell."
Laying this letter aside he opened the second, which was in a
handwriting strange to him:--
"Dear Sir,--
"All my arrangements are made, and the business upon which we spoke
together is satisfactorily concluded. You will find enclosed a
practical expression of my thanks. I do not give you my address for
two reasons. First, I desire no acknowledgment of the enclosure;
second, I desire that there shall be no correspondence between us upon
any subject. Feeling perfectly satisfied that the confidence I reposed
in you will be respected,
"I am,
"Your obedient servant,
"G. Gordon."
The enclosure consisted of five Bank of England notes for £20 each.
Dr. Spenlove was very much astonished and very much relieved. At this
juncture the money was a fortune to him; there was a likelihood of its
proving the turning-point in his career; and, although it had not been
earned in the exercise of his profession, he had no scruple in
accepting it. The generosity of the donor was, moreover, in some sense
an assurance that he was sincere in all the professions he had made.
"Mr. Moss, sir," said Mrs. Radcliffe, opening the door, and that
gentleman entered the room.
As usual, he was humming an operatic air; but he ceased as he closed
the door, which, after a momentary pause, he reopened, to convince
himself that the landlady was not listening in the passage.
"Can't be too careful, doctor," he observed, with a wink, "when you
have something you want to keep to yourself. You have been running
after me, and I have been running after you. Did you wish to see me
particularly?"
"To tell you the truth," replied Dr. Spenlove, "I had a special reason
for calling upon you; but," he added, with a smile, "as it no longer
exists, I need not trouble you."
"No trouble, no trouble at all. I am at your service, doctor. Anything
I could have done, or can do now, to oblige, you may safely reckon
upon. Within limits, you know, within limits."
"Of course; but the necessity is obviated. I intended to ask you to
lend me a small sum of money without security, Mr. Moss."
"I guessed as much. You should have had it, doctor, and no inquiries
made, though it isn't the way I usually conduct my business; but there
are men you can trust and are inclined to trust, and there are men you
wouldn't trust without binding them down hard and fast. Now, if you
still need the money, don't be afraid to ask."
"I should not be afraid, but I am in funds. I am not the less indebted
to you, Mr. Moss."
"All right; I am glad you don't want a loan. Now for another
affair--_my_ affair, I suppose I must call it till I have shifted it
to other shoulders, which will soon be done."
He paused a moment.
"Dr. Spenlove, that was a strange adventure last night."
"It was; a strange and sad adventure. You behaved very kindly, and I
should like to repay what you expended on behalf of the poor lady."
"No, no, doctor; let it rest where it is. I don't acknowledge your
right to repay what you don't owe, and perhaps I am none the worse off
for what I did. Throw your bread on the waters, you know. My present
visit has reference to the lady--as you call her one, I will do the
same--we picked out of the snow last night. Did you ever notice that
things go in runs?"
"I don't quite follow you."
"A run of rainy weather, a run of fine weather, a run of good fortune,
a run of ill fortune."
"Yes, I have observed it."
"You meet a person to-day you have never seen or heard of before. The
odds are that you will meet that person to-morrow, and probably the
next day as well. You begin to have bad cards, you go on having bad
cards; you begin to make money, you go on making money."
"You infer that there are seasons of circumstances, as of weather. No
doubt you are right."
"I know I am right. Making the acquaintance of your friend, Mrs.
Turner, last night, in a very extraordinary manner, I am not at all
surprised that I have business in hand in which she is concerned. You
look astonished; but it is true. You gave her a good character,
doctor."
"Which she deserves. It happens in life to the best of us that we find
ourselves unexpectedly in trouble. Misfortune is a visitor that does
not knock at the door; it enters unannounced."
"We have unlocked the door ourselves, perhaps," suggested Mr. Moss,
sagely.
"Quite likely, but we have done so in a moment of trustfulness,
deceived by specious professions. The weak and confiding become the
victims."
"It is the way of the world, doctor. Hawks and pigeons, you know."
"There are some who are neither," said Dr. Spenlove, who was not
disposed to hurry his visitor.
His mind was easy as to his departure from Portsmouth, and he divined
from the course the conversation was taking that Mr. Moss had news of
a special nature to communicate. He deemed it wisest to allow him to
break it in his own way.
"They are the best off," responded Mr. Moss; "brains well balanced--an
even scale, doctor--then you can steer straight and to your own
advantage. Women are the weakest, as you say; too much heart, too much
sentiment. All very well in its proper place, but it weighs one side
of the scale down. Mrs. Moss isn't much better than other women in
that respect. She has her whims and crotchets, and doesn't always take
the business view."
"Implying that you do, Mr. Moss?"
"Of course I do; should be ashamed of myself if I didn't. What do I
live for? Business. What do I live by? Business. What do I enjoy most?
Business, and plenty of it!"
He rubbed his hands together joyously.
"I should have no objection to paint on my shop door, 'Mr. Moss,
Business Man.' People would know it would be no use trying to get the
best of me. They don't get it as it is."
"You are unjust to yourself. Was it business last night that made you
pay the cabman, and sent you out to buy coals and food for an
unfortunate creature you had never seen before?"
"That was a little luxury," said Mr. Moss, with a sly chuckle, "which
we business men indulge in occasionally to sharpen up our faculties.
It is an investment, and it pays; it puts us on good terms with
ourselves. If you think I have a bit of sentiment in me you are
mistaken."
"I paint your portrait for myself," protested Dr. Spenlove, "and I
shall not allow you to disfigure it. Granted that you keep as a rule
to the main road--Business Road, we will call it, if you like----"
"Very good, doctor, very good."
"You walk along, driving bargains, and making money honestly----"
"Thank you, doctor," interposed Mr. Moss, rather gravely. "There are
people who don't do us so much justice."
"When unexpectedly," continued Dr. Spenlove, with tender gaiety, "you
chance upon a little narrow path to the right or the left of you, and,
your eye lighting on it, you observe a stretch of woodland, a touch of
bright colour, a picture of human suffering, that appeals to your
poetical instinct, to your musical tastes, or to your humanity. Down
you plunge towards it, to the confusion, for the time being, of
Business Road and its business attractions."
"Sir," said Mr. Moss, bending his head with a dignity which did not
sit ill on him, "if all men were of your mind the narrow prejudices of
creed would stand a bad chance of making themselves felt. But we are
wandering from the main road of the purpose which brought me here. I
have not said a word to Mrs. Moss of the adventure of last night; I
don't quite know why, because a better creature doesn't breathe; but I
gathered from you in some way that you would prefer we should keep it
to ourselves. Mrs. Moss never complains of my being out late; she
rather encourages me, and that will give you an idea of the good wife
she is. 'Enjoyed yourself, Moss?' she asked when I got home. 'Very
much,' I answered, and that was all. Now, doctor, a business man
wouldn't be worth his salt if he wasn't a thinking man as well. After
I was dressed this morning I thought a good deal of the lady and her
child, and I came to the conclusion that you took more than an
ordinary interest in them."
"You were right," said Dr. Spenlove.
"Following your lead, which is a good thing to do if you've confidence
in your partner, I found myself taking more than an ordinary interest
in them; but as it wasn't a game of whist we were playing, I had no
clue to the cards you held. You will see presently what I am leading
up to. While I was thinking and going over some stock which I am
compelled by law to put up to auction, I received a message that a
gentleman wished to see me on very particular private business. It was
then about half-past nine, and the gentleman remained with me about an
hour. When he went away he made an appointment with me to meet him at
a certain place at twelve o'clock. I met him there; he had a carriage
waiting. I got in, and where do you think he drove me?"
"I would rather you answered the question yourself," said Dr.
Spenlove, his interest in the conversation receiving an exciting
stimulus.
"The carriage, doctor, stopped at the house to which we conveyed your
lady friend and her child last night. I opened my eyes, I can tell
you. Now, not to beat about the bush, I will make you acquainted with
the precise nature of the business the gentleman had with me."
"Pardon me a moment," said Dr. Spenlove. "Was Mr. Gordon the
gentleman?"
"You have named him," said Mr. Moss, and perceiving that Dr. Spenlove
was about to speak again, he contented himself with answering the
question. But the doctor did not proceed; his first intention had been
to inquire whether the business was confidential, and if so to decline
to listen to the disclosure which his visitor desired to make. A
little consideration, however, inclined him to the opinion that this
might be carrying delicacy too far. He was in the confidence of both
Mr. Gordon and Mrs. Turner, and it might be prejudicial to the mother
and her child if he closed his ears to the issue of the strange
adventure. He waved his hand, thereby inviting Mr. Moss to continue.
"Just so, doctor," said Mr. Moss, in the tone of a man who had
disposed of an objection. "It is a singular business, but I have been
mixed up with all kinds of queer transactions in my time, and I always
give a man the length of his rope. What induced Mr. Gordon to apply to
me is his concern, not mine. Perhaps he had heard a good report of me,
and I am much obliged to those who gave it; perhaps he thought I was a
tradesman who would take anything in pledge, from a flat iron to a
flesh and blood baby. Any way, if I choose to regard his visit as a
compliment, it is because I am not thin-skinned. Mr. Gordon informed
me that he wished to find a home and to provide for a young baby whose
mother could not look after it, being imperatively called away to a
distant part of the world. Had it not been that the terms he proposed
were extraordinarily liberal, and that he gave me the names of an
eminent firm of lawyers in London who had undertaken the financial
part of the business, and had it not been, also, that as he spoke to
me I thought of a friend whom it might be in my power to serve, I
should have shut him up at once by saying that I was not a baby
farmer, and by requesting him to take his leave. Interrupting myself,
and as it was you who first mentioned the name of Mr. Gordon, I think
I am entitled to ask if you are acquainted with him?"
"You are entitled to ask the question. I am acquainted with him."
"Since when, doctor?"
"Since last night only."
"Before we met?"
"Yes, before we met."
"May I inquire if you were then acting for Mr. Gordon?"
"To some extent. Had it not been for him I should not have gone in
search of Mrs. Turner."
"In which case," said Mr. Moss, in a grave tone, "she and her child
would have been found dead in the snow. That is coming to first
causes, doctor. I have not been setting a trap for you in putting
these questions; I have been testing Mr. Gordon's veracity. When I
asked him whether I was the only person in Portsmouth whom he had
consulted, he frankly answered I was not. Upon this I insisted upon
his telling me who this other person was. After some hesitation he
said, 'Dr. Spenlove.' Any scruples I may have had were instantly
dispelled, for I knew that it was impossible you could be mixed up in
a business which had not a good end."
"I thank you."
"Hearing your name I thought at once of the lady and her child whom we
were instrumental in saving. Am I right in my impression that you are
in possession of the conditions and terms Mr. Gordon imposes?"
"I am."
"Then I need not go into them. I take it, Dr. Spenlove, that you do
not consider the business disreputable."
"It is not disreputable. Mr. Gordon is a peculiar man, and his story
in connection with the lady in question is a singular one. He is not
the father of the child, and the action he has taken is not prompted
by a desire to rid himself of a responsibility. On the contrary, out
of regard for the lady he has voluntarily incurred a very heavy
responsibility, which I have little doubt--none, indeed--that he will
honourably discharge."
"I will continue. Having heard what Mr. Gordon had to say--thinking
all the time of the friend who might be induced to adopt the child,
and that I might be able to serve him--I put the gentleman to the
test. Admitting that his terms were liberal, I said that a sum of
money ought to be paid down at once, in proof of his good faith. 'How
much?' he asked. 'Fifty pounds,' I answered. He instantly produced the
sum, in bank-notes. Then it occurred to me that it would make things
still safer if I had an assurance from the eminent firm of London
lawyers that the business was honourable and met with their approval;
and if I also had a notification from them that they were prepared to
pay the money regularly. 'Send them a telegram,' suggested Mr. Gordon,
'and make it full and complete. I will write a shorter one, which you
can send at the same time. Let the answers be addressed here, and open
them both yourself when they arrive, which should be before twelve
o'clock.' The telegrams written, I took them to the office; and before
twelve came the replies, which were perfectly satisfactory. Everything
appeared to be so straightforward that I undertook the business. A
singular feature in it is that Mr. Gordon does not wish to know with
whom the child is placed. 'My lawyers will make inquiries,' he said,
'and they will be content if the people are respectable.' Dr.
Spenlove, I thought it right that you should be informed of what I
have done; you have expressed your approval, and I am satisfied. Don't
you run away with the idea that I have acted philanthropically.
Nothing of the kind, sir; I have been paid for my trouble. And now, if
you would like to ask any questions, fire away."
"Were no conditions of secrecy imposed upon you?"
"Yes; but I said that I was bound to confide in one person. He may
have thought I meant Mrs. Moss, but it was you I had in my mind. I
promised that it should go no further, and I do not intend that it
shall. Mrs. Moss will be none the worse for not being let into the
secret."
"Where is the child now?"
"In the temporary care of a respectable woman, who is providing
suitable clothing for it, Mr. Gordon having given me money for the
purpose."
"He has not spared his purse. When do you propose taking the child to
her new home?"
"To-night."
"They are good people?"
"The best in the world. I would trust my own children with them. She
cannot help being happy with them."
"Do they live in Portsmouth?"
"No; in Gosport. I think this is as much as I have the right to
disclose."
"I agree with you. Mr. Moss, you can render me an obligation, and you
can do a kindness to the poor child's mother. She has implored me to
endeavour to place this small iron box in the care of the guardians of
her child, to be retained by them for twenty-one years, or until the
mother claims it, which she will be free to do in the event of her
husband dying during her lifetime. I do not know what it contains, and
I understand that it is to be given up to no other person than the
child or her mother. Will you do this for me or for her?"
"For both of you, doctor," replied Mr. Moss, lifting the box from the
table. "It shall be given into their care, as the mother desires. And
now I must be off; I have a busy night before me. Do you go to London
to-morrow?"
"A train leaves in a couple of hours; I shall travel by that."
"Well, good-night, and good luck to you. If you want to write to me,
you know my address."
They parted with cordiality, and each took his separate way, Dr.
Spenlove to the City of Unrest, and Mr. Moss to the peaceful town of
Gosport, humming as he went, among other snatches from his favourite
opera,--
"Dio dell' or del mondo signor,
Sei possente risplendente,
Sei possente resplendente,
Culto hai tu maggior guaggiù.
Non v'ha un uom che non t'incensi
Stan prostati innanzi a te;
Ed i popolied i re;
I bei scudi tu dispensi,
Del la terra il Dio sei tu."
BOOK THE SECOND.
_RACHEL_.
CHAPTER X.
THE VISION IN THE CHURCHYARD.
Some twelve months before the occurrence of the events recorded in the
preceding chapters, a Jew, bearing the name of Aaron Cohen, had come
to reside in the ancient town of Gosport. He was accompanied by his
wife, Rachel. They had no family, and their home was a home of love.
They were comparatively young, Aaron being twenty-eight and Rachel
twenty-three, and they had been married five years. Hitherto they had
lived in London, and the cause of their taking up their residence in
Gosport was that Aaron had conceived the idea that he could establish
himself there in a good way of business. One child had blessed their
union, whom they called Benjamin. There was great rejoicing at his
birth, and it would have been difficult to calculate how many
macaroons and almond and butter cakes, and cups of chocolate and
glasses of anise-seed, were sacrificed upon the altar of hospitality
in the happy father's house for several days after the birth of his
firstborn. "Aaron Cohen does it in style," said the neighbours; and as
both he and Rachel were held in genuine respect by all who knew them,
the encomium was not mere empty praise. Seldom even in the locality in
which the Cohens then resided--the East End of London, where charity
and hospitality are proverbial--had such feasting been seen at the
celebration of a circumcision. "If he lived in Bayswater," said the
company, "he couldn't have treated us better." And when the father
lifted up his voice and said, "Blessed art Thou, the Eternal, our God,
King of the universe, who hath sanctified us with His commandments,
and commanded us to introduce our sons into the covenant of our father
Abraham," there was more than usual sincerity in the response, "Even
as this child has now entered this covenant, so may he be initiated
into the covenant of the law, of marriage, and of good works." Perhaps
among those assembled there were some who could not have translated
into English the Hebrews' prayers they read so glibly; but this
reproach did not apply to Aaron, who was an erudite as well as an
orthodox Jew, and understood every word he uttered. On this memorable
day the feasting, commenced in the morning, was continued during the
whole day. "I wish you joy, Cohen, I wish you joy;" this was the
formula, a hundred and a hundred times repeated to the proud father,
who really believed that a prince had been born among Israel; while
the pale-faced mother, pressing her infant tenderly to her breast, and
who in her maidenhood had never looked so beautiful as now, received
in her bedroom the congratulations of her intimate female friends. The
poorest people in the neighbourhood were welcomed; and if the seed of
good wishes could have blossomed into flower, a rose-strewn path of
life lay before the child. "He shall be the son of my right hand,"
said Aaron Cohen; and Rachel, as she kissed her child's mouth and
tasted its sweet breath, believed that Heaven had descended upon
earth, and that no mother had ever been blessed as she was blessed.
This precious treasure was the crowning of their love, and they laid
schemes for baby's youth and manhood before the child was out of long
clothes--schemes destined not to be realised. For sixteen months
Benjamin filled the hearts of his parents with ineffable joy, and then
the Angel of Death entered their house and bore the young soul away.
How they mourned for the dear one who was nevermore on earth to
rejoice them with his beautiful ways need not here be related; all
parents who have lost their firstborn will realise the bitterness of
their grief. But not for long was this grief bitter. In the wise and
reverent interpretation of Aaron Cohen, their loss became a source of
consolation to them. "Let us not rebel," he said to his wife, "against
the inevitable and Divine will. Give praise unto the Lord, who has
ordained that we shall have a child in heaven waiting to receive us."
Fraught with tenderness and wisdom were his words, and his counsel
instilled comfort into Rachel's heart. Benjamin was waiting for them,
and would meet them at the gates. Beautiful was the thought, radiant
the hope it raised, never, never to fade, nay, to grow brighter even
to her dying hour. Their little child, dead and in his grave, brought
them nearer to God. Heaven and earth were linked by the spirit of
their beloved, who had gone before them: thus was sorrow sweetened and
happiness chastened by faith. Sitting on their low stools during the
days of mourning, they spoke, when they were alone, of the peace and
joy of the eternal life, and thereby were drawn spiritually closer to
each other. The lesson they learned in the darkened room was more
precious than jewels and gold; it is a lesson which comes to all, high
and low alike, and rich indeed are they who learn it aright. For some
time thereafter, when the mother opened the drawer in which her most
precious possessions were kept, and kissed the little shoes her child
had worn, she would murmur amid her tears,--
"My darling is waiting for me, my darling is waiting for me!"
God send to all sorrowing mothers a comfort so sweet!
Aaron Cohen had selected a curious spot in Gosport for his habitation.
The windows of the house he had taken overlooked the quaint, peaceful
churchyard of the market town. So small and pretty was this
resting-place for the dead, that one might almost have imagined it to
be a burial ground for children's broken toys. The headless wooden
soldiers, the battered dolls, the maimed contents of cheap Noah's
arks, the thousand and one treasures of childhood might have been
interred there, glad to be at rest after the ruthless mutilations they
had undergone. For really, in the dawning white light of a frosty
morning, when every object for miles around sharply outlined itself in
the clear air and seemed to have lost its rotund proportions, it was
hard to realise that, in this tiny churchyard, men and women, whose
breasts once throbbed with the passions and sorrows of life, were
crumbling to that dust to which we must all return. No, no; it could
be nothing but the last home of plain and painted shepherds, and
bald-headed pets, and lambs devoid of fleece, and mayhap--a higher
flight which we all hope to take when the time comes for us to claim
our birthright of the grave--of a dead bullfinch or canary, carried
thither on its back, with its legs sticking heavenwards, and buried
with grown-up solemnity, and very often with all the genuineness of
grief for a mortal bereavement. Have you not attended such a funeral,
and has not your overcharged heart caused you to sob in your dreams as
you lay in your cot close to mamma's bed?
But these fantastic fancies will not serve. It was a real human
churchyard, and Rachel Cohen knew it to be so as she stood looking out
upon it from the window of her bedroom on the first floor. It was from
no feeling of unhappiness that her sight became dimmed as she gazed
upon the tombstones. Shadows of children rose before her, the
pattering of whose little feet was once the sweetest music that ever
fell on parents' ears, the touch of whose little hands carried with it
an influence as powerful as a heart-stirring prayer; children with
golden curls, children with laughing eyes, children with wistful
faces; but there was one, ah! there was one that shone as a star amid
the shadows, and that rose up, up, till it was lost in the solemn
clouds, sending therefrom a Divine message down to the mother's heart,
"Mamma, mamma, I am waiting for thee!"
Quiet as was everything around her, Rachel heard the words; in the
midst of the darkness a heavenly light was shining on her.
She wiped the tears from her eyes, and stole down to the room in which
her husband was sitting.
CHAPTER XI.
MR. WHIMPOLE INTRODUCES HIMSELF.
It was the front room of the house, on the ground floor, which Aaron
Cohen had converted into a shop. The small parlour windows had been
replaced by larger ones, a counter had been put up, behind which were
shelves fitted into the walls. These shelves at present were bare, but
Aaron Cohen hoped to see them filled. Under the counter were other
shelves, as empty as those on the walls.
When Rachel entered her husband was engaged counting out his money,
like the king in his counting house. There was a studious expression
on his face, which was instantly replaced by one of deep tenderness as
he looked up and saw traces of tears in her eyes. He gathered his
money together, banknotes, silver, gold, and coppers, and motioned her
into the room at the rear of the shop. This was their living-room; but
a large iron safe in a corner denoted that it was not to be devoted
entirely to domestic affairs. In another corner was the symbol of his
business, which was to be affixed to the front of the premises, over
the shop door, the familiar device of three golden balls.
Letting his money fall upon the table, he drew his wife to his side,
and passed his arm around her.
"The house," he said, "is almost in order."
"Yes, Aaron; there is very little left to do."
"I am also ready for business. I have the license, and to-morrow those
glittering balls will be put up and the name painted over the shop
window. They are rather large for so small a shop, but they will
attract all the more attention." He gazed at her anxiously. "Do you
think you will be contented and happy here?"
"Contented and happy anywhere with you," she replied, in a tone of the
deepest affection.
"In this town especially, Rachel?"
"Yes, in this town especially. It is so peaceful."
"But," he said, touching her eyes with his fingers "these?"
"Not because I am unhappy," she said; and her voice was low and sweet.
"I was looking out upon the churchyard from our bedroom window."
"Ah!" he said, and he kissed her eyes.
He divined the cause of her tears, and there was much tenderness in
his utterance of the monosyllable and in the kisses he gave her. Man
and wife for five years, they were still the fondest of lovers.
"My dear," said Aaron presently, "the spirit of prophecy is upon me.
We shall lead a comfortable life in this town; we shall prosper in
this house. It was a piece of real good fortune my hitting upon it.
When I heard by chance that the man who lived here owned the lease and
wished to dispose of it, I hesitated before parting with so large a
sum as a hundred pounds for the purchase. It was nearly half my
capital, but I liked the look of the place, and a little bird
whispered that we should be lucky in it, so I made the venture. I am
certain we shall not regret it. Here shall be laid the foundation
stones of a fortune which shall enable us to set up our carriage. I
know what you would say, my life, that we can be happy without a
carriage. Yes, yes; but a carriage is not a bad thing to have. People
will say, 'See what a clever man that Aaron Cohen is. He commenced
with nothing, and he rides in his own carriage already. How grand he
looks!' I should like to hear people say that. There is a knock at the
street door."
"Who can it be?" asked Rachel. "We know no one in Gosport, and it is
night."
"Which is no excuse for our not opening the door," said Aaron Cohen,
sweeping the money off the table into a small chamois leather bag,
which he tied carefully at the neck, and put into his pocket. "True,
we believe we are not known here, but there may, nevertheless, be an
old acquaintance in Gosport who has heard of our arrival, and comes to
welcome us; or Judah Belasco may have told a friend of his we are
here; or it may be an enterprising baker or grocer who wishes to
secure our custom. No," he added, as the knock was repeated, "that is
not the knock of a tradesman. It is a knock of self-importance, and
you may depend upon it that it proceeds from Somebody with a large S.
Let us see who it is that announces himself so grandly."
Aaron went to the street door, and Rachel followed him into the
passage, carrying a candle. The night was dark, and Rachel stood a
little in the rear, so that Aaron could not distinguish the features
of his visitor. He was a big man, and that was all that was apparent
to the Cohens.
"Mr. Cohen?" queried the visitor
"Yes," said Aaron.
"Mr. Aaron Cohen?"
"That is my name"
"Can I speak with you?"
"Certainly."
And Aaron waited to hear what the stranger had to say.
"I am not accustomed to be kept waiting on the doorstep. I should
prefer to speak to you in the house."
Rachel, who was naturally timid, moved closer to her husband, who took
the candle from her hand, and held it up in order to see the face of
the stranger.
"Step inside," he said.
The stranger followed Aaron and Rachel into the little parlour, and
without taking off his hat, looked at Aaron, then at Rachel, and then
into every corner of the room; the last object upon which his eyes
rested was the device of the three golden balls, and a frown gathered
on his features as he gazed. Aaron noted these movements and signs
with attention and amusement.
"Do you detect any blemish in them?" he asked.
"I do not understand you," said the stranger.
"In those balls. There was an expression of disapproval on your face
as you gazed at them."
"I disapprove of them altogether," said the stranger.
"I am sorry, but we cannot please everybody. I am not responsible for
the insignia; you will find the origin in the armorial bearings of the
Medici. That is a beautiful hat you have on your head." The stranger
stared at him. "Really," continued Aaron, blandly, "a beautiful hat;
it must have cost a guinea. A hat is a fine protection against the hot
rays of the sun; a protection, also, against the wind and the rain.
But in this room, as you may observe, we have neither wind, nor rain,
nor sun; and you may also observe that there is a lady present." The
stranger, reddening slightly, removed his hat, and placed it on the
table. "My wife," then said Aaron.
The stranger inclined his head, with the air of a man acknowledging an
introduction to one of a lower station. The manner of this
acknowledgment was not lost upon Aaron.
"My wife," he repeated courteously, "Mrs. Cohen."
"I see," said the stranger, glancing again at Rachel with
condescension. "With your permission I will take a seat."
It was distinctly at variance with the hospitable instincts of Aaron
Cohen that he did not immediately respond to this request.
"You have the advantage of us," he said. "I have had the pleasure of
introducing my wife to you. Afford me the pleasure of introducing you
to my wife."
With an ungracious air the stranger handed Aaron a visiting card, upon
which was inscribed the name of Mr. Edward Whimpole, and in a corner
the word "Churchwarden." Mr. Whimpole's movements were slow, and
intended to be dignified, but Aaron exhibited no impatience.
"My dear, Mr. Edward Whimpole, churchwarden."
Rachel bowed gracefully, and Aaron, with an easy motion of his hand,
invited Mr. Whimpole to a chair, in which he seated himself. Then
Aaron placed a chair for his wife, and took one himself, and prepared
to listen to what Mr. Whimpole had to say.
Mr. Whimpole was a large-framed man with a great deal of flesh on his
face; his eyes were light, and he had no eyebrows worth speaking of.
The best feature in his face was his mouth, and the most insignificant
his nose, which was really not a fair nose for a man of his bulk. It
was an added injury inflicted upon him by nature that it was very thin
at the end, as though it had been planed on both sides. But then, as
Aaron had occasion to remark, we don't make our own noses. A distinct
contrast presented itself in the two noses which, if the figure of
speech may be allowed, now faced each other.
Mr. Whimpole had not disclosed the purpose of his visit, but he had
already made it clear that he was not graciously disposed towards the
Jew. Aaron was quite aware of this, but the only effect it had upon
him was to render him exceedingly affable. Perhaps he scented a
bargain, and was aware that mental irritation would interfere with the
calm exercise of his judgment in a matter of buying and selling.
"May I inquire," he said, pointing to the word "churchwarden" on the
card, "whether this is your business or profession?"
"I am a corn-chandler," said Mr. Whimpole.
"Churchwarden, my dear," said Aaron, addressing his wife in a pleasant
tone, "_and_ corn-chandler."
For the life of him Mr. Whimpole could not have explained to the
satisfaction of persons not directly interested, why he was angry at
the reception he was meeting. That Aaron Cohen was not the kind of man
he had expected to meet would not have been accepted as a sufficient
reason.
"I am not mistaken," said Mr. Whimpole, with a flush of resentment,
"in believing you to be a Jew?"
"You are not mistaken," replied Aaron, with exceeding urbanity. "I am
a Jew. If I were not proud of the fact, it would be folly to attempt
to disguise it, for at least one feature in my face would betray me."
"It would," said Mr. Whimpole, dealing a blow which had the effect of
causing Aaron to lean back in his chair, and laugh gently to himself
for fully thirty seconds.
"When you have quite finished," said Mr. Whimpole, coldly, "we will
proceed."
"Excuse me," said Aaron, drawing a deep breath of enjoyment. "I beg
you will not consider me wanting in politeness, but I have the
instincts of my race, and I never waste the smallest trifle, not even
a joke." A little tuft of hair which ran down the centre of Mr.
Whimpole's head--the right and left banks of which were devoid of
verdure--quivered in sympathy with the proprietor's astonishment. That
a man should make a joke out of that which was generally considered to
be a reproach and a humiliation was, indeed, matter for amazement;
nay, in this instance for indignation, for in Aaron Cohen's laughter
he, Mr. Whimpole himself, was made to occupy a ridiculous place. "We
are loth," continued Aaron, "to waste even the thinnest joke. We are
at once, my dear sir, both thrifty and liberal."
"We!" exclaimed Mr. Whimpole, in hot repudiation.
"We Jews I mean. No person in the world could possibly mistake you for
one of the chosen."
"I should hope not. The idea is too absurd."
"Make your mind easy, sir; you would not pass muster in a synagogue
without exciting remark. Yes, we are both thrifty and liberal, wasting
nothing, and in the free spending of our money seeing that we get good
value for it. That is not a reproach, nor is it a reproach that we
thoroughly enjoy an agreeable thing when we get it for nothing. There
are so many things in life to vex us that the opportunity of a good
laugh should never be neglected. Proceed, my dear sir, proceed; you
were saying that you believed you were not mistaken in taking me for a
Jew."
"Is it your intention," asked Mr. Whimpole, coming now straight to the
point, "to reside in Gosport?"
"If I am permitted," replied Aaron, meekly. "We have not always been
allowed to select our place of residence. I am thankful that we live
in an enlightened age and in a free country."
"I hear, Mr. Cohen, that you have purchased the lease of this house."
"It is true, sir. The purchase money has been paid, and the lease is
mine."
"It has twenty-seven years to run."
"Twenty-seven years and three months. Who can tell where we shall be,
and how we shall be situated, at the end of that time?"
Mr. Whimpole waved the contemplation aside.
"You gave a hundred pounds for the lease."
"The precise sum; your information is correct."
"I had some intention, Mr. Cohen, of buying it myself."
"Indeed! Why did you not do so?"
"There were reasons. Not pecuniary, I beg to say. I delayed too long,
and you stepped in before me."
"A case of the early bird catching the worm," Aaron observed, with a
smile.
"If it gratifies you to put it that way. I have, therefore, no option
but to purchase the lease of you."
"Mr. Whimpole," said Aaron, after a slight pause, "I am agreeable to
sell you the lease."
"I thought as much." And Mr. Whimpole disposed himself comfortably in
his chair.
Rachel's eyes dilated in surprise. Their settlement in Gosport had not
been made in haste, and all arrangements for commencing the business
were made. She could not understand her husband's willingness to give
up the house.
"I do not expect you to take what you gave for it," said Mr. Whimpole.
"I am prepared to give you a profit; and," he added, jocosely, "you
will not be backward in accepting it."
"Not at all backward. You speak like a man of sense."
"How much do you ask for your bargain? How much, Mr. Cohen? Don't open
your mouth too wide."
"If you will permit me," said Aaron, and he proceeded to pencil down a
calculation. "It is not an undesirable house, Mr. Whimpole."
"No, no; I don't say it is."
"It is compact and convenient."
"Fairly so, fairly so."
"I will accept," said Aaron, having finished his calculation, "five
hundred pounds."
"You cannot be in earnest!" gasped Mr. Whimpole, his breath fairly
taken away.
"I am quite in earnest. Are you aware what it is you would buy of me?"
"Of course I am aware; the lease of this house."
"Not that alone. You would buy my hopes for the next twenty-seven
years; for I declare to you there is not to my knowledge in all
England a spot in which I so desire to pass my days as in this
peaceful town; and there is not in all Gosport a house in which I
believe I shall be so happy as in this. You see, you propose to
purchase of me something more than a parchment lease."
"But the--the things you mention are of no value to me."
"I do not say they are. I am speaking from my point of view, as men
generally do. It is a failing we all have, Mr. Whimpole. There is no
reason why we should bandy words. I am not anxious to sell the lease.
Wait till it is in the market."
"A most unhealthy situation," observed Mr. Whimpole.
"It concerns ourselves, and we are contented."
"I cannot imagine a more unpleasant, not to say obnoxious, view."
"The view of the churchyard? The spot has already acquired an
inestimable value in my eyes. God rest the souls of those who lie in
it! The contemplation of the peaceful ground will serve to remind me
of the vanity of life, and will be a constant warning to me to be fair
and straightforward in my dealings. The warning may be needed, for in
the business I intend to carry on, there are--I do not deny it--many
dangerous temptations."
"Tush, tush!" exclaimed Mr. Whimpole, petulantly. "Straightforward
dealings, indeed! The vanity of life, indeed!"
Aaron Cohen smiled.
Only once before in his life had Mr. Whimpole felt so thoroughly
uncomfortable as at the present moment, and that was when he was a
little boy and fell into a bed of nettles from which he was unable to
extricate himself until he was covered with stings. It was just the
same now; he was smarting all over from contact with Aaron Cohen, who
was like a porcupine with sharp-pointed quills. But he would not
tamely submit to such treatment; he would show Aaron that he could
sting in return; he knew well enough where to plant his poisoned
arrow.
It is due to Mr. Whimpole to state that he was not aware that the
manner in which he was conducting himself during this interview was
not commendable. Being a narrow-minded man, he could not take a wide
and generous view of abstract matters, which, by a perversion of
reasoning, he generally regarded from a purely personal standpoint.
Such men as he, in their jealous regard for their own feelings, are
apt to overlook the feelings of others, and, indeed, to behave
occasionally as if they did not possess any. This was Mr. Whimpole's
predicament, and, having met a ready-witted man, he was made to suffer
for his misconduct. He sent forth his sting in this wise:
"You speak, Mr. Cohen, of being fair and straightforward in your
dealings; but, for the matter of that, we all know what we may expect
from a----"
And having got thus far in his ungenerously-prompted speech, he felt
himself unable, in the presence of Rachel, and with her reproachful
eyes raised to his face, to conclude the sentence. Aaron Cohen
finished it for him.
"For the matter of that," he said, gently, "you all know what you may
expect from a Jew. That is what you were going to say. And with this
thought in your mind you came to trade with me. Well, sir, it may be
that we both have something to learn."
"Mr. Cohen," said Mr. Whimpole, slightly abashed, "I am sorry if I
have said anything to hurt your feelings."
"The offence, sir, is atoned for by the expression of your sorrow."
This was taking high ground, and Mr. Whimpole's choler was ready to
rise again; but he mastered it, and said, in a conciliatory tone,--
"I will disguise nothing from you; I was born in this house."
"The circumstance will make it all the more valuable to us. My
dear,"--impressing it upon Rachel with pleasant emphasis--"Mr.
Whimpole was born in this house. A fortunate omen. Good luck will come
to us, as it has come to him. It is a low-rented house, and those who
have been born in it must have been poor men's children. When they
rise in the world as Mr. Whimpole has done, it is better than a
horseshoe over the door. In which room were you born, Mr. Whimpole?"
"In the room on the back of the first floor," replied Mr. Whimpole,
making a wild guess.
"Our bedroom. There should be a record on the walls; there should,
indeed, be a record, such as is placed outside those houses in London
which have been inhabited by famous people. Failing that, it is in the
power of every man, assuredly every rich man, to make for himself a
record that shall be unperishable--far better, my dear sir, than the
mere fixing of a plate on a cold stone wall."
Mr. Whimpole gazed at Aaron Cohen to discover if there was any trace
of mockery in his face; but Aaron was perfectly grave and serious.
"A man's humility," said Mr. Whimpole, raising his eyes to the
ceiling, "his sense of humbleness, would prevent him from making this
record for himself. It has to be left to others to do it when they
have found him out."
"Aha! my dear sir," said Aaron, softly, "when they have found him out.
True, true; but how few of us are! How few of us receive our just
reward! How few of us when we are in our graves receive or deserve the
tribute, 'Here lies a perfect man!' But the record I speak of will
never be lost by a rich man's humility, by his humbleness; for it can
be written unostentatiously in the hearts of the poor by the aid of
silver and gold."
"I understand you, Mr. Cohen,"--inwardly confounding Aaron's flow of
ideas--"by means of charity."
"Yes, sir, by means of charity, whereby the name of a man becomes
sweet in the mouth. A good name is better than precious oil, and the
day of one's death better than the day of his birth. There is an old
legend that a man's actions in life are marked in the air above him,
in the places in which they are performed. There, in invisible space,
are inscribed the records of his good and bad deeds, of his virtues,
of his crimes; and when he dies his soul visits those places, and
views the immortal writing, which is visible to all the angels in
heaven and which covers him with shame or glory. Gosport doubtless has
many such records of your charity."
"I do my best," said Mr. Whimpole, very much confused and mystified;
"I hope I do my best. I said I would disguise nothing from you; I will
therefore be quite frank, with no intention of wounding you. I am
strictly a religious man, Mr. Cohen, and it hurts me that one whose
religious belief is opposed to my own should inhabit the house in
which I was born. I will give you a hundred and twenty pounds for the
lease; that will leave you a profit of twenty pounds. Come, now!"
"I will not accept less for it, sir, than the sum I named."
"Is that your last word?"
"It is my last word."
Mr. Whimpole rose with a face of scarlet, and clapped his hat on his
head. "You are a--a----"
"A Jew. Leave it at that. Can you call me anything worse?" asked
Aaron, with no show of anger.
"No, I cannot. You are a Jew."
"I regret," said Aaron, calmly, "that I cannot retort by calling you a
Christian. May our next meeting be more agreeable! Good-evening, Mr.
Whimpole."
"You do not know the gentleman you have insulted," said Mr. Whimpole,
as he walked towards the door; "you do not know my position in this
town. I am in the expectation of being made a justice of the peace.
You will live to repent this."
"I think not," said Aaron, taking the candle to show his visitor out.
"I trust you may."
"You may find your residence in Gosport, where I am universally
respected, not as agreeable as you would wish it to be."
"We shall see, we shall see," said Aaron, still smiling. "I may also
make myself respected here."
"There is a prejudice against your race----"
"Am I not aware of it? Is not every Jew aware of it? Is it not thrown
in our teeth by the bigoted and narrow-minded upon every possible
occasion? We will live it down, sir. We have already done much; we
will yet do more. Your use of the word 'prejudice' is appropriate;
for, as I understand its meaning, it represents a judgment formed
without proper knowledge. Yes, sir, it is not to be disputed that
there exists a prejudice against our race."
"Which, without putting any false meaning upon it, will make this
ancient and respectable town"--here Mr. Whimpole found himself at a
loss, and he was compelled to wind up with the vulgar figure of
speech--"too hot to hold you."
"This ancient town," said Aaron, with a deeper seriousness in his
voice, "is known to modern men as Gosport."
"A clever discovery," sneered Mr. Whimpole. "Are you going to put
another of your false constructions on it?"
"No, sir. I am about to tell you a plain and beautiful truth. When in
olden times a name was given to this place, it was not Gosport: it was
God's Port; and what Gods port is there throughout the civilised world
in which Jew and Christian alike have not an equal right to live,
despite prejudice, despite bigotry, and despite the unreasonable anger
of large corn-chandlers and respected churchwardens? I wish you, sir,
good-night."
And having by this time reached the street door, Aaron Cohen opened it
for Mr. Whimpole, and bowed him politely out.
CHAPTER XII.
THE COURSE OF THE SEASONS.
Upon Aaron's return to the little parlour he saw that Rachel was
greatly disturbed.
"My life!" he said, and he folded her in his arms and tenderly
embraced her. "Don't allow such a little thing as this to distress
you; it will all come right in the end."
"But how you kept your temper," she said; "that is what surprised me."
"It gave me the advantage of him, Rachel. I was really amused."
He pinched her cheeks to bring the colour back to them.
"Some men must be managed one way, some another. And now for
our game of bezique. Mr. Whimpole's visit"--he laughed at the
recollection--"will make me enjoy it all the more."
There was no resisting his light-heartedness, and he won a smile from
her, despite her anxiety.
Rachel was not clever enough to discover that it was only by the
cunning of her husband that she won the rub of bezique. He was a keen
judge of human nature, and he knew that this small victory would help
to soothe her.
The next day was Friday, and the three golden balls were put up, and
the name of Aaron Cohen painted over the shop door. A great many
people came to look, and departed to circulate the news.
At one o'clock the painting was done, and then Aaron said to his wife,
"I shall be out till the evening. Have you found any one to attend to
the lights and the fire?"
They were not rich enough to keep a regular servant, and neither of
them ever touched fire on the Sabbath.
"I have heard of a woman," said Rachel; "she is coming this afternoon
to see me."
"Good," said Aaron, and, kissing Rachel, went away with a light heart.
In the afternoon the woman, Mrs. Hawkins, called, and Rachel explained
the nature of the services she required. Mrs. Hawkins was to come to
the house every Friday night to put coals on the fire and extinguish
the lights, and four times on Saturday to perform the same duties.
Rachel proposed eightpence a week, but Mrs. Hawkins stuck out for
tenpence, and this being acceded to, she departed, leaving a strong
flavour of gin behind her.
When Aaron returned, the two Sabbath candles were alight upon the
snow-white tablecloth, and on the table a supper was spread--fried
fish, white bread, and fresh butter, and in the fender a steaming
coffeepot. Rachel was an excellent cook, and had always been famous
for her fried and stewed fish, which her husband declared were dishes
fit for kings; and, indeed, no one in the land could have desired
tastier or more succulent cooking.
Aaron washed and said his prayers, and then they sat down to their
meal in a state of perfect contentment. The head of the modest
household broke two small pieces of bread from the loaf, and dipping
them in salt, besought the customary blessing on the bread they were
about to eat; then praised the fish, praised the butter, praised the
coffee, praised his wife, and after a full meal praised the Lord, in a
Song of Degrees, for blessings received: "When the Eternal restored
the captivity of Zion, we were as those who dream. Our mouths were
then filled with laughter, and our tongues with song."
He had-a rich baritone voice, and Rachel listened in pious delight to
his intoning of the prayer. The supper things were cleared away, the
white tablecloth being allowed to remain because of the lighted
candles on it, which it would have been breaking the Sabbath to lift,
and then there came a knock at the street door.
"That is the woman I engaged," said Rachel, hurrying into the passage.
There entered, not Mrs. Hawkins, but a very small girl, carrying a
very large baby. The baby might have been eighteen months old, and the
girl ten years; and of the twain the baby was the plumper.
Without "With your leave" or "By your leave," the small girl pushed
past Rachel before the astonished woman could stop her, and presented
herself before the no less astonished Aaron Cohen. Her sharp eyes took
in the lighted candles, the cheerful fire, and the master of the house
in one comprehensive flash. With some persons what is known as making
up one's mind is a slow and complicated process, with the small girl
it was electrical. She deposited the large baby in Aaron's lap,
admonishing the infant "to keep quiet, or she'd ketch it," blew out
the candles in two swift puffs, and, kneeling before the grate,
proceeded to rake out the coals. So rapid were her movements that the
fender was half filled with cinders and blazing coals before Rachel
had time to reach the room.
"In Heaven's name," cried Aaron, "what is the meaning of this?"
"It's all right, sir," said the small girl, in the dark; "I've come
for aunty."
"Put down the poker instantly!" exclaimed Aaron. "Your aunty, whoever
she may be, is not here."
"Tell me somethink I don't know," requested the small girl. "This is
Mr. Cohen's, the Jew, ain't it?"
"It is," replied Aaron, with despairing gestures, for the baby was
dabbing his face with hands sticky with remnants of sugarstuff.
"Well, wot are yer 'ollering for? I'm only doing wot aunty told me."
"And who _is_ your aunty?"
"Mrs. 'Orkins. Pretend not to know 'er--do! Oh yes, jest you try it
on. Aunty's up to yer, she is. She sed yer'd try to do 'er out of 'er
money, and want 'er to take fippence instid of tenpence."
"Did she? You have come here by her orders, I suppose?"
"Yes, I 'ave; to poke out the fire and blow out the candles, and I've
done it."
"You have," said Aaron, ruefully. "And now, little girl, you will do
as _I_ tell you. Put down that poker. Get up. Feel on the mantelshelf
for a box of matches. I beg your pardon, you are too short to reach.
Here is the box. Take out a match. Strike it. Light the candles. Thank
you. Last, but not least, relieve me of this baby with the sticky
hands."
The small girl snatched the baby from his arms and stood before him in
an attitude of defiance. For the first time he had a clear view of
her.
"Heaven save us!" he cried, falling back in his chair.
Her appearance was a sufficient explanation of his astonishment. To
say that she was ragged, and dirty, and forlorn, and as utterly unlike
a little girl living in civilised society as any little girl could
possibly be, would be but a poor description of her. Her face
suggested that she had been lying with her head in a coal scuttle; she
wore no hat or bonnet; her hair was matted; her frock reached just
below her knees, and might have been picked out of a dust-heap; she
had no stockings; on her feet were two odd boots, several sizes too
large for her and quite worn out, one tied to her ankle with a piece
of grey list, the other similarly secured with a piece of knotted
twine. Her eyes glittered with preternatural sharpness; her cheek
bones stuck out; her elbows were pointed and red; she was all
bone--literally all bone; there was not an ounce of flesh upon her,
not any part of her body that could be pinched with a sense of
satisfaction. But the baby! What a contrast! Her head was round and
chubby, and was covered with a mass of light curls; her hands were
full of dimples; her face was puffed out with superabundant flesh; the
calves of her legs were a picture. In respect of clothes she was no
better off than Mrs. Hawkins's niece.
"Wot are yer staring at?" demanded the girl. "At you, my child,"
replied Aaron, with compassion in his voice.
"Let's know when yer done," retorted the girl, "and I'll tell yer 'wot
I charge for it."
"And at baby," added Aaron.
"That'll be hextra. Don't say I didn't warn yer."
There were conflicting elements in the situation; its humour was
undeniable, but it had its pathetic side. Aaron Cohen was swayed now
by one emotion, now by another.
"So you are Mrs. Hawkins's niece," he said, with a twinkle in his
eyes.
"Yes, I am. Wot 'ave yer got to say agin it?"
"Nothing. Is baby also Mrs. Hawkins's niece, or nephew?"
"If you've no objections," said the girl, with excessive politeness,
"she's Mrs. Pond's little gal, and I nusses 'er."
"I have no objection. What is your name?"
"Wot it may be, my lordship," replied the girl, her politeness
becoming Arctic, "is one thing--wot it is, is another."
"You are a clever little girl," said Aaron, smiling and rubbing his
hands, "a sharp, clever little girl."
"Thank yer for nothink," said the girl. She had reached the North
Pole; it was necessary to thaw her.
"Upon the mantelshelf," said Aaron, "just behind that beautiful blue
vase, are two penny pieces. Step on a chair--not that cane one, you'll
go through it; the wooden one--and see if you can find them."
"I see 'em," said the girl, looking down upon Aaron in more senses
than one.
"They are yours. Put them in your pocket."
The girl clutched the pennies, jumped from the chair--whereat the baby
crowed, supposing it to be a game provided for her amusement--and
having no pocket, held the money tight in her hand. Visions of
sweetstuff rose before her. The pennies getting warm, the ice in the
North Pole began to melt. But there was a doubt in the girl's mind;
the adventure was almost too good to be true.
"Yer don't get 'em back," she said; "stow larks, yer know."
"I don't want them back. And now, perhaps, you will tell me your
name."
"Prissy. That's the short 'un."
"The long one is----"
"Priscilla."
"A grand name. You ought to have a silk gown, and satin shoes, and a
gold comb." Prissy opened her eyes very wide. The ice was melting
quickly, and the buds were coming on the trees. "And baby's name?"
"Wictoria Rejiner. That's grander, ain't it?"
"Much grander. Victoria Regina--a little queen!" Prissy gave baby a
kiss, with pride and love in her glittering eyes. "What makes your
face so black, Prissy?"
"Coals. Aunty deals in 'em, and ginger-beer, and bundles of wood, and
cabbages, and taters, and oranges, and lemons. And she takes in
washing."
"You look, Prissy, as if you had very little to eat."
So genial was Aaron Cohen's voice that spring was coming on fast.
"I don't 'ave much," said Prissy, with a longing sigh. "I could eat
all day and night if I 'ad the chance."
"My dear," said Aaron to his wife, "there is some coffee left in the
pot. Do you like coffee, Prissy?"
"Do I like corfey? Don't I like corfey! Oh no--not me! Jest you try
me!"
"I will. Give me Victoria Regina. Poke the fire. That's right; you are
the quickest, sharpest little girl in my acquaintance. Pour some water
from the kettle into the coffee-pot. Set it on the fire. Rachel, my
dear, take Prissy and baby into the kitchen and let them wash
themselves, and afterwards they shall have some supper."
The buds were breaking into blossom; it really was a lovely spring.
In a few minutes Rachel and the children re-entered the room from
the kitchen, baby with a clean face, and Prissy with a painfully red
and shining skin. Following her husband's instructions, Rachel cut
half-a-dozen slices of bread, upon which she spread the butter with a
liberal hand. Prissy, hugging Victoria Regina, watched the proceedings
in silence. By this time the coffee was bubbling in the pot.
"Take it off the fire, Prissy," said Aaron Cohen; and in another
minute the little girl, with baby in her lap, was sitting at the table
with a cup of smoking hot coffee, well sugared and milked, which she
was so eager to drink that she scalded her throat. The bread and
butter was perhaps the sweetest that Prissy had ever eaten, and the
coffee was nectar. The baby ate more than Prissy; indeed, she ate so
much and so quickly that she occasionally choked and had to be
violently shaken and patted on the back, but she became tired out at
last, and before Prissy had finished her bounteous meal she was fast
asleep in her nurse's arms.
Aaron Cohen leaned back in his chair, and gazed with benevolent eyes
upon the picture before him; and as he gazed the sweetest of smiles
came to his lips, and did not leave them. Rachel, stealing to the back
of his chair, put her arms round his neck, and nestled her face to
his.
It was a most beautiful summer, and all the trees were in flower.
CHAPTER XIII.
AARON COHEN PREACHES A SERMON ON LARGE NOSES.
The fire was burning brightly, and the old cat which they had brought
with them to Gosport was stretched at full length upon the hearthrug.
The children were gone, and Prissy had received instructions to come
again at ten o'clock to extinguish the candles. It may be said of
Prissy, in respect of her first visit to the house, that she came in
like a lion and went out like a lamb.
It was a habit on Sabbath eve for Aaron to read to his wife something
from the general literature of the times, or from the newspapers, and
to accompany his reading with shrewd or sympathetic remarks, to which
Rachel always listened in delight. Occasionally he read from a book of
Hebrew prayers, and commented upon them, throwing a light upon poem
and allegory which made their meaning clear to Rachel's understanding.
Invariably, also, he blessed her as Jewish fathers who have not
wandered from the paths of orthodoxy bless their children on the
Sabbath. Now, as she stood before him, he placed his hand on her head,
and said,--
"God make thee like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. May the Eternal
bless and preserve thee! May the Eternal cause His face to shine upon
thee, and be gracious unto thee! May the Eternal lift up His
countenance towards thee, and grant thee peace!"
It was something more than a blessing; it was a prayer of heartfelt
love. Rachel raised her face to his, and they tenderly kissed each
other. Then he took his seat on one side of the fire, and she on the
other. A prayer-book and one of Charles Dickens's stories were on the
table, but he did not open them; he had matter for thought, and he was
in the mood for conversation. He was in a light humour, which
exhibited itself in a quiet laugh, which presently deepened in volume.
"I am thinking of the little girl," he explained to Rachel. "It
was amazing the way she puffed out the candles and poked out the
fire--quick as lightning. It was the most comical thing! And her black
face--and Victoria Regina's sticky fingers! Ha, ha, ha!"
His merriment was contagious, and it drew forth Rachel's; the room was
filled with pleasant sound.
"I saw Mr. Whimpole to-day," said Aaron, "and I made him a bow, which
he did not return. My Jewish nose offends him. How unfortunate! Yes,
my life, no one can dispute that the Jew has a big nose. It proclaims
itself; it is a mark and a sign. He himself often despises it; he
himself often looks at it in the glass with aversion. 'Why, why,
have I been compelled to endure this affliction?' he murmurs,
and he reflects with envy upon the elegant nose of the Christian.
Short-sighted mortal, not to understand that he owes everything to his
big nose! A great writer--a learned man, who passed the whole of his
life in the study of these matters--proclaims the nose to be the
foundation, or abutment, of the brain. What follows? That the larger
is the nose of a man, the better off for it is the man. Listen, my
dear." He took a book from a little nest of bookshelves, and turned
over the pages. "'Whoever,' says this learned writer, 'is acquainted
with the Gothic arch will perfectly understand what I mean by this
abutment; for upon this the whole power of the arch of the forehead
rests, and without it the mouth and cheeks would be oppressed by
miserable ruins.' He lays down exact laws, which govern the beautiful
(and therefore the large) nose. Its length should equal the length of
the forehead, the back should be broad, its outline remarkably
definite, the sides well defined, and, near the eye, it must be at
least half an inch in breadth. Such a nose, this great authority
declares, is of more worth than a kingdom. It imparts solidity and
unity to the whole countenance; it is the mountain--bear in mind, my
dear, the mountain--that shelters the fair vales beneath. How proud,
then, should I be of my nose, which in some respects answers to this
description! Not in all, no, not in all. I am not so vain as to
believe that my nose is worth more than a kingdom; but when I am told
that a large nose is a sign of sensibility, and of good nature and
good humour, I cannot help a glow of conceited satisfaction stealing
over me. How many great men have you known with small noses? There
are, of course, exceptions, but I speak of the general rule. Our
co-religionist, Benjamin Disraeli--look at his nose; look at the noses
of all our great Jewish musicians and composers--it is because they
are of a proper size that they have become famous. Some time since in
London I had the opportunity of looking over a wonderful Bible--six
enormous volumes published by Mr. Thomas Macklin nearly a century
ago--embellished with grand pictures by the most eminent English
artists; and there I saw the figures of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob,
and other ancestors of ours. There is not a small nose on one of the
faces of these great patriarchs and prophets. The great painters who
drew them had learned from their studies how to delineate the biblical
heroes. Moses the law-giver--what an administrator, what a grand
general was that hero, my dear! How thoroughly he understood men and
human nature! Aaron, the high priest; King Solomon, the man of wisdom;
Isaiah, the prophet and poet--they all had tremendous noses. A big
nose is a grand decoration, and I would sooner possess it than a bit
of red ribbon in my button-hole, or a star on my breast. Indeed, my
life, I have it--the nose of my forefathers!" Aaron made this
declaration in a tone of comic despair. "And, having it, I will not
part with it except with life."
There was so much playful humour in the dissertation that Rachel
laughed outright. Her laugh was the sweetest in the world, and it fell
like music on Aaron's heart. He smiled, and there was a gleam in his
eyes, and presently he spoke again.
"I am not aware whether you have ever observed the attraction a big
nose has for children. Take the most popular drama of all ages, 'Punch
and Judy.' Where is the artist who would venture to present Punch
with any but an enormous nose? Are the children frightened at it? No,
they revel in it. Do they sympathise with Judy when she is slain? Not
at all; every whack Punch gives her is greeted with shrieks of
laughter--because of his enormous nose. Introduce two strangers to a
baby, one with a very small nose, the other with a very big nose. Let
them both hold out their arms. Instinctively the baby flies to the man
with the large nose. It is nature's silent voice that instructs the
child. He or she--the sex is not material--instinctively knows which
is the better nose of the two, which is the most promising nose, the
most suggestive of kisses, and jumps in the air, and cakes, and songs,
and all that is dear to a child's heart. The test is infallible.
Nothing will convince me that you did not marry me because of my big
nose."
"Indeed, dear," said Rachel, still laughing, "I hardly think I would
have married you without it."
"Then the fact is established. I am about to make a confession to
you, Rachel; I am going to tell you the true reason for my choosing
this place to reside in, where I am separated by a long distance from
the friends of my youth and manhood, and where you, too, my dear
child"--in his moments of tenderness he occasionally addressed her
thus--"will, I fear, be for a time without friends to whom you can
unbosom yourself."
"I have you, my dear husband," said Rachel, in a tone of deep
affection, drawing closer to him, and slipping her little hand into
his great hand. A fine, large, nervous hand was Aaron Cohen's; a
palmister would have seen great possibilities in it. Rachel's hand,
despite her domestic work, was the hand of a lady; she took a proper
pride in preserving its delicacy and beauty. "I have you, my dear
husband," she said.
"Yes, my' life, but you used to kiss at least a dozen female friends a
day."
"I kissed Prissy and the baby to-night."
"When their faces were washed, I hope. Listen to my confession.
Pride and hard-heartedness drove me from the neighbourhood in which we
were married. A thousand pounds did my dear father--God rest his
soul!--bequeath to me. It dwindled and dwindled--my own fault; I could
not say No. One came to me with a melancholy tale which led to a
little loan; another came, and another, and another. I did not make
you acquainted with the extent of my transgressions. My dear, I
encouraged the needy ones; I even went out of my way to lend, thinking
myself a fine fellow, and flapping my wings in praise of my stupidity.
Not half I lent came back to me. Then business began to fall off, and
I saw that I was in the wrong groove. I had grown into bad ways; and
had I remained much longer in the old neighbourhood I should have been
left without a penny. I thought of our future, of the injustice I was
inflicting upon you. 'I will go,' said I, 'where I am not known, while
I still have a little to earn a living with, among strangers who, when
they borrow, will give me value in return, and where I shall not have
to say to poor friends, "Come to me no more; I am poorer than
yourselves." I have been foolish and weak; I will be wise and strong.
I will grow rich and hard-hearted.' Yes, my dear, that is what I
intend, and my heart will not be oppressed by the sight of suffering
it is out of my power to relieve. Rachel, I am not so clever as I
pretend to be; to speak the truth, I am afraid I am rather given to
crowing; and when it is not alone my own welfare, but the welfare of
one so dear to me as you are, that is concerned, I tremble, I begin to
doubt whether I have done right. Give me your opinion of the step I
have taken."
She gazed at him with serious, loving, trustful eyes. "It is a wise
step, Aaron, I am sure it is. Whatever you do is right, and I am
satisfied."
Ten o'clock struck, and a knock at the door announced the faithful
Prissy, come to put the fire out. She entered with the baby in her
arms, sound asleep. She was flushed and excited, and she held her hand
over the right side of her face.
"Victoria ought to be a-bed," said Rachel, taking a peep at baby.
"She can't go," retorted Prissy, "afore 'er mother's ready to take
'er."
"Where is her mother?" asked Aaron.
"At the Jolly Sailor Boy, enjying of 'erself."
"Ah! And where is your aunt?"
"At the Jolly Sailor Boy, too, 'aving a 'arf-quartern. There's been a
reg'lar row there about Mrs. Macrory's flannin peddicut."
"What happened to it?"
"It went wrong. Yes, it did. Yer needn't larf. Call me a story, do! I
would if I was you!"
"No, no, Prissy," said Aaron, in a soothing tone. "How did the flannel
petticoat go wrong?"
"Nobody knowed at fust. Aunty does Mrs. Macrory's washing, and a lot
more besides, and the things gits mixed sometimes. Aunty can't 'elp
that--'ow can she? So Mrs. Macrory's things was took 'ome without the
peddicut. Mrs. Macrory she meets aunty at the Jolly Sailor Boy, and
she begins to kick up about it. 'Where's my flannin peddicut?' she
ses. ''Ow should I know?' ses aunty. Then wot d'yer think? Mrs.
Macrory sees somethink sticking out of aunty's dress be'ind, and she
pulls at it. 'Why,' she ses, 'you've got it on!' That's wot the row
was about. Aunty didn't know 'ow it come on 'er--she's ready to take
'er oath on that. Ain't it rum?"
"Very rum. Put out the fire, Prissy. It is time for all good people to
get to bed."
In the performance of this duty Prissy was compelled to remove her
hand from her face, and when she rose from the floor it was seen that
her right eye was sadly discoloured, and that she was in pain.
"Oh, Prissy, poor child!" exclaimed Rachel; "you have been hurt!"
"Yes, mum," said Prissy. "Mrs. Macrory's gal--she's twice as big as
me; you should see 'er legs!--she ses, 'You're in that job,' she ses,
meaning the peddicut; and she lets fly and gives me a one-er on
account."
Rachel ran upstairs, and brought down a bottle of gillard water, with
which she bathed the bruise, and tied one of her clean white
handkerchiefs over it. Prissy stood quite still, her lips quivering;
it may have been the gillard water that filled the girl's unbandaged
eye with tears.
"That will make you feel easier," said Rachel. "Blow out the candles
now, and be here at half-past eight in the morning."
"I'll be sure to be," said Prissy, with a shake in her voice.
In the dark Aaron Cohen heard the sound of a kiss.
"Good-night, sir," said the girl.
"Good-night, Prissy," said Aaron.
The chain of the street door was put up, and the shutters securely
fastened, and then Aaron and Rachel, hand in hand, went up the dark
stairs to their room.
"My dear," said Aaron, drowsily, a few minutes after he and his wife
were in bed, "are you asleep?"
"No, Aaron," murmured Rachel, who was on the border-land of dreams.
"I've been thinking,"--he dozed off for a moment or two--"I've been
thinking----"
"Yes, my dear?"
--"That I wouldn't give Prissy's aunt any flannel petticoats to wash."
Almost before the words had passed his lips sleep claimed him for its
own.
CHAPTER XIV.
A PROCLAMATION OF WAR.
On Monday morning Aaron commenced business. In the shop window was a
display of miscellaneous articles ticketed at low prices, and Aaron
took his place behind his counter, ready to dispose of them, ready to
argue and bargain, and to advance money on any other articles on which
a temporary loan was required. He did not expect a rush of customers,
being aware that pawnbroking was a tree of very small beginnings, a
seed which needed time before it put forth flourishing branches. The
security was sure, the profits accumulative. He was confident of the
result. Human necessity, even human frailty, was on his side; all he
had to do was to be fair in his dealings.
In the course of the day he had a good many callers; some to make
inquiries, some to offer various articles for pledge. Of these latter
the majority were children, with whom he declined to negotiate. "Who
sent you?" "Mother." "Go home and tell her she must come herself." He
would only do business with grown-up people. Setting before himself a
straight and honest rule of life, he was not the man to wander from it
for the sake of a little profit. Of the other description of callers a
fair proportion entered the shop out of idle curiosity. He had
pleasant words for all, and gave change for sixpences and shillings
with as much courtesy as if each transaction was a gain to him; as,
indeed, it was, for no man or woman who entered with an unfavourable
opinion of him (influenced by certain rumours to his discredit which
had been circulated by Mr. Whimpole) departed without having their
minds disturbed by his urbanity and genial manners. "I don't see any
harm in him," was the general verdict from personal evidence; "he's as
nice a spoken man as I ever set eyes on." Many of his visitors went
away laughing at the humorous remarks he had made, which they passed
on from one to another. On the evening of this first day he expressed
his satisfaction at the business he had done.
"Our venture will turn out well," he said to Rachel. "The flag of
fortune is waving over us."
It was eight o'clock, and, although he scarcely expected further
custom, he kept the gas burning in the shop window.
"Light is an attraction," he observed. "It is better than an
advertisement in the papers."
The evening was fine. He and Rachel were sitting in the parlour,
with the intermediate door open. Aaron was smoking a handsome
silver-mounted pipe and making up his accounts, while his wife was
busy with her needle. Satan could never have put anything in the shape
of mischief in the way of these two pairs of industrious hands, for
they were never idle, except during the Sabbath and the fasts and
holydays, and then it was not idleness, but rest, Divinely ordained.
The silver-mounted pipe was one of Aaron's most precious possessions,
it being his beloved wife's gift to him on his last birthday. He would
not have sold it for ten times its weight in gold. Rachel often held a
light to it after it was filled, and Aaron, with an affectionate
smile, would kiss her white hand in acknowledgment of the service.
There are trifling memorials which are almost human in their
influence, and in the tender thoughts they inspire. At peace with the
world and with themselves, Aaron and his wife conversed happily as
they worked; but malignant influences were at work, of which they were
soon to feel the shock.
Aaron had put his account books in the safe, and was turning the key,
when the sound of loud voices outside his shop reached their ears. The
voices were those of children, male and female, who were exercising
their lungs in bass, treble, and falsetto. Only one word did they
utter.
"Jew! Jew! Jew!"
Rachel started up in alarm, her hand at her heart. Her face was white,
her limbs were trembling.
"Jew! Jew! Jew!"
Aaron put the key of the safe in his pocket, and laid down his pipe.
His countenance was not troubled, but his brows were puckered.
"Jew! Jew! Jew!"
"It is wicked! it is wicked!" cried Rachel, wringing her hands. "Oh,
how can they be so cruel!"
Aaron's countenance instantly cleared. He had to think, to act, for
her as well as for himself. With fond endearments he endeavoured to
soothe her; but her agitation was profound, and while these cries of
implied opprobrium continued she could not school herself to calmness.
Not for herself did she fear; it was against her dear, her honoured
husband that this wicked demonstration was made, and she dreaded that
he would be subjected to violence. Stories of past oppressions,
accounts she had read in the newspapers of Jew-baiting in other
countries, flashed into her mind. To her perturbed senses the voices
seemed to proceed from men and women; to Aaron's clearer senses they
were the voices of children, and he divined the source of the insult.
Rachel sobbed upon his breast, and clasped him close to protect him.
"Rachel, my love, my life!" he said, in a tone of tender firmness. "Be
calm, I entreat you. There is nothing to fear. Have you lost
confidence in your husband? Would you increase my troubles, and make
the task before me more difficult than it is? On my word as a man, on
my faith as a Jew, I will make friends of these foolish children, in
whose outcries there is no deep-seated venom--I declare it, none. They
do not know what they are doing. From my heart I pity them, the young
rascals, and I will wage a peaceful war with them--yes, my life, a
peaceful war--which will confound them and fill them with wonder. I
will make them respect me; I will enrich them with a memory which,
when they are men and women, will make them think of the past with
shame. I will make all my enemies respect me. If you will help me by
your silence and patience, I will turn their bitterness into
thistledown, which I can blow away with a breath. Take heart, my
beloved, dear life of my life! Trust to me, and in the course of a few
days you shall see a wonder. There, let me kiss your tears away. That
is my own Rachel, whose little finger is more precious to me than all
the world beside. Good, good, my own dear wife! Do you think it is a
tragedy that is being enacted by those youngsters? No, no; it is a
comedy. You shall see, you shall see!"
She was comforted by his words; she drew strength from his strength;
she looked at him in wonder, as he began to laugh even while he was
caressing her, and her wonder increased when she saw that his eyes
fairly shone with humour.
"Have no fear, my heart," he said; "have not the slightest fear. I am
going to meet them--not with javelin and spear, but with something
still more powerful, and with good temper for my shield."
"Aaron," she whispered, "are you sure there is no danger?"
"If I were not sure," he answered, merrily, "I would remain snug in
this room. I am not a man of war; I am a man of peace, and with
peaceful weapons will I scatter the enemy. For your dear sake I would
not expose myself to peril, for do I not know that if I were hurt your
pain would be greater than mine? It is my joy to know it. You will
remain quietly here?"
"I will, my dear husband. But you will not go into the street?"
"I shall go no farther than the street door. I shall not need to go
farther."
He stopped to fill his pipe, and to light it; and then, with loving
kisses and a smile on his lips, he left her.
When he made his appearance at the shop door there was a sudden hush,
and a sudden scuttling away of the twenty or thirty children who had
congregated to revile him. He remained stationary at the door, smoking
his pipe, and gazing benignantly at them.
Their fears of chastisement dispelled by his peaceful attitude, they
stopped, looked over their shoulders, and slowly and warily came back,
keeping, however, at a safe distance from him. They found their voices
again; again the reviling cries went forth.
"Jew! Jew! Jew!"
"Good children! good children!" said Aaron, in a clear, mellifluous
voice. Then he put his pipe to his mouth again, and continued to
smoke, smiling and nodding his head as if in approval.
"Jew! Jew! Jew!"
"Good little boys and girls," said Aaron. "Bravo! bravo! You deserve a
reward. Every labourer is worthy of his hire."
He drew from his pocket three or four pennies, which, with smiling
nods of his head, he threw among them.
Instantly came into play other passions--greed, avarice, the
determination not to be defrauded of their due. Falling upon the
money, they scrambled and fought for it. Aaron threw among them two or
three more pennies, and their ardour increased. They scratched, they
kicked, they tumbled over each other; blows were given and returned.
Those who had secured pennies scampered away with them, and, with loud
and vengeful cries, the penniless scampered after them. In a very
little while they had all disappeared. To the victors the spoils, it
is said; but in this instance it really appeared as if victory had
ranged itself on Aaron's side.
Shaking with internal laughter, he remained on his steps awhile,
puffing at his pipe; then he put up the shutters, locked the street
door, put out the shop lights, and rejoined his wife.
"My dear," he said, and his voice was so gay that her heart beat with
joy, "that is the end of the first act. They will not come back
to-night."
CHAPTER XV.
THE BATTLE IS FOUGHT
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