Aaron the Jew: A Novel

Very, very rarely had Aaron been dominated by so stubborn a mood; very, very rarely had he allowed it to take possession of him; and never in a single instance on his own account. Mere worldly misfortune, however disastrous in its effect, he had invariably met with philosophic calm and fortitude. Many reverses had attended him, and he had borne them bravely, as a man should, as it was a man's duty to do. With a courage which may be said to be heroic had he accepted each successive stroke, and had immediately applied himself to the task of repairing the breach. No fainthearted soldier he, sitting down and weeping by the roadside when he received a wound. To be up and doing, that was his creed. These were but ordinary checks, which a man must be prepared to encounter in his course through life; weak indeed would he prove himself to be who did not at once set to work manfully and energetically to make the best, instead of the worst, of each rebuff. Aaron's keen gift of humour and his talent for justifiable device were of immense assistance to him in these encounters, and in his conversations with Rachel he was in the habit of throwing so droll a light upon the difficulties with which he was contending, that he lifted from her heart and from his own a weight which otherwise would have remained there and impeded his efforts. He treated every personal ailment which visited him, and every little accident he met with, in the same fashion, laughing away Rachel's distress, and bearing his pain without the least symptom of querulousness. "You seem almost to like pain, my dear," she had said. "There is pleasure in pain," he had answered; "think of the relief." Thus did he make the pack upon his shoulders easy to carry, and thus did he contribute to Rachel's enjoyment of life.

Over and above these lesser features in his character reigned the great factors truth and justice. Temptations he had had, as all men have, but he was, happily, so constituted that he had not to fight them down; they were destroyed in their suggestion. It was with him an impossibility to advance his own interests by deceit and subterfuge, to make money by cheating his neighbour. He took no credit to himself that he was never guilty of a meanness; it was simply that it was not in his nature to fall so low, and that he walked instinctively in the right path. He had a soul of pity for misfortune, and had frequently conversed with Rachel upon the doctrine of responsibility, arguing that children born of vicious parents should not be made accountable for their evil acts to the fullest extent. "It is an inheritance," he argued, "and it is not they who are wholly guilty. My parents gave me an inheritance of cheerfulness and good temper, and I am more grateful for it than I should be if they had left me a large bag of gold." Upon questions of right and wrong his good sense and his rectitude led him unerringly to the just side, and when he had a stake in a decision he was called upon to make in such or such an issue he never for a moment hesitated. To have benefited himself at the expense of justice would have been in his eyes a sin which was not to be forgiven. A sin of unconscious omission could be expiated, but a sin of deliberate commission would have weighed for ever on his soul. Could such a man as this, a devout and conscientious Jew, faithful every day of his life in the observances of his religion, with a firm belief in the mercy and goodness of the Eternal God, and with the principles of truth and justice shining ever before him, be guilty of such a sin? It will be presently seen.

So far himself, considered as an entity. Had he been alone in life, with no other life so welded into his own as to be inseparable from it, it is scarcely possible that he could have been guilty of a conscious wrong, for his soul would have risen in revolt against the suggestion. Had he been alone, misfortunes might have fallen upon him unceasingly, poverty might have been his lot through all his days, disease might have racked his bones-he would have borne all with tranquillity and resignation, and would have lifted up his voice in praise of the Most High to his last hour. Of such stuff are martyrs made; from such elements springs the lofty ideal into which, once in a generation, is breathed the breath of life, the self-sacrificing hero who sheds his blood and dies with a glad light on his face in the battle of right against might, in the battle of weak innocence against the ruthless hand of power. But Aaron was not alone; Rachel was by his side, leaning upon his heart, looking to him for joy, for peace, for happiness. And when he suffered, it was through her he suffered; and when he was oppressed with sorrow, it was through her he sorrowed. So keen was his sympathy with her, so intense was his love for her, that if only her finger ached he was in pain. We are but human after all, and no man can go beyond a man's strength. Legends are handed down to us of Divine inspiration falling upon a man who, thus spiritually directed and inspired, becomes a leader, a hero, a prophet; but in that man's heartstrings are not entwined the tender fingers of wife and children. He communes with nature, he hears voices in the forest, the rustling leaves whisper to him, the solemn trees, rearing their stately forms to the dark skies, bear a message to his soul, he sees visions in the dead of night; but he hears not the voice of his beloved, he beholds not the angelic face of his sleeping child in its crib. As blades of grass, which we can rub into nothingness between our fingers, force their upward way to air and sunshine through adamantine stones, as rocks are worn away by the trickling of drops of water, so may a man's sublimest qualities, so may a man's heart and soul, be pierced and reft by human love.

It was this absorbing sentiment that agitated Aaron when Rachel revealed to him that she was blind, it was this that struck him dumb.

Meekly and patiently she stood before him-he had fallen back a step-and waited for him to speak. He did not utter a word.

Presently her sweet voice stole upon his senses.

"Aaron, my beloved, why are you silent? why do you not speak to me?"

He lifted his head and groaned.

"Ah, do not groan, dear husband," she continued. "It is for me you suffer; but I am not suffering-did I not tell you so? It is, indeed, the truth. Look into my face; you will see no pain there. All is well with us; all will be well with us; the future is glad and bright. And remember, dear, I need you more than ever now. Next to God, you are my rock, my salvation. He has cast this affliction upon me out of His goodness and wisdom. Humbly, gratefully, I thank Him. Let us lift up our voices in His praise."

And from her lips flowed, in the ancient tongue, the sublime prayer:

"Hear, O Israel, the Eternal, our God, the Eternal is One. And thou shalt love the Eternal thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. And these words which I command thee this day shall be in thine heart. And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall speak of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up."

An angel's voice could not have been more melodious and sweet, and the beauty of the prayer acquired truly a Divine strength through Rachel's intoning of the pious words. But it was not only her voice that resounded in the room. The moment she commenced to pray rebellion against Fate's decree melted out of Aaron's heart, and pity took its place. He was restored to his better self. Holding her hand, he joined her in the prayer, but not in so loud a voice as usual; she was the teacher now, and he the pupil; he followed her, as it were, and was led by her; and when the prayer was ended her head sank upon his breast, and her arms entwined themselves around his neck.

"You are resigned, my dear?" she whispered.

"I bow my head," he answered. "The Lord's will be done."

"I could not keep it from you any longer. I was blind when I opened my eyes in the house of the good people who gave me shelter; I was blind when you sat by my side there; but I feared to tell you; I wished to speak to the doctor first. It was so strange, so sudden, that I hoped it would not last. I awoke with the cry of fire in my ears, and, as I leapt from bed, the bright glare of the flames seemed to strike sight out of my eyes. I fainted, and remember nothing more, only that when I opened my eyes again I could not see. It was merciful that there was no pain. Oh, my dear husband, I am so sorry for you; so sorry, so sorry!"

"Rachel, dear Rachel, dear life of my life, it is not for me you should grieve-it is for yourself."

"No, dear love, I do not grieve for myself. Should I not rather rejoice? Because I know, I know," – she put his hand to her lips and kissed it, then held it to her heart-"that you will bear with me, that I shall not be a trouble to you."

"A trouble to me, Rachel! You are dearer to me than ever, more precious to me than ever. Oh, my dear! I never loved you as I love you now!"

"How sweet, how sweet!" she murmured. "How beautiful is life! No woman was ever blessed as I am blessed! And soon, dear love, we shall have with us another evidence of the Lord's great mercy. Our child, our darling, will be here! Ah, what happiness!"

She hid her face upon his breast.

Was there already in her heart the shadow of an abiding sorrow springing from the knowledge that she would never see the face of her unborn child, that she would never be able to look into the beautiful eyes which in a short time would open upon the world? Aaron had hoped that baby's eyes would be like hers, but she would never know from personal evidence whether they were or not. If such a sorrow was making itself felt she kept it to herself and guarded it jealously, lest Aaron should participate in it. Her face was radiant as they continued to converse, and by her loving words she succeeded in thoroughly banishing from Aaron's soul the rebellious promptings by which he had first been agitated.

Thus did Rachel, to whom the light of the universe was henceforth as night, become the divine consoler in the home.

"I am tired, dear. Will you lead me to our room?"

He took her in his arms and carried her up, as he would have carried a child; and this new office of love, and indeed everything he did for her, drew them spiritually closer to each other.

When she was in bed she asked him to tell her about the fire, and if he would be a great loser by it. He softened the loss, said that he was well insured, that they had a good friend in Mr. Moss, and that it would not be long before he was On his feet again. Content and happiness were expressed on her face as she listened.

"It will be a comfort to you to know," he said, "that no one will lose anything by me; every demand will be met, every penny will be paid. In my mansion" – his study of the law and his devotion to his faith led him occasionally into a biblical phrase-"are three stars. First, the Eternal God; next, you, my beloved; next, our good name."

"That is safe in your keeping, dear," she said.

"And will ever be, so far as human endeavour can aid me. You will be glad to hear, too, that the townspeople sympathise with us in our trouble."

"I am very glad: it was proved by the kindness that was shown to me when I was taken out of the fire. Who that lives to know you does not learn to honour you?"

She held his hand in a tender clasp, and kissed it repeatedly.

"I will tell you something. I am beginning already to acquire a new sense. When you look at me I feel it. You are looking at me now. When your eyes are not on my face I know it. I shall learn a good deal very soon, very soon! I do not intend to be a burden to you."

This was said with tender gaiety.

"You can never be that." He touched her eyes. "Henceforth I am your eyes. It is a poor return; for you, Rachel, are my very life."

"Dear husband! Dear love! Kiss me. I want to fall asleep with those words in my ears. You will not stop up long?"

"I will go down and put out the lights and see that all is safe. Then I will come up at once. Sleep, my life, sleep!"

He passed his fingers caressingly across her forehead, and she fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

He stole softly from the room, and went down and made the house safe; then he returned to the bedroom.

The smile had left Rachel's lips; her face was paler, and there was a worn look on it. A terrible fear entered his heart.

"O God! if she should die! O God! if I should lose her!"

He took his silk taleth from its bag, and wrapping it around him, put on his hat, and stood and prayed, with his face to the east: -

"How precious is Thy mercy, O God! The children of men take refuge under the shadow of Thy wing. They are satisfied with the richness of Thy house, and Thou causest them to drink of the stream of Thy delight. For with Thee is the fountain of life; by Thy light only do we see light. O continue Thy mercy unto them who know Thee, and Thy righteousness to the upright of heart!"

One line in the prayer he repeated again and again-

"For with Thee is the fountain of life; by Thy light only do we see light."

And so he prayed till midnight, and the one supplication into which all else was merged was sent forth with touching pathos from his very heart of hearts-

"O Lord of the universe, Giver of all good, humbly I beseech Thee to spare my beloved! Take her not from me! Let her live, let her live, to bless my days! Let not darkness overwhelm me. It is Thy hand that directs the fountain of life."

His prayers ended, he sat by the bedside watching his wife's face, and listening to her breathing.

And Rachel slept on, and dreamt of the child whose face she was never to see on earth.

BOOK THE THIRD

THE TEMPTATION AND THE FALL

CHAPTER XVIII

UNTO THEM A CHILD IS BORN

Three weeks of great anxiety followed. Despite the courage with which Rachel had borne the sudden visitation of blindness, her physical strength did not hold out, and, by the doctor's orders, she kept her bed.

During these weeks Aaron had enough to do to put his affairs in order, and he had the additional trouble that matters turned out worse than he had anticipated. For security's sake, and to set the borrowers at ease, he transferred all the pledges that had been saved to another pawnbroker; those which were destroyed he considered himself bound in honour and common honesty to make good. He made no demur to the claims that were brought against him, but settled them promptly, and settled, also, all his trade debts. What with all this harassing business and his domestic sorrows, he was occupied day and night; but he was careful that Rachel should not suspect how bad things were with him.

The doctor came daily, and Rachel's time was very near. At every visit Aaron watched his face for hopeful news of Rachel's condition; but the doctor volunteered no information, and only gave instructions to do this or that. This reticence was torture to Aaron, and one day he begged the doctor to conceal nothing from him.

"There is nothing to conceal," said the doctor. "Her state is critical; but what else could be expected? Consider what she has passed through."

"I think of nothing else, of nothing else!" said Aaron, his fingers working convulsively, for a question was trembling on his lips which he felt he must ask, but to which he could scarcely give utterance.

At length he found courage.

"Doctor, will she live?"

The doctor bit his lip as he gazed upon Aaron's misery.

"Whatever lies in my power shall be done, but human skill and science have their limitations. We are all in God's hands."

And with these words, and a look of compassion, he departed.

Aaron stood motionless awhile. We are all in God's hands! How often has that been said, and how terrible is its import! Human science and skill have done all it is in their power to do, the rest is with God. Aaron reasoned the true meaning away.

"Yes, we are all in God's hands," he murmured; "old and young, rich and poor, the strong and the feeble alike. It is so with one and all. I thank God he did not tell me to prepare for the worst!"

He drew comfort, not from what was said, but from what was not said. He continued to commune with himself.

"How can she be otherwise than weak? And doctors sometimes think it their duty not to look on the brightest side. My Rachel will be spared to me. God will not take her away."

He went up to her. A nurse he had engaged was in the room; she could come for only a week, her services at the end of that time being required elsewhere.

She put her fingers to her lips as he entered.

"Is she asleep?" he asked, in a whisper.

She nodded in reply; but when he approached the bed, Rachel held out her hand to him.

"Nurse thought you were asleep, dear," he said, bending down to her.

"I may have been," she answered. "I fall off into a doze a dozen times an hour, it seems, but I always know when you are near me."

She put her hand to her head.

"Are you in pain, my life?"

"Oh no. I am rather weak, but I shall get strong soon. Whenever I doze I see our dear one, the blessing God is sending us. Aaron, dear love, do not be anxious for me. I shall hold our darling in my arms."

The nurse gave him a warning look not to encourage her to talk, and, understanding the silent monition, he kissed Rachel tenderly, and went down to muse and pray.

The settlement of all his debts had left him almost a beggar. He owed not a shilling, except to the doctor, who had said nothing about his account; the week's money for the nurse was carefully put away: he could not have afforded to engage her for a longer term, for all the money he had left in the world amounted to barely two pounds. What was he to do when that was spent? Commence business again upon borrowed capital? That seemed to be the only course open to him. But who would lend it to him? It was no small sum that would be required, and all his friends, with the exception of Mr. Moss, were poor. Mr. Moss was comparatively a new friend, and he could not expect him to render such substantial assistance without security. And what security could he offer but his own bare word? There were money-lenders; the newspapers teemed with their advertisements. It would be folly to apply to any one of them for so large a loan as fifty pounds, which sum, he calculated, was the least he could begin business again with; he would be sure to be met with a refusal. But what was he to do?

He thrust these worldly contemplations aside, and indeed it was impossible for him to dwell upon them with a heavier sorrow at his door, and with a dread crisis so very near. He trusted in God-yes; but he knew that a man must work for his livelihood. Well, he would work; he was willing and ready for any honest occupation; but he must wait-for what? He became confused. The pressing worldly necessity, with its exacting and imperative demands, and the overwhelming human sorrow were contending for supremacy. He stepped into the passage, and softly ascending the stairs, listened at Rachel's door. As he stood there the nurse came out.

"Go for the doctor," she whispered.

He flew. There was no conflict now in his mind between the two extremities; his worldly trouble was forgotten; he thought only of his beloved wife and their unborn child. The doctor was not in, but was expected in a quarter of an hour, and would be sure to come round at once. Leaving an urgent entreaty not to delay a moment, Aaron hastened back to his house, and on the road found himself intercepted by Prissy, who had grown taller but no stouter since the night upon which she introduced herself to him. By reason of her increased height she looked thinner and scraggier than ever; as usual, Victoria Regina, who had grown plumper and rounder, was in the girl's arms.

"Mr. Cohen, Mr. Cohen!" cried Prissy.

"I can't stop now," he replied, passing her quickly.

But Prissy's long legs were as active as his, and though Victoria Regina was a heavy weight to carry, she kept pace with him.

"D'yer know wot some people's saying about yer, Mr. Cohen?"

"Never mind, never mind, my good girl; I have no time to listen."

"They're saying, everybody is," persisted Prissy, "that yer as good as ruined, and that yer 'aven't got a shilling left to pay yer way with."

"What does it matter what some people say, Prissy? There are good and bad, just and unjust. Never listen to tittle-tattle."

"'Ow's it to be 'elped, Mr. Cohen, when it's dinged in yer ears? Mr. Whimpole, he ses he sor wot was coming all along, and when I ups and gives 'im a bit o' my mind he slaps my face he does, and pushes me into the gutter. I don't mind that, but no one's going to speak agin yer when I'm by. It ain't likely after all yer've done for me."

"You are a good girl, but take no notice of what Mr. Whimpole says. There are many here who still have a good word for me."

"Plenty, sir, and that's wot makes Mr. Whimpole mad; he can't make everybody think as he wants 'em to. There's plenty as speaks up for yer. You look ill, Mr. Cohen. I 'ope missis is no wus, I do."

"She is still weak and ill, Prissy; but she will get well soon-eh, Prissy? – she will get well soon?"

He cast a swift anxious look upon her; even from the lips of this poor girl he sought the comfort of a consoling word.

"Yes, sir, she's sure to. Don't you worry yerself, Mr. Cohen. Gawd won't let nothink wrong 'appen to 'er. He knows what He's up to, Gawd does. Wot did Mrs. Cohen say 'erself to me more nor once? 'Be a good gal,' she ses, 'and tell the truth, and be as kind as yer can to everybody, and Gawd'll look after yer.' And ain't she good, sir, and does she ever say anythink but the truth, and ain't she as kind as kind can be to everybody about 'er? Why, it's in everybody's mouth, 'xcept Mr. Whimpole's! Nobody 'xcept 'im's got a word to say agin 'er. She's sure to get well, Mr. Cohen, and then yer'll let me see 'er, sir, won't yer?"

"Yes, Prissy, yes," said Aaron, laying his hand for a moment on Prissy's tangled hair. He had reached his house, and was unlocking the door. "She will get well, please God, and you shall see her. Thank you, thank you, my good girl; and now run away."

"I'm off, Mr. Cohen," said Prissy; "this is going to bring yer luck, it is." And slipping a large paper parcel into his hand, she scuttled away.

He did not know what it was he held until he reached his room, and then he examined it. When he removed the paper he saw a horseshoe and two penny pieces which had been rubbed bright with sand, so that they shone like gold. Something shone in Aaron's eyes as he gazed at the humble offering. He smiled wistfully, and muttering, "It is an omen of good fortune; God bless you, little Prissy!" put the shoe and the pennies carefully aside. Then he stepped softly up the stairs, and gently tapped at the bedroom door.

"How is she, nurse?"

"Bearing up wonderfully, sir."

"Thank God! The doctor will be here presently. I will wait for him at the street door."

He had not long to wait; in a very short time he saw the welcome form turning the corner, and the doctor, with a friendly, smiling nod, passed into the house.

Aaron paced to and fro in the room below, and waited for the word that was to bring joy or despair to his soul. He had put his slippers on, in order that his footsteps should not be heard. In such times of tribulation his thoughts were invariably directed to the Divine footstool; as with all devout Jews, prayer was part of his life, and never, since the day of his birth, had he prayed so earnestly and fervently as now. Every few moments he paused in the supplications he was sending forth, and went into the passage and listened. He heard no sound, not a sob, not a cry; and after remaining in the passage several minutes, he returned to his room and resumed his prayers. His heart was with Rachel, and he knew that she was thinking of him. In the light of the perfect love that existed between them, in the anxious expectancy of these lagging minutes, what mattered poverty or riches, what mattered mere worldly misfortune? A stout spirit, a strong shoulder to the wheel, and all would be well; thus much could a right-minded man do with a cheerful spirit. But here and now he was helpless, impotent; here and now was impending a graver issue, which he was powerless to influence. A life-the life of his beloved-was hanging in the balance; and all he could do was to wait, and hope, and pray.