Aaron the Jew: A Novel

"It is a fair retort," said the lawyer. "I beg you to believe that the views I have expressed are not mine, but Lord Storndale's, in whose interests I am acting. I am, as you say, an advocate-merely a mouthpiece, as it were-and I am bound to follow out my instructions. Your disapproval of mixed marriages gives me confidence that my mission has not failed, and it will be a satisfaction to Lord Storndale. May I take it that you will pursue the course with your daughter that he has taken with his son, and that you will forbid the union?"

"Have I not made myself sufficiently clear?" asked Aaron, with an inward rebellion against the evasion he felt himself compelled to practise.

"Yes, yes," said the lawyer, hastily, too astute to press for precise words. "And I may inform Lord Storndale that you distinctly disapprove of marriages between Jews and Christians?"

"You may."

Mr. Dillworthy, believing he had gained his point, wisely dropped the subject, and expressing his obligations to Aaron, rose to take his departure. Before he reached the door, however, he turned, and in a tone of courteous deference, asked if Mr. Cohen could spare him a few moments more. Aaron assenting, the lawyer resumed his seat, and taking a pocket-book from his pocket searched in it for a letter.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PAST

Aaron observed him anxiously. The disclosure that had already been made had so agitated him that he was apprehensive of further trouble.

"Ah! here it is," said the lawyer, opening the letter for which he had been looking; "I was afraid I had left it behind me. Excuse me a moment; I wish to refresh my memory."

He ran his eye over the letter, and nodded as he went through its points of importance.

"Does it concern the unhappy affair we have discussed?" inquired Aaron, unable to restrain his impatience.

"No," replied the lawyer; "I take it that is settled, and I trust, for the sake of both the families, that it will not be re-opened."

"I trust not."

"This is quite a different matter, and I hardly know how to excuse myself for troubling you with it. It is a sudden thought, for I came here with no such intention. You must thank your own reputation for it, Mr. Cohen; it is well known that you have never neglected an opportunity to do an act of kindness, and though what I am about to speak of has come to me in the way of business, the story contains elements so romantic and peculiar that it has strangely attracted me. The reference in the letter which induces me to think that you may be able to help me is that you are a gentleman of influence in your community, and have a wide acquaintance with your co-religionists. Perhaps I had better read the words. My correspondent says-'I know that there are peculiar difficulties in the search I intend to make upon my return home, but before my arrival you may be able to discover something which will be of assistance to me. Probably if you consult some kind-hearted and influential member of the Jewish race you may, through him, obtain a clue; or, failing this, you might employ a Jewish agent to make inquiries.' It is a lady who writes to me, and her letter comes from Australia. May I continue? Thank you. Let me tell you the story; it will interest you, and I will be as brief as possible. The letter is too long to read throughout." He handed it to Aaron. "It occupies, you see, fourteen closely written pages, and it is somewhat in the nature of a confession. If you wish, I will have a copy of it made, and will send it on to you to-morrow."

Aaron, turning over the pages, came to the superscription:

"I remain,"Yours truly,"Mary Gordon."

Truly this was a day of startling surprises to him. He recollected the name as that of the gentleman for whom, twenty years ago, Mr. Moss had undertaken the commission which had lifted him from beggary by placing in his hands a large sum of money to which in strict justice he was not entitled, but which, from fear that the deception he had practised might otherwise be discovered, he was compelled to accept. He had, as an atonement, expended in secret charities a hundred times the sum; but this did not absolve him from the responsibility. The spirit of the dead past rose before him, and he was overwhelmed with the dread possibilities it brought with it.

"I fear," said the lawyer, "that I have been inconsiderate in introducing the matter at the present moment. I will postpone it to a future occasion."

"Pray continue," said Aaron, whose burning desire now was to know the worst. "I have had an exciting day, but I will pay due attention to what you wish to impart to me."

"I appreciate your kindness. If you cannot assist me, you may recommend me to an agent whom I will employ. I noticed that you referred in the letter to the name of my correspondent, Mrs. Gordon; the inquiry is of a delicate nature, and it may be her wish that her name is not too freely mentioned-at all events, for the present. Her story is not an uncommon one, but it takes an extraordinary and unusual turn. She is now, according to her own account, a lady of considerable means; her husband has lately died, and she has come into a fortune. Some twenty odd years ago she was a young woman, and had two lovers, one of whom wooed her with dishonourable intentions, and by him she was betrayed. This occurred during the absence in Australia of the gentleman who had proposed to her, and whom she had accepted. He was a resident in Australia, and it was his intention to make his home there. While he was on his way to England, with the intention of making her his wife and returning with her to the colony, she discovered that she was about to become a mother. In despair she fled from London, where he expected to find her, and sought to hide her shame among strangers. The place she selected was Portsmouth, and there she went through a series of harrowing trials, and was reduced to extreme poverty. In her letter to me she makes no effort to disguise the misery into which she was plunged, and she is frank and outspoken in order that I may properly understand how it was that she was forced to abandon the child that was born in Portsmouth under most distressing circumstances. For it appears that when the suitor who wooed her honourably arrived in London and learned the story of her betrayal, he was still desirous to make her his wife. He traced her to Portsmouth, and found her there with her babe, who was then but a few days old. This would have induced most men to forego their honourable intentions; but Mr. Gordon, whose name she now bears, was an exception to the rule, and, through a gentleman who acted as a go-between, he made a singular proposition to her. It was to the effect that she should consent to give up her child entirely, and during his lifetime to make no effort to recover it; he undertook to find a respectable and comfortable home for the babe, and to make a liberal provision for it. This is the bare outline of his proposition, and I need not go further into it. So desperate was her position that she and her child at the time were literally starving; she had not a friend but Mr. Gordon, who was stern in his resolve not to befriend her unless she accepted the conditions he dictated; the gentleman who acted as a go-between had behaved very kindly to her, but could not assist her further. In these circumstances she made the sacrifice, and parted with her child, who from that day to this she has never seen. Mr. Gordon honourably fulfilled the terms of the agreement; a home was found for the child, and he married the lady, and took her to Australia, where she has resided for the last twenty years. It was part of the agreement that she should not be informed of the name of the people who adopted the child, and should not, directly or indirectly, make the least endeavour to obtain any information concerning it while her husband was alive. If he died before her she was free to act as she pleased in the matter. This has occurred, and the widow, who has had no children by her marriage, is bent upon recovering her child, who, I may mention, is a girl. The task is beset with difficulties, and may prove hopeless. Shortly stated, Mr. Cohen, this is the case as it at present stands."

"Is there a special reason," inquired Aaron, "for your applying to me for assistance?"

"Not exactly special; it is in a sense accidental, inspired by my visit this evening on the other matter we have spoken of. There are certain particulars in relation to Mrs. Gordon's search for her daughter which I have omitted. The arrangements for the future provision of the babe were carried out, I understand, by a firm of lawyers whose names Mrs. Gordon has been unable to ascertain; but she is acquainted with the name of the gentleman who in Portsmouth conveyed Mr. Gordon's proposition to her. This gentleman is Dr. Spenlove, who, leaving Portsmouth several years ago, has attained an eminent position in London. You may be acquainted with him."

"He was at my house to-day."

"Then you are on terms of intimacy with him."

"No. We met to-day for the first time."

"In her letter Mrs. Gordon refers me to Dr. Spenlove, and I have not yet communicated with him. The letter only reached me this morning, and I have not had time to see him."

"You have not explained why you apply to me."

"The explanation is simple. During her husband's lifetime Mrs. Gordon faithfully carried out her obligation, and, as it appears to me, no words passed between them on the subject of the child. In his last moments, however, he must have relented; unfortunately, he left it too late to give his wife the information she so eagerly desired; he could scarcely articulate, and all she could gather from him was that he had employed an agent to look after the child, and that this agent was of the Jewish persuasion. The conclusion is that he was a resident of Portsmouth, but he may not be living; and it has occurred to me that you, who have friends of your persuasion everywhere, may expedite the discovery by giving me the name and address of some old inhabitant who can put us on the track of Mr. Gordon's agent. When the lady arrives in England she will naturally go to Dr. Spenlove, who will doubtless assist her in her natural endeavour to obtain intelligence of the fate of her child. If you can also assist us you will earn a mother's gratitude."

"I will consider it," said Aaron, and his voice was troubled; "that is all I can promise at present."

"It is all we can expect of you. There is another peculiar feature in this strange case. Mrs. Gordon, before she left England, entrusted Dr. Spenlove with a metal casket in which she had deposited some memorials of interest; this casket was to be given to the man who undertook to bring up the child, on the understanding that it was to be handed to the young lady at the age of twenty-one (supposing, of course, that she lived to that age), or before that time to be returned to the mother if she came to claim it. The young lady, if she be living, is not yet twenty-one, and it is the mother's intention to recover this casket, if it be possible. It is to be hoped it fell into the hands of an honest man."

"It is to be hoped so," said Aaron, mechanically.

Mr. Dillworthy said in a kind tone, "It is not an opportune time to seek your aid in a cause in which you are not personally interested, when another subject, the welfare of a dear daughter, engrosses your attention. Pray forgive me, Mr. Cohen."

Aaron bent his head, and as the lawyer closed the door behind him, sank back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

CHAPTER XXXVI

BEFORE ALL, DUTY

He sat silent for many minutes, his mind in a state of chaos; but presently his native strength of character came to his aid, and he resumed the task which the entrance of Mr. Dillworthy had interrupted! In addition to the important meeting he had to attend that night, his presence was expected at the board of a Jewish charity, of which he was the founder. This meeting came first, and his colleagues could not proceed to business without him; he must not disappoint them. Before all, duty. The thought shaped itself in whispered words, which he repeated again and again, and their iteration brought to him a sense of their true significance. Duty had been a leading principle of his life, and in the part he had taken in public matters he had never neglected it, and had never studied his personal convenience. But he had now to consider the principle in its most comprehensive aspect, and he felt that its application to his private affairs was imperative in the conflicting interests in which he was engaged. This being so, what was his duty here at home in respect of his wife and the girl he had brought up as their daughter, and how should he perform it? Love played so vital a part in the consideration of this question that he could not thrust it aside. It was, indeed, its leading element. For years past he had lived in a fool's paradise, and time had crept on and on until suddenly he saw the flowers withering before him. He had been false to himself, he had worn a mask, and now it was to be torn aside; but this he could bear. How would Rachel bear it?

Unconsciously he had risen from his chair, and was pacing to and fro while he reflected. Pausing, he saw upon the table the papers he had been studying. The meeting of the Jewish society was of minor consequence, and required but little thought; the second meeting, however, was of vast importance, for there a decision was to be arrived at which would affect thousands of poor families and have a direct bearing upon the question of capital and labour. There had been a great strike in the building trade, and thousands of men had deliberately thrown themselves out of employment, choosing, in their adherence to a principle, what was almost next door to starvation. The strike had been brought about by a rival contractor, a Mr. Poynter, an employer of labour on an extensive scale, and a man as well known as Aaron himself. To say that these two were rivals does not necessarily imply that they were enemies, for that is a game that two must play at, and it was a game in which Aaron played no part. He did not approve of Mr. Poynter's methods: he went no further than that; and if he was called upon to express his opinion upon the subject he did so in a manner which robbed it of any personal application. Mr. Poynter, on the other hand, was nothing if he was not personal, and he hated Aaron with a very sincere and conscientious hate. He hated him because he had lost several profitable contracts, which Aaron had obtained; and this hatred may be applied in a general sense, because he hated every successful rival, great or small. He hated him because Aaron was genuinely respected by large bodies of working men, and had great influence with them; and this hatred may also be applied in a general sense, because he hated all employers of labour who were held by their workmen in higher respect than himself. He hated Aaron because he was a Jew; and this may certainly be applied in a general sense, because he had a bitter hatred of all Jews, and would have willingly subscribed liberally and joined in a crusade to hunt them out of the country. He did not subscribe to the Society for Promoting Christianity among the Jews, because to Christianise them would be to admit them upon terms of equality, and the idea was abhorrent to him. On no terms could a Jew be made the equal of a Christian. That a Jew could be a good man, that he could be a just man, that he could do anything without an eye to profit or self-aggrandisement-these, in his belief, were monstrous propositions, and no man of sense, certainly no true Christian, could seriously entertain them. Mr. Poynter was a Christian, a true Christian, regular in his attendance at church, and fairly liberal, also, in his charities, though his left hand always knew what his right hand did. And here he found another cause for hating Aaron. He heard his name quoted as a man of large benevolence, and he went so far as to declare that Aaron's charities were a means to an end. "He looks upon them as an investment," he said; "they bring him a good return. Did you ever know a Jew part with money without an eye to the main chance?" When he heard that it was generally reported that Aaron gave away in secret much more than he gave away in public, his comment was, "What is easier than to set such a rumour afloat? Any rich man can do it by an expenditure of ten pounds a year! If money is bestowed in secret, who is to know of it but the donor? If it becomes public, who could have spoken of it first but the donor? No one but a fool would be gulled by so transparent a trick!" These detractions were generally uttered to men who sympathised with the speaker, and they were not without effect. By which it will be seen that Aaron had enemies, as all men have. Mr. Poynter posed as a moral man, and it is the very essence of these usurpers of morality that each of them must stand alone, and that upon the pedestal he sets up there shall be no room for any other braggart. He was a married man, with sons and daughters, and a wife, who all looked upon the husband and father as a pattern. Whether his children followed the pattern or not does not concern this history, which has to do with the head of the family alone. Whatever a man may be in the prime of life, the earlier Adam, if it differ from the later, will very likely assert itself in the blood of his descendants, and this may have been the case with Mr. Poynter's children, despite the respect in which they held him. You come into contact with a sober-faced man whose distinguishing mark is one of intense respectability; you see him at home in the bosom of his family, whom he entertains with severely respectable platitudes; you hear his opinions on matters of current interest, a trial, a scandal in high life, tittle-tattle of the stage, the Court, the Church, and society in general. What an intensely respectable gentleman, what severely respectable views, what strict morality, what an estimable father of a family! Ah, but draw the curtain of years aside, and we behold another man-another man, yet still the same, a man about town, philandering, deceiving, lying, and playing the base part to serve his selfish pleasures. Where is the morality, where the respectability now-and which of the two is the true man?

Was this the case with Mr. Poynter? The course of events may possibly supply the answer to this question presently. Meanwhile, nothing is more certain to-day than that he is accepted as he presents himself. But, if in the past life of such a man as Aaron Cohen may be found an episode of his own creating upon which he looks with dismay, why might it not be so with such a man as Mr. Poynter?

In a country like England, where operations of magnitude are being continually undertaken, there is room for all who occupy the higher rungs of the ladder; it is only the lower rungs which are overcrowded, and which need clearing by means of emigration to lands where there is room for the toiling, suffering millions. But Mr. Poynter chose to believe that there was not room for Aaron and himself, and he nursed and fostered a venomous desire to drag Aaron down. This desire, indeed, had really become a disease with him, and had grown by what it fed on. He hunted about for the means, he asked questions. It was unquestionably true that there were Jews who had grown rich through dishonesty and usury, and Mr. Poynter did not stop to consider that this applied equally to Christians. Perhaps it was the knowledge of his own early life that made him think, "If I could find something in his past that would bring shame upon him-if I could only rake up something that would show him in his true light! It would be the commercial and social ruin of him. He would never be able to hold up his head again." He would gladly have paid for some such discovery.

At the present time he had special reasons for hate. One reason was that the strike in the building trade was affecting him seriously. He was engaged in large contracts, in the carrying out of which thousands of men were needed, and it was chiefly against himself that the strike was ordered by the unions. He was on the brink of great losses, and Aaron had been called in as a mediator and arbitrator. The strike at an end, and the masters the victors, he was safe, and more prosperous than ever; but every day that it was prolonged meant so many hundreds of pounds out of his pocket. His fate seemed to hang upon the final advice to the men which Aaron was to give, and his profits would be large or small according to the nature of that advice. He laid the credit of the strike at Aaron's door; for in their enterprises he and Aaron employed different methods. Aaron had pursued in England the course he had pursued in France. He paid his men liberally, gave them bonuses, even to a certain extent acknowledged them as co-operators. In Mr. Poynter's eyes this was a crime, for it struck at the very root of his prosperity. "He is a rabid socialist," Mr. Poynter said; "men of his stamp are a danger to society."

Another reason was that tenders had lately been called for works of exceptional magnitude, and he had entertained hopes of obtaining the contract. Again he was worsted by this insidious enemy. Within the last few hours he had heard that Aaron's tender had been accepted. He ground his teeth with rage. He could have undertaken the works in spite of the strike, for he had very nearly completed arrangements for the introduction of foreign workmen, whom he was determined to employ if the English workmen held out. There would be a row, of course, and the lower classes would cast obloquy upon him, for which he would have to thank his rival and enemy. When he heard that he had lost the contract he said to a friend, "I would give half I am worth to drag him down." And he meant what he said.

The last meeting of the strikers was now being held. It had been called for seven o'clock, and it was known that the discussion would occupy several hours. Aaron was not asked to attend this discussion, which was to be private, even the representatives of the press not being admitted. Eleven o'clock was the hour at which he was expected, and it was understood that he would bring with him certain propositions from the masters, which, with the workmen's views, were to be discussed, and a decision arrived at. To-morrow morning's papers would announce whether the strike was to be continued or was at an end.

He studied the papers before him-the arguments and statements of employers of labour, comparisons of wages here and in foreign countries, the comparative rates of living here and there, and the conflicting views of the living wage, documents of every description, among which were pathetic letters from wives of the strikers, imploring him to put an end to the strike. He had mastered them all, and was familiar with every detail, but he read them again in order to divert his attention for this night from his own private affairs. His mind must be free; he would think of them to-morrow. He had public duties to attend to. Before all, duty.

The words haunted him, and he was dismayed to find that all his efforts to concentrate his attention upon his public duties were vain. Pictures of the past presented themselves: he saw his home in Gosport; he saw Rachel lying in bed with her dead babe by her side; he saw himself engaged in the task of completing the guilty deception, changing the clothing of the infants, and giving his own child to a strange woman, – every incident connected with his sin was stamped indelibly upon his brain, and now rose vividly before him. Very well. He had half an hour to spare before he left his house for the Jewish meeting; he would devote the time to a consideration of his private affairs.

He gathered his papers, arranged them in order, and put them in his pocket. He dallied with them at first, but feeling that he was prolonging the simple task in order to shorten the time for serious thought, he smiled pitifully at his weakness, and completed it expeditiously.

In admitting Ruth into his household, in adopting her as a daughter he had undertaken a sacred responsibility. He was fully conscious of this twenty years ago in Gosport, and what he had done had been done deliberately. It was a question then of the sacrifice of a precious life. The doctor had stated the case very clearly. The pregnant words they had exchanged were in his memory now, and might have been spoken only a few moments since. "Her life," the doctor had said, "hangs upon the life of her child." "If our child lives," Aaron had asked, "there is hope that my wife will live?" "A strong hope," the doctor had answered. "And if our child dies?" asked Aaron. The doctor answered, "The mother will die."