Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: https://books.google.com/books?id=emlLN6DE1I
(Harvard University)
2. This book was also published as "Aaron the Jew. A Novel," in
London by Hutchinson & Co. in 1895.
A Fair Jewess
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
_Author of "The Last Tenant" Etc_.
NEW YORK:
THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Copyright, 1894, by
THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.
_All rights reserved_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. The Poor Doctor
II. Dr. Spenlove's Visitor
III. Dr. Spenlove Undertakes a Delicate Mission
IV. "One More Unfortunate"
V. "Come! We Will End It"
VI. The Friend in Need
VII. The Result of Dr. Spenlove's Mission
VIII. What was Put in the Iron Box
IX. Mr. Moss Plays his Part
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
XVIII. In the New House
XIX. The Doctor Speaks Plainly to Aaron Cohen
XX. A Momentous Night
XXI. The Temptation
XXII. The Living and the Dead
XXIII. Plucked from the Jaws of Death
XXIV. The Curtain Falls
XXV. After Many Years
XXVI. The Foundation of Aaron's Fortune
XXVII. The Farewell
XXVIII. Revisits Gosport
XXIX. What Shall be Done to the Man whom the
King Delighteth to Honor?
XXX. The Honorable Percy Storndale
XXXI. The Spirit of the Dead Past
XXXII. Before All, Duty
XXXIII. A Cheerful Doctor
XXXIV. Ruth's Secret
XXXV. The Honorable Percy Storndale Makes an
Appeal
XXXVI. A Duty Performed
XXXVII. The Mother's Appeal
XXXVIII. A Mother's Joy
XXXIX. A Panic in the City
XL. "Can you Forgive me?"
XLI. A Poisoned Arrow
XLII. Retribution
A FAIR JEWESS.
CHAPTER I.
THE POOR DOCTOR.
On a bright, snowy night in December, some years ago, Dr. Spenlove,
having been employed all the afternoon and evening in paying farewell
visits to his patients, walked briskly toward 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 this, 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 practiced, 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? Oh,
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 smoldering away without kindling
the wood; the landlady knelt down, and with a skillful touch the flame
leaped 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 humor 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 lady. "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 a while 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 safeguarded 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 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 agonizing. 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 a while 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
homeward, 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 neighborhood, 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 dreaded being
recognized. 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 neighborhood 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 dare say I am to you."
"No, sir," she said; "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
will 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 honor; and meanwhile
I promise to ask no questions."
"I am deeply grateful to you, sir."
From that day he attended her regularly, and she was strengthened and
comforted by his considerate conduct toward 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 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 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
instill 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 there any other than a 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.