DIVINE CONSOLATION.
The shock of this revelation was so overwhelming that for a few
moments Aaron was unable to speak. In the words of the prophet, "His
tongue clave to the roof of his mouth." His soul was plunged in
darkness, and a feeling of passionate rebellion racked his heart. That
upon his sweet and innocent wife should have fallen an infliction so
awful seemed to blot all brightness out of the world. Nay, more--it
seemed to blot out the principle of justice, to render it a mockery
and a snare. The sentiment which animated him was one of horror and
indignation, and he yielded to it unresistingly. What had Rachel done
to deserve the cruel blow? Not with a crown of sorrow but with a crown
of glory should she have been crowned. And was it not natural that he
should rebel against it? He was her champion, her protector, her
defender; she had no one else. Should he stand tamely by and show no
sense of the injustice which had been inflicted upon her!
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 is 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 faint-hearted 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 humor 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 incident he met with, in
the same spirit, 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. 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 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 bag of gold." Upon questions of right and wrong his good
sense and his rectitude led him unerringly to the just side, and when
his own interests were involved in a decision he was called upon to
make in such and 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 forever 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 inspired,
becomes a leader, a hero, a prophet; but in that man's heartstrings
are not entwined the tender fingers of wife and children. 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. 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. Let us
lift 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 prayer, but not in so loud a voice as usual; 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
leaped 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!"
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 endeavor can aid me. You will be
glad to hear, too, that the townspeople sympathize with us in our
trouble."
"I am very glad; it could hardly have been otherwise. Who that lives
to know you does not learn to honor 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 gayety.
"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 in his stocking feet, 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 causeth 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. Oh, 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, and 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."
And Rachel slept on, and dreamed of the child whose face she was never
to see upon earth.