BEFORE ALL, DUTY.
On this evening many pressing matters claimed his attention, and
before Mr. Dillworthy's visit he had intended to devote himself
entirely to them.
He took an active part in the dispensing of several Jewish charities,
and his personal attendance was necessary to a wise distribution of
their funds. Some of these charities were modest in the limited extent
of their aims, but they needed care and attention, and his presence
was always anxiously looked for by both the administrators and
recipients.
Meetings of two of the charities were to be held this evening, and
he had promised to preside at both. He must not disappoint them.
Before all, duty. That was the thought that came to him--before all,
duty, and it was only the iteration of it that brought a true sense
of its significance to his mind. Before all, duty, in these public
matters--but did it not also apply to private life? And if so, what
part in the strict adherence to the axiom did love occupy?
What was his duty here at home in respect of his wife and the girl he
had brought up as their daughter? He endeavored to thrust the
reflection aside, and drew forth some papers which bore reference to
the charities and to another matter of great public, importance which
had occupied him for weeks past, and which he was on the point of
bringing to a successful conclusion.
He strove now to concentrate his attention upon the papers, for he was
to attend a late night meeting at eleven o'clock at which a decision
was to be arrived at which was to affect thousands of poor families.
There had been a great strike in the building trade, and vast numbers
of men had voluntarily thrown themselves out of employment, and had
chosen what was almost next door to starvation in their adherence to a
principle. The strike had been brought about chiefly by Aaron's great
rival contractor, a Mr. Poynter, an employer of labor on a gigantic
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 farther than that.
On the other hand, Mr. Poynter 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
workingmen, and had great influence with them; and this hatred may
also be applied in a general sense, because he hated all employers of
labor 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.
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-aggrandizement--these 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
attendances 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 rumor 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 sympathized 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 they must stand alone, and that upon their
pedestal 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?
Aaron Cohen and he had been acquainted for many years, and at Aaron's
hands Mr. Poynter had received mortifications again and again. 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 had
nursed and fostered an ardent wish to drag Aaron down.
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 some
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 he was safe, 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
socialist," Mr. Poynter said; "men of his stamp are a danger to
society."
Another reason was that tenders had lately been called for on 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 nearly completed arrangements for the
introduction of foreign workmen, whom he was determined to employ if
the English workers 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 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, although he probably named a larger percentage than he would be
willing to pay.
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 labor, comparisons of wages here and in foreign
countries, the comparative rates of living here and there, 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
wished 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. He could think only of his beloved wife and of
Ruth. Very well. He had half an hour to spare before he left his house
for the Jewish meetings; he would devote the time to a consideration
of his private duty.
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 set it clearly before him.
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."
He recalled the agony of those hours, the sufferings through which
Rachel had passed with so much sweetness and patience, his poverty
and helplessness, the dark future before him. Then came the ray of
light--Mr. Moss, with the strange commission of the deserted child. He
had not courted it, had not invited it, he had had no hand in it. He
had regarded it as a message from Heaven.
What followed?
The death of his own babe, the calm and peaceful death, the young soul
taken to heaven, his beloved wife in an untroubled sleep by the side
of her dead babe. It was a visitation of God. Again, could he be
accused of having had a hand in it? Heaven forbid!
On the contrary, who could blame him for believing that it was a
divine direction of the course he was to take? And who was wronged?
Surely not the mother who had deserted her babe. Surely not the babe,
who had found a happy home. The wrong--and herein was the sting---was
to Rachel, whose life had been saved by the deceit. So far, then, was
he not justified?
But if before the committal of a sin we could see the consequences of
the sin--if he had seen the consequences of his--would he not have
paused and said: "It rests with God. Let it be as he wills. I will be
no party to the deceit"? In that case Rachel's life would have been
sacrificed. There was no human doubt of it. Rachel would have died,
and the blessings she had shed around her, the good she had been
enabled to do, the suffering hearts she had relieved, the light she
had brought into despairing homes, would never have been. Against a
little evil so much good. Against a slight error so much that was
sweet and beautiful.
But in these reflections he had taken into account only Rachel and
himself--only their two lives. How about Ruth herself?
He had never disguised from himself that there was much in Ruth's
character which was not in accordance with Rachel's views or his own,
which she did not assimilate with either of their natures. Being one
of his family in the eyes of the world, he had brought her up as a
Jewess. She was born a Christian. Was this not a crime of which she
had been made the victim? He had experienced great difficulties in her
education. He wished to correct the defect which exists in ninety-nine
English Jewesses out of a hundred--he wished her to pray in the Hebrew
tongue, and to understand her prayers.
To this end he himself had endeavored to teach her to read and
translate Hebrew. She would not learn. Even now as a woman she
understood but a very few words, and this scanty knowledge was
mechanical. A parrot might have learned as much. She had an aversion
to Jewish society.
As a child, when she was necessarily in leading strings, she was taken
by Rachel to the synagogue on every Sabbath day, but when she began to
have intelligent ideas she rebelled; she would not go, and Rachel
walked to the house of God alone.
It was a grief to her that Ruth would not follow in her footsteps, and
she and Aaron had frequently conversed upon the subject.
"It was so with many Jewish women," Aaron said. "It would be wrong to
force her; she will find out her error by and by."
But Ruth never did, and Rachel suffered in silence.
There was another sorrow. Between their son Joseph and Ruth did not
exist that love which brother and sister should bear each other.
Joseph was ready with demonstrative affection, but Ruth did not
respond. Aaron had taken note of this, but he was powerless to remedy
it, and the lad, who was as solicitous as his father to spare the dear
mother pain, made no trouble of it.
Ruth respected and admired her reputed father, and in the feelings she
entertained toward him there was an element of fear, because of his
strength of character, but she did not love him as a child should. He,
knowing what he knew, found excuses for her. "It is in her blood," he
said to himself.
All this was hidden from Rachel, to whom Ruth was tender and kind. Who
could be otherwise to so sweet a woman? But Rachel did not know of
what she was deprived until Rose Moss began to make long visits to
their home. "Rose is like a daughter to me," she said, and only Aaron
was aware of the depth of meaning these simple words conveyed.
But now he had to consider the matter, not from his or Rachel's point
of view, but from Ruth's. She was a woman in her springtime, and love
had come to her, and she had held out her arms to it. And the man she
loved was a Christian.
It was not within his right to take into consideration that the man
she loved was a spendthrift and a scapegrace. The question had often
intruded itself, since she was grown to womanhood, whether he would
not be adding sin to sin by encouraging her to marry a Jew. She had
answered the question herself. What right had he to gainsay her? He
might, as a true and sincere friend, say to her: "This man will not
make you happy. He has vices and defects which will bring misery upon
your home. You must not marry him." But he had no right to say to her:
"You must not marry this man, because he is a Christian." It would be
a detestable argument for one in his position, and in hers, to
advance.
Then Mr. Dillworthy might be wrong in his estimate of the young man's
character. The only objection Lord Storndale had to the union was that
Ruth was a Jewess. But she was not a Jewess, and it was in his power
to go to the young man's father and make the disclosure to him. Lord
Storndale's natural reply would be: "Let it be clearly understood. You
have done this lady a grievous wrong. You are a wealthy man. Repair
the wrong by making a suitable settlement upon her. But it must be
publicly done, and the injustice of which you have been guilty must be
publicly acknowledged." The only answer he could make would be: "It is
just. I will do as you dictate."
What would be the effect as regarded himself? Among his
co-religionists he was held up as a pillar of the old Jewish faith.
His voice had been raised against apostasy; he had taken a decided
stand against the more liberal ideas of civilized life which prevailed
and were adopted by a large section of his race.
Even now he was pledged to deliver a public address against the
backsliding of the modern Jew, who was disposed to adapt his life to
the altered circumstances of the times. He had written his address,
and public attention had been drawn to the coming event. His arguments
were to himself convincing, and by them he hoped to stem the tide.
He had always been orthodox, and he hoped to prevail against the wave
of heterodoxy which was sweeping over modern Judaism. He had stepped
forward as a champion. In the light of the duty which properly
devolved upon him, how dare he, himself a transgressor, presume to
teach his brethren their religious duty? His sound judgment of things
which interested or affected him was due to his common sense, which,
he had been heard to say, was a rare quality.
"You are always right," Mr. Moss once said to him. "How is it?"
"If I form a correct opinion," he replied, with a smile, "it is
because I exercise my common sense. I do not judge from my own
standpoint."
He did this now. He put himself in the place of other men. He listened
to his own confession. He passed the verdict upon himself.
"This man has been living the life of a hypocrite. He has accepted
money for false services. Not in words, but by his acts, he has lied.
He has violated the canons of his religion. He has deceived his
wife--for money, which he pretends to despise. He has robbed a young
girl of her birthright. And he dares to preach to us of duty!"
Who would believe if he told the true story of his hard trial--if he
described the bitter tribulation of his soul when his beloved wife was
lying at death's door? He had counseled many men in their days of
struggle and temptation to be brave and do their duty. How had he
performed his in _his_ hour of temptation? No one would believe the
only story he could plead in extenuation of his sin. He would be
condemned by all.
And he was in the zenith of his fame. On this very day, when exposure
seemed to be approaching with swift and certain steps, he had been
honored as few men lived to be. If he felt pleasure in the position he
had won it was because it was a source of pride and pleasure to
Rachel. Was he, with his own hand, to destroy the ideal he had
created? Was this the plain duty that lay now before him?
"The carriage is at the door, sir."
It was a servant who interrupted his tortured musings. He had given
orders to be informed when his carriage was ready. With slow steps he
left his study.