BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
"Aaron!"
"My beloved!"
"Is our darling beautiful?"
"Very beautiful--like you."
"You spoil me, dear; you think too much of me."
"It is not possible, Rachel. Without you my life would not be perfect;
without you I should be a broken man."
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she said, clasping his hand tight. "It is out
of my power to repay you for all your goodness to me."
"You repay me every moment of your life. Not for a throne would I
exchange my place by your side; not for a palace would I exchange my
humble home, with you to hallow it." Their lips met, and there was
silence in the room awhile.
"Dear husband, you are not disappointed that our child is a girl?"
"I am rejoiced that we have with us a daughter in Israel. What greater
happiness could I desire? When you are strong, when I hear your
footsteps about the house again, all will be well."
A holy joy dwelt in her face. "My darling, my darling!" she murmured,
as she held the sleeping babe to her breast. "I had a fear, but it is
gone, a fear that our precious one would be deprived of sight. What
happiness entered my heart when the doctor told me that her eyes were
bright and beautiful, and that she could see! I was fearful that my
affliction might be visited upon her. It would have broken my heart.
But I am blessed--I am happy; our child can see the light, the green
fields, the flowers. If only the gracious Lord will not take her, if
only He will spare her to live to an honoured old age!"
"He will, He will, my beloved! We must not talk any more. Sleep and
grow strong."
He sat by her bedside in silence, gazing upon her face, which was as
the face of an angel, and then he stole softly downstairs. He had much
to occupy his thoughts; Rachel's danger happily passed, as he hoped,
he could turn his attention to his worldly affairs, which, indeed,
being at a desperate pass, would have forced themselves to the front
under any circumstances. By the doctor's orders he had been compelled
to make certain purchases which had not only emptied his purse, but
had driven him to the necessity of parting with two or three articles
of jewellery which he and Rachel possessed. These proceeds gone he was
an absolute beggar.
Never in his life had he been placed in so serious a position.
Difficulties had been encountered and confronted with courage and
success, times of embarrassment had been tided over, losses had been
made good, and he had fought his way cheerfully; but now his heart
sank within him at the prospect that was opening out. Rachel needed
not only care and unremitting attention, but delicacies in the shape
of food, to keep up her strength. Nourishing soups, a glass of port
wine, a chicken--these were no trifles to a man in Aaron's position;
and, unable to afford the regular services of a servant, he had to
look after these matters himself, to perform domestic work, to cook,
and to keep the whole house in order. The nurse's attention was
devoted solely to the sick-room, and he could not therefore look to
assistance from her. Prissy made her appearance daily, but Aaron
dismissed her quickly, feeling the injustice of accepting services for
which he could not pay. It was no easy matter to get rid of Prissy,
who was not only willing but anxious to remain, and she feebly
protested against being turned away so unceremoniously. Her protests
would have been more vigorous had she not entertained a certain awe of
Aaron's strength of character, before which she, as it were, was
compelled to prostrate herself. Thus Aaron, from force of circumstance
and from his inherent sense of justice, was thrown entirely upon his
own resources.
Counting the money in his purse he calculated that it was sufficient
to last for nine or ten days. In four days the nurse would take her
departure, and then he and Rachel and their babe would be left alone
in the house. At the expiration of less than a week after that he must
be prepared to face the most serious difficulties. He had friends in
London, to whom he had already written, and had received replies of
regret that they were unable to assist him. Mr. Moss had been so good
a friend that he hardly dared appeal again to him, and he resolved to
leave it to the last moment. With a troubled heart, and hardly having
the strength to hope against hope, he went about the house and
attended to his duties. The four days passed, the nurse, having taken
her leave of Rachel, came down to Aaron to receive her wages, and bid
him good-bye. He paid her with a sad smile, and thanked her for her
services. The "good-day" exchanged, she lingered a moment. With quick
apprehension he divined why she delayed.
"You have something to say to me, nurse, about my wife."
"Yes, Mr. Cohen, I have," she replied; "and I am glad you have
mentioned it, as I did not know how to bring it out." She paused
again.
"Well, nurse?"
"I think you ought to know, Mr. Cohen, that your wife is not so well
as you suppose."
"Nurse!"
"She keeps it from you, sir, and has begged me not to alarm you, but
it is my duty. I should never forgive myself if I went away without
speaking. No, sir, she is far from well, and is not getting on as she
ought. She grows weaker and weaker--and baby, too, is not thriving. It
is that which keeps Mrs. Cohen back."
"What can be done, nurse?" asked Aaron, the agony of his feelings
depicted on his countenance. "Tell me--only tell me!"
"It isn't for me to say, Mr. Cohen. If I were you I would ask the
doctor to speak plainly."
"I will, I will. Nurse, does she suffer?"
"She's just the one to suffer, sir, and to say nothing. It would be a
dreadful thing for you, sir, if----" But here the woman stopped
suddenly and bit her lip. She had said more than she intended.
"Good-day, sir, and I hope we may all be wrong."
He caught her arm. "No, no, nurse. I will beg the doctor to speak
plainly to me; but he will not be here till to-morrow, and I cannot go
to him and leave my wife and child alone in the house. Finish what you
were about to say. 'It would be a dreadful thing if----'"
"Well, sir, it is best to face the truth. If your poor lady was to
die."
"Great God! There is danger, then?"
"I am afraid there is, sir. Don't take on so, sir, don't! I am sorry I
spoke."
"You have done what is right," Aaron groaned.
"We must all of us be prepared, sir; trouble comes to all of us."
"Alas, it is a human heritage! But you do not know what this means to
me--you do not know what it means to me."
"Perhaps I have made things out worse than they are; I hope so, I am
sure. But you ask the doctor, sir, and don't give way. I shall think
of your lady a good deal when I'm gone."
With that, and with a sympathetic look at him, the woman departed.
At length, at length, the truth had been spoken; at length, at length,
he knew the worst. It was as if a sentence of death had been
pronounced. His Rachel, his beloved wife, the tenderest, the truest
that man had ever been blessed with, was to be taken from him. His
child, also, perhaps; but that was a lesser grief, upon which he had
no heart to brood. His one overwhelming anxiety was for Rachel, who,
as it now seemed to him, was lying at death's door in the room above.
He had some soup ready, and he took a basin up to her.
"Can you drink this, dear?"
"I will try."
He assisted her to rise, and put a pillow at her back. As he fed her
he watched her face, and he saw that it had grown wan and thin. It was
well for both of them that she could not see him; the sight of his
agony would have deepened her sufferings and added to his own. With
wonderful control he spoke to her with some semblance of cheerfulness,
and his voice and words brought a smile to her lips. So through the
day he ministered to her, and every time he left her room his fears
grew stronger. He did not expect the doctor till the following day,
and he was startled and alarmed when he made his appearance at
nightfall.
"I happened to be passing," he said to Aaron, "and I thought I would
drop in to see how we are getting along."
When they came down from the sick-room Aaron observed a graver
expression on his face.
"It is unfortunate that you have no nurse, Mr. Cohen," he said; "your
wife needs constant care and watchfulness."
"She will have it, doctor. Is she any better, sir? How is she
progressing?"
"She is still the same, still the same, no better and no worse."
"It is not in her favour, doctor, that she remains the same?"
"No, I cannot conscientiously say it is. At this stage a little
additional strength would be of great assistance to her. Nature's
forces require rallying; but we will hope for the best, Mr. Cohen."
"We will, doctor, but will hope avail?"
His sad voice struck significantly upon the doctor's ears. "Perhaps
not, but it is a consolation."
"There are griefs, sir, for which there is no consolation. I cannot
wrest my thoughts from the selfish view. There are sorrows that come
so close home as to take complete possession of us."
"It is human, Mr. Cohen, it is natural; but we must not shut out
resignation, fortitude, submission."
"Doctor, I implore you to conceal nothing from me. It will be
merciful."
"What is it you wish to know?"
"Tell me exactly how my wife and child are, so that I may be
prepared"--his voice faltered--"for the worst."
"You do not know, then?"
"I fear--but I do not know."
"We doctors have frequently hard duties to perform, Mr. Cohen, duties
which to others appear cruel. I will speak plainly; it will be best.
It is due to your wife's gentle and loving nature that I have not done
so before, and I yielded to her imploring solicitations, deeming it
likely that you would discover the state of the case from your own
powers of observation. Mr. Cohen, I have rarely had so sad and
affecting an experience as I find here. It would be wrong for me to
say that your wife is not in danger; she has been in danger for some
days past, and it is only an inward moral strength that has supported
her through the crisis. Physically she is very weak, spiritually she
is very strong. She has still a vital power which, under certain
conditions, will be of immense assistance to her, which will enable
her--so far as it is in human power to judge--to pull through. You
will gather from my words that her safety, nay, her life, depends not
so much upon herself as upon others; upon you to some extent, but to a
much greater extent upon her babe. It is her deep love for you both
that has sustained her, that still sustains her. Were anything to
happen to either of you I should fear the gravest results. It would
react upon her, and in her delicate state there would be no hope."
"I am strong and well bodily, doctor; nothing is likely to happen to
me. Her danger, then, lies in our child?"
"You have clearly expressed it. Her life hangs upon the life of her
child. So fine and delicate are her susceptibilities, so profound is
her love for those who are dear to her, that I, a doctor, who is
supposed to be nothing if he is not scientific, am compelled to
confess that here my learned theories are at fault. I will no longer
disguise from you that her life hangs upon the balance."
"And our child, doctor, how is it with her?"
"I can answer you with less certainty. Something of the delicate
susceptibilities of the mother has in the course of nature entered her
child's being. The baby is not strong, but she may grow into strength;
it is as yet a problem to be solved, and a physician's skill is almost
powerless to help to a happy issue. Hope, Mr. Cohen, hope; and in
bidding you hope, and in explaining matters to you, I have not said
all that it is necessary for me to say. There remains something more."
"One question first, doctor," said Aaron, in a hushed voice; "if our
child lives, there is hope that my wife will live?"
"A strong hope; I speak with confidence."
"And if our child dies?"
"The mother will die. Forgive me for my cruel frankness."
"It is the best kindness you can show me. You have something more to
tell me."
"Something almost as cruel, but it must be spoken. Mr. Cohen, your
wife has been severely tried; the shock of the fire, the shock of her
sudden blindness, both coming so close upon her expected confinement,
have left their effects upon her. If things take a favourable turn
with her it will be imperative, in the course of the next three or
four weeks--earlier if possible, and if she can be removed with
safety--that you take her to a milder climate, where she can be nursed
into permanent' strength. We are going to have a severe winter, and I
will not answer for its effects upon her. From three or four weeks
hence till the spring in a warmer atmosphere, where there are no fogs
or east winds, will be of invaluable service to her, will set her up
probably for many years to come. You must recognise this yourself, and
if by any possibility or sacrifice you can manage it, you must do so."
"Is it vitally necessary, doctor?"
"You have used the right word--it is vitally necessary. And now,
good-night, Mr. Cohen. I leave my best wishes behind me."