OVER A BRIGHT CLOUD A BLACK SHADOW FALLS.
Mr. Moss then proceeded to unfold the nature of the mission he had
undertaken for Mr. Gordon, with the particulars of which the reader
has been made acquainted in the earlier chapters of this story. Aaron
listened with attention and astonishment: with attention because of
his anxiety to ascertain whether the proposal was likely to extricate
him from his cruel position, with astonishment because the wildest
stretch of his imagination would not have enabled him to guess the
purport of the singular disclosure. When Mr. Moss ceased speaking the
afflicted man rose and paced the room in distress and disappointment.
"I told you I should startle you," said Mr. Moss, with a shrewd
observance of his friend's demeanour, and, for the good of that
friend, preparing for a battle. "What do you say to it?"
"It is impossible--impossible!" muttered Aaron. "I told you also,"
continued Mr. Moss, calmly, "not to decide hastily or rashly. In the
way of ordinary business I should not, as I have said, have dreamt of
coming to you, and I should not have undertaken the mission. But the
position in which you are placed is not ordinary, and you are bound to
consider the matter not upon its merits alone, but in relation to your
circumstances. I need not say I shall make nothing out of it myself."
"Indeed you need not," said Aaron, pressing Mr. Moss's hand. "Pure
friendship has brought you here, I know, I know; but surely you must
see that it is impossible for me to assume the responsibility."
"I see nothing of the kind. Honestly and truly, Cohen, I look upon it
as a windfall, and if you turn your back upon it you will repent it
all your life. What is it I urge you to do? A crime?"
"No, no, I do not say that. Heaven forbid!"
"You are naturally startled and agitated. Cohen, you are a man of
intelligence and discernment. My wife has often said, 'If Mr. Cohen
were a rich man he would be one of the heads of our people.' She is
right; she always is. But there are times when a man cannot exercise
his judgment, when he is so upset that his mind gets off its balance.
It has happened to me, and I have said afterwards, 'Moss, you are a
fool': it happens to all of us. Let me put the matter clearly before
you. Have you ever been in such trouble as you are in now?"
"Never in my life."
"Misfortune after misfortune has fallen upon you. All your money is
gone; everything is gone; you can't get through this week without
assistance. You have tried all your friends, and they cannot help you;
you have tried me, and I can only offer you what will meet the
necessities of the next few days. It is known that you are badly off,
and you cannot get credit; if you could it would cut you to the soul,
because you know you would be owing money that there was no
expectation of your being able to pay. You would be ashamed to look
people in the face; you would lose your sense of self-respect, and
every fresh step you take would be a step down instead of up. Poor
Rachel is lying sick almost to death; she has a stronger claim than
ever upon your love, upon your wisdom. The doctor has told you what
she requires, and of the possible consequences if you are unable to
carry out his directions. Cohen, not one of these things must be lost
sight of in the answer you give to what I propose."
Great beads of perspiration were on Aaron's forehead as he murmured,
"I do not lose sight of them. They are like daggers in my heart."
"Strangely and unexpectedly," pursued Mr. Moss, "a chance offers
itself that will extricate you out of all your difficulties. You will
not only receive immediately a large sum of money, but you will be in
receipt of a hundred a year, sufficient to keep your family in a
modest way. What are you asked to do in return for this good fortune?
To take care of an innocent child, who has no one to look after her,
who will never be claimed, and about whom you will never be troubled.
You can engage a servant to attend to her, and when you explain
everything to Rachel she will approve of what you have done. Before I
came to you, Cohen, I consulted a gentleman--Dr. Spenlove--who has a
kind heart and correct principles, and he agreed with me that the
transaction was perfectly honourable. I have no doubt of it myself, or
I should not be here. Be persuaded, Cohen; it will be a benevolent, as
well as a wise, act, and all your difficulties will be at an end. What
is it Shakespeare says? 'There is a tide in the affairs of men which,
taken at the flood,----' you know the rest. Why, there are thousands
who would jump at the opportunity. Come, now, for Rachel's sake!" Mr.
Moss was genuinely sincere in his advice, and he spoke with
earnestness and feeling.
"The child is a girl, Mr. Moss?"
"A dear little girl, of the same age as your own."
"Hush! You forget. This little stranger is born of Christian parents."
"That is no crime, Cohen."
"Do I say it is? But we are Jews. The stipulation is that she should
be brought up as one of our family; and, indeed, it could scarcely be
otherwise. She would live her life in a Jewish household. It is that I
am thinking of Mr. Moss, I am at war with my conscience."
"She will be none the worse off for living with you and Rachel. Your
character is well known, and Rachel is the soul of kindness. You would
be committing no sin, Cohen."
"I am not so sure."
"Then who is to know? You and Rachel are alone, and when she is able
to be moved you will take her for a time to another place. You need
not return here. Rachel's health restored, you should go to London, or
Liverpool, or Manchester, where your talents would have a larger
field. I always thought it wrong for you to bury yourself in so small
a town as this. There is no scope for you in it; you would never make
your fortune here."
"If I go from this place I shall not return to it. You ask who is to
know. Mr. Moss, God would know; Rachel and I would know. How can I
reconcile it with my conscience to bring up a child in a faith in
which she is not born? It would weigh heavily upon me."
"That is because your views are so strict. I do not see why it should
weigh heavily upon you. If it were a boy I should not press it upon
you; but girls are different. There is very little for them to learn.
To pray--there is only one God. To be good and virtuous--there is only
one code of morality. You know that well enough."
"I do know it, but still I cannot reconcile it with my conscience."
"In your position," continued Mr. Moss, perceiving that Aaron was
wavering, "I should not hesitate; I should thank God that such a
chance fell in my way. Even as it is, if I did not have eleven
children, and expecting the twelfth, I would take this lamb into my
fold--I would indeed, Cohen. But my hands are full. Cohen, let me
imagine a case. It is a cold and bitter night, and the world is filled
with poor struggling creatures, with little children who are being
brought up the wrong way. Rachel is asleep upstairs. You are here
alone. Suddenly you fancy you hear a cry in the street, the cry of a
babe. You go to the door, and upon the step you see an infant lying,
unsheltered, without a protector. What would you do?"
"I should bring it into my house."
"With pity in your heart, Cohen."
"I hope so. With pity in my heart."
"Poor as you are, you would share what you have with the deserted
babe; you would nourish it, you would cherish it. You would say to
Rachel, 'I heard a cry outside the house on this bitter night, and
upon the doorstep I discovered this poor babe; I brought it in, and
gave it shelter.' What would Rachel answer?"
"She is a tender-hearted woman; she would answer that I did what was
right."
"Look upon it in that light, and I will continue the case. In the
child's clothes you find a fifty-pound note, and a letter unsigned, to
the effect that the little one has no protector, is alone in the
world, and beseeching you to take charge of it and save it from
destitution and degradation. No scruples as to the child being a
Christian would disturb you then; you would act as humanity dictated.
In the case I have imagined you would not be at war with your
conscience; why should you be at war with it now?"
"Still I must reflect; and I have a question or two to ask. The name
of the mother?"
"Not to be divulged."
"The name of the father?"
"The same answer. Indeed, I do not know it myself."
"Where is the child?"
"At the Salutation Hotel, in the charge of a woman I brought with me."
"My decision must be made to-night?"
"To-night."
"Supposing it to be in the affirmative, what position do you occupy in
the matter in the future?"
"None whatever. The task I undertook executed, I retire, and have
nothing further to do with it. Anything you chose to communicate to me
would be entirely at your discretion. Voluntarily I should never make
reference to it."
"What has passed between us, you informed me, is not to be disclosed
to any other person?"
"To no other person whatever."
"Am I to understand that it has been disclosed to no other?"
"You are. Only Dr. Spenlove and the gentleman who entrusted me with
the commission have any knowledge of it."
"How about the woman who is now taking care of the child at the
Salutation Hotel?"
"She is in entire ignorance of the whole proceeding."
"Is she not aware that you have come to my house?"
"She is not. In the event of your deciding to undertake the charge I
myself will bring the child here."
"Is the mother to be made acquainted with my name?"
"It is an express stipulation that she is to be kept in ignorance of
it."
"And to this she consented willingly?"
"Willingly, for her child's good and her own."
"Is Dr. Spenlove to be made acquainted with it?"
"He is not."
"And the gentleman whose commission you are executing?"
"Neither is he to know. It is his own wish."
"The liberal allowance for the rearing of the child, by whom will it
be paid?"
"By a firm of respectable London lawyers, whose name and address I
will give you, and to whom I shall communicate by telegram to-night.
All the future business will be solely between you and them, without
interference from any living being."
"Mr. Moss, I thank you; you have performed the office of a friend."
"It was my desire, Cohen. Then you consent?"
"No. I must have time for reflection. In an hour from now you shall
have my answer."
"Don't throw away the chance," said Mr. Moss, very earnestly.
"Remember it is for Rachel's sake."
"I will remember it; but I must commune with myself. If before one
hour has passed you do not see me at the Salutation Hotel, you will
understand that I refuse."
"What will you do then, Cohen? How will you manage?"
"God knows. Perhaps He will direct me."
Mr. Moss considered a moment, then took ten five-pound banknotes from
his pocket, and laid them on the table.
"I will leave this money with you," he said.
"No, no!" cried Aaron.
"Why not? It will do no harm. You are to be trusted, Cohen. In case
you refuse I will take it back. If you do not come for me, I will come
for you, so I will not wish you good-night. Don't trouble to come to
the door; I can find my way out."
Aaron was alone, fully conscious that this hour was, perhaps, the most
momentous in his life. The money was before him, and he could not keep
his eyes from it. It meant so much. It seemed to speak to him, to say,
"Life or death to your beloved wife. Reject me, and you know what will
follow." All his efforts to bring himself to a calm reflection of the
position were unavailing. He could not reason, he could not argue with
himself. The question to be answered was not whether it would be right
to take a child born of Christian parents into his house, to bring her
up as one of a Jewish family, but whether his dear wife was to live or
die; and he was the judge, and if he bade his friend take the money
back, he would be the executioner. Of what value then would life be to
him? Devout and full of faith as he was, he still, in this dread
crisis, was of the earth earthy. His heart was torn with love's agony.
The means of redemption were within his reach: why should he not avail
himself of them?
Rachel enjoyed life for the pleasure it gave her. Stricken with
blindness as she was, he knew that she would still enjoy it, and that
she would shed comfort and happiness upon all who came in contact with
her. Was it for him to snap the cord, to say, "You shall no longer
enjoy, you shall no longer bestow happiness upon others; you shall no
longer live to lighten the trouble of many suffering mortals, to shed
light and sweetness in many homes"? Was this the way to prove his love
for her? No, he would not shut the door of earthly salvation which had
been so providentially opened to him, he would not pronounce a
sentence of death against the dear woman he had sworn to love and
cherish.
Aaron was not aware that in the view he was taking he was calling to
his aid only those personal and sympathetic affections which bound him
and Rachel together, and that, out of a common human selfishness, he
was thrusting from the scale the purely moral and religious
obligations which usually played so large a part in his conduct of
life. In this dark hour love was supreme, and held him in its thrall;
in this dark hour he was intensely and completely human; in this dark
hour the soft breathing of a feeble woman was more potent than the
sound of angels' trumpets from the Throne of Grace, the sight of a
white, worn face more powerful than that of a flaming sword of justice
in the skies.
He had arrived at a decision; he would receive the child of strangers
into his home.
Before going to the Salutation Hotel to make the announcement to Mr.
Moss he would see that his wife was sleeping, and not likely to awake
during his brief absence from the house. The doctor had assured him
that she would sleep for twelve hours, and he had full confidence in
the assurance; but he must look upon her face once more before he left
her even for a few minutes.
He stood at her bedside. She was sleeping peacefully and soundly; her
countenance was now calm and untroubled, and Aaron believed that he
saw in it an indication of returning health. Certainly the rest she
was enjoying was doing her good. He stooped and kissed her, and she
did not stir; her sweet breath fanned his cheeks. Then he turned his
eyes upon his child; and as he gazed upon the infant, in its white
dress, a terror for which there is no name stole into his heart. Why
was the babe so still and white? Like a marble statue she lay, bereft
of life and motion. He put his ear to her lips--not a breath escaped
them; he laid his hand upon her heart--not the faintest flutter of a
pulse was there. With feverish haste he lifted the little hand, the
head, the body, and for all the response he received he might have
been handling an image of stone. Gradually the truth forced itself
upon him. The young soul had gone to its Maker. His child was dead!