PLUCKED FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH.
Mr. Moss stood at the street door, bearing in his arms the little iron
casket which Dr. Spenlove, at the intercession of the mother who had
consented to part with her child, had entrusted to him.
"In my excitement, Cohen," he commenced, before Aaron could speak,
"something slipped my memory when we were talking together. I rapped
softly at first, fearing to disturb Rachel, but no one answering, I
had to use the knocker. I hope I have not disturbed her."
"She is sleeping peacefully," replied Aaron, "and is taking a turn for
the better, I am thankful to say. To-morrow, I trust, all danger will
be over. Come in."
He closed the door gently, and they entered the parlour.
"I have come back about this little box," said Mr. Moss, depositing it
on the table; "it belongs to the task I undertook. The mother of the
babe made it a stipulation that whoever had the care of the child
should receive the box, and hold it in trust for her until she claimed
it."
"But I understood," said Aaron, in apprehension, "that the mother had
no intention of claiming her child."
"In a certain sense that is true. Don't look worried; there is no fear
of any trouble in the future; only she made it a condition that the
box should go with the child, and that, when the girl was twenty-one
years of age, it should be given to her, in case the mother did not
make her appearance and claim the property. It stands this way, Cohen.
The mother took into consideration the chance that the gentleman she
is marrying may die before her, in which event she stipulated that she
should be free to seek her daughter. That is reasonable, is it not?"
"Quite reasonable."
"And natural?"
"Quite natural. But I should have been informed of it."
"It escaped me, it really escaped me, Cohen; and what difference can
it make? It is only a mother's fancy."
"Yes, only a mother's fancy."
"I'll lay a thousand to one you never hear anything more about it. Put
the box away, and don't give it another thought."
Aaron lifted it from the table. "It is heavy, Mr. Moss."
"Yes, it is heavy."
"Do you know what it contains?"
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"It must be something that the mother sets store on--jewels, perhaps."
"Nothing more unlikely. The poor woman didn't have a shilling to bless
herself with. I shouldn't trouble about it if I were you."
"I have gone too far," said Aaron, sighing; "I cannot retreat."
"It would be madness to dream of such a thing. Remember what depends
upon it. Cohen, in case anything occurs, I think I ought to tell you
what has been passing in my mind."
"In case anything occurs!" repeated Aaron, in a hollow tone, and with
a startled look. "What can occur?"
"The poor child," continued Mr. Moss, "has had a hard time of it. We
almost dug her out of the snow last night; the exposure was enough to
kill an infant of tender years, and there's no saying what effect it
may have upon her. If it had been a child of my own I should be
alarmed for the consequences, and I should scarcely expect her to live
through it." Aaron gasped. "The idea distresses you, but we must
always take the human view. Should she not survive no one can be
blamed for it. How is your own dear little girl?"
"She is well," replied Aaron, mechanically. He passed his hand across
his eyes despairingly. The duplicity he was compelled to practise was
hateful to him, and he despised himself for it.
"Good-night again," said Mr. Moss. "I have sent my telegram to the
London lawyers. Don't forget that I shall be at the Salutation till
eleven in the morning. I should like to hear how Mrs. Cohen is before
I leave."
It was not only the incident of the iron safe that Mr. Moss, in the
first instance, had omitted to impart to Aaron. In the agreement
formulated by Mr. Gordon there was an undertaking that in the event of
the child's death, or of her marriage if she grew to womanhood, the
lawyers were to pay the sum of five hundred pounds to the person into
whose home the child was received. Mr. Moss had not mentioned this,
and Aaron was in consequence ignorant of the fact. Had he been aware
of it, is it likely that he would have shrunk from carrying out the
scheme inspired by his agony? It is hard to say. During these pregnant
and eventful hours he was dominated by the one overpowering,
passionate desire to save the life of his beloved; during these hours
all that was highest and noblest in his nature was deadened by human
love.
There was no rest for him on this night; he did not dare to undress
and seek repose. The moments were too precious; some action had to be
taken, and to be taken soon, and, his mind torn with agony and
remorse, he devoted himself to the consideration of it. In the course
of this mental debate he was plunged at times into the lowest depths
of self-abasement; but the strength of his character and the serious
issues at stake lifted him out of these depths. Ever and anon he crept
into Rachel's room and derived consolation from the calm sleep she was
enjoying. The doctor's prognostications of returning health seemed to
be on the point of realisation; when she awoke in the morning and
clasped her child to her bosom, and heard its sweet voice, all would
be well with her. What need, then, for further justification?
But his further action must be decided upon and carried out before
Rachel awoke. And it was imperative that she should be kept in
ignorance of what had taken place. On no account must it be revealed
to her that he had taken a strange child into the house, and that it
had died there within a few hours. In her delicate state the news
might be fatal.
Gradually all that it was necessary for him to do unfolded itself, and
was mentally arranged in consecutive order. He waited till three
o'clock, and then he went from his house to the Salutation Hotel. The
night porter, half asleep, was in attendance, and after some demur he
conducted Aaron to Mr. Moss's sleeping apartment.
"Who is there?" cried Mr. Moss, aroused by the knocking at his door.
"It is I," replied Aaron; "I must speak to you at once."
Mr. Moss jumped from bed.
"Is it all right, sir?" asked the night porter.
"Of course it is all right," said Mr. Moss, opening the door, and
admitting his visitor.
The night porter returned to his duties, and fell into a doze.
"What brings you here at this time of night?" exclaimed Mr. Moss; and
then, seeing the distress in Aaron's face, "Good God! It is not about
Rachel?"
"No, it is not about Rachel; it is bad enough, but not so bad as that.
How shall I tell you--how shall I tell you?"
"Stop a moment," said Mr. Moss. "I ordered half a bottle of port
before I went, and there is a glass or two left. Drink this."
The wine gave Aaron courage to proceed with his task.
"I have dreadful news to tell you," he said, putting down the glass.
"I guess it," interrupted Mr. Moss. "The child!"
"Yes," answered Aaron, with averted eyes, "the child."
"Is she very ill?"
"Mr. Moss, the child is dead."
"Heavens!" cried Mr. Moss, slipping into his clothes as fast as he
could. "What a calamity! But at the same time, Cohen, what a release!
Tell me all about it. Does Rachel know?"
"Rachel does not know. She is still sleeping, and she must not know.
It would kill her--it would kill her!'
"I see the necessity, Cohen; it must be kept from her, and I think I
see how it can be managed. It is a fortunate thing that the woman who
accompanied me here with the poor child has not returned to
Portsmouth, as I bade her. She met with some friends in Gosport who
persuaded her to stop the night, and she was going back with me in the
morning. I promised to call for her, but she will have to remain here
now till the child is buried. She will not mind, because it will be
something in her pocket. A sad ending, Cohen, a sad ending, but I
feared it. Did I not prophesy it? What else was to be expected after
last night's adventure? A child of such a tender age!' The wonder is
it did not die in my arms. But you have not told me how it occurred."
"It is very simple," said Aaron, in a low tone. "I laid the babe in my
own bed, intending to call in a woman as soon after daylight as
possible to attend it till Rachel was well and able to get about. She
seemed to be asleep, and was in no pain. I determined not to go to
bed, but to keep up all night, to attend to the little one, and to
Rachel and my own child---- Bear with me, Mr. Moss, I am unstrung."
"No wonder. Take time, Aaron, take time."
"Now and again I went up to look at the babe, and observed nothing to
alarm me. An hour ago I closed my eyes, and must have slept; I was
tired out. When I awoke I went upstairs, and was startled by a strange
stillness in the child. I lifted her in my arms. Mr. Moss, she was
dead. I came to you at once, to advise me what to do. You must help
me, Mr. Moss; my dear Rachel's life hangs upon it. You know how
sensitive she is; and the doctor has warned me that a sudden shock
might be fatal."
"I will help you, Cohen, of course I will help you; it is my duty,
because it is I who have brought this trouble upon you. But I did it
with the best intentions. I see a way out of the difficulty. The woman
I employed--how fortunate, how fortunate that she is still here!--is a
god-send to us. She is a kind-hearted creature, and she will be sorry
to hear of the child's death, but at the same time she is poor, and
will be glad to earn a sovereign. A doctor must see the child, to
testify that she died a natural death. She must have passed away in
her sleep."
"She did. Is it necessary that the doctor should visit my house in
order to see the child?"
"Not at all. I have everything planned in my mind. Now I am ready to
go out. First to the telegraph office--it is open all night here--to
despatch a telegram to the London lawyers to send a representative
down immediately, who, when he comes, will take the affair out of our
hands, I expect. Afterwards to the house of the woman's friends; she
must accompany us to your house, and we will take the child away
before daylight. Then we will call in a doctor, and nothing need reach
Rachel's ears. Don't take it to heart, Cohen; you have troubles enough
of your own. The news you give me of Rachel is the best of news. Joy
and sorrow, Cohen--how close they are together!"
In the telegraph office Mr. Moss wrote a long message to Mr. Gordon's
lawyers, impressing upon them the necessity of sending a
representative without delay to take charge of the body, and to attend
to the funeral arrangements.
"Between ourselves, Cohen," he said, as they walked to the house
of the woman's friends, "the lawyers will be rather glad of the news
than otherwise; and so will Mr. Gordon, when it reaches him. I am not
sure whether I made the matter clear to you, but there is no doubt
whatever that, so far as Mr. Gordon is concerned, the child was an
encumbrance--to say nothing of the expense, which perhaps he would not
have minded, being almost a millionaire. But still, as it has turned
out, he has got rid of a difficulty, and he will not be sorry when he
hears of it."
"And the mother," said Aaron, "how will she take it?"
"I will not pretend to say. _We_ know, Cohen, what we think of our own
children, but there are people in the world with different ideas from
ours. The mother of this little one will feel grieved at first, no
doubt, but I dare say she will soon get over it. Then, perhaps her
husband will not tell her. Here we are at the woman's house."
They halted before a small cottage, inhabited by people in humble
circumstances. Before he aroused the inmates, Mr. Moss said,--
"I shall keep your name out of the affair, Cohen; but to a certain
extent the woman must be taken into our confidence. Secrecy will be
imposed upon her, and she will be paid for it. Remain in the
background; I will speak to her alone."
The woman herself came to the door, and when she was dressed Mr. Moss
had a conversation with her, the result of which was that she and the
two men walked to Aaron's house, where she took charge of the dead
child, and carried it to the cottage. Then she went for a doctor--to
Aaron's relief not the doctor who attended his wife--and as there was
no doubt that the child had died a natural death, a certificate to
that effect was given. At six in the morning Aaron returned to Rachel,
and sitting by her bedside, waited for her awakening. The potion she
had taken was to ensure sleep for twelve hours; in two hours he would
hear her voice; in two hours she would be caressing a babe to which
she had not given birth.
It seemed to Aaron as though months had passed since Mr. Moss had
presented himself at his house last night, and for a while it almost
seemed as though, in that brief time, it was not himself who had
played the principal part in this strange human drama, but another
being who had acted for him, and who had made him responsible for an
act which was to colour all his future life. But he did not permit
himself to indulge long in this view of what had transpired; he knew
and felt that he, and he alone, was responsible, and that to his dying
day he would be accountable for it. Well, he would bear the burden,
and would, every by means within his power, endeavour to atone for it.
He would keep strict watch over himself; he would never give way to
temptation; he would act justly and honourably; he would check the
hasty word; he would make no enemies; he would be kind and considerate
to all around him. He did not lay the flattering unction to his soul
that in thus sketching his future rule of life he was merely
committing himself to that which he had always followed in the past.
This one act seemed to cast a shadow over all that had gone before; he
had to commence anew.
A strange and agonising fancy haunted him. The child of his blood,
Rachel's child, was lying dead in the house of a stranger. The
customary observances of his religion could not be held over it;
Christians had charge of the lifeless clay. With his mind's eye he saw
his dead child lying in the distant chamber, alone and unattended,
with no sympathising heart near to shed tears over it, with no mourner
near to offer up a prayer in its behalf. The child opened its eyes and
gazed reproachfully upon its father; then it rose from the couch, and
in its white dress went out of the house and walked through the snow
to its father's dwelling. The little bare feet left traces of blood in
the snow, and at the door of its father's house it paused and stood
there crying, "Mother, mother!" So strong was this fancy that Aaron
went to the street door, and, opening it, gazed up and down the
street. The snow was still falling; no signs of life were visible, and
no movement except the light flakes fluttering down. A mantle of
spotless white was spread over roads and roofs, and there was silence
all around. But in Aaron's eyes there was a vision, and in his heart a
dead voice calling. His babe was there before him, and its voice was
crying, "Mother, mother! Why am I deserted? why am I banished from my
father's house?" When he drew back into the passage he hardly dared
shut the street door upon the piteous figure his conscience had
conjured up.
At eight o'clock in the morning Rachel stirred; she raised her arm and
put her hand to her eyes, blind to all the world, blind to her
husband's sin, blind to everything but love. Then instinctively she
drew the babe nearer to her. A faint cooing issued from the infant's
lips, and an expression of joy overspread the mother's features. This
joy found its reflex in Aaron's heart, but the torturing anxiety under
which he laboured was not yet dispelled. It was an awful moment. Was
there some subtle instinct in a mother's love which would convey to
Rachel's sense the agonising truth that the child she held in her arms
was not her own?
There was no indication of it. She fondled the child, she suckled it,
the light of Heaven shone in her face.
"Aaron!"
"My beloved!"
"Do you hear our child, our dear one? Ah, what happiness!"
"Thank God!" said Aaron, inly. "Oh, God be thanked!"
"Is it early or late, dear love?" asked Rachel. "It is morning, I
know, for I see the light; I feel it here"--with her hand pressing the
infant's head to her heart.
"It is eight o'clock, beloved," said Aaron.
"I have had a long and beautiful sleep. I do not think I have dreamt,
but I have been so happy, so happy! My strength seems to be returning;
I have not felt so well since the night of the fire. Our darling seems
stronger, too; it is because I am so much better. I must think of
that; it is a mother's duty to keep well, for her child's sake--and,
dear husband, for your sake also. I do not love you less because I
love our child so dearly."
"I am sure of that. Should I be jealous of our child? That would be as
foolish as it would be unwise."
"You speak more cheerfully, Aaron. Is that because of me?"
"It is because of you, beloved. We both draw life and happiness from
you. Therefore, get strong soon."
"I shall; I feel I shall. My mind is clear, there is no weight on my
heart. Before many days have passed I shall be out of bed, learning my
new duties. Aaron, our child will live."
"She will live to bless and comfort us, beloved."
She passed her hand over his face. "You are crying, Aaron."
"They are tears of joy, Rachel, at seeing you so much better. A
terrible fear has weighed me down; it is removed, thanks be to the
Eternal. The world was dark till now; I dared not think of the future;
now all is well."
"Am I, indeed, so much to you, dear husband?"
"You are my life. As the sun is to the earth, so are you to me."
The wife, the husband, and the child lay in each other's embrace.
"God is good," murmured Rachel. "I did so want to live for you and for
our child! But I feared, I feared; strength seemed to be departing
from me. What will they do, I thought, when I am gone? But God has
laid His hand upon us and blessed us. Praised be His name for ever and
ever!"
"Amen, amen! I have not yet said my morning prayers. It is time."
She sank back in bed, and he put on his taleth and phylacteries, and
prayed fervently. He did not confine himself to his usual morning
devotions, but sought his book for propitiatory supplications for
forgiveness for transgressions. "Forgive us, oh, our Father! for we
have sinned; pardon us, oh, our King! for we have transgressed; for
Thou art ever ready to pardon and forgive. Blessed art Thou, the
Eternal, who is gracious and doth abundantly pardon." And while he
supplicated forgiveness, Rachel lay and sang a song of love.
His prayers ended, Aaron folded his taleth and wound up his
phylacteries, and resumed his seat by Rachel's bed.
"While you slept last night, dear love," he said, "a piece of good
fortune fell to my share, through our friend Mr. Moss. I shall be able
to take a servant in the house."
"How glad I am!" she answered. "It distressed me greatly to know that
you had everything to attend to yourself. A woman, or a girl, is so
necessary!"
"There is altogether a brighter outlook for us, Rachel. Do you think
Prissy would do?"
"She is very handy, and very willing. If you could manage till I can
get up I could soon teach her."
"I will go, then, and see if she is able to come. You must not mind
being alone a little while."
"I shall not be alone, dear," said Rachel, with a bright smile at the
child.
He prepared breakfast for her before he left, and she partook of it
with a keen appetite. Then he went on his mission, and met Mr. Moss
coming to the house.
"I have received a telegram," said that gentleman, "in reply to mine.
A gentleman will arrive from London this afternoon to attend to
matters. You look brighter."
"Rachel is much better," said Aaron.
"You are in luck all round, Cohen. There are men who always fall on
their feet. I'm one of them; you're another. This time yesterday you
were in despair; now you're in clover. Upon my word, I am as glad as
if it had happened to myself. You know one of our sayings--'Next to
me, my wife; next to my wife, my child; next to my child, my friend.'
My good old father told me it was one of the wise sayings of Rabbi
ben--I forget who he was the son of. A friend of ours who used to come
to our house said to my father that there was no wisdom and no
goodness in the saying, because the Rabbi put himself first, as being
of more consequence than wife, and child, and friend. My father
answered, 'You are wrong; there is wisdom, there is goodness, there is
sense in it. Self is the greatest of earthly kings. Put yourself in
one scale, and pile up all the world in the other, and you will weigh
it down.' He was right. What comes so close home to us as our own
troubles and sorrows?"
"Nothing," said Aaron, rather sadly; "they outweigh all the rest. We
are human, and being human, fallible. Can you imagine an instance, Mr.
Moss, where love may lead to crime?"
"I can, and what is more, I would undertake to justify it. Who is this
little girl?"
The diversion in the conversation was caused by Prissy, who had run to
Aaron, and was plucking at his coat.
"A good girl who attends to our Sabbath lights."
"'Ow's missis, please, sir?" inquired Prissy, anxiously.
"Much better this morning, thank you."
"And the babby, sir?"
"Also better and stronger, Prissy." Prissy jumped up and down in
delight. "I was coming to see you. Do you think your aunt would let
you come to us as a regular servant, to live, and eat, and sleep in
the house?"
This vision of happiness almost took Prissy's breath away; but she
managed to reply, "If yer'd make it worth 'er while, she would, Mr.
Cohen. She's allus telling me I'm taking the bread out of 'er mouth,
and ain't worth my salt. Oh, Mr. Cohen, _will_ yer take me, _will_
yer? I don't care where I sleep, I don't care wot yer give me to eat,
I'll work for yer day and night, I will! Aunty makes my life a misery,
she does, and I've lost Wictoria Rejiner, sir. She's got another nuss,
and I ain't got nobody to care for now. Aunty sed this morning I was a
reg'lar pest, and she wished she could sell me at so much a pound."
"You don't weigh a great deal," said Aaron, gazing at Prissy in pity;
and then, with a sad touch of his old humour, "How much a pound do you
think she would take?"
"Come and arks 'er, Mr. Cohen, come and arks er," cried Prissy,
running before Aaron, and looking back imploringly at him.
He and Mr. Moss followed the girl into the presence of Prissy's aunt,
and, although he did not buy Prissy by the pound weight, he made a
bargain with the woman, and by the outlay of five shillings secured
the girl's permanent services, it being understood that she was not to
take her niece away without Prissy's consent. As they walked back to
Aaron's house he spoke to Prissy about wages; but the girl, who felt
as if heaven's gates had opened for her to enter, interrupted him by
saying,--
"Don't talk about wages, sir, please don't. I don't want no wages.
Give me a frock and a bone, and I'll work the skin off my fingers for
yer, I will!"
Extravagant as were her professions, never was a poor girl more in
earnest than Prissy. Blithe and happy she set to work, and never did
valiant soldier polish up his arms with keener zest than did Prissy
her pots and pans. The kitchen was her battleground, and she surveyed
it with the air of a conqueror. There was joy in Rachel's heart in the
room above, there was joy in Prissy's heart in the room below.