THE FAREWELL.
When it became known that Aaron was about to leave the quiet
resting-place in which the last few years had been passed, and in
which he had enjoyed peace and prosperity, a general feeling of regret
was expressed, and efforts were made to induce him to change his
resolution. Coming among them a stranger, a foreigner, and an alien in
religion, he had won for himself the lasting esteem of all classes of
the community. The village was now an important centre, its trade was
in a flourishing condition, and its population had largely increased;
as a natural consequence, property had risen in value, and the old
residents were growing rich. It was ungrudgingly acknowledged that all
this was due to Aaron Cohen's enterprise and to the integrity of his
character. The well-to-do and the poor alike deplored the impending
loss, and united in their appeals to him to remain; but they were
unsuccessful. There was in Aaron a latent ambition, of which he
himself was scarcely aware, to move in a larger sphere, and to play
his part in life among his own people. His intention had been at first
to remain in the pretty French village only long enough to benefit
Rachel's health, and had it not been for the chance that threw him and
the engineer together, and which opened up enterprises which had led
to such fortunate results, he would have fulfilled this intention and
have selected some populous city in England to pursue his career. One
venture had led to another, and the success which had attended them
was a sufficient inducement to tarry. But now that the partnership was
at an end the incentive was gone, and he was not sorry that he was in
a certain sense compelled to return to his native land. One thing in
his life in the village had weighed heavily upon him. There was no
established synagogue in which he and his family could worship, and,
as we have seen, it was in his own home that he carried out all the
ceremonials of his religion. Much as Aaron had reason to be grateful
for, he yearned to follow the practices of his religion among a larger
body of his co-religionists, to have the honour of taking the sacred
scroll from the ark, to hear the chazan's voice from the pulpit and
the melodious chant of the choir, followed by the deep responses of
the congregation. He had an instinctive leaning to movement and
colour. He loved the peace of his home; it was his ark of rest; but he
loved also the bustle and turmoil of life. He was essentially an
administrator, and fitted by nature for the control and direction of
large bodies of men. Had he been single he would doubtless have
migrated to one of the new colonies which perennially spring up under
British rule, and have taken a prominent part in its growth and
development. It is greatly due to Jewish spirit and enterprise that
these new countries thrive and flourish so rapidly.
There was another consideration. Aaron wished his son Joseph to grow
up amid his co-religionists, to mix with them, to become familiar with
their ways, so that he might be fixed firmly in the faith of his
forefathers. There was no Jewish school in the village in which the
lad could be educated. He looked forward to the future. Joseph would
become a man, and in this village there were limitations and
restrictions which were not favourable to the formation of strong
character. Here was a young mind to be trained; the more comprehensive
the surroundings the better the chance of worldly advancement. He
discussed these matters with Rachel.
"Yes," she said, "let us go. But I shall never forget the happy years
we have passed here."
"Nor I," said Aaron. "Honour and good fortune have attended us. May a
blessing rest upon the village and all the dwellers therein!"
Then Rachel spoke of her poor and of her regret at leaving them.
"We will bear them in remembrance," said Aaron, "and before we bid
them, farewell something can be done to place them in permanent
comfort."
Much was done by Rachel and himself. For some time past he had
bestowed a great part of his benefactions in such a manner that those
whom he befriended were ignorant of the source from which the good
flowed. In order that this should be carried out as he wished he had
to seek an agent; looking around he made his selection, and asked the
curé of the village to be his almoner, explaining that he did not wish
it to be known that the money came from him. The curé, much surprised,
accepted the office; Aaron was grievously disturbing his opinion of
the heretic. After the meeting with Rachel, which has been described
in the previous chapter, he had visited her home with the laudable
desire of converting the family to the true faith, and had found
himself confronted with peculiar difficulties. He strove to draw them
into argument, but in a theological sense they slipped through his
fingers. Aaron's course in this respect was premeditated, Rachel's was
unconsciously pursued. She listened to all he said, and smilingly
acquiesced in his declaration that there was only one road open to
heaven's gates.
"It is the road of right-doing, father," she said, "the road of
kindness, of doing unto others as you would they should do unto you,
of dispensing out of your store, whether it be abundant or not, what
you can spare to relieve the unfortunate. You are right, father; there
is only one road."
By her sweetness and charity, by her practical sympathy with the
suffering, she cut the ground from under his feet. He spoke of the
saints, and she said they were good men and women, and were receiving
their reward. In a word, she took the strength and subtlety out of
him, and he yielded with sighs of regret and admiration. With Aaron he
was more trenchant, and quite as unsuccessful. Many of Aaron's
humorous observations made the good priest laugh in spite of himself,
and the pearls of wisdom which fell from the Jew's lips crumbled his
arguments to dust. There was no scoffing or irreverence on Aaron's
part; he simply parried the thrusts with a wisdom and humanity deeper
and truer than those of which his antagonist could boast.
"My son," said the curé, "would you not make me a Jew if it were in
your power?"
"No," replied Aaron, "we do not proselytise, and even if we did you
are too good a Christian for me to wish to make you a Jew."
This was one of the puzzling remarks which caused the curé to ponder,
and which dwelt long in his mind; sometimes he thought that Aaron was
a man of deep subtlety, sometimes that he was a man of great
simplicity, but whether subtle or simple he felt it impossible to
withhold a full measure of respect from one whose eternal lot he
sighed to think was perdition and everlasting torment. That sincerity
was the true test of faith, as Aaron declared, he would not admit;
there could be no sincerity in a faith that was false, there could be
no sincerity if you did not believe as he believed. Nevertheless, he
had an uncomfortable impression that he was being continually worsted
in the peaceful war of words in which they invariably engaged when
they came together.
As Aaron was not to be turned from his resolution to leave the
country, the villagers took steps to show their respect for him.
Public meetings were held, which were attended by many persons from
surrounding districts, and there was a banquet, of which Aaron did not
partake, the food not being cooked according to the Jewish formula. He
contented himself with fruit and bread, and made a good and sufficient
meal. Speeches were made in his honour, and he was held up as an
example to old and young. His response was in admirable taste. He said
that the years he had spent among them were the happiest in his life,
and that it was with true regret he found himself compelled to leave
the village. He spoke of his first coming among them with a beloved
wife in a delicate state of health, who had grown well and strong in
the beautiful spot. It was not alone the sweet air, he said, which had
brought the blessing of health to her; the bond of sympathy which had
been established between her and her neighbours had been as a
spiritual medicine to her, which had given life a value of which it
would otherwise have been deprived. It was not so much the material
reward of our labours that conferred happiness upon us as the feeling
that we were passing our days among friends who always had a smile and
a pleasant greeting for us. Riches were perishable, kindly
remembrances immortal. The lessons of life were to be learned from the
performance of simple acts of duty; for he regarded it as a duty to so
conduct ourselves as to make our presence welcome, and agreeable to
those with whom we were in daily association. As to the kind things
that had been said of him, he felt that he was scarcely worthy of
them. "There is," he said, "a leaven of human selfishness in all that
we do; and the little I have, with the blessing of God, been enabled
to do has conferred upon me a much greater pleasure than it could
possibly have conferred upon others. To you and to my residence among
you I owe all my good fortune, to you and to my residence among you I
owe my dear wife's restoration to health; and it would be ingratitude
indeed did I not endeavour to make some return for the good you have
showered upon me. I shall never forget you, nor will my wife forget
you; in our native land we shall constantly recall the happy years we
spent in this pleasant village, and we shall constantly pray that
peace and prosperity may never desert you." The earnestness and
feeling with which these sentiments were uttered were unmistakable and
convincing, and when Aaron resumed his seat the eyes of all who had
assembled to do him honour were turned upon him approvingly and
sympathisingly. "Ah," groaned the good curé, "were he not a Jew he
would be a perfect man!" The flowers which graced the banqueting table
were sent by special messenger to Rachel, and the following day she
pressed a few and kept them ever afterwards among her precious relics.
Aaron did not come home till late in the night, and he found Rachel
waiting up for him. He delighted her by describing the incidents and
speeches of the memorable evening. Aaron was a great smoker, and while
they talked he smoked the silver-mounted pipe for which he had so
great an affection.
There are in the possession of many men dumb memorials of
insignificant value which they would not part with for untold gold,
and this silver-mounted pipe of Aaron's was one of these. Before
Rachel was blind she had been in the habit of filling it for him, and
when she was deprived of sight he sorely missed the affectionate
service. Tears started to his eyes one night when, with a loving
smile, she handed it to him, filled; and now she did it for him
regularly. Rachel had indulged in a piece of extravagance. She had a
special case made for the pipe, adorned with the letters A. and R.
outlined in brilliants, and Aaron handled his treasure almost with the
care and affection he bestowed upon his children.
"Your health was proposed," said Aaron, "and the health of our little
ones. What was said about you, my life, gave me much more pleasure
than what was said about myself. It abashes one to have to sit and
listen to extravagant praises far beyond one's merits, but it is the
habit of men to run into extravagance."
"They could say nothing, dear husband, that you do not deserve."
"You too!" exclaimed Aaron, gaily. "It is well for me that you were
not there, for you might have been called upon to give your
testimony."
"I should not have had the courage." She fondly pressed his hand. "I
am glad they spoke of me kindly."
"They spoke of you truly, and my heart leaped up within me at what the
good curé said of you, for it was he who proposed the toast. I
appreciated it more from him than I should have done from any one
else, and he was quite sincere for the moment in all the sentiments he
expressed, whatever he may have thought of himself afterwards for
asking his flock to drink the health of a Jewess. Well, well, it takes
all sorts to make a world."
"How much we have to be grateful for!" said Rachel, with a happy sigh.
"Indeed, indeed, for boundless gratitude. Think of what we passed
through in Gosport"--he paused suddenly; the one experience which
weighed upon his conscience brought a dark and troubled shadow into
his face.
"Why do you pause, dear? Has not my blindness proved a blessing to us?
Do I miss my sight? Nay, I think it has made life sweeter. But for
that we should not have come to this place, but for that we should not
have had the means to do something towards the relief of a few
suffering and deserving people. Nothing but good has sprung from it.
Our Lord God be praised."
Aaron recovered himself. "There was Mr. Whimpole's visit to us before
I commenced business, there were those stupid boys who distressed you
so with their revilings, which I managed to turn against themselves.
It was this pipe of yours, my life, that gave me the inspiration how
to disarm them. It sharpens my faculties, it brings out my best
points; it is really to me a friend and counsellor. And now I have
smoked enough, and it is time to go to bed. I will join you
presently."
In solitude the one troubled memory of the past forced itself
painfully upon him. Did he deserve what had been said in his honour
on this night? He valued men's good opinion, and of all the men he
knew he valued most the good opinion of the curé. What would this
single-minded, conscientious priest think of him if he were acquainted
with the sin of which he had been guilty, the sin of bringing up an
alien child in a religion in which she had not been born? He would
look upon him with horror. And it was a bitter punishment that he was
compelled to keep this secret locked in his own breast, that he dared
not reveal it to a single human creature, that he dared not say
openly, "I have sinned, I have sinned. Have mercy upon me!" To his own
beloved wife, dearer to him than life itself, he had behaved
treacherously; even in her he dared not confide. It was not with
Rachel as it was with him; there was no difference in the love she
bore her children; they were both equally precious to her. To fall
upon his knees before her and make confession would be like striking a
dagger into her heart; it almost drove him mad to think of the shock
such a revelation would be to her. No, he must guard his secret and
his sin jealously to the last hour of his life. So far as human
discovery went he believed himself to be safe; the betrayal, if it
ever came, lay with himself. True, he had in his possession testimony
which might damn him were it to fall into other hands, the little iron
safe which Mr. Moss had received from Dr. Spenlove, and at the
mother's request had conveyed to him. In his reflections upon the
matter lately the question had intruded itself, What did this little
box contain? It was impossible for him to say, but he felt
instinctively that there was evidence in it which would bring his sin
home to him. He allowed his thoughts now to dwell upon the mother.
From the day on which he received the five hundred pounds from Mr.
Gordon's lawyers he had heard nothing from them, nothing from Mr. Moss
or from anybody relating to the matter. Between himself and Mr. Moss
there had been a regular though not very frequent correspondence, but
his friend had never written one word concerning it, and Aaron, of
course, had not referred to it. Thus far, therefore, it was buried in
a deep grave.
But would this grave never be opened? If other hands were not
responsible for the act would it not be his duty to cause the light of
truth to shine upon it? The mother had stipulated that, in the event
of her husband's death, she should be free to seek her child, should
be free to claim the box. Upon this contingency seemed to hang his
fate; but there were arguments in his favour. Mr. Gordon might live,
and the mother could do nothing. Arguing that the man died, it was
more than probable that his wife had borne other children who had a
claim upon her love which she acknowledged. To seek then her child of
shame would be the means of bringing disgrace upon these children of
her marriage. Would she deliberately do this? He answered the question
immediately, No. In the consideration of these phases of the matter he
bore in mind that, although the false news of the child's death must
of necessity have been communicated to Mr. Gordon by his lawyers, it
was likely that it had been kept from the knowledge of the mother.
Aaron had been made to understand that Mr. Gordon was a man of
inflexible resolution, and that he had pledged himself never under any
circumstances to make mention of the child to the woman he had
married. Even setting this aside, even going to the length of arguing
that, hearing of the child's death, Mr. Gordon departed from the
strict letter of his resolution, and said to his wife, "Your child is
dead," was it not likely that she would reply, "I do not believe it;
you tell me so only to deceive me"? In that case, her husband dead and
herself childless, would she not search the world over for her
offspring?
Setting this all aside, however, the onus still devolved upon him to
open the grave. One of the stipulations attached to his receipt of the
box was that when Ruth was twenty-one years of age it should be handed
over to her. Would he dare to violate this condition? Would he so far
tamper with his conscience as to neglect an obligation which might be
deemed sacred? The question tortured him; he could not answer it.
He heard Rachel moving in the room above, and with a troubled heart he
went up to her. Thus this night, the events of which were intended to
shed honour and glory upon him, ended in sadness, and thus was it
proved that the burden of a new deceit may be as a feather-weight to
the solemn and heavy consequences which follow in its train.
Everything was ready for the departure of the Cohens, which was to
take place at the end of the week. Before the day arrived they
received other tokens in proof of the appreciation in which they were
held. A deputation of working men waited on Aaron, and presented him
with an address. The employers of labour themselves--secretly glad,
perhaps, that he was going from among them--paid him a special honour.
Rachel's heart throbbed with gratitude and with pride in her husband.
But her greatest pleasure, in which were mingled touches of deep
sorrow, was derived from the affecting testimony of the poor she had
befriended. Old men and women witnessed their departure, and bidding
farewell to Rachel, prayed God's blessing upon her. Children gave her
flowers, and their childish voices were full of affection. The tears
ran from her eyes; she could hardly tear herself away. At length it
was over; they were gone; but it was long before her sweet face faded
from their memory.