WHAT SHALL BE DONE TO THE MAN WHOM THE
KING DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR?
On a bright morning in the autumn of the year 1893 a number of
influential persons wended their way to Aaron Cohen's house to take
part in a function of a peculiarly interesting nature. They comprised
representatives of literature and the arts, of politics, science, and
commerce, and among them were delegates of the press, who were deputed
to report the proceedings for their respective journals. That the pen
is mightier than the sword was open to dispute at an earlier period of
the world's history, but the contention exists no longer, and though
the day is far distant when the lion shall lie down with the lamb, the
press is now a powerful factor in peace and war, and can effectually
hasten or retard the conflict of nations. It is an open question
whether its invasion of the arena of private life is a desirable
feature in the power it wields; but it is useless to resist its march
in this direction, and earnest as may be a man's desire to hide his
light (or the reverse) under a bushel, he does not live to see it
gratified. The up-to-date journalist, argus-eyed, overruns the earth;
it is to be deplored that his quill is sometimes poison-tipped, but as
a rule he sets about his work with good-humoured zest, and it is not
to be denied that he prepares many a piquant dish for his omnivorous
public.
When a movement was set afoot to make some sort of semi-private,
semi-public recognition of the remarkable position attained by the
hero of this story, he made an effort to discourage it. The idea of
any kind of publicity was distasteful to him, and he expressed an
opinion to this effect. It was not heeded by the organisers of the
testimonial, and he was thinking of remonstrating in stronger terms,
when the matter was settled for him by a few simple words spoken by
Rachel.
"Why do you object?" she asked. "You did not seek the honour, and it
will reflect honour upon us."
"Do you wish it, Rachel?"
"It will give me pleasure, dear," she replied.
He did not argue with her, but yielded immediately, and allowed
himself to be carried with the stream. Never in the course of their
happy married life had he failed to comply with her lightest wish;
never had there been the least conflict between them; to each of them
the word of the other was law, and it was love's cheerful duty to
obey.
The esteem in which he was held was to be demonstrated by two
presentations, one a portrait of himself by a famous English artist,
the other a picture also, the subject being withheld from his
knowledge. This second painting was no other than the picture of
Rachel sitting beneath the cherry tree, which had created so much
interest in the Paris _salon_ more than a dozen years ago. It had
originally been purchased by a collector, who had lately died. After
his death his collection had been brought to the hammer, and this
particular picture was purchased by a London dealer, who exhibited it
in his shop. The first intention was to present a silver memorial with
Aaron's portrait, but a friend of his happened to see the French
picture in London, and was struck by the wonderful resemblance of the
principal figure to Rachel. He made inquiries privately of Aaron
respecting his sojourn in the south of France, and learned that there
was a picturesque cherry tree in the grounds at the back of the house,
in the shadow of which Rachel was in the habit of sitting in sunny
weather, that he had a friend, the curé of the village, and that one
summer a French painter had visited the village and had made a number
of sketches of Rachel and the garden. Following up his inquiries,
Aaron's friend obtained from the London dealer some information of the
history of the picture and of the year in which it was exhibited, and,
putting this and that together, he came to the conclusion that Rachel
had unconsciously sat for the picture. It was an interesting
discovery, and the first idea of a silver presentation was put aside,
and the picture substituted in its place.
Mr. Moss, of course, came from Portsmouth to attend the function. Our
old friend was frequently in London now, to attend to certain
complicated business matters. Sad to say, of late years fortune had
not smiled upon him; he had met with losses, but that did not prevent
him from humming his operatic airs at every possible opportunity. He
had himself to blame for this reverse of fortune; certainly he had a
tremendously large family, sixteen children to rear and provide for,
and eight of them girls--he used to say jocularly that it was
difficult to find names for them; but he had a comfortable business,
and should have been content. Unhappily, one day he had a bright idea;
he made a plunge in stocks, with disastrous results. Had he consulted
Aaron Cohen, as he afterwards confessed, it would never have happened;
Aaron would have shown him the folly of expecting to grow rich in a
week. The consequence was that he found himself involved, and his
frequent visits to London were necessitated by his personal endeavours
to reduce his losses. It made no difference in Aaron's friendship for
him; it may be said, indeed, to have strengthened it. In a time of
more than ordinary difficulty Aaron came forward voluntarily, and
afforded practical assistance to his old friend. "If you want to know
the kind of metal Aaron Cohen is made of," he said to his wife, "go to
him when you are in misfortune. That is the time to prove a man."
Another strengthening tie was to be forged in the firm friendship of
these men. One at least of Mr. Moss's numerous daughters was always in
London on a visit to Rachel, and it was quite in the natural order of
things that Joseph Cohen should fall in love with Esther Moss, the
prettiest and sweetest of all the girls. Rachel and her husband were
very fond of Esther, and regarded the attachment with favour. Joseph
was too young yet to marry, but with the consent of his parents an
engagement was entered into between the young people, and there was
joy in Mr. Moss's estimable family.
It was a natural consequence of this family arrangement that Esther
was frequently invited to make her home for a time with the Cohens in
London, and she was in their house on the day of the presentations.
Her lover was absent, and had been out of England for some months
past. Young as he was, he already held a position of responsibility in
an extensive firm, and had been sent to Australia to attend to
business of an important nature. He was expected home at the end of
the week, but was then to remain in England only a few days, his
passage to India being taken, his mission being to establish agencies
in that land for the gentleman by whom he was employed. Years ago the
choice of a classical education had been offered him by his father;
but his inclination was for commerce, and Aaron Cohen did not believe
in forcing a lad into a career which was distasteful to him. Upon his
return from India eight or nine months hence the marriage between him
and Esther was to take place. Needless to say how proud and happy the
young maid was in the contemplation of the approaching union.
Neither was Ruth Cohen a witness of the honour which was paid to the
man she believed to be her father. She had invited herself to
Portsmouth, to spend a week or two with Mrs. Moss. When she expressed
the wish to go Rachel Cohen had remonstrated with her, and hinted that
she should remain in London to attend the presentations; but Ruth was
restless and rebellious, and said she did not care to be present.
Rachel, inwardly grieved, did not press it upon her.
"Are you not happy at home?" she asked gently. Ruth did not speak, and
Rachel continued, "You do not take pleasure in the society of our
friends?"
"I am not very fond of them," Ruth replied.
Rachel said no more. Ruth's dislike of Jewish society was not new to
her; it had caused her great pain, and she had striven in vain to
combat it. The strength of Rachel's character lay in her moral and
sympathetic affections: with those who recognised the sweetness and
unselfishness of these attributes her power was great; with those who
failed to appreciate them she was powerless. This was the case with
Ruth, in whom, as she grew to womanhood, was gradually developed a
stubbornness which boded ill for peace. Frequently and anxiously did
Rachel ask herself, From whom could a daughter of her blood have
inherited views and ideas so antagonistic and rebellious?
Aaron could have answered this question, had it been put to him, and
had he dared to answer. Ruth's instincts were in her blood,
transmitted by parents whom he had never known, and of whose
characters he was ignorant. Heredity lay at the root of this domestic
misery. As a rule, vices, virtues, and all classes of the affections
are hereditary, and the religious sentiments are not an exception.
Aaron had studied the subject, and was conscious of the solemn issues
dependent upon it.
He had obtained possession of Ruth's body, but not of her mind, and
even of the former his guardianship would soon be at an end. Although
he could not fix the exact day of her birth, she would soon be
twenty-one years of age, when the duty would devolve upon him of
delivering to her the iron casket of which he had been made the
custodian, and he was in an agony how he should act. Every day that
passed deepened his agony; he saw shadows gathering over his house
which might wreck the happiness of his beloved wife. Again and again
had he debated the matter without being able to arrive at any
comforting conclusion. Undoubtedly the casket contained the secret of
Ruth's parentage; when that was revealed the sword would fall.
However, he could not on this day give himself up to these disturbing
reflections; he had consented to accept an honour of which he deemed
himself unworthy, and it was incumbent upon him that he should not
betray himself. There was still a little time left to him to decide
upon his course of action. The man of upright mind was at this period
laying himself open to dangerous casuistical temptations. Even from
such unselfish love as he entertained for the wife who was deserving
of love in its sweetest and purest aspects may spring an upas tree to
poison the air we breathe.
Among the company was an old friend of ours--Dr. Spenlove, who had
attained an eminent position in London. His career from the time he
left Portsmouth had been a remarkable one. In the larger field of
labour to which he had migrated his talents were soon recognised, and
he began almost at once to mount the ladder of renown. Success in the
medical profession is seldom gained upon an insecure foundation; there
must be some solid justification for it, and once secured it lasts a
lifetime. Dr. Spenlove was no exception to the rule, and was not
spoilt by prosperity. He was still distinguished by that kindliness of
nature which had made his name a household word in the humble
neighbourhood in Portsmouth in which he had struggled and suffered.
The poor never appealed to him in vain, and he was as attentive to
those who could not afford to pay him as to those from whom he drew
heavy fees. Many a time did he step from his carriage to a garret in
which lay a poor sufferer whose fortunes were at the lowest ebb, and
many a trembling hand which held a few poor coins was gently put aside
with tender and cheerful words which were never forgotten by those to
whom they were spoken.
A man so kindly-hearted was of necessity associated with the
benevolent and public movements of the passing hour. Aaron Cohen, whom
till this day he had not met, had subscribed to some of the charities
in which he was interested, and he gladly availed himself of the
opportunity of becoming acquainted with him. When the company were
assembled in the reception room in Aaron's house, Dr. Spenlove
happened to be standing next to Mr. Moss, whom he had not seen since
he left Portsmouth. Except for the wear and tear of time, which,
however, did not sit heavily upon him, there was little alteration in
Mr. Moss; his worldly anxieties had not dimmed the brightness of his
eyes, nor robbed his countenance of its natural cheerful aspect. There
was a greater alteration in Dr. Spenlove; the thoughtful lines in his
face had deepened, there was an introspection in his eyes. Mr. Moss
seemed to be for ever looking upon the outer world, Dr. Spenlove for
ever looking upon his inner self. As an observer of character Mr. Moss
was Dr. Spenlove's superior; as a student and searcher after truth Dr.
Spenlove towered above Mr. Moss. The man of business never forgot a
face; the man of science often did. The first sign of recognition,
therefore, came from Mr. Moss.
"Good day, Dr. Spenlove."
The physician looked up, and said, abstractedly, "Good day." He
frequently acknowledged a salute from persons whose names he could not
at the moment recall.
"You do not remember me," said Mr. Moss, with a smile.
"You will pardon me," said Dr. Spenlove, searching his memory; "I have
an unfortunate failing----"
"Of forgetting faces," said Mr. Moss, with a smile. "It is very stupid
of me."
"Not at all; one can't help it. Besides, it is so long since we
met--over twenty years."
"In London?"
"No; in Portsmouth, the night before you left. We had an adventure
together----"
"You quicken my memory. How do you do, Mr. Moss?"
They shook hands.
"Very well, thank you, and happy to see you again. I have heard a
great deal of you, doctor; you are at the top of the ladder now. It is
strange, after the lapse of years, that we should meet in this house."
"Why is our meeting in this house strange?" inquired Dr. Spenlove.
The question recalled Mr. Moss to himself. The one incident which
formed a link between them was that connected with a wretched woman
and her babe whom they had rescued from impending death on a snowy
night long ago in the past. But he had not made Dr. Spenlove
acquainted with the name of the man to whom he had entrusted the
child, and upon this point his lips were sealed.
"I mean," he said, "that the circumstances of our meeting here and in
Portsmouth are so different."
"Widely different. Varied as have been my experiences, I have met with
none more thrilling than that in which we were both engaged on that
eventful night. I have not forgotten your kindness, Mr. Moss. I trust
the world has prospered with you."
"So-so. We all have our ups and downs. Health is the main thing, and
that we enjoy. Doctors have a bad time with us."
"I am glad to hear it. By the way, Mr. Moss, my part of the adventure
came to an end on the day I left Portsmouth; you had still something
to do. Did you succeed in finding a comfortable home for the child?"
"Yes."
"Did you lose sight of her after that?"
"Very soon. Before she had been in her new home twenty-four hours the
poor thing died."
"Dear, dear! But I am not surprised. It was hardly to be expected that
the child would live long after the exposure on such a bitter night.
She was almost buried in the snow. It was, most likely, a happy
release. And the mother, Mr. Moss?"
"I have heard nothing of her whatever."
The conversation ceased here. The proceedings had commenced, and a
gentleman was speaking. He was a man of discretion, which all orators
are not. He touched lightly and pertinently upon the reputation which
Mr. Aaron Cohen had earned by his unremitting acts of benevolence and
by the worthiness of his career. Such a man deserved the good fortune
which had attended him, and such a man's career could not fail to be
an incentive to worthy endeavour. Rachel, seated by her husband,
turned her sightless eyes upon the audience and listened to the
speaker with gratitude and delight. It was not that she had waited for
this moment to learn that she was wedded to an upright and noble man,
but it was an unspeakable happiness to her to hear from the lips of
others that he was appreciated as he deserved, that he was understood
as she understood him. It was natural, said the speaker, that the
gentleman in whose honour they had that day assembled should be held
in the highest esteem by his co-religionists, but it was a glory that
in a Christian country a Jew should have won from all classes of a
mixed community a name which would be enrolled upon those pages of our
social history which most fitly represent the march of true
civilisation and humanity. They were not there to glorify Money; they
were not there to glorify worldly prosperity; they were there to pay
tribute to one whose example Christians well might follow, to a man
without stain, without reproach. The influence of such a man in
removing--no, not in removing, but obliterating--the prejudices of
caste was lasting and all-powerful. He regarded it as a privilege that
he had been deputed to express the general sentiment with respect to
Mr. Aaron Cohen. This sentiment, he begged to add, was not confined to
Mr. Cohen, but included his wife, whose charities and benevolence were
perhaps even more widely known and recognised than those of the
partner of her joys and sorrows. In the presence of this estimable
couple it was difficult to speak as freely as he would wish, but he
was sure they would understand that in wishing them long life and
happiness he was wishing them much more than he dared to express in
their hearing, and that there was but one feeling entertained towards
them, a feeling not of mere respect and esteem, but of affection and
love. In the name of the subscribers he offered for their acceptance
two paintings, one a portrait of Mr. Cohen by an artist of renown, for
which he had been good enough to sit, the other a painting which
probably they would look upon now for the first time. The latter
picture was an accidental discovery, but Mr. Cohen would tell them
whether they were right in seizing the opportunity to obtain it, and
whether they were right in their belief that his esteemed wife had
unconsciously inspired the artist who had availed himself of a happy
chance to immortalise himself.
The pictures were then unveiled amid general acclamation, and if ever
Rachel wished for the blessing of sight to be restored to her it was
at that moment; but it was only for a moment. The dependence she
placed upon her husband, the trust she had in him, the pleasure she
derived from his eloquent and sympathetic descriptions of what was
hidden from her, were of such a nature that she sometimes said inly,
"I am thankful I can see only through the eyes of my dear husband."
The portrait of himself, from his frequent sittings, was familiar to
Aaron Cohen, but the picture of his beloved sitting beneath the cherry
tree was a delightful surprise to him. It was an exquisitely painted
scene, and Rachel's portrait was as faithful as if she had given
months of her time towards its successful accomplishment.
Aaron's response was happy up to a certain point. Except to pay a
deserved compliment to the artist and to express his gratitude to the
subscribers, he said little about the portrait of himself. The
presentation of the second picture supplied the theme for the
principal part of his speech. He said there was no doubt that it was a
portrait of his dear wife, and he recalled the time they had passed in
the south of France, and described all the circumstances of the
intimacy with the artist which had led to the painting of the picture.
He was grateful for that intimacy because of its result, which he saw
before him, and because of the pleasure it would afford his beloved
wife, who, until to-day, had been as ignorant as himself that such a
painting was in existence. "I went to the south of France," he said,
"in the hope that my wife, who was in a delicate state of health,
would be benefited by a short stay there. My hope was more than
realised; she grew strong there; my son, whose absence from England
deprives him of the pleasure of being present on this interesting
occasion, was born there, and there the foundation of my prosperity
was laid. It might be inferred from this that I believe all the events
of a man's life are ruled by chance, but such is not my belief. There
is an all-seeing Providence who shows us the right path; He speaks
through our reason and our consciences, and except for the accident of
birth, which lays a heavy burden upon many unfortunate beings, and
which should render them not fully responsible for the evil they do,
we ourselves are responsible for the consequences of our actions. We
must accept the responsibility and the consequences." He paused a few
moments before he continued. "When men of fair intelligence err they
err consciously; it is idle for them to say that they erred in
ignorance of the consequences. They must know, if they write with
black ink, that their writing must be black." He paused again. "But it
may be that a man commits a conscious error through his affections,
and if that error inflicts injury upon no living being--if it even
confer a benefit upon one or more--there may be some palliation of his
error. In stating that you set for me a standard too high I am stating
my firm belief. No man is stainless, no man is without reproach; the
doctrine of infallibility applied to human affairs is monstrous and
wicked; it is an arrogation of Divine power. I am, as all men are,
open to error; in my life, as in the lives of all men, there have been
mistakes; but I may still take the credit to myself that if I have
committed a conscious error it has harmed no living soul, and that it
has sprung from those affections which sweeten and bless our lives. A
reference has been made to my being a Jew. I glory that I am one. The
traditions and history of the race to which I am proud to belong have
been of invaluable service to me, and to the circumstance of my being
a Jew I owe the incidents of this day, which will be ever a proud
memory to me and to my family. In the name of my dear wife and my own
I thank you cordially, sincerely and gratefully for the honour you
have paid to us--an honour not beyond my wife's merits, but far beyond
my own."
Other speeches followed, and when the proceedings were at an end Dr.
Spenlove asked Mr. Moss to introduce him to Mr. Cohen.
"Cohen," said Mr. Moss, "Dr. Spenlove wishes to be introduced to you.
He practised in Portsmouth twenty years ago."
Aaron started. He never forgot a name or a face, and he recollected
the mention of Dr. Spenlove's name when Mr. Moss came to him in
Gosport with the child.
"Without exactly knowing it, perhaps," said Dr. Spenlove, "you have
been most kind in movements in which I have taken an interest. I am
glad of the opportunity of making your acquaintance."
Nothing more; no reference to the private matter. Aaron breathed more
freely. He responded to Dr. Spenlove's advances, and the gentlemen
parted friends.
Mr. Moss had been somewhat puzzled by Aaron's speech. It seemed to him
that his friend did not place sufficient value on himself. "People are
always ready to take you at your own price, so don't be too modest,"
was a favourite saying of his. Then what did Aaron mean by letting
people suppose that he had done something wrong in his life? He spoke
about it to Aaron.
"Look back," said Aaron, laying his hand kindly on Mr. Moss's
shoulder, "and tell me if you do not recollect some action which you
would gladly recall."
"I daresay, I daresay," said Mr. Moss, restlessly, "but what's the use
of confessing it when there's no occasion? It's letting yourself
down."
Aaron turned to greet another friend, and the subject was dropped; but
it remained, nevertheless, in Mr. Moss's mind.
His daughter Esther was in the room during the proceedings, and her
fair young face beamed with pride; it was her lover's father who was
thus honoured, and she felt that she had, through Aaron Cohen's son, a
share in that honour. When the gratifying but fatiguing labours of the
day were at an end, and Aaron, Rachel, and Esther were alone, Rachel
said,--
"I am sorry, dear Esther, that Joseph was not here to hear what was
said about his father."
"It would not have made him love and honour him more," said Esther.
Rachel pressed her hand and kissed her; she had grown to love this
sweet and simple girl, who seemed to have but one thought in life--her
lover. Then the sightless woman asked them to describe the pictures to
her, and she listened in an ecstasy of happiness to their words.
"Is it not wonderful?" she said to Aaron. "A famous picture, they
said, and I the principal figure. What can the painter have seen in
me?"
"What all men see, my life," replied Aaron; "but what no one knows as
I know."
"It has been a happy day," sighed Rachel; she sat between them, each
holding a hand. "You did not hear from our dear Ruth this morning?"
"No, dear mother." For thus was Esther already permitted to address
Rachel.
"She will be home in two days, and our dear lad as well. I wish he
were back from India, even before he has started, and so do you, my
dear. But time soon passes. Just now it seems but yesterday that we
were in France."
The day waned. Rachel and Esther were together; Aaron was in his study
writing, and preparing for an important meeting he had to attend that
night. A servant entered.
"A gentleman to see you, sir."
Aaron looked at the card, which bore the name of Mr. Richard
Dillworthy.
"I am busy," said Aaron. "Does he wish to see me particularly? Ask him
if he can call again."
"He said his business was pressing, sir."
"Show him in."
The servant ushered the visitor into the room, a slightly-built,
middle-aged man, with iron-grey hair and whiskers. Aaron motioned him
to a chair, and he placed a card on the table, bearing the name and
address of a firm of lawyers.
"I am Mr. Dillworthy, of Dillworthy, Maryx, and Co.," he said.
"Yes?"
"I have come to speak to you upon a family matter----"
"A family matter!" exclaimed Aaron, interrupting him. "Does it concern
me?"
"It concerns you closely, and the client on whose behalf I am here."
"What is its nature?"
"Allow me to disclose it in my own way. I shall take it as a favour if
you will regard this interview as private."
"Certainly."
"Briefly, I may say, as an introduction, that it refers to your
daughter, Miss Ruth Cohen."