BEFORE ALL, DUTY.
He sat silent for many minutes, his mind in a state of chaos; but
presently his native strength of character came to his aid, and he
resumed the task which the entrance of Mr. Dillworthy had interrupted!
In addition to the important meeting he had to attend that night, his
presence was expected at the board of a Jewish charity, of which he
was the founder. This meeting came first, and his colleagues could not
proceed to business without him; he must not disappoint them. Before
all, duty. The thought shaped itself in whispered words, which he
repeated again and again, and their iteration brought to him a sense
of their true significance. Duty had been a leading principle of his
life, and in the part he had taken in public matters he had never
neglected it, and had never studied his personal convenience. But he
had now to consider the principle in its most comprehensive aspect,
and he felt that its application to his private affairs was imperative
in the conflicting interests in which he was engaged. This being so,
what was his duty here at home in respect of his wife and the girl he
had brought up as their daughter, and how should he perform it? Love
played so vital a part in the consideration of this question that he
could not thrust it aside. It was, indeed, its leading element. For
years past he had lived in a fool's paradise, and time had crept on
and on until suddenly he saw the flowers withering before him. He had
been false to himself, he had worn a mask, and now it was to be torn
aside; but this he could bear. How would Rachel bear it?
Unconsciously he had risen from his chair, and was pacing to and fro
while he reflected. Pausing, he saw upon the table the papers he had
been studying. The meeting of the Jewish society was of minor
consequence, and required but little thought; the second meeting,
however, was of vast importance, for there a decision was to be
arrived at which would affect thousands of poor families and have a
direct bearing upon the question of capital and labour. There had been
a great strike in the building trade, and thousands of men had
deliberately thrown themselves out of employment, choosing, in their
adherence to a principle, what was almost next door to starvation. The
strike had been brought about by a rival contractor, a Mr. Poynter, an
employer of labour on an extensive scale, and a man as well known as
Aaron himself. To say that these two were rivals does not necessarily
imply that they were enemies, for that is a game that two must play
at, and it was a game in which Aaron played no part. He did not
approve of Mr. Poynter's methods: he went no further than that; and if
he was called upon to express his opinion upon the subject he did so
in a manner which robbed it of any personal application. Mr. Poynter,
on the other hand, was nothing if he was not personal, and he hated
Aaron with a very sincere and conscientious hate. He hated him because
he had lost several profitable contracts, which Aaron had obtained;
and this hatred may be applied in a general sense, because he hated
every successful rival, great or small. He hated him because Aaron was
genuinely respected by large bodies of working men, and had great
influence with them; and this hatred may also be applied in a general
sense, because he hated all employers of labour who were held by their
workmen in higher respect than himself. He hated Aaron because he was
a Jew; and this may certainly be applied in a general sense, because
he had a bitter hatred of all Jews, and would have willingly
subscribed liberally and joined in a crusade to hunt them out of the
country. He did not subscribe to the Society for Promoting
Christianity among the Jews, because to Christianise them would be to
admit them upon terms of equality, and the idea was abhorrent to him.
On no terms could a Jew be made the equal of a Christian. That a Jew
could be a good man, that he could be a just man, that he could do
anything without an eye to profit or self-aggrandisement--these, in
his belief, were monstrous propositions, and no man of sense,
certainly no true Christian, could seriously entertain them. Mr.
Poynter was a Christian, a true Christian, regular in his attendance
at church, and fairly liberal, also, in his charities, though his left
hand always knew what his right hand did. And here he found another
cause for hating Aaron. He heard his name quoted as a man of large
benevolence, and he went so far as to declare that Aaron's charities
were a means to an end. "He looks upon them as an investment," he
said; "they bring him a good return. Did you ever know a Jew part with
money without an eye to the main chance?" When he heard that it was
generally reported that Aaron gave away in secret much more than he
gave away in public, his comment was, "What is easier than to set such
a rumour afloat? Any rich man can do it by an expenditure of ten
pounds a year! If money is bestowed in secret, who is to know of it
but the donor? If it becomes public, who could have spoken of it first
but the donor? No one but a fool would be gulled by so transparent a
trick!" These detractions were generally uttered to men who
sympathised with the speaker, and they were not without effect. By
which it will be seen that Aaron had enemies, as all men have. Mr.
Poynter posed as a moral man, and it is the very essence of these
usurpers of morality that each of them must stand alone, and that upon
the pedestal he sets up there shall be no room for any other braggart.
He was a married man, with sons and daughters, and a wife, who all
looked upon the husband and father as a pattern. Whether his children
followed the pattern or not does not concern this history, which has
to do with the head of the family alone. Whatever a man may be in the
prime of life, the earlier Adam, if it differ from the later, will
very likely assert itself in the blood of his descendants, and this
may have been the case with Mr. Poynter's children, despite the
respect in which they held him. You come into contact with a
sober-faced man whose distinguishing mark is one of intense
respectability; you see him at home in the bosom of his family, whom
he entertains with severely respectable platitudes; you hear his
opinions on matters of current interest, a trial, a scandal in high
life, tittle-tattle of the stage, the Court, the Church, and society
in general. What an intensely respectable gentleman, what severely
respectable views, what strict morality, what an estimable father of a
family! Ah, but draw the curtain of years aside, and we behold another
man--another man, yet still the same, a man about town, philandering,
deceiving, lying, and playing the base part to serve his selfish
pleasures. Where is the morality, where the respectability now--and
which of the two is the true man?
Was this the case with Mr. Poynter? The course of events may possibly
supply the answer to this question presently. Meanwhile, nothing is
more certain to-day than that he is accepted as he presents himself.
But, if in the past life of such a man as Aaron Cohen may be found an
episode of his own creating upon which he looks with dismay, why might
it not be so with such a man as Mr. Poynter?
In a country like England, where operations of magnitude are being
continually undertaken, there is room for all who occupy the higher
rungs of the ladder; it is only the lower rungs which are overcrowded,
and which need clearing by means of emigration to lands where there is
room for the toiling, suffering millions. But Mr. Poynter chose to
believe that there was not room for Aaron and himself, and he nursed
and fostered a venomous desire to drag Aaron down. This desire,
indeed, had really become a disease with him, and had grown by what it
fed on. He hunted about for the means, he asked questions. It was
unquestionably true that there were Jews who had grown rich through
dishonesty and usury, and Mr. Poynter did not stop to consider that
this applied equally to Christians. Perhaps it was the knowledge of
his own early life that made him think, "If I could find something in
his past that would bring shame upon him--if I could only rake up
something that would show him in his true light! It would be the
commercial and social ruin of him. He would never be able to hold up
his head again." He would gladly have paid for some such discovery.
At the present time he had special reasons for hate. One reason was
that the strike in the building trade was affecting him seriously. He
was engaged in large contracts, in the carrying out of which thousands
of men were needed, and it was chiefly against himself that the strike
was ordered by the unions. He was on the brink of great losses, and
Aaron had been called in as a mediator and arbitrator. The strike at
an end, and the masters the victors, he was safe, and more prosperous
than ever; but every day that it was prolonged meant so many hundreds
of pounds out of his pocket. His fate seemed to hang upon the final
advice to the men which Aaron was to give, and his profits would be
large or small according to the nature of that advice. He laid the
credit of the strike at Aaron's door; for in their enterprises he and
Aaron employed different methods. Aaron had pursued in England the
course he had pursued in France. He paid his men liberally, gave them
bonuses, even to a certain extent acknowledged them as co-operators.
In Mr. Poynter's eyes this was a crime, for it struck at the very root
of his prosperity. "He is a rabid socialist," Mr. Poynter said; "men
of his stamp are a danger to society."
Another reason was that tenders had lately been called for works of
exceptional magnitude, and he had entertained hopes of obtaining the
contract. Again he was worsted by this insidious enemy. Within the
last few hours he had heard that Aaron's tender had been accepted. He
ground his teeth with rage. He could have undertaken the works in
spite of the strike, for he had very nearly completed arrangements for
the introduction of foreign workmen, whom he was determined to employ
if the English workmen held out. There would be a row, of course, and
the lower classes would cast obloquy upon him, for which he would have
to thank his rival and enemy. When he heard that he had lost the
contract he said to a friend, "I would give half I am worth to drag
him down." And he meant what he said.
The last meeting of the strikers was now being held. It had been
called for seven o'clock, and it was known that the discussion would
occupy several hours. Aaron was not asked to attend this discussion,
which was to be private, even the representatives of the press not
being admitted. Eleven o'clock was the hour at which he was expected,
and it was understood that he would bring with him certain
propositions from the masters, which, with the workmen's views, were
to be discussed, and a decision arrived at. To-morrow morning's papers
would announce whether the strike was to be continued or was at an
end.
He studied the papers before him--the arguments and statements of
employers of labour, comparisons of wages here and in foreign
countries, the comparative rates of living here and there, and the
conflicting views of the living wage, documents of every description,
among which were pathetic letters from wives of the strikers,
imploring him to put an end to the strike. He had mastered them all,
and was familiar with every detail, but he read them again in order to
divert his attention for this night from his own private affairs. His
mind must be free; he would think of them to-morrow. He had public
duties to attend to. Before all, duty.
The words haunted him, and he was dismayed to find that all his
efforts to concentrate his attention upon his public duties were vain.
Pictures of the past presented themselves: he saw his home in Gosport;
he saw Rachel lying in bed with her dead babe by her side; he saw
himself engaged in the task of completing the guilty deception,
changing the clothing of the infants, and giving his own child to a
strange woman,--every incident connected with his sin was stamped
indelibly upon his brain, and now rose vividly before him. Very well.
He had half an hour to spare before he left his house for the Jewish
meeting; he would devote the time to a consideration of his private
affairs.
He gathered his papers, arranged them in order, and put them in his
pocket. He dallied with them at first, but feeling that he was
prolonging the simple task in order to shorten the time for serious
thought, he smiled pitifully at his weakness, and completed it
expeditiously.
In admitting Ruth into his household, in adopting her as a daughter he
had undertaken a sacred responsibility. He was fully conscious of this
twenty years ago in Gosport, and what he had done had been done
deliberately. It was a question then of the sacrifice of a precious
life. The doctor had stated the case very clearly. The pregnant words
they had exchanged were in his memory now, and might have been spoken
only a few moments since. "Her life," the doctor had said, "hangs upon
the life of her child." "If our child lives," Aaron had asked, "there
is hope that my wife will live?" "A strong hope," the doctor had
answered. "And if our child dies?" asked Aaron. The doctor answered,
"The mother will die."
He recalled the agony of those hours, the sufferings through which
Rachel had passed with so much sweetness and patience, his poverty and
helplessness, the dark future before him. Then came the ray of light,
Mr. Moss, with the strange commission of the deserted child. He had
not courted it, had not invited it; he had had no hand in it. He had
regarded it as a message from heaven. What followed? The death of his
own babe, the calm and peaceful death, the young soul taken to heaven,
his beloved wife in an untroubled sleep by the side of her dead babe.
It was a visitation of God. Could he be accused of having had a hand
in it? Heaven forbid! On the contrary, who could blame him for
believing that it was a Divine direction of the course he was to take?
And who was wronged? Surely not the mother who had deserted her babe.
Surely not the babe, who had found a happy home. The wrong--and herein
was the sting--was to Rachel, whose life had been saved by the deceit.
So far, then, was he not justified?
But if, before the committal of a sin, we could see the consequences
of the sin--if he had seen the consequences of his, would he not have
paused, and said, "It rests with God; let it be as He wills; I will be
no party to the deceit"? In that case Rachel's life would have been
sacrificed. There was no human doubt of it. Rachel would have died,
and the blessings she had shed around her, the good she had been
enabled to do, the suffering hearts she had relieved, the light she
had brought into despairing homes, would never have been. Against a
little evil, so much good. Against a slight error, so much that was
sweet and beautiful.
But in these reflections he had taken into account only Rachel and
himself--only their two lives. How about Ruth herself?
He had never disguised from himself that there was much in Ruth's
character which was not in accordance with Rachel's views or his own,
which she did not assimilate with either of their natures. Being one
of his family in the eyes of the world, he had brought her up as a
Jewess. She was born a Christian. Was this not a crime of which she
had been made the victim? He had experienced great difficulties in her
education. He wished to correct the defect which exists in ninety-nine
English Jewesses out of a hundred--he wished her to pray in the Hebrew
tongue, and to understand her prayers. To this end he himself had
endeavoured to teach her to read and translate Hebrew. She would not
learn. Even now as a woman she understood but a very few words, and
this scanty knowledge was mechanical. A parrot might have learned as
much. She had an aversion to Jewish society. As a child, when she was
necessarily in leading strings, she was taken by Rachel to the
synagogue on every Sabbath day, but when she began to have intelligent
ideas she rebelled; she would not go, and Rachel walked to the House
of God alone. It was a grief to her that Ruth would not follow in her
footsteps, and she and Aaron had frequently conversed upon the
subject. "It is so with many Jewish women," Aaron said. "It would be
wrong to force her; she will find out her error by-and-by." But Ruth
never did, and Rachel suffered in silence.
There was another sorrow. Between their son Joseph and Ruth did not
exist that love which brother and sister should bear each other.
Joseph was ready with demonstrative affection, but Ruth did not
respond. Aaron had taken note of this, but he was powerless to remedy
it, and the lad, who was as solicitous as his father to spare the dear
mother pain, made no trouble of it. Ruth respected and admired her
reputed father, and in the feelings she entertained towards him there
was an element of fear, because of his strength of character, but she
did not love him as a child should. He, knowing what he knew, found
excuses for her. "It is in her blood," he said to himself.
All this was hidden from Rachel, to whom Ruth was tender and kind. Who
could be otherwise to so sweet a woman? But Rachel did not know of
what she was deprived until Esther Moss began to make long visits to
their home. "Esther is like a daughter to me," she said, and only
Aaron was aware of the depth of meaning these simple words conveyed.
In Rachel's association with Esther she had realised what a daughter
might have been to her.
But now he had to consider the matter, not from his or Rachel's point
of view, but from Ruth's. She was a woman in her springtime, and love
had come to her, and she had held out her arms to it. And the man she
loved was a Christian.
It was not within his right to take into consideration that the man
she loved was a spendthrift and a scapegrace. The question had often
intruded itself since she was grown to womanhood, whether he would not
be adding sin to sin by encouraging her to marry a Jew. She had
answered the question herself. What right had he to gainsay her? He
might, as a true and sincere friend, say to her, "This man will not
make you happy. He has vices and defects which will bring misery upon
your home. You must not marry him." But he had no right to say to her
"You must not marry this man because he is a Christian." It would be a
detestable argument for one in his position, and in hers, to advance.
Then Mr. Dillworthy might be wrong in his estimate of the young man's
character. The only objection Lord Storndale had to the union was that
Ruth was a Jewess. But she was not a Jewess, and it was in his power
to go to the young man's father and make the disclosure to him. Lord
Storndale's natural reply would be, "Let it be clearly understood. You
have done this lady a grievous wrong. You are a wealthy man. Repair
the wrong by making a suitable settlement upon her. But it must be
publicly done, and the injustice of which you have been guilty must be
publicly acknowledged." The only answer he could make would be, "It is
just. I will do as you dictate."
What would be the effect as regarded himself? Among his
co-religionists he was held up as a pillar of the old Jewish faith.
His voice had been raised against apostasy; he had taken a decided
stand against the more liberal ideas of civilised life which prevailed
and were adopted by a large section of his race. Even now he was
pledged to deliver a public address against the backsliding of the
modern Jew, who was disposed to adapt his life to the altered
circumstances of the times. He had written this address, and public
attention had been drawn to the coming event. His arguments were to
himself convincing, and by them he hoped to stem the tide. He had
always been orthodox, and he hoped to prevail against the wave of
heterodoxy which was sweeping over modern Judaism. He had stepped
forward as a champion. In the light of the domestic revelation which
must presently be made, how dare he, himself a transgressor, presume
to teach his brethren their religious duty? His sound judgment of
things which interested or affected him was due to his common sense,
which, he had been heard to say, was a rare quality.
"You are always right," Mr. Moss once said to him. "How is it?"
"If I form a correct opinion," he replied, with a smile, "it is
because I exercise my common sense. I do not judge from my own
standpoint."
He did this now. He put himself in the place of other men. He listened
to his own confession. He passed the verdict upon himself.
"This man has been living the life of a hypocrite. He has accepted
money for false service. Not perhaps by word of mouth, but most
assuredly by his acts, he has lied. He has violated the canons of his
religion. He has deceived his wife--for money, which he pretends to
despise. He has robbed a young girl of her birthright. And he dares to
preach to us of duty!"
Who would believe him if he told the true story of his hard trial, if
he described the bitter tribulation of his soul when his beloved wife
was lying at death's door? He had counselled many men in their days of
struggle and temptation to be brave and do their duty. How had he
performed his in _his_ hour of temptation? No one would believe the
only story he could plead in extenuation of his sin. He would be
condemned by all.
And he was in the zenith of his fame. On this very day, when exposure
seemed to be approaching with, swift and certain steps, he had been
honoured as few men live to be. If he felt pleasure in the position he
had won, it was because it was a source of pride and pleasure to
Rachel. Was he, with his own hand, to destroy the ideal he had
created? Was this the plain duty that lay now before him?
"The carriage is at the door, sir."
It was a servant who interrupted his tortured musings; he had given
orders to be informed when his carriage was ready. With slow steps he
left his study.
BOOK THE SIXTH.
_RETRIBUTION_.