A MOTHER'S JOY.
For the first time in their lives these two beings, whose fates were
so strangely linked together, faced each other--the mother who
believed her child to be dead, the father who had brought up that
child in ignorance of her birthright. It was a solemn moment, as
trying to the man who had erred as to the woman who had fallen. To him
the truth was as clear as though it were proclaimed with a tongue of
fire, to her it had yet to be revealed. How feeble was the human act
when brought into juxtaposition with destiny's decree!
Aaron's sin had been ever before him; the handwriting had been ever on
the wall. Scarcely for one day during the last twenty years had the
voice of conscience been stilled, and it had been part of his
punishment that the inherited instincts of the child had worked
inexorably against all his efforts; her silent resistance to the
lessons he would have inculcated had been too powerful for him; and in
the end she had turned resolutely from the path into which, with
inward reproaches, he had endeavoured to lead her, and had obeyed the
promptings of her nature in mapping out her own future.
Keen as were Aaron's sufferings, he experienced a sense of relief that
the bolt had fallen, and that the hour of retribution had arrived; the
agony of suspense had been almost unbearable, and he accepted with
mournful resignation the decree which ordained that he should pass
judgment upon himself.
A difficult task lay before him; the revelation he had to make must be
made with tact and delicacy, in consideration for the mother's
feelings. Joy, as well as sorrow, has its fears.
Forgetful for the moment of his own domestic grief, a sympathetic pity
for the bereaved woman stirred Aaron's heart. Her tribulation was
expressed in her face, which was pale with woe; her eyes were suffused
with tears; her limbs trembled as she sank into the chair which he
placed for her. It was not he alone who was experiencing the tortures
of remorse.
Mrs. Gordon was in mourning, and Aaron knew it was as much for her
child as for her husband. Except that time had told its tale there was
little change in her, and few persons who had known her in her
springtime would have failed to recognise her in her middle age. Her
union with Mr. Gordon had not been entirely unhappy; he had performed
his duty towards her, as she had done towards him, and though he had a
suspicion that through all the long years she never lost sight of her
secret sorrow, he made no reference to it, and she, on her part, did
not intrude it upon him. Only on his deathbed had he spoken of her
child, and had given her an imperfect clue, which she was now
following up. Bitter was the knowledge she had gained. Her child was
dead. Free, and in possession of great wealth, she was alone, without
a tie in the world. All her bright dreams had faded. She had indulged
the hope that her child still lived, and as she travelled back to
England had raised up mental pictures of her daughter which filled her
with joy. The presumption was that the young girl was living in a poor
home, and was perhaps working for a livelihood. To lift her from
poverty to wealth, to make a lady of her, to load her with gifts, to
educate her for the new and higher station in life in which she was
now to move, to love and caress her, to travel with her through the
pleasure grounds of Europe--these were the dreams in which she had
indulged. Innumerable were the pictures she had raised on her voyage
home of the joy and delight of her daughter, and of the happy days in
store for them. The information she received from Dr. Spenlove had
killed these hopes, and her yearning desire now was to visit the grave
of the babe she had deserted, and to weep over it tears of bitter
repentance. It was not so much to reclaim the iron box containing the
clue to a shameful episode in her youthful life, as to learn where her
babe was buried, that she wished to learn into whose care her child
had been given. There was a time when she nursed a fierce desire for
revenge upon the man who had betrayed her, but this desire had burnt
itself away, and she would be content that the melancholy memories of
the past should be buried in oblivion. No good result would accrue
from rekindling the smouldering ashes of an experience so mournful.
She had lived down the shame; no word of reproach had been uttered
against her; let the dead past bury its dead.
For a few moments there was silence between her and Aaron, and she was
the first to speak.
"Dr. Spenlove has told me all," she said.
"He has told you what he knows," said Aaron, "but you have something
more to hear. Mrs. Gordon, it was I who undertook the charge of your
child. Mr. Moss brought her to me in Gosport, and delivered to me also
the casket which you entrusted to Dr. Spenlove. I return it to you
now, in the same condition as it was handed to me. You will oblige me
by convincing yourself that it has not been tampered with."
She unlocked the box with a key she carried in her purse, and taking
from it the letters she had deposited therein, glanced over them with
a bitter smile, then replaced them in their hiding-place, and relocked
the casket.
"There was nothing else in it?" asked Aaron.
"Nothing else," she replied; "it is as I delivered it to Dr. Spenlove.
Tell me about my child. Did she live long? Was she buried in Gosport?
You will tell me the truth; you will conceal nothing from me?"
"I will tell you the truth; I will conceal nothing from you; but what
I have to say must be said in my own way. Prepare yourself for a
strange story, but have no fear. You are the first person to whom it
will be revealed. When Mr. Moss left your child with me there were two
babes in my house of the same age, and we were in deep poverty and
distress. My wife--my beloved wife lay at the point of death"--he
covered his eyes with his hands. "Bear with me; these recollections
overcome me." Presently he resumed. "But a short time before her
confinement she had been stricken with blindness. Her own child, whose
face she had never seen, lay quiet and still in her arms. The doctor
who attended her feared the worst, and said that her life depended
upon the life of her babe. If our child died on the morrow the mother
would die; if our child lived, the mother would live. Temptation
assailed me, and to save the life of my beloved wife I yielded to it.
How can I expect you to forgive me for what I did in the agony of my
heart?"
Again he paused, and tears gushed from his eyes. Mrs. Gordon sank back
in her chair; there was not a vestige of colour in her face.
"My God! My God!" she murmured. "Have I not suffered enough?"
The words recalled him to himself. He begged her to have courage, to
be strong; there was no new suffering in store for her, he said; what
he had to relate would bring joy into her life. He gave her wine, and
when she had recovered he proceeded with his story, and gradually and
tenderly revealed to her the truth. As he proceeded her face shone
with incredulous joy, her heart beat tumultuously with the prospect of
this unexpected happiness; and when his story was finished, and he sat
before her with bowed head, there was a long, long silence in the
room. He dared utter no further words; in silent dread he waited for
his condemnation.
He felt a hand upon his knee, and looking down he saw her kneeling at
his feet. She was transfigured; the spirit of youth shone in her
countenance, and she took his hand, and kissed it again and again,
bedewing it with happy tears. He gazed at her in wonder. He had
expected revilings, and she was all tenderness.
"Is it true?" she murmured. "Oh! is it true? At such a time as this
you would not deceive me!"
"Heaven forbid!" he answered. "What I have related is the solemn
truth."
"And my child lives?"
"She lives."
"God in heaven bless you! She lives--my daughter lives!"
"And you do not blame me--you do not reproach me?"
"I shall bless you to my dying day! Oh, my heart, my heart! It will
burst with happiness!"
He entreated her to be composed, and in a little while she was calmer.
Then for the first time he wrested himself from the environment of his
own selfish sorrows; he put himself in her place, and understood the
sacred joy which animated her. She was all eagerness to see her child,
but Aaron bade her restrain her impatience; he had much more to relate
which it was necessary she should hear.
"But I must see her to-night!" she cried.
"You shall see her to-night. I will take you to her."
She was fain to be satisfied with this assurance, but she would not be
content till she saw a portrait of Ruth. He gave her a cabinet
photograph, and she gazed at it longingly, yearningly.
"She is beautiful, beautiful!"
"Yes, she is a beautiful girl," said Aaron; and then proceeded with
the story, saying nothing, however, of what he had done for the young
couple. At first she was grieved to hear that Ruth was married, but
she found some consolation in the reflection that she had married into
an honourable family. When Aaron related the particulars of the
lawyer's visit to him, commissioned by Lord Storndale because of his
stern objection to his son marrying a Jewess, she exclaimed,--
"But Ruth is not a Jewess!" and was appalled by the thought that her
daughter was not born in wedlock. A child of shame! How would she be
received? It was her turn now to fear, and Aaron, whose native
shrewdness had returned to him, divined her fear; but it was not for
him to moot the subject.
"My child," she said, with hot blushes on her face, "believes herself
to be your daughter?"
"She does. It was my intention to undeceive her to-night."
"You know my story?"
"It was imparted to me," he replied, with averted head, "when I was
asked to receive your child."
"Who knows the truth," she asked, trembling and hesitating, "about
me?"
"I, Mr. Moss, Dr. Spenlove, and your husband's lawyers."
"No other persons?"
"No other persons." He took her hand. "Dear lady, from my heart I pity
and sympathise with you. If I can assist you in any way----"
"You can--you can!" she cried. "For God's sake do not destroy the
happiness that may be mine!"
"As Heaven is my judge, no word shall pass my lips. Be comforted, be
comforted. The lawyers' lips are sealed, as you have already learned,
and I will answer for Mr. Moss and Dr. Spenlove. Say to her and to her
husband's family what you will--it will be justified. Your secret is
safe."
She thanked him humbly and gratefully; it was she who was abashed; it
was she who had to implore for mercy; and it was due to his wisdom
that her aching heart was eased.
"If I can repay you--if I can repay you!" she murmured.
"You can repay me by saying you forgive me for the sin I committed."
"Your sin!" she cried, in amazement. "You, who have brought up my
child in virtue and honour! At my door lies the sin, not at yours."
"You forget," he groaned; "I have sinned against my wife, whom I love
with a love dearer than life itself, and she has yet to receive the
confession I have made to you. It was my love for her that led me into
the error."
"An error," said Mrs. Gordon, in tender accents, "that has saved a
daughter from regarding her mother with abhorrence. Dear friend, God
sees and judges, and surely He will approve what you have done. A
grateful mother blesses you!"
"Remain here," said Aaron. "I will speak to my friends and yours, and
then I will conduct you to your daughter."