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CHAPTER XXXI.
THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PAST

Aaron observed him anxiously. The disclosure that had already been made had so unnerved him that he was apprehensive of further trouble.

"Ah, here it is," said the lawyer, opening the letter for which he had been looking. "I was afraid I had left it behind me. Excuse me a moment; I wish to refresh my memory."

He ran his eye over the letter, and nodded as he went through its points of importance.

"Does it concern the unhappy affair we have discussed"? inquired Aaron, unable to restrain his impatience.

"No," replied the lawyer; "I take it that is settled, and I trust, for the sake of both the families, that it will not be reopened."

"I trust not."

"This is quite a different matter, and I hardly know how to excuse myself for troubling you with it. It is a sudden thought, for I came here with no such intention. You must thank your own reputation for it, Mr. Cohen; it is well known that you have never neglected an opportunity to do an act of kindness, and though what I am about to speak of has come to me in the way of business, the story contains elements so romantic and peculiar that it has strangely attracted me. The reference in the letter which induces me to think that you may be able to help me is that you are a gentleman of influence in your community, and have a wide acquaintance with your co-religionists. Perhaps I had better read the words. My correspondent says: 'I know that there are peculiar difficulties in the search I intend to make upon my return home, but before my arrival you may be able to discover something which will be of assistance to me. Probably if you consulted some kind-hearted and influential member of the Jewish race you may, through him, obtain a clew; or, failing this, you might employ a Jewish agent to make inquiries.' It is a lady who writes to me, and her letter comes from Australia. May I continue? Thank you. Let me tell you the story; it will interest you, and I will be as brief as possible. The letter is too long to read throughout." He handed it to Aaron. "It occupies, you see, fourteen closely written pages, and it is somewhat in the nature of a confession. If you wish I will have a copy of it made, and will send it on to you to-morrow."

Aaron, turning over the pages, came to the superscription: "I remain, yours truly, Mary Gordon."

Truly this was a day of startling surprises to him. He recollected the name as that of the gentleman for whom, twenty years ago, Mr. Moss had undertaken the commission which had lifted him from beggary by placing in his hands a large sum of money, to which in strict justice he was not entitled, but which, from fear that the deception he had practiced might otherwise be discovered, he had been compelled to accept. He had, as an atonement, expended in secret charities a hundred times the sum, but this did not absolve him from the responsibility. The spirit of the dead past rose before him, and he was overwhelmed with the dread possibilities it brought with it.

"I fear," said the lawyer, "that I have been inconsiderate in introducing the matter at the present moment. I will postpone it to a future occasion."

"Pray continue," said Aaron, whose burning desire now was to know the worst. "I have had an exciting day, but I will pay due attention to what you wish to impart to me."

"I appreciate your kindness. If you cannot yourself assist me you may recommend me to an agent whom I will employ. I see that you referred in the letter to the name of my correspondent, Mrs. Gordon; the inquiry is of a delicate nature, and it may be her wish that her name is not too freely mentioned-at all events for the present. Her story is not an uncommon one, but it takes an extraordinary and unusual turn. She is now, according to her own account, a lady of considerable means; her husband has lately died and she has come into a fortune. Some twenty odd years ago she was a young woman, and had two lovers, one of whom wooed her with dishonorable intentions, and by him she was betrayed. This occurred during the absence in Australia of the gentleman who had proposed to her, and whom she had accepted. He was a resident in Australia, and it was his intention to make his home there. While he was on his way to England, with the intention of making her his wife and returning with her to the colony, she discovered that she was about to become a mother. In despair she fled from London, where he expected to find her, and sought to hide her shame among strangers. The place she selected was Portsmouth, and there she went through a series of harrowing trials, and was reduced to extreme poverty. In her letter to me she makes no effort to disguise the misery into which she was plunged, and she is frank and outspoken in order that I may properly understand how it was that she was forced to abandon the child that was born in Portsmouth under the most distressing circumstances. For it appears that when the suitor who wooed her honorably arrived in London and learned the story of her betrayal he was still desirous to make her his wife. He traced her to Portsmouth, and found her there with her babe, who was then but a few days old. This would have induced most men to forego their honorable intentions, but Mr. Gordon, whose name she now bears, was an exception to the rule, and, through a poor gentleman who acted as a go-between, he made a singular proposition to her. It was to the effect that she should consent to give up her child entirely, and during his lifetime to make no effort to recover it. He undertook to find a respectable and comfortable home for the babe, and to make a liberal provision for it. This is the bare outline of this proposition, and I need not go farther into it. So desperate was her position that she and her child at the time were literally starving; she had not a friend except Mr. Gordon, who was stern in his resolve not to befriend her unless she accepted the conditions he dictated; the gentleman who acted as a go-between was poor and could not help her.

"In these circumstances she made the sacrifice he demanded, and parted with her child, who from that day to this she has never seen. Mr. Gordon honorably fulfilled the terms of the agreement; a home was found for the child, and he married the lady and took her to Australia, where she has resided for the last twenty years. It was part of the agreement that she should not be informed of the name of the people who adopted the child, and should not, directly or indirectly, make the least endeavor to obtain any information concerning it while her husband was alive. If he died before her she was free to act as she pleased in the matter. This has occurred, and the widow, who has had no children by her marriage, is bent upon recovering her child, who, I may mention, is a girl. The task is beset with difficulties, and may prove hopeless. Shortly stated, Mr. Cohen, this is the case as it at present stands."

"Is there a special reason," inquired Aaron, "for your applying to me for assistance?"

"Not exactly special; it is in a sense accidental, inspired by my visit this evening on the other matter we have spoken of. There are certain particulars in relation to Mrs. Gordon's search for her daughter which I have omitted. The arrangements for the future provision of the babe were carried out, I understand, by a firm of lawyers whose names Mrs. Gordon has been unable to ascertain, but she is acquainted with the name of the gentleman who in Portsmouth conveyed Mr. Gordon's proposition to her. This gentleman is Dr. Spenlove, who, leaving Portsmouth several years ago, has attained an eminent position in London. You may probably know him."

"He was at my house to-day."

"Then you are on terms of intimacy with him?"

"No. We met to-day for the first time."

"In her letter Mrs. Gordon refers me to Dr. Spenlove, and I have seen him on the subject. But it appears he is bound to secrecy, and he declines, very properly perhaps, to enter into any communication with me on the matter."

"Still you have not explained why you apply to me.

"The explanation is simple. It has somehow come to Mrs. Gordon's knowledge that, after enlisting the services of Dr. Spenlove, her husband employed another agent, who was commissioned to find a home for her child, and that this agent was of the Jewish persuasion. The natural conclusion is that this agent was a resident of Portsmouth, who may or may not have been bound to secrecy in the same manner as Dr. Spenlove. You have friends of your own persuasion everywhere and are probably acquainted with many Portsmouth Jews, through whom this poor lady may gain intelligence of the fate of her child. If you assist me you will earn a mother's gratitude."

"I will consider it," said Aaron, and his voice was troubled; "that is all I can promise at present."

Mr. Dillworthy gave him a kind look and said: "It is not an opportune time to seek your aid in a cause in which you are not personally interested, when another subject, the welfare of a dear daughter, must naturally engross your attention. Pray forgive me, Mr. Cohen."

Aaron bent his head, and as the lawyer closed the door behind him sank into his chair with a heavy sigh.

CHAPTER XXXII.
BEFORE ALL, DUTY

On this evening many pressing matters claimed his attention, and before Mr. Dillworthy's visit he had intended to devote himself entirely to them.

He took an active part in the dispensing of several Jewish charities, and his personal attendance was necessary to a wise distribution of their funds. Some of these charities were modest in the limited extent of their aims, but they needed care and attention, and his presence was always anxiously looked for by both the administrators and recipients.

Meetings of two of the charities were to be held this evening, and he had promised to preside at both. He must not disappoint them. Before all, duty. That was the thought that came to him-before all, duty, and it was only the iteration of it that brought a true sense of its significance to his mind. Before all, duty, in these public matters-but did it not also apply to private life? And if so, what part in the strict adherence to the axiom did love occupy?

What was his duty here at home in respect of his wife and the girl he had brought up as their daughter? He endeavored to thrust the reflection aside, and drew forth some papers which bore reference to the charities and to another matter of great public, importance which had occupied him for weeks past, and which he was on the point of bringing to a successful conclusion.

He strove now to concentrate his attention upon the papers, for he was to attend a late night meeting at eleven o'clock at which a decision was to be arrived at which was to affect thousands of poor families.

There had been a great strike in the building trade, and vast numbers of men had voluntarily thrown themselves out of employment, and had chosen what was almost next door to starvation in their adherence to a principle. The strike had been brought about chiefly by Aaron's great rival contractor, a Mr. Poynter, an employer of labor on a gigantic 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 farther than that.

On the other hand, Mr. Poynter 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 workingmen, and had great influence with them; and this hatred may also be applied in a general sense, because he hated all employers of labor 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.

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-aggrandizement-these 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 attendances 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 rumor 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 sympathized 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 they must stand alone, and that upon their pedestal 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?

Aaron Cohen and he had been acquainted for many years, and at Aaron's hands Mr. Poynter had received mortifications again and again. 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 had nursed and fostered an ardent wish to drag Aaron down.

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 some 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 he was safe, 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 socialist," Mr. Poynter said; "men of his stamp are a danger to society."

Another reason was that tenders had lately been called for on 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 nearly completed arrangements for the introduction of foreign workmen, whom he was determined to employ if the English workers 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 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, although he probably named a larger percentage than he would be willing to pay.

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 labor, comparisons of wages here and in foreign countries, the comparative rates of living here and there, 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 wished 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. He could think only of his beloved wife and of Ruth. Very well. He had half an hour to spare before he left his house for the Jewish meetings; he would devote the time to a consideration of his private duty.

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 set it clearly before him.

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. Again, 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 endeavored 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 was 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 toward 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 Rose Moss began to make long visits to their home. "Rose is like a daughter to me," she said, and only Aaron was aware of the depth of meaning these simple words conveyed.

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 civilized 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 his 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 duty which properly devolved upon him, 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 services. Not in words, but 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 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 counseled 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 honored as few men lived 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.