"Yes, sir, she's sure to. Don't you worry yerself, Mr. Cohen. Gawd won't let nothink wrong 'appen to 'er. Wot did she say 'erself to me more nor once? 'Be a good gal,' she ses, 'and tell the truth, and be as kind as yer can to everybody, and Gawd 'll look after yer.' And aint she good, sir? and does she ever say anythink but the truth? and aint she as kind as kind can be to everybody about 'er? Why, it's in everybody's mouth, 'xcept Mr. Whimpole's. She's sure to get well, Mr. Cohen, and then yer'll let me see 'er, sir, won't yer?"
"Yes, Prissy, yes," said Aaron, laying his hand for a moment on Prissy's tangled hair; he had reached the door of his house, and was unlocking the door. "She will get well, please God, and you shall see her. Thank you, thank you, my good girl, and now run away."
"I'm off, Mr. Cohen," said Prissy; "this is going to bring yer luck, it is," and slipping a large paper parcel into his hand, she scuttled away.
He did not know what it was he held until he reached his room, and then he examined it. When he removed the paper he saw a horseshoe and two penny pieces, which had been rubbed bright with sand, so that they shone like gold. Something shone in Aaron's eyes as he gazed at the humble offering; he smiled wistfully, and muttering, "It is an omen of good fortune; God bless you, little Prissy!" put the shoe and the pennies carefully aside. Then he stepped softly upstairs, and softly tapped at the bedroom door.
"How is she, nurse?"
"Bearing up wonderfully, sir."
"Thank God! The doctor will be here presently. I will wait for him at the street door."
He had not long to wait; in a very short time he saw the welcome form turning the corner, and the doctor, with a friendly, smiling nod, passed into the house.
Aaron paced to and fro in the room below, and waited for the word that was to bring joy or sorrow to his soul. He had put his slippers on, in order that his footsteps should not be heard. In such times of tribulation his thoughts were invariably directed to the divine footstool; as with all devout Jews prayer was part of his life, and never, since the day of his birth, had he prayed so earnestly and fervently as now. Every few moments he paused in the supplications he was sending forth, and stepped softly into the passage, and listened. He heard no sound, not a sob, not a cry; then he returned to his room, and resumed his prayers. His heart was with Rachel, and he knew that she was thinking of him. In the light of the perfect love that existed between them, in the anxious expectancy of these lagging minutes, what mattered poverty or riches, what mattered mere worldly misfortune? A stout spirit, a strong shoulder to the wheel, and all would be well; thus much could a man do with a cheerful heart. But here and now he was helpless, impotent; here and now was impending a graver issue which he was powerless to influence. A life--the life of his
beloved--was hanging in the balance; and all that he could do was to wait and hope and pray.
Hush! What was that? An infant's wail--the cry of a newborn child! With his heart in his ears he stood in the passage, then sank upon the stairs, with his face in his hands. His child lived--but Rachel! how was it with her?