"Why not? It will do no harm. You are to be trusted, Cohen. In case you refuse I will take it back. If you do not come for me I will come for you, so I will not wish you good-night. Don't trouble to come to the door; I can find my way out."
Aaron was alone, fully conscious that this hour was, perhaps, the most momentous in his life. The money was before him, and he could not keep his eyes from it. It meant so much! It seemed to speak to him, to say, "Life or death to your beloved wife. Reject me, and you know what will follow." All his efforts to bring himself to a calm reflection of the position were unavailing. He could not reason, he could not argue with himself. The question to be answered was not whether it would be right to take a child born of Christian parents into his house, to bring her up as one of a Jewish family, but whether his dear wife was to live or die. And he was the judge, and if he bade his friend take the money back he would be the executioner. Of what value then would life be to him? Devout and full of faith as he was, he still, in this dread crisis, was of the earth earthy. His heart was torn with love's agony.
The means of redemption were within his reach. Why should he not avail himself of them?
Rachel enjoyed life for the pleasure it gave her; stricken with blindness as she was, he knew that she would still enjoy it, and that she would shed comfort and happiness upon all who came in contact with her. Was it for him to snap the cord, to say, "You shall no longer enjoy; you shall no longer bestow happiness upon others; you shall no longer live to lighten the trouble of many suffering mortals, to shed light and sweetness in many homes"? Was this the way to prove his love for her? No, he would not shut the door of earthly salvation which had been so providentially opened to him; he would not pronounce a sentence of death against the dear woman he had sworn to love and cherish.
Aaron was not aware that in the view he was taking he was calling to his aid only these personal and sympathetic affections which bound him and Rachel together and that out of a common, human selfishness he was thrusting from the scale the purely moral and religious obligations which usually played so large a part in his conduct of life. In this dark hour love was supreme and held him in its thrall; in this dark hour he was intensely and completely human; in this dark hour the soft breathing of a feeble woman was more potent than the sound of angels' trumpets from the Throne of Grace, the sight of a white, worn face more powerful than that of a flaming sword of justice in the skies.
He had arrived at a decision; he would receive the child of strangers into his home.
Before going to the Salutation Hotel to make the announcement to Mr. Moss he would see that his wife was sleeping, and not likely to awake during his brief absence from the house. The doctor had assured him that she would sleep for twelve hours, and he had full confidence in the assurance; but he must look upon her face once more before he left her even for a few minutes.
He stood at her bedside; she was sleeping peacefully and soundly; her countenance was now calm and untroubled, and Aaron believed that he saw in it an indication of returning health. Certainly the rest she was enjoying was doing her good. He stooped and kissed her, and she did not stir; her sweet breath fanned his cheeks. Then he turned his eyes upon his child. And as he gazed upon the infant in its white dress a terror for which there is no name stole into his heart. Why was the babe so still and white? Like a marble statue she lay, bereft of life and motion. He put his ear to her lips--not a breath escaped them; he laid his hand upon her heart--not the faintest flutter of a pulse was there. With feverish haste he lifted the little hand, the head, the body, and for all the response he received he might have been handling an image of stone. Gradually the truth forced itself upon him. The young soul had gone to its Maker. His child was dead!