A POISONED ARROW.
Had it not been that public attention was mainly directed to events of greater importance, Aaron Cohen's affairs would have furnished a tempting theme for the busy hunters of sensational and personal journalism, but to a certain extent he was protected by the fever of the financial panic in which men of a higher station were brought down low, and the fortunes of famous historic houses imperiled. He would have been grateful to slip into obscurity entirely without notice, but this could scarcely be expected.
He had one bitter enemy--Mr. Poynter--who rejoiced in his downfall, and who neglected no opportunity to wing a poisoned arrow against his old rival. When the excitement of the panic was over these arrows became more numerous, and Aaron's name was frequently mentioned in a slighting manner in those second- and third-class journals whose columns are too freely open to personal spite and malice. He saw but few of the paragraphs in which he was attacked, and they did not wound him; some of his friends--for he was not deserted by all--urged him to reply to them, but he shook his head and said:
"I am content. Lives there a man without enemies?"
His chief concern was that the slanders should not reach Rachel's knowledge, and here her blindness aided him. Either he or the faithful Prissy was ever by her side, and if his traducers hoped to make him suffer through the being whose love was the most precious jewel in his life they were doomed to disappointment.
Perhaps Aaron had never been happier than he was during these dark days of adversity. The weight of a secret sin was lifted from his heart, and he had no fears of poverty.
He had full confidence in his being able to obtain some employment which would keep the wolf from the door; however lowly it might be, he was ready to accept it thankfully.
He was not immediately free to enter a situation, for much of his time was occupied in settling his affairs.
He had left his home in Prince's Gate, and was living in lodgings in Brixton. Everything he had in the world was given up to the creditors at the bank, and when he quitted the house neither he nor Rachel had taken from it anything of the slightest value. Small personal gifts which had been given by one to the other, articles of dress which they might legitimately have retained, mementoes of little value endeared to them by some affectionate association, even the old silver-mounted pipe--all were left behind. Simply dressed, without a piece of jewelry about them, they turned their faces toward the new home and the new life without a murmur, and walked to their humble rooms with contented hearts.
Prissy, who had gone before to get the place ready, received them with a smiling face. Grandeur was nothing to Prissy so long as she could be with those whom she loved to serve. As happy in a cottage as in a palace, she proved herself to be a true philosopher, accepting fortune's rubs with equanimity, and making the best of them with a cheerful willingness it were well for loftier folk to emulate. The rooms were sweet and clean, there were flowers about, and blooming flowers in pots on the window-sill. Rachel sighed with pleasure as she entered, and her bright face was Prissy's reward.