Aaron the Jew: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

It seemed to Aaron as though months had passed since Mr. Moss had presented himself at his house last night, and for a while it almost seemed as though, in that brief time, it was not himself who had played the principal part in this strange human drama, but another being who had acted for him, and who had made him responsible for an act which was to colour all his future life. But he did not permit himself to indulge long in this view of what had transpired; he knew and felt that he, and he alone, was responsible, and that to his dying day he would be accountable for it. Well, he would bear the burden, and would, every by means within his power, endeavour to atone for it. He would keep strict watch over himself; he would never give way to temptation; he would act justly and honourably; he would check the hasty word; he would make no enemies; he would be kind and considerate to all around him. He did not lay the flattering unction to his soul that in thus sketching his future rule of life he was merely committing himself to that which he had always followed in the past. This one act seemed to cast a shadow over all that had gone before; he had to commence anew.

A strange and agonising fancy haunted him. The child of his blood, Rachel's child, was lying dead in the house of a stranger. The customary observances of his religion could not be held over it; Christians had charge of the lifeless clay. With his mind's eye he saw his dead child lying in the distant chamber, alone and unattended, with no sympathising heart near to shed tears over it, with no mourner near to offer up a prayer in its behalf. The child opened its eyes and gazed reproachfully upon its father; then it rose from the couch, and in its white dress went out of the house and walked through the snow to its father's dwelling. The little bare feet left traces of blood in the snow, and at the door of its father's house it paused and stood there crying, "Mother, mother!" So strong was this fancy that Aaron went to the street door, and, opening it, gazed up and down the street. The snow was still falling; no signs of life were visible, and no movement except the light flakes fluttering down. A mantle of spotless white was spread over roads and roofs, and there was silence all around. But in Aaron's eyes there was a vision, and in his heart a dead voice calling. His babe was there before him, and its voice was crying, "Mother, mother! Why am I deserted? why am I banished from my father's house?" When he drew back into the passage he hardly dared shut the street door upon the piteous figure his conscience had conjured up.

At eight o'clock in the morning Rachel stirred; she raised her arm and put her hand to her eyes, blind to all the world, blind to her husband's sin, blind to everything but love. Then instinctively she drew the babe nearer to her. A faint cooing issued from the infant's lips, and an expression of joy overspread the mother's features. This joy found its reflex in Aaron's heart, but the torturing anxiety under which he laboured was not yet dispelled. It was an awful moment. Was there some subtle instinct in a mother's love which would convey to Rachel's sense the agonising truth that the child she held in her arms was not her own?

There was no indication of it. She fondled the child, she suckled it, the light of Heaven shone in her face.

"Aaron!"

"My beloved!"

"Do you hear our child, our dear one? Ah, what happiness!"

"Thank God!" said Aaron, inly. "Oh, God be thanked!"

"Is it early or late, dear love?" asked Rachel. "It is morning, I know, for I see the light; I feel it here"--with her hand pressing the infant's head to her heart.

"It is eight o'clock, beloved," said Aaron.