Aaron the Jew: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

Neither was Ruth Cohen a witness of the honour which was paid to the man she believed to be her father. She had invited herself to Portsmouth, to spend a week or two with Mrs. Moss. When she expressed the wish to go Rachel Cohen had remonstrated with her, and hinted that she should remain in London to attend the presentations; but Ruth was restless and rebellious, and said she did not care to be present. Rachel, inwardly grieved, did not press it upon her.

"Are you not happy at home?" she asked gently. Ruth did not speak, and Rachel continued, "You do not take pleasure in the society of our friends?"

"I am not very fond of them," Ruth replied.

Rachel said no more. Ruth's dislike of Jewish society was not new to her; it had caused her great pain, and she had striven in vain to combat it. The strength of Rachel's character lay in her moral and sympathetic affections: with those who recognised the sweetness and unselfishness of these attributes her power was great; with those who failed to appreciate them she was powerless. This was the case with Ruth, in whom, as she grew to womanhood, was gradually developed a stubbornness which boded ill for peace. Frequently and anxiously did Rachel ask herself, From whom could a daughter of her blood have inherited views and ideas so antagonistic and rebellious?

Aaron could have answered this question, had it been put to him, and had he dared to answer. Ruth's instincts were in her blood, transmitted by parents whom he had never known, and of whose characters he was ignorant. Heredity lay at the root of this domestic misery. As a rule, vices, virtues, and all classes of the affections are hereditary, and the religious sentiments are not an exception. Aaron had studied the subject, and was conscious of the solemn issues dependent upon it.

He had obtained possession of Ruth's body, but not of her mind, and even of the former his guardianship would soon be at an end. Although he could not fix the exact day of her birth, she would soon be twenty-one years of age, when the duty would devolve upon him of delivering to her the iron casket of which he had been made the custodian, and he was in an agony how he should act. Every day that passed deepened his agony; he saw shadows gathering over his house which might wreck the happiness of his beloved wife. Again and again had he debated the matter without being able to arrive at any comforting conclusion. Undoubtedly the casket contained the secret of Ruth's parentage; when that was revealed the sword would fall.

However, he could not on this day give himself up to these disturbing reflections; he had consented to accept an honour of which he deemed himself unworthy, and it was incumbent upon him that he should not betray himself. There was still a little time left to him to decide upon his course of action. The man of upright mind was at this period laying himself open to dangerous casuistical temptations. Even from such unselfish love as he entertained for the wife who was deserving of love in its sweetest and purest aspects may spring an upas tree to poison the air we breathe.

Among the company was an old friend of ours--Dr. Spenlove, who had attained an eminent position in London. His career from the time he left Portsmouth had been a remarkable one. In the larger field of labour to which he had migrated his talents were soon recognised, and he began almost at once to mount the ladder of renown. Success in the medical profession is seldom gained upon an insecure foundation; there must be some solid justification for it, and once secured it lasts a lifetime. Dr. Spenlove was no exception to the rule, and was not spoilt by prosperity. He was still distinguished by that kindliness of nature which had made his name a household word in the humble neighbourhood in Portsmouth in which he had struggled and suffered. The poor never appealed to him in vain, and he was as attentive to those who could not afford to pay him as to those from whom he drew heavy fees. Many a time did he step from his carriage to a garret in which lay a poor sufferer whose fortunes were at the lowest ebb, and many a trembling hand which held a few poor coins was gently put aside with tender and cheerful words which were never forgotten by those to whom they were spoken.

A man so kindly-hearted was of necessity associated with the benevolent and public movements of the passing hour. Aaron Cohen, whom till this day he had not met, had subscribed to some of the charities in which he was interested, and he gladly availed himself of the opportunity of becoming acquainted with him. When the company were assembled in the reception room in Aaron's house, Dr. Spenlove happened to be standing next to Mr. Moss, whom he had not seen since he left Portsmouth. Except for the wear and tear of time, which, however, did not sit heavily upon him, there was little alteration in Mr. Moss; his worldly anxieties had not dimmed the brightness of his eyes, nor robbed his countenance of its natural cheerful aspect. There was a greater alteration in Dr. Spenlove; the thoughtful lines in his face had deepened, there was an introspection in his eyes. Mr. Moss seemed to be for ever looking upon the outer world, Dr. Spenlove for ever looking upon his inner self. As an observer of character Mr. Moss was Dr. Spenlove's superior; as a student and searcher after truth Dr. Spenlove towered above Mr. Moss. The man of business never forgot a face; the man of science often did. The first sign of recognition, therefore, came from Mr. Moss.

"Good day, Dr. Spenlove."