CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A MOTHER'S JOY.

For the first time in their lives these two beings, whose fates were so strangely linked together, faced each other--the mother who believed her child to be dead, the father who had brought up that child in ignorance of her birthright. It was a solemn moment, more trying to the man who had erred than to the woman who had fallen. To him the truth was as clear as though it were proclaimed with a tongue of fire, to her it had yet to be revealed. How feeble was the human act when brought into juxtaposition with destiny's decree!

Aaron's sin had been ever before him; the handwriting had been ever on the wall. Scarcely for one day during the last twenty years had the voice of conscience been stilled, and it had been dart of his punishment that the inherited instincts of the child had worked inexorably against all his efforts; her silent resistance to the lessons he would have inculcated had been too powerful for him; and in the end she had turned resolutely from the path into which, with inward reproaches, he had endeavored to lead her, and had obeyed the promptings of her nature in mapping out her own future.

Keen as was Aaron's sufferings, he experienced a sense of relief that the bolt had fallen, and that the hour of retribution had arrived; the agony of suspense was over, and he accepted with mournful resignation the decree which ordained that he should pass judgment upon himself.

A difficult task lay before him; the revelation he had to make must be made with tact and delicacy, in consideration for the mother's feelings. Joy, as well as sorrow, has its fears.

Forgetful for the moment of his own domestic grief, a sympathetic pity for the bereaved woman stirred Aaron's heart. Her tribulation was expressed in her face, which was pale with woe; her eyes were suffused with tears; her limbs trembled as she sank into the chair which he placed for her. It was not he alone who was experiencing the tortures of remorse.

Mrs. Gordon was in mourning, and Aaron believed it was for her child. Except that time had left its marks upon her countenance there was but little change in her, and few persons who had known her in her springtime would have failed to recognize her in her middle age.

Her union with Mr. Gordon had not been entirely unhappy; he had performed his duty toward her, as she had done toward him, and though he had a suspicion that, through all the long years, she never lost sight of her secret sorrow, he made no reference to it, and she, on her part, did not intrude it upon him. Even on his deathbed he did not speak of it; she understood him well enough to feel convinced that he would answer no questions she put to him, and she sincerely desired not to distress him, for she had grown to be grateful for his faithful fulfillment of the promise he had made.

And now she was free, and in the possession of great wealth. But she was alone, without a tie in the world. All her bright dreams had faded. She had indulged the hope that her child still lived, and as she traveled back to England had raised up mental pictures of her daughter which filled her with joy. The information she received from Dr. Spenlove had killed that hope, and her yearning desire was to visit the grave of the babe she had deserted, and to weep over it tears of bitter repentance.

It was not so much now to reclaim the iron box containing the clew to a shameful episode in her youthful life as to learn where her babe was buried, that she wished to learn into whose care her child had been given. There was a time when she nursed a fierce desire for revenge upon the man who had betrayed her, but this desire had burned itself away, and she would be content that the melancholy memories of the past should be buried in oblivion. No good result would accrue from rekindling the smoldering ashes of an experience so sad. She had lived down the shame; no word of reproach had been uttered against her; let the dead past bury its dead.

For a few moments there was silence between her and Aaron, and she was the first to speak.

"Dr. Spenlove has told me all," she said.

"He has told you what he knows," said Aaron, "but you have something more to hear. It was I who undertook the charge of your child. Mr. Moss brought her to me in Gosport, and delivered to me also the box which you intrusted to Dr. Spenlove. I hand you now the box in the same condition as it was handed to me. You will oblige me by convincing yourself that it has not been tampered with."

She unlocked the box with a key she carried in her purse, and taking from it the half of the letter she had deposited therein, glanced over it with a bitter smile, then replaced it in its hiding place and relocked the box.

"There was nothing else in it?" asked Aaron.

"Nothing else," she replied; "it is as I delivered it to Dr. Spenlove. Tell me about my child. Did she live long? Was she buried in Gosport? You will tell me the truth--you will conceal nothing from me?"

"I will tell you the truth; I will conceal nothing from you; but what I have to say must be said in my own way. When Mr. Moss left your child with me there were two babes in my house of the same age, and we were in deep poverty and distress. My wife--my beloved wife lay at the point of death----" He covered his eyes with his hands. "Bear with me; these recollections overcome me." Presently he resumed. "But a short time before her confinement she had been stricken with blindness. Her own child, whose face she had never seen, lay quiet and still in her arms. The doctor who attended her feared the worst, and said her life depended upon the life of her babe. If our child died on the morrow the mother would die; if our child lived the mother would live. How can I expect you to forgive me for what I did in the agony of my heart?"

Again he paused, and tears gushed from his eyes. Mrs. Gordon sank back in her chair; there was not a vestige of color in her face.

"My God! my God!" she murmured. "Have I not suffered enough?"

These words recalled him to himself. He begged her to have courage, to be strong; there was no new suffering in store for her, he said; what he had to relate would bring joy into her life. He gave her wine, and when she had recovered he proceeded with his story, and gradually and tenderly revealed to her the truth. As he proceeded her face shone with incredulous joy, her heart beat tumultuously with the prospect of this unexpected happiness; and when his story was finished, and he sat before her with bowed head, there was a long, long silence in the room. He dared utter no further words; in silent dread he waited for his condemnation.

He felt a hand upon his knee, and looking down, he saw her kneeling at his feet. She was transfigured; the long pent up love of a mother made her young again; she took his hand, and kissed it again and again, bedewing it with happy tears. He gazed at her in wonder. He had expected revilings and she was all tenderness.

"Is it true?" she murmured. "Oh, is it true?"

"It is the solemn truth," he answered.

"And my child lives?"

"She lives."

"God in heaven bless you! She lives--my daughter lives!"

"And you do not blame me--you do not reproach me?"

"I shall bless you to my dying day! Oh, my heart, my heart! It will burst with happiness."

He entreated her to be composed, and in a little while she was calmer. Then for the first time he wrested himself from the environment of his own selfish sorrows; he put himself in her place, and understood the sacred joy which animated her. She was all impatience to see her child, but Aaron bade her restrain her impatience; he had much more to relate, which it was necessary she should hear.

"But I must see her to-night!" she cried.

"You shall see her to-night. I will take you to her."

She was fain to be satisfied with this assurance, but she would not be content till she saw a portrait of Ruth.

He gave her a cabinet photograph, and she gazed at it longingly, yearningly.

"She is beautiful, beautiful!"

"Yes, she is a beautiful girl," said Aaron, and then proceeded with the story, saying nothing, however, of what he had done for the young couple. At first she was grieved to hear that Ruth was married, but she found some consolation in the reflection that she had married into a peer's family. When Aaron related the particulars of the lawyer's visit to him, commissioned by Lord Storndale because of his stern objection to his son marrying a Jewess, she exclaimed: "But Ruth is not a Jewess!" and was appalled by the thought that her daughter was not born in wedlock. A child of shame! How would she be received? It was her turn now to fear, and Aaron, whose native shrewdness had returned to him, divined her fear; but it was not for him to moot the subject.

"My child," she said, with hot blushes on her face, "believes herself to be your daughter?"

"She does. It was my intention to undeceive her to-night."

"You know my story?"

"It was imparted to me," he replied, with averted head, "when I was asked to receive your child."

"Who knows the truth," she asked, trembling and hesitating, "about me?"

"I, Mr. Moss, Dr. Spenlove, and your husband's lawyers."

"No other persons?"

"No other persons." He took her hand. "Dear lady, from my heart I pity and sympathize with you. If I can assist you in any way----"

"You can--you can!" she cried. "For God's sake do not destroy the happiness that may be mine!"

"As Heaven is my judge, no word shall pass my lips. Be comforted, be comforted. The lawyers' lips are sealed, as you have already learned, and I will answer for Mr. Moss and Dr. Spenlove. Say to her and to her husband's family what you will--it will be justified. Your secret is safe."

She thanked him humbly and gratefully; it was she who was abashed; it was she who had to implore for mercy; and it was due to his wisdom that her aching heart was eased.

"If I can repay you--if I can repay you!" she murmured.

"You can repay me by saying you forgive me for the sin I committed."

"Your sin!" she cried in amazement. "You, who have brought up my child in virtue and honor! At my door lies the sin, not at yours."

"You forget," he groaned; "my wife, whom I love with a love dearer than life itself, has yet to receive the confession I have made to you. It was my love for her that led me into the error."

"An error," said Mrs. Gordon in tender accents, "that has saved a daughter from regarding her mother with abhorrence. Dear friend, God sees and judges, and surely he will approve what you have done. A grateful mother blesses you!"

"Remain here," said Aaron. "I will speak to my friends and yours, and then I will conduct you to your daughter."