All this was hidden from Rachel, to whom Ruth was tender and kind. Who could be otherwise to so sweet a woman? But Rachel did not know of what she was deprived until Esther Moss began to make long visits to their home. "Esther is like a daughter to me," she said, and only Aaron was aware of the depth of meaning these simple words conveyed. In Rachel's association with Esther she had realised what a daughter might have been to her.
But now he had to consider the matter, not from his or Rachel's point of view, but from Ruth's. She was a woman in her springtime, and love had come to her, and she had held out her arms to it. And the man she loved was a Christian.
It was not within his right to take into consideration that the man she loved was a spendthrift and a scapegrace. The question had often intruded itself since she was grown to womanhood, whether he would not be adding sin to sin by encouraging her to marry a Jew. She had answered the question herself. What right had he to gainsay her? He might, as a true and sincere friend, say to her, "This man will not make you happy. He has vices and defects which will bring misery upon your home. You must not marry him." But he had no right to say to her "You must not marry this man because he is a Christian." It would be a detestable argument for one in his position, and in hers, to advance.
Then Mr. Dillworthy might be wrong in his estimate of the young man's character. The only objection Lord Storndale had to the union was that Ruth was a Jewess. But she was not a Jewess, and it was in his power to go to the young man's father and make the disclosure to him. Lord Storndale's natural reply would be, "Let it be clearly understood. You have done this lady a grievous wrong. You are a wealthy man. Repair the wrong by making a suitable settlement upon her. But it must be publicly done, and the injustice of which you have been guilty must be publicly acknowledged." The only answer he could make would be, "It is just. I will do as you dictate."
What would be the effect as regarded himself? Among his co-religionists he was held up as a pillar of the old Jewish faith. His voice had been raised against apostasy; he had taken a decided stand against the more liberal ideas of civilised life which prevailed and were adopted by a large section of his race. Even now he was pledged to deliver a public address against the backsliding of the modern Jew, who was disposed to adapt his life to the altered circumstances of the times. He had written this address, and public attention had been drawn to the coming event. His arguments were to himself convincing, and by them he hoped to stem the tide. He had always been orthodox, and he hoped to prevail against the wave of heterodoxy which was sweeping over modern Judaism. He had stepped forward as a champion. In the light of the domestic revelation which must presently be made, how dare he, himself a transgressor, presume to teach his brethren their religious duty? His sound judgment of things which interested or affected him was due to his common sense, which, he had been heard to say, was a rare quality.