"This man has been living the life of a hypocrite. He has accepted money for false service. Not perhaps by word of mouth, but most assuredly by his acts, he has lied. He has violated the canons of his religion. He has deceived his wife--for money, which he pretends to despise. He has robbed a young girl of her birthright. And he dares to preach to us of duty!" Who would believe him if he told the true story of his hard trial, if he described the bitter tribulation of his soul when his beloved wife was lying at death's door? He had counselled many men in their days of struggle and temptation to be brave and do their duty. How had he performed his in _his_ hour of temptation? No one would believe the only story he could plead in extenuation of his sin. He would be condemned by all. And he was in the zenith of his fame. On this very day, when exposure seemed to be approaching with, swift and certain steps, he had been honoured as few men live to be. If he felt pleasure in the position he had won, it was because it was a source of pride and pleasure to Rachel. Was he, with his own hand, to destroy the ideal he had created? Was this the plain duty that lay now before him? "The carriage is at the door, sir." It was a servant who interrupted his tortured musings; he had given orders to be informed when his carriage was ready. With slow steps he left his study. BOOK THE SIXTH. _RETRIBUTION_. CHAPTER XXXVII. ESTHER MOSS RECEIVES A LETTER. There was an apartment in Aaron Cohen's house which was called the Cosy Room, where the family were in the habit of sitting when they had no visitors, and it was here that their real domestic happiness reigned. Here Aaron used to smoke his old silver-mounted pipe, and chat with his wife, and indulge in his entertaining pleasantries when he was in the humour; and here the feeling used to steal over him that life would hold more joy for him and those dear to him if they dwelt in a smaller house and his doings were less under the public eye. "I am convinced," he would say, "that those who are in the lower middle class are the best off. They have fewer cares, they have more time for domestic enjoyment, they can attend without hindrance to their own affairs. Their neighbours are not jealous of them; they are not high enough to be envied, nor low enough to be pitied. There is no happiness in riches. Miserable man that I am! Why do I continue to wish to accumulate more money?" "Because," Rachel would answer affectionately, "it enables you to contribute to the happiness of others. But I should be as contented if we were poor."