WHAT THE YEARS BROUGHT
The next morning Esther sat in Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's boudoir, filling
up some invitation forms for her patroness, who often took advantage
of her literary talent in this fashion. Mrs. Goldsmith herself lay
back languidly upon a great easy-chair before an asbestos fire, and
turned over the leaves of the new number of the _Acadaeum_. Suddenly
she uttered a little exclamation.
'What is it?' said Esther.
'They've got a review here of that Jewish novel.'
'Have they?' said Esther, glancing up eagerly. 'I'd given up looking
for it.'
'You seem very interested in it,' said Mrs. Goldsmith, with a little
surprise.
'Yes, I--I wanted to know what they said about it,' explained Esther
quickly; 'one hears so many worthless opinions.'
'Well, I'm glad to see we were all right about it,' said Mrs.
Goldsmith, whose eye had been running down the column. 'Listen here:
"It is a disagreeable book at best, what might have been a powerful
tragedy being disfigured by clumsy workmanship and sordid superfluous
detail. The exaggerated unhealthy pessimism which the very young
mistake for insight pervades the work, and there are some spiteful
touches of observation which seem to point to a woman's hand. Some of
the minor personages have the air of being sketched from life. The
novel can scarcely be acceptable to the writer's circle. Readers,
however, in search of the unusual will find new ground broken in this
immature study of Jewish life." There, Esther, isn't that just what
I've been saying in other words?'
'It's hardly worth bothering about the book now,' said Esther in lower
tones; 'it's such a long time ago now since it came out. I don't know
what's the good of reviewing it now. These literary papers always seem
so cold and cruel to unknown writers.'
'Cruel! It isn't half what he deserves,' said Mrs. Goldsmith, 'or
ought I to say she? Do you think there's anything, Esther, in that
idea of its being a woman?'
'Really, dear, I'm sick to death of that book,' said Esther. 'These
reviewers always try to be very clever and to see through brick walls.
What does it matter if it's a he or a she?'
'It doesn't matter, but it makes it more disgraceful if it's a woman.
A woman has no business to know the seamy side of human nature.'
At this instant, a domestic knocked, and announced that Mr. Leonard
James had called to see Miss Ansell. Annoyance, surprise, and relief
struggled to express themselves on Esther's face.
'Is the gentleman waiting to see me?' she said.
'Yes, miss, he's in the hall.' Esther turned to Mrs. Goldsmith. 'It's
a young man I came across unexpectedly last night at the theatre. He's
the son of Reb Shemuel, of whom you may have heard. I haven't met him
since we were boy and girl together. He asked permission to call, but
I didn't expect him so soon.'
'Oh, see him by all means, dear! He is probably anxious to talk over
old times.'
'May I ask him up here?' said Esther.
'Not unless you particularly want to introduce him to me. I dare say
he would rather have you to himself.'
There was a touch of superciliousness about her tone which Esther
rather resented, although not particularly anxious for Levi's social
recognition.
'Show him into the library,' she said to the servant. 'I will be down
in a minute.'
She lingered a few minutes to finish up the invitations and exchange a
few indifferent remarks with her companion, and then went down,
wondering at Levi's precipitancy in renewing the acquaintance. She
could not help thinking of the strangeness of life. That time
yesterday she had not dreamt of Levi, and now she was about to see him
for the second time, and seemed to know him as intimately as if they
had never been parted.
Leonard James was pacing the carpet. His face was perturbed, though
his stylishly-cut clothes were composed and immaculate. A cloak was
thrown loosely across his shoulders. In his right hand he held a
bouquet of spring flowers, which he transferred to his left in order
to shake hands with her.
'Good afternoon, Esther,' he said heartily. 'By Jove! you have got
among tip-top people. I had no idea! Fancy you ordering Jeames de la
Pluche about. And how happy you must be among all these books! I've
brought you a bouquet. There, isn't it a beauty? I got it at Covent
Garden this morning.'
'It's very kind of you,' murmured Esther, not so pleased as she might
have been, considering her love of beautiful things. 'But you really
ought not to waste your money like that.'
'What nonsense, Esther! Don't forget I'm not in the position my father
was. I'm going to be a rich man. No, don't put it into a vase; put it
in your own room, where it will remind you of me. Just smell those
violets; they are awfully sweet and fresh. I flatter myself it's quite
as swell and tasteful as the bouquet you had last night. Who gave you
that, Esther?'
The 'Esther' mitigated the off-handedness of the question, but made
the sentence jar doubly upon her ear. She might have brought herself
to call him 'Levi' in exchange, but then she was not certain he would
like it. 'Leonard' was impossible. So she forbore to call him by any
name.
'I think Mr. Graham brought it. Won't you sit down?' she said
indifferently.
'Thank you. I thought so. Luck that fellow's engaged! Do you know,
Esther, I didn't sleep all night?'
'No?' said Esther. 'You seemed quite well when I saw you.'
'So I was, but seeing you again so unexpectedly excited me. You have
been whirling in my brain ever since. I hadn't thought of you for
years.'
'I hadn't thought of you,' Esther echoed frankly.
'No, I suppose not,' he said a little ruefully. 'But, anyhow, Fate has
brought us together again. I recognised you the moment I set eyes on
you, for all your grand clothes and your swell bouquets. I tell you I
was just struck all of a heap. Of course, I knew about your luck, but
I hadn't realised it. There wasn't any one in the whole theatre who
looked the lady more--'pon honour! You'd have no cause to blush in the
company of duchesses. In fact, I know a duchess or two who don't look
near so refined. I was quite surprised. Do you know if any one had
told me you used to live up in a garret----'
'Oh please don't recall unpleasant things,' interrupted Esther
petulantly, a little shudder going through her, partly at the picture
he called up, partly at his grating vulgarity. Her repulsion to him
was growing. Why had he developed so disagreeably? She had not
disliked him as a boy, and he certainly had not inherited his traits
of coarseness from his father, whom she still conceived as a courtly
old gentleman.
'Oh, well, if you don't like it, I won't. I see you're like me; I
never think of the Ghetto if I can help it. Well, as I was saying, I
haven't had a wink of sleep since I saw you. I lay tossing about,
thinking all sorts of things, till I could stand it no longer, and I
got up and dressed and walked about the streets, and strayed into
Covent Garden Market, where the inspiration came upon me to get you
this bouquet. For, of course, it was about you that I had been
thinking----'
'About me?' said Esther, turning pale.
'Yes, of course. Don't make _Schnecks_; you know what I mean. I can't
help using the old expression when I look at you; the past seems all
come back again. They were happy days--weren't they, Esther?--when I
used to come up to see you in Royal Street. I think you were a little
sweet on me in those days, Esther, and I know I was regular mashed on
you.'
He looked at her with a fond smile.
'I dare say you were a silly boy,' said Esther, colouring uneasily
under his gaze. 'However, you needn't reproach yourself now.'
'Reproach myself, indeed! Never fear that. What I have been
reproaching myself with all night is never having looked you up.
Somehow, do you know, I kept asking myself whether I hadn't made a
fool of myself lately, and I kept thinking things might have been
different if----'
'Nonsense, nonsense!' interrupted Esther with an embarrassed laugh.
'You've been doing very well, learning to know the world, and studying
law, and mixing with pleasant people.'
'Ah, Esther,' he said, shaking his head, 'it's very good of you to say
that. I don't say I've done anything particularly foolish or
out-of-the-way; but when a man is alone he sometimes gets a little
reckless and wastes his time, and you know what it is. I've been
thinking if I had some one to keep me steady, some one I could
respect, it would be the best thing that could happen to me.'
'Oh, but surely you ought to have sense enough to take care of
yourself! And there is always your father. Why don't you see more of
him?'
'Don't chaff a man when you see he's in earnest. You know what I mean.
It's you I am thinking of.'
'Me? Oh, well, if you think my friendship can be of any use to you, I
shall be delighted. Come and see me sometimes, and tell me of your
struggles.'
'You know I don't mean that,' he said desperately. 'Couldn't we be
more than friends? Couldn't we commence again--where we left off?'
'How do you mean?' she murmured.
'Why are you so cold to me?' he burst out. 'Why do you make it so hard
for me to speak? You know I love you; that I fell in love with you all
over again last night. I never really forgot you; you were always deep
down in my breast. All that I said about steadying me wasn't a lie. I
felt that, too. But the real thing I feel is the need of you. I want
you to care for me as I care for you. You used to, Esther; you know
you did.'
'I know nothing of the kind,' said Esther; 'and I can't understand
why a young fellow like you wants to bother his head with such ideas.
You've got to make your way in the world.'
'I know, I know; that's why I want you. I didn't tell you the exact
truth last night, Esther, but I must really earn some money soon. All
that two thousand is used up, and I only get along by squeezing some
money out of the old man every now and again. Don't frown; he got a
rise of screw three years ago, and can well afford it. Now, that's
what I said to myself last night: if I were engaged, it would be an
incentive to earning something.'
'For a Jewish young man you are fearfully unpractical,' said Esther,
with a forced smile. 'Fancy proposing to a girl without even prospects
of prospects.'
'Oh, but I _have_ got prospects. I tell you I shall make no end of
money on the stage.'
'Or no beginning,' she said, finding the facetious vein easiest.
'No fear. I know I've got as much talent as Bob Andrews (he admits it
himself) and _he_ draws his thirty quid a week.'
'Wasn't that the man who appeared at the police-court the other day
for being drunk and disorderly?'
'Y-e-es,' admitted Leonard, a little disconcerted. 'He is a very good
fellow, but he loses his head when he's in liquor.'
'I wonder you can care for society of that sort,' said Esther.
'Perhaps you're right. They're not a very refined lot. I tell you
what, I'd like to go on the stage, but I'm not mad on it, and if you
only say the word I'll give it up. There! And I'll go on with my law
studies, honour bright I will!'
'I should, if I were you,' she said.
'Yes, but I can't do it without encouragement. Won't you say "Yes"?
Let's strike the bargain. I'll stick to law, and you'll stick to me.'
She shook her head.
'I am afraid I could not promise anything you mean. As I said before,
I shall always be glad to see you. If you do well, no one will rejoice
more than I.'
'Rejoice! What's the good of that to me? I want you to care for me; I
want to look forward to your being my wife.'
'Really I cannot take advantage of a moment of folly like this. You
don't know what you're saying. You saw me last night after many years,
and in your gladness at seeing an old friend you flare up and fancy
you're in love with me. Why, who ever heard of such foolish haste? Go
back to your studies, and in a day or two you will find the flame
sinking as rapidly as it leapt up.'
'No, no! Nothing of the kind!' His voice was thicker and there was
real passion in it. She grew dearer to him as the hope of her love
receded. 'I couldn't forget you. I care for you awfully. I realised
last night that my feeling for you is quite unlike what I have ever
felt towards any other girl. Don't say no! Don't send me away
despairing. I can hardly realise that you have grown so strange and
altered. Surely you oughtn't to put on any side with me. Remember the
times we have had together.'
'I remember,' she said gently. 'But I do not want to marry anyone;
indeed I don't.'
'Then, if there is no one else in your thoughts, why shouldn't it be
me? There! I won't press you for an answer now. Only don't say it's
out of the question.'
'I'm afraid I must.'
'No, you mustn't, Esther--you mustn't!' he exclaimed excitedly. 'Think
of what it means for me! You are the only Jewish girl I shall ever
care for; and father would be pleased if I were to marry you. You know
if I wanted to marry a _Shiksah_ there'd be awful rows. Don't treat me
as if I were some outsider with no claim upon you. I believe we should
get on splendidly together, you and me. We've been through the same
sort of thing in childhood; we should understand each other, and be in
sympathy with each other in a way I could never be with another girl,
and I doubt if you could with another fellow.'
The words burst from him like a torrent, with excited, foreign-like
gestures. Esther's headache was coming on badly.
'What would be the use of my deceiving you?' she said gently. 'I
don't think I shall ever marry. I'm sure I could never make you--or
any one else--happy. Won't you let me be your friend?'
'Friend!' he echoed bitterly. 'I know what it is--I'm poor! I've got
no money-bags to lay at your feet. You're like all the Jewish girls,
after all. But I only ask you to wait--I shall have plenty of money
by-and-by. Who knows what more luck my father might drop in for? There
are lots of rich religious cranks. And then I'll work hard, honour
bright I will.'
'Pray be reasonable,' said Esther quietly. 'You know you are talking
at random. Yesterday this time you had no idea of such a thing. To-day
you are all on fire. To-morrow you will forget all about it.'
'Never! Never!' he cried. 'Haven't I remembered you all these years?
They talk of man's faithlessness and woman's faithfulness. It seems to
me it's all the other way. Women are a deceptive lot.'
'You know you have no right whatever to talk like that to me!' said
Esther, her sympathy beginning to pass over into annoyance. 'To-morrow
you will be sorry. Hadn't you better go before you give yourself--and
me--more cause for regret?'
'Ho! you are sending me away, are you?' he said in angry surprise.
'I am certainly suggesting it as the wisest course.'
'Oh, don't give me any of your fine phrases!' he said brutally. 'I see
what it is--I've made a mistake. You're a stuck-up, conceited little
thing! You think because you live in a grand house nobody is good
enough for you! But what are you, after all? A _Schnorrer_--that's
all! A _Schnorrer_ living on the charity of strangers. If I mix with
grand folks, it is as an independent man and an equal; but you, rather
than marry any one who mightn't be able to give you carriages and
footmen, you prefer to remain a _Schnorrer_!'
Esther was white, and her lips trembled.
'Now I must ask you to go,' she said.
'All right--don't flurry yourself!' he said savagely. 'You don't
impress me with your airs. Try them on people who don't know what you
were--a _Schnorrer's_ daughter! Yes, your father was always a
_Schnorrer_, and you are his child. It's in the blood. Ha! ha! ha!
Moses Ansell's daughter! Moses Ansell's daughter--a pedlar, who went
about the country with brass jewellery and stood in the Lane with
lemons, and _schnorred_ half-crowns of my father! You took jolly good
care to ship him off to America, but 'pon my honour! you can't expect
others to forget him as quickly as you. It's a rich joke, you refusing
me! You're not fit for me to wipe my shoes on. My mother never cared
for me to go to your garret; she said I must mix with my equals, and
goodness knew what disease I might pick up in the dirt. 'Pon my honour
the old girl was right.'
'She _was_ right!' Esther was stung into retorting. 'You must mix only
with your equals. Please leave the room now, or else I shall.'
His face changed. His frenzy gave way to a momentary shock of
consternation as he realised what he had done.
'No, no, Esther! I was mad; I didn't know what I was saying. I didn't
mean it. Forget it.'
'I cannot. It was quite true,' she said bitterly. 'I am only a
_Schnorrer's_ daughter. Well, are you going, or must I?'
He muttered something inarticulate, then seized his hat sulkily, and
went to the door without looking at her.
'You have forgotten something,' she said.
He turned; her forefinger pointed to the bouquet on the table. He had
a fresh access of rage at the sight of it, jerked it contemptuously to
the floor with a sweep of his hat, and stamped upon it. Then he rushed
from the room and an instant after she heard the hall-door slam.
She sank against the table, sobbing nervously. It was her first
proposal. A _Schnorrer_, and the daughter of a _Schnorrer_! Yes, that
was what she was. And she had even repaid her benefactors with
deception. What hopes could she yet cherish? In literature she was a
failure; the critics gave her few gleams of encouragement, while all
her acquaintances, from Raphael downwards, would turn and rend her,
should she dare declare herself. Nay, she was ashamed of herself for
the mischief she had wrought. No one in the world cared for her; she
was quite alone. The only man in whose breast she could excite love or
the semblance of it was a contemptible cad. And who was she that she
should venture to hope for love? She figured herself as an item in a
catalogue--'A little, ugly, low-spirited, absolutely penniless young
woman, subject to nervous headaches.' Her sobs were interrupted by a
ghastly burst of self-mockery. Yes, Levi was right! She ought to think
herself lucky to get him. Again, she asked herself, what had existence
to offer her? Gradually her sobs ceased; she remembered to-night would
be _Seder_ night, and her thoughts, so violently turned Ghetto-wards,
went back to that night, soon after poor Benjamin's death, when she
sat before the garret-fire striving to picture the larger life of the
Future.
Well, this was the Future!