THE ENDS OF A GENERATION
The same evening Leonard James sat in the stalls of the Colosseum
Music-Hall, sipping champagne and smoking a cheroot. He had not been
to his chambers (which were only round the corner) since the hapless
interview with Esther, wandering about in the streets and the clubs in
a spirit compounded of outraged dignity, remorse, and recklessness.
All men must dine; and dinner at the Flamingo Club soothed his wounded
soul and left only the recklessness, which is a sensation not lacking
in agreeableness. Through the rosy mists of the Burgundy there began
to surge up other faces than that cold pallid little face which had
hovered before him all the afternoon like a tantalising phantom; at
the Chartreuse stage he began to wonder what hallucination, what
aberration of sense, had overcome him that he should have been stirred
to his depths and distressed so hugely. Warmer faces were these that
swam before him, faces fuller of the joy of life. The devil take all
stuck-up little saints!
About eleven o'clock, when the great ballet of 'Venetia' was over,
Leonard hurried round to the stage-door, saluted the doorkeeper with a
friendly smile and a sixpence, and sent in his card to Miss Gladys
Wynne, on the chance that she might have no supper engagement. Miss
Wynne was only a humble _coryphee_, but the admirers of her talent
were numerous, and Leonard counted himself fortunate in that she was
able to afford him the privilege of her society to-night. She came out
to him in a red fur-lined cloak, for the air was keen. She was a
majestic being, with a florid complexion not entirely artificial, big
blue eyes, and teeth of that whiteness which is the practical
equivalent of a sense of humour in evoking the possessor's smiles.
They drove to a restaurant a few hundred yards distant, for Miss
Wynne detested using her feet except to dance with. It was a
fashionable restaurant, where the prices obligingly rose after ten, to
accommodate the purses of the supper _clientele_. Miss Wynne always
drank champagne, except when alone, and in politeness Leonard had to
imbibe more of this frothy compound. He knew he would have to pay for
the day's extravagance by a week of comparative abstemiousness, but
recklessness generally meant magnificence with him. They occupied a
cosy little corner behind a screen, and Miss Wynne bubbled over with
laughter like an animated champagne-bottle. One or two of his
acquaintances espied him and winked genially, and Leonard had the
satisfaction of feeling that he was not dissipating his money without
purchasing enhanced reputation. He had not felt in gayer spirits for
months than when, with Gladys Wynne on his arm and a cigarette in his
mouth, he sauntered out of the brilliantly-lit restaurant into
feverish dusk of the midnight street, shot with points of fire.
'Hansom, sir?'
'_Levi!_'
A great cry of anguish rent the air. Leonard's cheeks burnt.
Involuntarily he looked round. Then his heart stood still. There, a
few yards from him, rooted to the pavement, with stony, staring face,
was Reb Shemuel. The old man wore an unbrushed high hat and an
uncouth, unbuttoned overcoat. His hair and beard were quite white now,
and the strong countenance, lined with countless wrinkles, was
distorted with pain and astonishment. He looked a cross between an
ancient prophet and a shabby street-lunatic. The unprecedented absence
of the son from the _Seder_ ceremonial had filled the Reb's household
with the gravest alarm. Nothing short of death or mortal sickness
could be keeping the boy away. It was long before the Reb could bring
himself to commence the _Agadah_ without his son to ask the
time-honoured opening question, and when he did he paused every minute
to listen to footsteps or the voice of the wind without. The joyous
holiness of the Festival was troubled; a black cloud overshadowed the
shining table-cloth; at supper the food choked him. But _Seder_ was
over, and yet no sign of the missing guest, no word of explanation. In
poignant anxiety the old man walked the three miles that lay between
him and tidings of the beloved son. At his chambers he learnt that
their occupant had not been in all day. Another thing he learnt there,
too; for the _Mezuzah_ which he had fixed up on the door-post when his
boy moved in had been taken down, and it filled his mind with a dread
suspicion that Levi had not been eating at the kosher restaurant in
Hatton Garden, as he had faithfully vowed to do. But even this
terrible thought was swallowed up in the fear that some accident had
happened to him. He haunted the house for an hour, filling up the
intervals of fruitless inquiry with little random walks round the
neighbourhood, determined not to return home to his wife without news
of their child. The restless life of the great twinkling streets was
almost a novelty to him; it was rarely his perambulations in London
extended outside the Ghetto, and the radius of his life was
proportionately narrow, with the intensity that narrowness forces on a
big soul. The streets dazzled him; he looked blinkingly hither and
thither in the despairing hope of finding his boy. His lips moved in
silent prayer; he raised his eyes beseechingly to the cold glittering
heavens. Then all at once, as the clocks pointed to midnight, he found
him. Found him coming out of an unclean place, where he had violated
the Passover. Found him--fit climax of horror--with the 'strange
woman' of the _Proverbs_, for whom the faithful Jew has a hereditary
hatred.
His son--his, Reb Shemuel's! He, the servant of the Most High, the
teacher of the Faith to reverential thousands, had brought a son into
the world to profane the Name! Verily, his grey hairs would go down
with sorrow to a speedy grave! And the sin was half his own; he had
weakly abandoned his boy in the midst of a great city. For one awful
instant, that seemed an eternity, the old man and the young faced each
other across the chasm which divided their lives. To the son the shock
was scarcely less violent than to the father. The _Seder_, which the
day's unwonted excitement had clean swept out of his mind, recurred to
him in a flash, and by the light of it he understood the puzzle of his
father's appearance. The thought of explaining rushed up only to be
dismissed. The door of the restaurant had not yet ceased swinging
behind him; there was too much to explain. He felt that all was over
between him and his father. It was unpleasant, terrible even, for it
meant the annihilation of his resources. But though he still had an
almost physical fear of the old man, far more terrible even than the
presence of his father was the presence of Miss Gladys Wynne. To
explain, to brazen it out--either course was equally impossible. He
was not a brave man, but at that moment he felt death were preferable
to allowing her to be the witness of such a scene as must ensue. His
resolution was taken within a few brief seconds of the tragic
_rencontre_. With wonderful self-possession, he nodded to the cabman
who had put the question, and whose vehicle was drawn up opposite the
restaurant. Hastily he helped the unconscious Gladys into the hansom.
He was putting his foot on the step himself, when Reb Shemuel's
paralysis relaxed suddenly. Outraged by this final pollution of the
Festival, he ran forward and laid his hand on Levi's shoulder. His
face was ashen, his heart thumped painfully; the hand on Levi's cloak
shook as with palsy.
Levi winced; the old awe was upon him. Through a blinding whirl he saw
Gladys staring wonderingly at the queer-looking intruder. He gathered
all his mental strength together with a mighty effort, shook off the
great trembling hand, and leapt into the hansom.
'Drive on!' came in strange guttural tones from his parched throat.
The driver lashed the horse; a rough jostled the old man aside and
slammed the door to; Leonard mechanically threw him a coin; the hansom
glided away.
'Who was that, Leonard?' said Miss Wynne curiously.
'Nobody; only an old Jew who supplies me with cash.'
Gladys laughed merrily--a rippling, musical laugh. She knew the sort
of person.