ADVENTURES IN SEARCH OF THE POLE.
"Oh, by the way, Miss Friscoe will not trouble you, you will be glad to
hear," said Lillie, lightly.
"Indeed?" said Silverdale. "Then she has drawn a prize after all! I
cannot say as much for the young man. I hardly think she is a credit to
your sex. Somehow, she reminded me of a woman I used to know, and of
some verses I wrote upon her."
("If he had given me a chance, and not gone on to read his poetry so
quickly," wrote Lillie in her diary that night, "I might have told him
that his inference about Miss Friscoe was incorrect. But it is such a
trifle--it is not worth telling him now, especially as he practically
intimated she would have been an undesirable member, and I only saved
him the trouble of trying her.")
Lord Silverdale read his verses without the accompaniment of the banjo,
an instrument too frivolous for the tragic muse.
LA FEMME QUE NE RIT PAS.
It was fair with a loveliness mystic,
Like the faces that Raphael drew,
Enigmatic, intense, cabalistic,
But surcharged with the light of the true:
Such a face, such a hauntingly magic
Incarnation of wistful regret,
It was tenebrous, tender, and tragic,
I dream of it yet.
And there lives in my charmed recollection,
The sweet mouth with its lips cruelly curled,
As with bitter ironic rejection
Of the gods of the frivolous world.
Yet not even disdain on her features
Was enthroned, for a heavenly peace
Often linked her with bright seraph creatures
Or statues of Greece.
I met her at dinners and dances,
Or on yachts that by moonlight went trips,
And was thrilled by her marvellous glances,
And the sneer or repose of her lips.
Never smile o'er her features did play light,
Never laughter illumined her eyes;
She grew to seem sundered from daylight
And sun-kindled skies.
Were they human at all, these dusk glories
Of eyes? And their owner, was she
A Swinburnian Lady Dolores,
Or a sprite from some shadowy sea?
A Cassandra at sea-trip and _soirée_,
Or Proserpina visiting earth?
Ah, what Harpy pursued her as quarry
To strangle so mirth?
Ah, but now I am wiser and sadder,
And my spirit can never again
At the sight of your fairness feel gladder,
O ladies, who coolly obtain
Our enamelled and painted complexion
On conditions (which really are "style,")
_You must never by day risk detection
And nevermore smile._
"I don't see where the connection with Miss Friscoe comes in," said
Lillie.
"No? Why simply if she acquired an enamelled complexion, it might be the
salvation of her, don't you see? Like Henry I., she could never smile
again."
Lillie smiled. Then producing a manuscript, she said: "I think you will
be interested in this story of another of the candidates who applied
during your expedition to the clouds. It is quite unique, and for
amusement I have written it from the man's point of view."
"May I come in?" interrupted the millionaire, popping his head through
the door. "Are there any Old Maids here?"
"Only me," said Lillie.
"Oh, then, I'll call another time."
"No, you may come in, father. Lord Silverdale and I have finished our
business for the day. You can take that away with you and read it at
your leisure, Lord Silverdale."
The millionaire came in, but without _empressement_.
That night Lord Silverdale, who was suffering from insomnia, took the
manuscript to bed with him, but he could not sleep till he had finished
it.
* * * * *
I, Anton Mendoza, bachelor, born thirty years ago by the grace of the
Holy Virgin, on the _fête_-day of San Anton, patron of pigs and old
maids, after sundry adventures by sea and land, found myself in the
autumn of last year in the pestiferous atmosphere of London. I had
picked up bad English and a good sum of money in South America, and by
the aid of the two was enabled to thread my way through the mazes of the
metropolis. I soon tired of the neighborhood of the Alhambra (in the
proximity of which I had with mistaken patriotism established myself),
for the wealthy quarters of all great cities have more affinities than
differences, and after a few days of sight-seeing I resolved to fare
forth in quest of the real sights of London. Mounting the box of the
first omnibus that came along, I threw the reins of my fortunes into the
hands of the driver, and drew a little blue ticket from the lottery of
fate. I scanned the slip of paper curiously and learned therefrom that I
was going fast to "The Angel," which I shrewdly divined to be a
public-house, knowing that these islanders display no poetry and
imagination save in connection with beer. My intuition was correct, and
though it was the forenoon I alighted amid a double stream of
pedestrians, the one branch flowing into "The Angel," and the other
issuing therefrom. Extricating myself, I looked at my compass, and
following the direction of the needle soon found myself in a network of
unlovely streets. For an hour I paced forwards without chancing on aught
of interest, save many weary organ-grinders, seemingly serenading their
mistresses with upward glances at their chamber-windows, and I was
commencing to fear that my blue ticket would prove a blank, when a
savory odor of garlic struck on my nostrils and apprised me that my walk
had given me an appetite. Glancing sideways I saw a door swinging, the
same bearing in painted letters on the glass the words: "Menotti's
Restaurant--Ici on parle Francais." It looked a queer little place, and
the little back street into which I had strayed seemed hardly auspicious
of cleanly fare. Still the jewel of good cookery harbors often in the
plainest caskets, and I set the door swinging again and passed into a
narrow room walled with cracked mirrors and furnished with a few little
tables, a rusty waiter, and a proprietorial looking person perpetually
bent over a speaking tube. As noon was barely arrived, I was not
surprised to find the place all but empty. At the extreme end of the
restaurant I caught a glimpse of a stout dark man with iron-gray
whiskers. I thought I would go and lunch at the table of the solitary
customer and scrape acquaintance, and thus perhaps achieve an adventure.
But hardly had I seated myself opposite him than a shock traversed his
face, the morsel he had just swallowed seemed to stick in his throat, he
rose coughing violently, and clapping his palm over his mouth with the
fingers spread out almost as if he wished to hide his face, turned his
back quickly, seized his hat, threw half-a-crown to the waiter and
scuttled from the establishment.
[Illustration: _He scuttled from the Establishment._]
I was considerably surprised at his abrupt departure, as if I had
brought some infection with me. The momentary glimpse I had caught of
his face had convinced me I had never seen it before, that it had no
place in the photograph album of my brain, though now it would be fixed
there forever. The nose hooked itself on to my memory at once. It must
be that he had mistaken me for somebody else, somebody whom he had
reason to fear. Perhaps he was a criminal and imagined me a detective. I
called the proprietor and inquired of him in French who the man was and
what was the matter with him. But he shook his head and answered: "That
man there puzzles me. There is a mystery behind."
"Why, has he done anything strange before to-day?"
"No, not precisely."
"How then?"
"I will tell you. He comes here once a year."
"Once a year?" I repeated.
"No more. This has been going on for twelve years."
"What are you telling me there?" I murmured.
"It is true."
"But how have you remembered him from year to year?"
"I was struck by his face and his air the very first time. He seemed
anxious, ill at ease, worried. He left his chop half eaten."
"Ha!" I murmured.
"Also he looks different from most of my clients. They are not of that
type. Of course I forget him immediately--it is not my affair. But when
he comes the second time I recall him on the instant, though a year has
passed. Again he looks perturbed, restless. I say to myself: 'Aha, thou
art not a happy man, there is something which preys on thy mind.
However, thy money is good and to the devil with the rest.' So it goes
on. After three or four visits I commence to look out for him, and I
discover that it is only once a year he does me the honor to arrive.
There are twelve years that I know him--I have seen him twelve times."
"And he has always this nervous air?"
"Not always. That varies. Sometimes he appears calm, sometimes even
happy."
"Perhaps it is your fare," I said slily.
"Ah, no, monsieur, that does not vary. It is always of the first
excellence."
"Does he always come on the same date?"
"No, monsieur. There is the puzzle. It is never exactly a year between
his visits--sometimes it is more, sometimes it is less."
"There is, indeed, the puzzle," I agreed. "If it were always the same
date, it would be a clue. Ah, an idea! He comes not always on the same
date of the month, but he comes, perhaps, on the same day of the week,
eh?"
Again the proprietor dashed me back into the depths of perplexity.
"No," he said, decisively. "Monday, Wednesday, Saturday,--it is all the
same. The only thing that changes not is the man and his dress. Always
the same broadcloth frock-coat and the same high hat and the same seals
at the heavy watch-chain. He is a rich man, that sees itself."
I wrinkled my brow and tugged the ends of my moustache in the effort to
find a solution. The proprietor tugged the ends of his own moustache in
sympathetic silence.
"Does he always slink out if anybody sits down opposite to him?" I
inquired again.
"On the contrary. He talks and chats quite freely with his neighbors
when there are any. I have seen his countenance light up when a man has
come to seat himself next to him."
"Then to-day is the first time he has behaved so strangely?"
"Absolutely."
Again I was silent. I looked at myself curiously in the cracked mirror.
"Do you see anything strange in my appearance?" I asked the proprietor.
"Nothing in the world," said the proprietor, shaking his head
vigorously.
"Nothing in the world," echoed the waiter, emphatically.
"Then why does he object to me, when he doesn't object to anybody else?"
"Pardon," said the proprietor. "It is, after all, but rarely that a
stranger sits at his table. He comes ordinarily so early for his lunch
that my clients have not yet arrived, and I have only the honor to serve
an accidental customer like yourself."
"Ah, then, there is some regularity about the time of day at least?"
"Ah, yes, there is that," said the proprietor, reflectively. "But even
here there is no hard and fast line. He may be an hour earlier, he may
be an hour later."
"What a droll of a man!" I said laughing, even as I wondered. "And you
have not been able to discover anything about him, though he has given
it you in twelve?"
"It is not my affair," he repeated, shrugging his shoulders.
"You know not his name even?"
"How should I know it?"
"Ah, very well, you shall see!" I said, buttoning up my coat resolutely
and rising to my feet. "You shall see that I will find out everything in
once. I, a stranger in London, who love the oceans and the forests
better than the cities, I, who know only the secrets of Nature, behold,
I will solve you this mystery of humanity."
"As monsieur pleases," replied the proprietor. "For me the only question
is what monsieur will have for his lunch."
"I want no lunch," I cried. Then seeing his downcast face and
remembering the man must be out of sight by this time and nothing was to
be gained by haste, I ordered some broth and a veal and ham pie, and
strode to the door to make sure there was no immediate chance of coming
upon him. The little by-street was almost deserted, there was not a sign
of my man. I returned to my seat and devoted myself to my inner man
instead. Then I rebuttoned my coat afresh--though with less
facility--and sauntered out joyously. Now at last I had found something
to interest me in London. The confidence born of a good meal was strong
in my bosom as I pushed those swinging doors open and cried "_Au
revoir_," to my host, for I designed to return and to dazzle him with my
exploits.
"_Au revoir_, monsieur, a thousand thanks," cried the proprietor,
popping up from his speaking-tube. "But where are you going? Where do
you hope to find this man?"
"I go not to find the man," I replied airily.
"_Comment!_" he exclaimed in his astonishment.
"I go to seek the woman," I said in imposing accents. And waving my hand
amicably I sallied forth into the dingy little street.
But alas for human anticipations! The whole of that day I paced the dead
and alive streets of North London without striking the faintest
indication of a trail. After a week's futile wanderings I began to
realize the immensity of the English metropolis--immense not only by its
actual area, but by the multiplicity of its streets and windings, and by
the indifference of each household to its neighbors, which makes every
roof the cover of manifold mysterious existences and potentialities. To
look for a needle in a bundle of hay were child's play to the task of
finding a face in a London suburb, even assuming as I did my enigma
lived in the northern district. I dared not return to the restaurant to
inquire if perchance he had been seen. I was ashamed to confess myself
baffled. I shifted my quarters from Leicester Square to Green Lanes and
walked every day within a four mile radius of the restaurant, but
fortune turned her face (and his) from me and I raged at my own folly in
undertaking so futile a quest. At last, "Patience!" I cried. "Patience,
and shuffle the cards!" It was my pet proverb when off the track of
anything. To cut yourself adrift from the old plan and look at the
problem with new eyes--that was my recipe. I tried it by going into the
country for some stag hunting, which I had ascertained from a farmer
whom I met in a coffee-house, could be obtained in some of the villages
in the next county. But English field-sports I found little to my taste,
for the deer had been unhorned and was let out of a cart, and it was
only playing at sport. The Holy Mother save me from such bloodless
make-believe! Though the hunting season was in full swing I returned in
disgust to the town, and again confiding my fortunes to a common or
garden omnibus, I surveyed the street panorama from my seat on the roof
till the vehicle turned round for the backward journey. This time I
found myself in Canonbury, a district within the radius I had previously
explored. The coincidence gave me fresh hope--it seemed a happy augury
of ultimate success. The saints would guide my footsteps after all; for
he who wills aught intensely cajoles Providence. The dusk had fallen and
the night lamps had been lit in the heavens and on the earth, though
without imparting cheerfulness to the rigid rows of highly respectable
houses. I walked through street after street of gray barracks, tall
narrow structures holding themselves with the military stiffness and
ranged in serried columns, the very greenery that relieved their fronts
growing sympathetically symmetrical and sombre. I sighed for my native
orange-groves, I longed for a whiff of the blue Mediterranean, I strove
to recall the breezy expanses of the South American Pampas whence I had
come, and had it not been for the interest of my search, I should have
fled like St. Anthony from the lady, though for very opposite reasons.
It seemed scarcely possible that romance should brood behind those dull
façades; the grosser spirit of prose seemed to shroud them as in a fog.
Suddenly, as I paced with clogged footsteps in these heavy regions, I
heard a voice calling somebody, and looking in the direction of the
sound I could not but fancy it was myself whose attention was sought. A
gentleman standing at the hall-door of one of the houses, at the top of
the white steps, was beckoning in my direction. I halted, and gazing on
all sides ascertained I was the sole pedestrian. Puzzled as to what he
could want of me, I tried to scan his features by the rays of a street
lamp which faced the house and under which I stood. They revealed a
pleasant but not English-looking face, bearded and bronzed, but they
revealed nothing as to the owner's designs. He stood there still
beckoning, and the latent hypnotism of the appeal drew me towards the
gate. I paused with my hand on the lock. What in the name of all the
saints could he possibly want with me? I had sundry valuables about my
person, but then they included a loaded revolver, so why refuse the
adventure?
"Do come in," he said in English, seeing my hesitation. "_We are only
waiting for you._"
[Illustration: _I accepted the strange invitation._]
The mysterious language of the invitation sealed my fate. Evidently I
had again been mistaken for somebody else. Was it that I resembled
someone this man knew? If so, it would probably be the same someone the
other man had dreaded. I seemed to feel the end of a clew at last, the
other end which was tied to him I sought. Putting my hand to my breast
pocket to make sure it held my pistol, I drew back the handle of the
gate and ascended the steps. There was an expression of satisfaction on
the face of my inviter, and, turning his back upon me he threw the door
wide open and held it courteously as I entered. A whiff of warm stuffy
air smote my nostrils as I stepped into the hall where an india-rubber
plant stood upon a rack heavily laden with overcoats. My host preceded
me a few paces and opened a door on the right. A confused babble of
guttural speech broke upon my ear, and over his shoulder I caught a
glimpse of a strange scene--a medley of swarthy men, wearing their hats,
a venerable-looking old man who seemed their chief being prominent in a
grim, black skull cap; there was a strange weird wick burning in a cup
of oil on the mantelpiece, and on a sofa at the extreme end of the room
sat a beautiful young lady weeping silently.
My heart gave a great leap. Instinct told me I had found the woman. I
made the sign of the cross and entered.
A strange look of relief passed over the faces of the company as I
entered. Instinctively I removed my hat, but he who had summoned me
deprecated the courtesy with a gesture, remarking, "We are commencing at
once."
I stared at him, more puzzled than ever, but kept silence lest speech
should betray me and snatch the solution from me on the very eve of my
arrival at it.
It was gathering in my mind that I must strikingly resemble one of the
band, that the man of the restaurant had betrayed us, and that he went
in fear of our vengeance. Only thus could I account for my reception
both by him and by the rest of the gang.
The patriarchal-looking chieftain got up and turned his back to the
company, as if surveying them through the mirror. He then addressed them
at great length with averted face in a strange language, the others
following him attentively and accompanying his remarks with an
undercurrent of murmured sympathy, occasionally breaking out into loud
exclamations of assent in the same tongue. I listened with all my ears,
but could not form the least idea as to what the language was. There
were gutturals in it as in German, but I can always detect German if I
cannot understand it. There was never a word which had the faintest
analogy with any of the European tongues. I came to the conclusion it
was a patter of their own. The leader spoke hurriedly for the most part,
but in his slower passages there was a rise and fall of the voice almost
amounting to a musical inflection. Near the end, after an emphatic
speech frequently interrupted by applause, he dropped his voice to a
whisper and a hushed silence fell upon the room. The beautiful girl on
the couch got up and, holding a richly-bound book in her hand, perused
it quietly. Her lovely eyes were heavy with tears. I drifted upon a
current of wonder into perusing her face, and it was with a start that,
at the sudden resumption of the leader's speech, I woke from my dreams.
The address came to a final close soon after, and then another member
wound up the proceedings with a little speech, which was received with
great enthusiasm.
While he was speaking, I studied the back of the patriarch's head. He
moved it, and my eyes accidentally lighted on something on the
mantelpiece which sent a thrill through my whole being. It was a
photograph, and unless some hallucination tricked my vision, the
photograph of the man I sought. I trembled with excitement. My instinct
had been correct. I had found the woman. Saint Antony had guided my
footsteps aright. The company was slowly dispersing, chatting as it
went. Everybody took leave of the beautiful girl, who had by this time
dried her eyes and resumed the queen. I should have to go with them, and
without an inkling of comprehension of what had passed! What had they
been plotting? What part had I been playing in these uncanny
transactions? What had they been doing to bring suffering to this fair
girl, before whom all bowed in mock homage? Was she the unwilling
accomplice of their discreditable designs? I could not see an inch in
the bewildering fog. And was I to depart like the rest, doomed to cudgel
my brains till they ached like caned schoolboys? No, my duty was clear.
A gentle creature was in trouble--it was my business to stay and succor
her.
Then suddenly the thought flashed upon me that she loved the man who had
betrayed us, that she had pleaded with fear for his life, and that her
petition had been granted. The solution seemed almost complete, yet it
found me no more willing to go. Had I not still to discover for what end
we were leagued together?
As I stood motionless, thus musing, the minutes and the company slipped
away. I was left with the man of the doorstep, the second speaker, and
the beautiful girl.
While I was wondering by what pretext to remain, the second speaker came
up to me and said cordially: "We are so much obliged to you for coming.
It was very good of you."
His English was that of a native, as I enviously noted. He was a young,
good-looking fellow, but, as I gazed at him, a vague resemblance to the
stranger of the restaurant and to the photograph on the mantelpiece
forced itself on my attention.
"Oh, it was no trouble; no trouble at all," I remarked cheerfully. "I
will come again if you like."
"Thank you; but this is our last night, with the exception of Saturday,
when one can get together twenty quite easily, so there is no need to
trouble you, as you perhaps do not reside in the neighborhood."
"Oh, but I do," I hastened to correct him.
"In that case we shall be very pleased to see you," he replied readily.
"I don't remember seeing you before in the district. I presume you are a
newcomer."
"Yes, that's it," I exclaimed glibly, secretly more puzzled than ever.
He did not remember seeing me before, nor did the man of the doorstep
vouchsafe any information as to my identity. Then I could certainly not
have been mistaken for somebody else. And yet--what was the meaning of
that significant invitation: "_We are waiting only for you?_"
"I thought you were a stranger," he replied. "I haven't the pleasure of
knowing your name."
This was the climax. But I concealed my astonishment, having always
found the _nil admirari_ principle the safest in enterprises of this
nature. Should I tell him my real name? Yes, why not? I was utterly
unknown in London, and my real name would be as effective a disguise as
a pseudonym.
"Mendoza," I replied.
"Ah," said the man of the doorstep. "Any relation to the Mendozas of
Highbury?"
"I think not," I replied, with an air of reflection.
"Ah well," said the second speaker, "we are all brothers."
"And sisters." I remarked gallantly, bowing to the beautiful maiden. On
second thoughts it struck me the remark was rather meaningless, but
second thoughts have an awkward way of succeeding first thoughts, which
sometimes interferes with their usefulness. On third thoughts I went on
in my best English, "May I in return be favored with the pleasure of
knowing your name?"
The second speaker smiled in a melancholy way and said, "I beg you
pardon, I forgot we were as strange to you as you to us. My name is
Radowski, Philip Radowski; this is my friend Martin, and this my sister
Fanny."
I distributed elaborate bows to the trinity.
"You will have a little refreshment before you go?" said Fanny, with a
simple charm that would have made it impossible to refuse, even if I had
been as anxious to go as I was to stay.
"Oh no, I could not think of troubling you," I replied warmly, and in
due course I was sipping a glass of excellent old port and crumbling a
macaroon.
This seemed to me the best time for putting out a feeler, and I remarked
lightly, pointing to the photograph on the mantelpiece, "I did not see
that gentleman here to-night." Instantly a portentous expression
gathered upon all the faces. I saw I had said the wrong thing. The
beautiful Fanny's mouth quivered, her eyes grew wistful and pathetic.
"My father is dead," she said in a low tone.
Dead? Her father? A great shock of horror and surprise traversed my
frame. His secret had gone with him to the grave.
"Dead?" I repeated involuntarily. "Oh, forgive me, I did not know."
"Of course not, of course not. I understand perfectly," put in her
brother soothingly. "You did not know whom it was we had lost. Yes, it
was our father."
"Has he been dead long?"
He seemed a little surprised at the question, but answered: "It is he we
are mourning now."
I nodded my head, as if comprehending.
"Ah, he was a good man," said Martin. "I wish we were all so sure of
Heaven."
"There are very few Jews like him left," said Fanny quietly.
"Alas, he was one of the pious old school," assented Martin, shaking his
head dolefully.
My heart was thumping violently as a great wave of light flooded my
brain. These people then were Jews--that strange, scattered race of
heretics I had often heard of, but never before come into contact with
in my wild adventurous existence. The strange scene I had witnessed was
not, then, a meeting of conspirators, but a religious funereal
ceremonial; the sorrow of Fanny was filial grief; the address of the
venerable old man a Hebrew prayer-reading; the short speech of Philip
Radowski probably a psalm in the ancient language all spoke so fluently.
But what had I come to do in that galley?
All these thoughts flashed upon me in the twinkling of an eye. There was
scarce a pause between Martin's observation and Radowski's remark that
followed it.
"He was, indeed, pious. It was wonderful how he withstood the influence
of his English friends. You would never imagine he left Poland quite
thirty years ago."
So I had found the Pole! But was it too late? Anyhow I resolved to know
what _I_ had been summoned for? The saints spared me the trouble of the
search.
"Yes," returned Martin, "when you think how ready he was to go to the
houses of mourners, I think it perfectly disgraceful that we had such
difficulty in getting together ten brother-Jews for the services in his
memory. But for the kindness of Mr. Mendoza I don't know what we should
have done to-night. In your place, Philip, I confess I should have felt
tempted to violate the law altogether. I can't see that it matters to
the Almighty whether you have nine men or ten men or five men. And I
don't see why Fanny couldn't count in quite as well as any man."
"Oh! Martin," said Fanny with a shocked look. "How can you talk so
irreligiously? Once we begin to break the law where are we to stop? Jews
and Christians may as well intermarry at once." Her righteous
indignation was beautiful to see.
Two things were clear now. First, I had been mistaken for a Jew,
probably on account of my foreign appearance. Secondly, Fanny would
never wed a Christian. But for the first fact I would have regretted the
second. For a third thing was clear--that I loved the glorious Jewess
with all the love of a child of the South. We are not tame rabbits, we
Andalusians: the flash from beauty's eye fires our blood and we love
instantly and dare greatly. My heart glowed with gratitude to my patron
saint for having brought about the mistake; a Jew I was and a Jew I
would remain.
"You are quite right, Miss Radowski," I said, "Jew and Christian might
as well intermarry at once."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Fanny, turning her lovely orbs
towards me. "Most young men nowadays are so irreligious."
Martin darted a savage glance at me. I saw at once how the land lay. He
was either engaged to my darling or a _fiancé_ in the making. I surveyed
him impassively from his head to his shoes and decided to stand in them.
It was impossible to permit a man of such dubious religious principles
to link his life with a spiritually-minded woman like Fanny. Such a
union could only bring unhappiness to both. What she needed was a good
pious Jew, one of the old school. With the help of the saints I vowed to
supply her needs.
"I think modern young women are quite as irreligious as modern young
men," retorted Martin, as he left the room.
"Yes, it is so," sighed Fanny, the arrow glancing off unheeded. Then,
uplifting her beautiful eyes heavenwards, she murmured: "Ah, if they had
been blessed with fathers like mine."
Martin, who had only gone out for an instant, returned with Fanny's hat
and a feather boa, and observing, "You must really take a walk at
once--you have been confined indoors a whole week," helped her to put
them on. I felt sure his zeal for her health was overbalanced by his
enthusiasm for my departure. I could not very well attach myself to the
walking party--especially as I only felt an attachment for one member of
it. Disregarding the interruption I remarked in tones of fervent piety:
"It will be an eternal regret to me that I missed knowing your father."
She gave me a grateful look.
"Look!" she said, seating herself on the sofa for a moment and picking
up the richly-bound book lying upon it. "Look at the motto of
exhortation he wrote in my prayer-book before he died. Our minister says
it is in the purest Hebrew."
I went to her side and leaned over the richly-bound book, which appeared
to be printed backwards, and scanned the inscription with an air of
appreciation.
"Read it," she said. "Read it aloud! It comforts me to hear it."
[Illustration: _"Read it aloud," she said. "It comforts me."_]
I coughed violently and felt myself growing pale. The eyes of Martin
were upon me with an expression that seemed waiting to become sardonic.
I called inwardly upon the Holy Mother. There seemed to be only a few
words and after a second's hesitation I murmured something in my most
inarticulate manner, producing some sounds approximately like those I
had heard during the service.
Fanny looked up at me, puzzled.
"I do not understand your pronunciation," she said.
I felt ready to sink into the sofa.
"Ah, I am not surprised," put in her brother. "From Mr. Mendoza's name
and appearance I should take him to be a Sephardi like the Mendozas of
Highbury. They pronounce quite differently from us, Fanny."
I commended him to the grace of the Virgin.
"That is so," I admitted. "And I found it not at all easy to follow your
services."
"Are you an English Sephardi or a native Sephardi?" asked Martin.
"A native!" I replied readily. "I was born there." Where "there" was I
had no idea.
"Do you know," said Fanny, looking so sweetly into my face, "I should
like to see your country. Spain has always seemed to me so romantic, and
I dote on Spanish olives."
I was delighted to find I had spoken the truth as to my nativity.
"I shall be charmed to escort you," I said, smiling.
She smiled in response.
"It is easy enough to go anywhere nowadays," said Martin surlily.
"I wish you would go to the devil," I thought. "That would certainly be
easy enough."
But it would have been premature to force my own company upon Fanny any
longer. I relied upon the presence of death and her brother to hinder
Martin's suit from developing beyond the point it had already reached.
It remained to be seen whether the damage was irreparable. I went again
on the Saturday night, following with interest the service that had
seemed a council-meeting. This time it began with singing, in which
everybody joined and in which I took part with hearty inarticulateness.
But a little experience convinced me that my course was beset with
pitfalls, that not Mary Jane aspiring to personify a duchess could glide
on thinner ice than I attempting to behave as one of these strange
people, with their endless and all-embracing network of religious
etiquette. To my joy I discovered that I could pursue my suit without
going to synagogue, a place of dire peril, for it seems that the
Spaniards are a distinct sect, mightily proud of their blood and their
peculiar pronunciation, and the Radowskis, being Poles, did not expect
to see me worshipping with themselves, which enabled me to continue my
devotions in the Holy Chapel of St. Vincent. It also enabled me to skate
over many awkward moments, the Poles being indifferently informed as to
the etiquette of their Peninsular cousins. That I should have been twice
taken for one of their own race rather surprised me, for my
physiognomical relationship to it seemed of the slightest. The dark
complexion, the foreign air, doubtless gave me a superficial
resemblance, and in the face it is the surface that tells. I read up
Spanish history and learnt that many Jews had become Christians during
the persecutions of the Holy Inquisition, and that many had escaped the
fires of the _auto-da-fé_ by feigning conversion, the while secretly
performing their strange rites, and handing down to their descendants
the traditions of secrecy and of Judaism, these unhappy people being
styled Marranos. Perchance I was sprung from some such source, but there
was no hint of it in my genealogy so far as known to me; my name Mendoza
was a good old Andalusian name, and my ancestors had for generations
been good sons of the only true Church. The question has no interest for
me now.
For, although like Cæsar I am entitled to say that I came, saw, and
conquered, conquering not only Fanny but my rival, yet am I still a
bachelor. I had driven Martin on one side as easily as a steamer bearing
down upon a skiff, yet my own lips betrayed me. It was the desire to
penetrate the mystery of the restaurant that undid me, for if a woman
cannot keep a secret, a man cannot refrain from fathoming one. The
rose-gardens of Love were open for my walking when the demon in
possession prompted me to speech that silvered the red roses with
hoar-frost and ice.
One day I sat holding her dear hand in mine. She permitted me no more
complex caresses, being still in black. Such was the sense of duty of
this beautiful, warm-blooded Oriental creature, that she was as cold as
her father's tombstone, and equally eulogistic of his virtues. She spoke
of them now, though I would fain have diverted the talk to hers. Failing
that, I seized the opportunity to solve the haunting puzzle.
"Do you know, I fancy I once saw your father," I said, earnestly.
"Indeed!" she observed, with much interest. "Where?"
"In a restaurant not many miles from here. It was before noon."
"In a restaurant?" she repeated. "Hardly very likely. There isn't any
restaurant near here he would be likely to go to, and certainly not at
the time you mention, when he would be in the city. You must be
mistaken."
I shook my head. "I don't think so. I remember his face so well. When I
saw his photograph I recognized him at once."
"How long ago was it?"
"I can tell you exactly," I said. "The date is graven on my heart. It
was the twenty-fourth of October."
"This year?"
"This year."
"The twenty-fourth of October!" she repeated musingly. "Only a few weeks
before he died. Poor father, peace be upon him! The twenty-fourth of
October, did you say?" she added, suddenly.
"What is the matter?" I asked. "You are agitated."
"No, it is nothing. It cannot be," she added, more calmly. "Of course
not." She smiled faintly. "I thought----" she paused.
"You thought what?"
"Oh, well, I'll show you I was mistaken." She rose, went to the
book-case, drew out a little brown-paper covered volume, and turned over
the pages scrutinizingly. Suddenly a change came over the beautiful
face; she stood motionless, pale as a statue.
A chill shadow fell across my heart, distracted between tense curiosity
and dread of a tragic solution.
"My dear Fanny, what in Heaven's name is it?" I breathed.
"Don't speak of Heaven," said Fanny, in strange, harsh tones, "when you
libel the dead thus."
"Libel the dead? How?"
"Why, the twenty-fourth of October was _Yom Kippur_."
"Well," I said, unimpressed and uncomprehending, "and what of it?"
She stared at me, staggered and clutched at the book-case for support.
"What of it?" she cried, in passionate emotion. "Do you dare to say that
you saw my poor father, who was righteousness itself, breaking his fast
in a restaurant on the Day of Atonement? Perhaps you will insinuate next
that his speedy death was Heaven's punishment on him for his blasphemy!"
In the same instant I saw the truth and my terrible blunder. This
fast-day must be of awful solemnity, and Fanny's father must have gone
systematically to a surreptitious breakfast in that queer,
out-of-the-way restaurant. His nervousness, his want of ease, his terror
at the sight of me, whom he mistook for a brother-Jew, were all
accounted for. Once a year--the discrepancy in the date being explained
by the discord between Jewish and Christian chronology--he hied his way
furtively to this unholy meal, enjoying it and a reputation for sanctity
at the same time. But to expose her father's hypocrisy to the trusting,
innocent girl would be hardly the way to advance love-matters. It might
be difficult even to repair the mischief I had already done.
"I beg your pardon," I said humbly. "You were right. I was misled by
some chance resemblance. If your father was the pious Jew you paint him,
it is impossible he could have been the man I saw. Yes, and now I think
of it, the eyebrows were bushier and the chin plumper than those of the
photograph."
A sigh of satisfaction escaped her lips. Then her face grew rigid again
as she turned it upon me, and asked in low tones that cut through me
like an icy blast: "Yes, but what were _you_ doing in the restaurant on
the Day of Atonement?"
"I--I----?" I stammered.
Her look was terrible.
"I--I--was only having a cup of chocolate," I replied, with a burst of
inspiration.
As everybody knows, since the pronunciamento of Pope Paul V., chocolate
may be imbibed by good Catholics without breaking the fasts of the
Church. But, alas! it seems these fanatical Eastern flagellants allow
not even a drop of cold water to pass their lips for over twenty-four
hours.
"I am glad you confess it," said Fanny, witheringly. "It shows you have
still one redeeming trait. And I am glad you spoke ill of my poor
father, for it has led to the revelation of your true character before
it was too late. You will, of course, understand, Mr. Mendoza, that our
acquaintance is at an end."
"Fanny!" I cried, frantically.
"Spare me a scene, I beg of you," she said, coldly. "You, you the man
who pretended to such ardent piety, to such enthusiasm for our holy
religion, are an apostate from the faith into which you were born, a
blasphemer, an atheist."
I stared at her in dumb horror. I had entangled myself inextricably. How
could I now explain that it was her father who was the renegade, not I?
"Good-bye," said Fanny. "Heaven make you a better Jew."
I moved desperately towards her, but she waved me back. "Don't touch
me," she cried. "Go, go!"
"But is there no hope for me?" I exclaimed, looking wildly into the
cold, statue-like face, that seemed more beautiful than ever, now it was
fading from my vision.
"None," she said. Then, in a breaking voice, she murmured, "Neither for
you nor for me."
"Ah, you love me still," I cried, striving to embrace her. "You will be
my wife."
She struggled away from me. "No, no," she said, with a gesture of
horror. "It would be sacrilege to my dead father's memory. Rather would
I marry a Christian, yes, even a Catholic, than an apostate Jew like
you. Leave me, I pray you; or, must I ring the bell?"
I went--a sadder and a wiser man. But even my wisdom availed me not, for
when I repaired to the restaurant to impart it to the proprietor, the
last consolation was denied me. He had sold his business and returned to
Italy.
To-morrow I start for Turkestan.