CHAPTER I

A MODERN EXODUS

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A Modern Exodus

A Novel

BY

VIOLET GUTTENBERG

AUTHOR OF

“NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK,” “THE POWER OF THE PALMIST,” ETC.

LONDON

GREENING & CO., LTD.

20 CECIL COURT, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C.

1904

_All Rights Reserved._]

_Copyright

in

The United Kingdom

of

Great Britain and Ireland,

in the

Dominion of Canada

and in the

United States of America,

March, 1904._

PREFACE

Not wishing my readers to be falsely impressed on perusing this novel, I

wish to inform them that this is a story of the impossible, and is

placed in the future for the sake of convenience. Were England other

than she is, however, it would not be so impossible to issue such an

edict as I have here introduced; and therefore it is a matter of

congratulation and deep thankfulness to both Jew and Gentile that the

attitude of our country towards her Jewish subjects is that of justice,

toleration, and friendliness. At the same time, the poisonous seeds of

anti-Semitism are so subtle and so easily instilled, that a warning—even

in the form of fiction—may not be out of place.

With regard to the practical side of the story, I claim the author’s

privilege of imagination; since this is not a treatise on Zionism, but

merely a novel.

VIOLET GUTTENBERG.

_London, 1904._

CONTENTS

BOOK I

THE GATHERING OF THE STORM

CHAP. PAGE

I OF PUBLIC IMPORTANCE 11

II THE MONTELLAS 20

III PATRICIA 29

IV THE MASKED BALL 39

V THE STORY OF FERDINAND 50

VI A HOUSE OF MOURNING 59

VII THE UNEMPLOYED 68

VIII LADY CHESTERWOOD’S SECRET 80

IX THE ZIONISTS 90

X PREMIER AND PEERESS 98

XI THE PREMIER OUTWITTED 108

XII MONTELLA’S OLD NURSE 119

XIII A DIFFICULT ALTERNATIVE 130

BOOK II

THE LAND OF THEIR FATHERS

I PURIM IN HAIFA 141

II THE TOURIST AND RAIE 152

III A GIRL IN LOVE 161

IV GOVERNOR OF HAIFA 168

V THE COMING OF ZILLAH 179

VI THE CAVE OF ELIJAH 186

VII EL KÛDS 197

VIII AMID SACRED SCENES 205

IX MEMORABLE MOMENTS 213

X THE BLOW FALLS 223

XI FAREWELL 237

XII RAIE’S DILEMMA 244

XIII THE EMPTY HOUSE 254

XIV IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 266

BOOK III

THE LAST OF THE EDICT

I ENGLAND ONCE MORE 279

II AN ANTI-SEMITE STILL 288

III THE MIND OF THE PREMIER 299

IV LADY PATRICIA’S CONQUEST 308

V “THE SKIRT OF A JEW” 317

_Period.—The Future_

BOOK I

“_Thou shalt become an astonishment, a proverb, and a by-word amongst

all nations whither the Lord shall lead thee._”—DEUT. xxviii. 37.

A MODERN EXODUS

CHAPTER I

OF PUBLIC IMPORTANCE

It was the Day of Atonement—the Great White Fast. The principal

synagogue in the West End of London was crowded from the doors to the

Ark, and the heat was intense. Like a flock of frightened sheep, those

Jews—and they were many—who ignored the claims of public worship for

over eleven months at a stretch, rushed to the synagogue on this Holy

Day in order to settle their accounts with an offended Deity, and obtain

exemption from service for yet another year. This Day served as a test

to prove whether a man of Hebrew birth clung to the Jewish faith or not;

for if he retained the very smallest respect for the tenets of his

religion, he would at least put in an appearance at the synagogue, and

refrain from tasting food. However lax he might be throughout the year,

on this Day he would try to make reparation, lest he should be struck

off from the inheritance of Israel; for if he failed to observe _Yom

Kippur_, he could no longer claim—amongst his own people—to be a Jew.

People are apt to speak of “the Jews” as though they were one nation of

one unvaried character, and in so doing they make a fatal mistake. The

fact that Jews possess in a large measure the chameleon-like faculty of

reflecting the colour—or rather the characteristics—of the country

wherein they happen to reside is entirely overlooked. No wider

divergence of opinion and character between that possessed by the

English Jew and the Polish Jew, between the educated and the ignorant,

could be imagined; yet by the easy-going Gentile the whole heterogeneous

mass of the race of Israel is summed up in one category—“The Jews.” Even

in this small gathering of modern Israelites there were many different

types. There was the old man, clad in his burial garments, and

slipperless, who swayed to and fro and smote his breast with the zeal of

a devotee; there was—up in the gallery—the equally old woman, her head

disfigured by the _scheitel_[1] (tabooed by the modern Jewish matron),

which she wore as the mark of her wifehood. There was the opulent Jew,

newly imported from South Africa, with his consort above him; the

diamond merchant from Holland; the English stockbroker; the German

commercial traveller; the Oxford under-graduate. There was the vulgar

Jewish matron, with her insufferable air of affluence and her display of

diamonds; and the refined Jewish lady, with her less conspicuous attire

and quieter manner. There were men and women of all nationalities and

classes, bound together by one common tie, yet in temperament as

opposite as the poles. And out of this crowd of more or less fervent

worshippers there is but one who claims our attention, a man of

religious views so broad as to be almost heterodox, yet still in his

conformity to the fundamental principles of his religion, a faithful

Jew.

Footnote 1:

Wig.

He belonged to one of the noblest Jewish families in England. Descended

from the Sephardim, his ancestors had come over in the reign of Charles

II., and his forefathers for generations had been therefore of English

birth. The Selim Montellas were famous throughout the land for their

wealth, their munificence in disposing of it, and their devotion to

their country and its sovereign ruler. Lionel, the last of the race,

proved no less worthy a representative of the ancient house. After a

brilliant career at Oxford, where he had earned the respect of both dons

and under-graduates for his adherence to the rules of his religion, he

had entered Parliament as member for Thorpe Burstall—where his father

possessed an estate. He was one of the youngest men in the House, but

possessed a clear-sightedness beyond his age. His youth served to

intensify rather than detract from the interest he instilled into his

political duties.

It was after he left the university that his religious views underwent a

change. From orthodoxy he drifted into reform—a reform which was

dangerously akin to Rationalism, and then putting a stern check upon

himself, he adopted a belief not unlike that of the Karaites. He tried

to reject the Talmud and the whole authority of tradition, and to adhere

only to the written Law; but finding this unsatisfactory, he was

gradually making his way back to conventional Judaism once again. That

accounted for his presence in the synagogue on this solemn occasion, for

whatever his views on the lesser details of the faith might be, on _Yom

Kippur_ he was as strict as the most orthodox of his _confrères_.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon, and vitality in the synagogue

was at a somewhat low ebb. Most of the children, and those of their

elders who were too delicate to sustain the rigours of an absolute fast,

had gone home to lunch, leaving their stricter co-religionists to

satisfy the cravings of hunger by naught but spiritual refreshment. It

was in the gallery where the ordeal was found most severe, for the

ladies possessed less staying power than the more hardy men; moreover,

the mere fact of having to refrain from the gossip in which they

delighted was in itself a trial of no little magnitude. Their faces

showed signs of weariness and _ennui_, and the air of smartness which

had been theirs at the beginning of the service had almost disappeared.

Two or three of them created a diversion by fainting—the majority of

them were too healthy to swoon. They sat still, and counted the hours

and minutes to nightfall; it seemed as if the Fast would never end.

In the quietest part of the service a noise from the street was heard. A

number of boys were calling out the afternoon editions of the

newspapers, but although their voices floated in through the open

windows, the substance of their announcement was lost. Lionel Montella

almost unconsciously raised his head to listen, for he was always on the

alert for new tidings of any kind, but the peculiar enunciation of the

newspaper boys baffled even his acute ear. All he could make out was the

word “death.” Who was dead he had not the faintest idea.

He raised his prayer-book, and applied himself with renewed diligence to

the text. They were saying the _Ameedah_, and he repeated the responses

with the rest of the congregation; but all the time the word “death” was

at the back of his mind. It worried him so much that he was unable to

give his undivided attention to the service, and when the newspaper boys

repassed the synagogue, he listened to their shouts with all the

intensity of which he was capable. He could not help feeling—perhaps it

was a premonition—that the death was an important one, that it affected

him in some way he could not define; and when at last he caught the

name, the surprise which he ought to have experienced was absent—only

the deep, inexpressible horror remained.

“Death of Mr. Lawrence Campbell!... Sudden death of the Premier!”

The words fell on the ears of the congregation like a knell. The reader

paused almost imperceptibly in his chanting, the majority of the people

looked at each other in horrified surprise. The name of Lawrence

Campbell was synonymous with all that was noble and good, and as a loyal

friend of the Jews, he had ever earned their respect and affection.

Although he had occupied the high office of Prime Minister for over ten

years, he was comparatively a young man, and his death came as a totally

unexpected blow. What it would mean to the community remained to be

seen, but like a sudden ray of light the possible consequence flashed

across Lionel Montella’s mind. He sank on to his seat with his brain in

a whirl, and in spite of the temporary feeling of weakness brought on by

his long hours of fasting, tried to think clearly. He alone of all his

co-religionists knew the true and perilous position of the Jews in

modern Europe at the present day. The Alien Immigration question had

reached a crisis which would have to be settled at Parliament’s next

session, and the issue practically depended on the unreliable temper of

the Government. Various expedients for colonisation had been tried

without success, for the Jews, never having been “hewers of wood and

drawers of water,” did not take kindly to the manual labour necessitated

by such colonisation. What form the next experiment would take,

therefore, was a difficult and vexed question, and one which the Premier

and his subordinate, Montella, had been threshing out together for

weeks. And now Lawrence Campbell, the chief, almost the only,

enthusiastic champion of the Jews in Great Britain was dead. No wonder

the young politician’s heart grew faint within him!

The signal that the long day’s service was at an end—the blowing of the

ram’s horn—recalled him to himself; and folding up his talith, he made

his way with the others to the vestibule. The refreshing breeze from the

street came as a blessed relief after the close atmosphere of the

interior of the synagogue, and he leant against the balustrade for a

moment before searching for his hansom. All around him the people were

dispersing, and as he listened to their kindly greetings to each other,

he realised the close bond of unity—more evident in the Jewish than in

any other faith—which drew them together with irresistible force. A few

of the men with whom he was acquainted came up to him to shake hands.

One—the treasurer of the synagogue—lingered for a few moments’

conversation.

“Sudden thing this—death of the Premier,” he remarked, attacking the

subject which was uppermost in his mind. “Heart failure, Cohen says.

Struck down all in a minute. Bad thing for the Chosen, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, very,” Montella returned seriously, with emphasis on the words. “I

saw poor Campbell only last week. I had no idea that he was subject to

heart attacks.”

“Nor I either. I am sorry—very sorry. Campbell was the right man in the

right place, and a difficult place it is nowadays. Can you tell me who

will be likely to succeed him in the premiership?”

A little knot of men gathered round him as he put the question, leaving

their women-folk to hasten towards home and food. Lionel Montella had

been singled out and recognised, and the opportunity of rubbing

shoulders with him and listening to his words was too valuable to be

passed by. That they were personally unacquainted with him mattered not

in the least, and he was so used to being lionised that he did not dream

of considering their curiosity impertinent.

“Don’t you know?” he said slowly, with a slight tremor of agitation in

his voice. “The successor to Lawrence Campbell will be the very last man

we want to see in power. I mean Athelstan Moore.”

Athelstan Moore—the avowed anti-Semite and rabid Jew-hater, a man who

possessed the dangerous power of swaying men’s minds by the force of his

rhetoric, of fascinating them by the strength of his personality, of

completely subjugating them by the influence of his invincible will. No

wonder a thrill ran through the hearts of the people as Montella

pronounced the name.

“That rabid enemy of the Jews!” exclaimed the treasurer, in dismay.

“Why, the lives of our poorer brethren will not be worth twopence if he

is at the head of the State.”

Montella’s face was more expressive than he knew.

“We must not make trouble for ourselves,” he said, his words belying the

troubled expression in his eyes. “We must hope that Moore is not so

black as he’s painted. After all, he’s only a man, and even as chief

Minister of State he can’t do more than exercise powers which are

distinctly limited. Unfortunately, since the influx of Roumanian

immigrants at the beginning of the century, anti-Jewish feeling among

the masses has been increasingly strong. I’m afraid that it’s the

impolitic and regrettable behaviour of the immigrants themselves which

has brought this about. It has needed all our strength to counteract

this feeling, and I am afraid it will need more than ever now. One thing

we must make up our minds to do, and that is to stand by each other, no

matter what our social position may be. We must remember the old truism

that ‘Unity is strength.’”

Another eager listener had joined the group.

“Do you think it possible that Athelstan Moore may direct his spite

against the upper and middle classes of Jewish society as well as the

sweaters and aliens of the East End?” he asked, with a slightly foreign

accent. “Or shall we be, as law-abiding citizens, exempt?”

“I cannot say,” Montella replied, with hesitation. “In so far as the

Jewish question includes the effect of Jewish influence upon the trade

and commerce of the country, it concerns all classes from the highest to

the lowest. But, friends, it is getting late; and we are most of us

faint from want of food. If the consequence of poor Campbell’s death is

in anyway serious, we must call a meeting in order to discuss the

situation. For the present, I think we should disperse.”

He had noticed the beadle waiting to switch off the light and bolt the

doors. It was characteristic of the young member to avoid causing

inconvenience to any person; and in this case he could see that the

synagogal officer was weary from his arduous duties, and anxious to be

gone. So he shook hands with each one of his willing hearers, and bade

them all farewell. Then he signalled to his waiting hansom, and was

driven rapidly away.

The treasurer watched the vehicle until it was out of sight.

“Fine chap—Montella,” he said to a friend who stood near by. “One of the

good old stock, and not ashamed to own it either. He’ll give that devil

Moore a _potch_ if anyone can. He’s got plenty of brain and heart and

grit in him, or my name’s not Jacob Schlapp.”

The friend’s enthusiasm was less effusive.

“We will discuss Lal Montella when we’ve put something inside us,” he

rejoined, taking the treasurer’s arm. “Have you forgotten that it was

_Yom Kippur_ to-day?”

CHAPTER II

THE MONTELLAS

The Montellas, in spite of their being the owners of a mansion in

Portland Place, chose to occupy a flat in Knightsbridge, and to let

their house to someone who had more use for the magnificent rooms and

galleries than themselves. Ten years ago they had been renowned for

their lavish hospitality and brilliant receptions; but a paralytic

stroke having suddenly attacked Sir Julian when at the zenith of his

popularity, they had been obliged to forego the pleasures of

entertaining, and to retire into private life. The terrible affliction

which had come upon her husband seemed also to have shattered Lady

Montella’s health; and always more or less invalided, she seldom

ventured forth into the maze of society. Whenever she made an effort to

be present at some function, it was only for the sake of her son; for

Lionel, being her only surviving child, was the lodestar of her

existence. All her thoughts, hopes, and prayers were centred on him; and

that he responded so faithfully to the influence of her training was the

greatest joy she possessed. Had he proved otherwise, he would most

surely have broken her heart.

It was twilight, the hour her ladyship loved the best. She was reclining

in an easy-chair near the window, with her hands loosely folded, and her

eyes watching the dying glory of the sunset. There was a vague something

in her attitude which indicated peace—peace and contentment. It was as

if she had been through all the storm and stress of life, and found a

haven at the end. There were traces of suffering on her forehead,

surmounted by its coronal of white hair; but the curves of her lips, and

the indefinable sweetness of their expression, showed that she was

neither embittered by sorrow nor hardened by experience. As wife and

mother, as hostess and poor man’s friend, her interests had ever been

concentrated outside herself.

The tinkling bells of a clock in the adjoining room disturbed her

reverie, and at the same moment the door opened to admit a girl. Pausing

a moment to switch on the electric light, she advanced towards Lady

Montella’s chair. Her step, elastic yet firm, indicated the exuberance

of youth.

“A penny for your thoughts, auntie. You look like Patience on a

monument,” she said merrily, sinking on to a little chair at her

ladyship’s side. “Are you still lamenting your sins, or have you, like

myself, put them away for another year? I am so glad Dr. Ford allowed me

to fast for half the day. My appetite is keener than it has been for

weeks.”

Lady Montella looked at the girl and smiled. Raie Emanuel was her niece

only by adoption, but there was as deep an affection on both sides as if

a blood relationship had existed between the two. Raie, in keeping with

her name, constituted a ray of brightness in a somewhat silent

household, and to its mistress was a source of comfort and delight. The

eldest daughter of a large but impecunious family, her nature was a

combination of practicality with romance. She could cook a dinner or

compose a poem with equal facility, and although in Lady Montella’s

menage the former accomplishment was never required, it was to the

girl’s credit that the ability was there.

“Lionel ought to be here soon,” she ran on, scarcely waiting for an

answer, “unless he calls at Grosvenor Square on the way. I wonder which

he wants most: the Lady Patricia or his breakfast?”

“He must be tired and hungry after his long day’s fast,” her foster-aunt

returned. “I hope he will come straight home. You are joking, Raie, in

saying that. Have you any grounds for supposing that Lady Patricia is

the special object of my son’s interest?”

“Yes.” The girl nodded vivaciously. “One has only to see them together

to be sure of it. Patricia Byrne is Lionel’s ideal woman—fair to look

upon, fair at heart. And Lionel is Lady Patricia’s hero, as indeed he

deserves to be. Haven’t you noticed the change which has come over him

lately—the change in his opinions about women, I mean? Until a few weeks

ago he was absorbed in his politics and his poor Jews. Now there is a

counter attraction.”

Lady Montella looked distressed.

“You are more observant than I am, Raie,” she rejoined. “I have noticed

nothing; perhaps I did not wish to notice—this.”

She leant back in her chair, her hands interlocked. For some

unaccountable reason she had not thought that her boy would go the usual

way of youth, and entangle himself in a love-affair; he had always

seemed much too serious and reserved for anything of the kind. Of

course, she wanted him to marry some day—a girl of his own faith whom

she would choose. To allow himself to fall in love with Lady Patricia

Byrne was the height of folly, and could only bring trouble on all

concerned.

“I hope you are mistaken, Raie,” she added, at last. “I don’t think my

son would do anything to give me pain.”

Fond mother who, because she has made an idol of her son, thinks he is

totally devoid of the human passions which have agitated the breast of

youth ever since the world began. Raie marvelled that a man should be so

little understood by his nearest and dearest, but she said nothing; and

at that moment the subject of their conversation himself appeared.

He came in with a number of newspapers in his hand, and having kissed

his mother and inquired how Raie had fasted, informed them of the

important news. He looked tired and worn; and Raie, to whom the death of

premiers was as nothing compared with nearer and more practical matters,

immediately hurried off to see if his breakfast were fully prepared. She

returned a few minutes later, and insisted on his going to the

dining-room forthwith. She would listen to nothing he had to say until

he had satisfied the demands of the inner man. She captured the papers,

however, and read the accounts for herself.

“Only forty-four years of age,” she remarked, as she put the last one

down. “Well, I suppose he will have a state funeral; it will be worth

seeing. Do you think you can get us tickets of admission, Lal?”

“Raie!” exclaimed Lady Montella, in a tone of reproof. “Is that the

first thing you think of—not the serious consequence of the Premier’s

death upon the nation, but only the excitement of watching his funeral

procession?”

Lionel glanced at his foster-cousin with indulgence.

“Never mind,” he said kindly. “Let Raie leave state affairs to people

who are forced to consider them. Time enough to be serious when the

necessity occurs.”

“That’s what I think,” the girl rejoined, with a smile. “Auntie takes

things much too seriously. By-the-bye, Lionel, will Lady Chesterwood

have to put off her masked ball?”

“Unless she is personally related to poor Campbell, no. When is it going

to be?”

“On Thursday week. I’ve been looking forward to it for months; it will

be my first real ball, you know. Auntie has given me the loveliest dress

you can imagine; it’s a perfect dream.”

“Not a nightmare, I hope,” he returned, and then drew back his chair.

“Well, I must away to Downing Street, I suppose.” He sighed. “I wish I

could look a year or so ahead.”

“Do the days pass too slowly for you, then?” asked his mother, in a tone

of sympathy. “It is not like you to wish away your time.”

“The days pass too quickly for all I mean to do in them,” he replied.

“It is only because I foresee trouble in the distance, mother dear.

However, I won’t be a prophet of evil. Let me take a leaf out of Raie’s

book, and put away dull care.”

Lady Montella followed him out into the hall.

“You will be back soon, I hope, dear?” she said. “I expect Miss Lorm

during the evening.”

“I will be back as soon as I can,” he returned; “but I may be detained

at Downing Street, and—and I have promised to call at Grosvenor Square.”

“To see Lady Patricia?” Her voice unconsciously hardened.

“Yes; Lady Patricia and her father.” A tinge of colour came into his

cheeks.

His mother said no more, but kissing him lightly on the forehead, went

to her room, and rang the bell for her maid. At dinner she listened to

Raie’s light chatter with her thoughts elsewhere, and when the meal was

at an end, asked the girl for music. Raie played and sang as well as

most girls of her age, and having once started, was in no hurry to

cease. She amused herself, and in a lesser degree her aunt, until the

footman announced the advent of Miss Lorm. Then she put her music away

in the rack, and rose to greet the guest.

Zillah Lorm was a singer who owed her position in a great measure to

Lady Montella’s liberality. She had been introduced to her ladyship’s

notice some years ago as a young co-religionist who possessed an

exceptional voice, but who lacked the means to ensure an adequate

training; and as Lady Montella loved to interest herself in such cases,

the necessary money was immediately forthcoming. Zillah went to the

Royal College for three years, after which she studied in Rome and

Paris. Then, through her patroness’s influence, she secured engagements

to sing at homes and receptions. Now, at the age of five-and-twenty, she

was one of the most popular vocalists in London.

She entered the room with the graceful self-possession which betokened

the artiste. Unusually tall, and with an inclination towards embonpoint,

her evening-gown of clinging silk concealed, yet at the same time

revealed the rounded curves of her figure. Her eyes, dark and luminous,

wandered restlessly through the room, as though in quest of someone she

desired to see; her face, as she shook hands with her patroness and Raie

Emanuel, lighted up with a winning smile.

“My son has had to go to Downing Street on account of the Premier’s

death,” Lady Montella informed her, although there was no reason why she

should apologise for his absence. “I hope he will return before you go.”

Raie looked questioningly at her foster-aunt, and invited Miss Lorm to

loosen her wraps. For no accountable reason a feeling of aversion

existed between the two; perhaps it was because the young girl felt

small and insignificant in the presence of Miss Lorm; and the singer

was, or had been, jealous of the position occupied by Raie.

“I am in luck’s way, Lady Montella,” she said, settling herself on one

of the silk-covered chairs in a way which made Raie’s movements look

awkward in comparison. “I am to be commanded to sing before the

Queen-Regent early next month.”

“Indeed?” Her ladyship’s face lit up with interest. “It is a great

honour, Zillah. I am very glad; I am always glad when a Jewess

distinguishes herself.”

Zillah moved her position.

“I—I don’t wish to distinguish myself _as a Jewess_,” she replied

hastily, with a spot of colour on her cheeks. “I am a singer, _pur et

simple_. The Queen-Regent doesn’t know that I’m a Jewess, nor do the

powers that be who managed the affair for me know either. The name of

Jew is in such ill-favour just now that I have thought it best to sink

my connection with the Chosen in case it should prove a hindrance to my

career. Fortunately, although I am dark, my appearance does not betray

me. Do you not think me wise, dear Lady Montella?”

“From the worldly point of view, perhaps; but I would rather have you

cling to your precious heritage, my dear, especially just now, when

people are so ready to seize on anything which can be considered

discreditable to us. My son is doing his utmost to serve his country,

and to prove himself a worthy Jew. Even those who are the enemies of our

people are forced to honour him. I should like you, in the same way, to

prove yourself a worthy Jewess, and so raise the standard in public

opinion. What do you say, Raie?”

Raie tossed her head. “I—oh, I haven’t the least respect for a Jew or

Jewess who is ashamed to own it! Besides, the most superficial student

of physiognomy could trace Miss Lorm’s descent in her features. It is

the most difficult thing in the world to hide one’s Hebrew origin. A

look or a word—even a gesture will show it.”

Zillah bit her lip to repress a sarcastic rejoinder, then changed the

subject. Secretly she made up her mind to pay Raie back when opportunity

occurred. Shortly afterwards she rose to take her leave. She was very

fond of dear Lady Montella, but her ladyship’s dialectics on Judaism

bored her excessively, and the one to whom she liked to converse was not

there.

Raie hailed her departure with relief.

“I think I must be bad-tempered, auntie,” she remarked, as soon as the

hall door was closed. “At any rate, Zillah Lorm always rubs me up the

wrong way.”

“Why? I have never heard her say anything to offend you, dear.”

“No, it isn’t what she says; it’s the way she looks at me. She always

makes me say all the sharp horrid things I can think of. I am thoroughly

ashamed of myself afterwards, but I wouldn’t apologise for the world.

And I know she’s trying to set her cap at Lionel, and she knows I know

it; and—and—I would much rather Lal married Lady Patricia than Zillah

Lorm.”

She spoke in the short, nervous way which was characteristic of herself.

Lady Montella glanced at her musingly.

“I am afraid your imagination is running away with you, Raie,” she

returned, in a quiet voice. “First it is Lady Patricia Byrne, then

Zillah Lorm. To how many more ladies are you going to engage my son?”

“To me, if you like!” The girl laughed merrily. “Don’t you think I would

make a good wife, auntie? But no, I am destined to be an old maid! I

took the last piece of bread-and-butter at tea; and that, you know, is a

sure sign.”

She kissed her foster-aunt good-night, and danced along the corridor to

her bedroom. Lady Montella glanced at the clock, and noticed that it was

nearly eleven. She gave a sigh, and wondered what her son was doing. She

thought that on this night—after he had been fasting all day—he might

have stayed at home.

CHAPTER III

PATRICIA

Meanwhile, Lionel Montella, having left his card at Downing Street,

re-entered his hansom, and was driven to Grosvenor Square. The casket

which contained his jewel consisted of a house situated in the quietest

corner; and here the vehicle slackened speed. Having pulled the great

bell, Montella was admitted by a powdered footman, and shown into one of

the smaller rooms at the back of the hall. Allowing himself to be

divested of his overcoat, he asked to see the Earl.

It was an extremely quiet household, in spite of its grandeur. The Earl

was a peculiar individual of misanthropical temperament, who shut

himself up in his study, and never mixed with the outer world unless

there were some urgent necessity. The death of his wife some fourteen

years ago had given him ample excuse for eschewing society; and society,

being aware of his crotchety ideas, returned the compliment by leaving

him severely alone.

The room to which Montella was eventually conducted was a small

turret-chamber approached by a special staircase from the topmost

landing. There was no electric light here, and the flickering

candle-light cast weird shadows across the stone walls and tessellated

floor. As he entered the room two large blackbirds flew towards him, and

encircled his head. The footman waved them away; and flapping their

wings, they returned to their aviary in the embrasure formed by the

window. Then the manservant retired, to leave Montella alone with the

Earl.

He was a man just bordering on middle age, but his bald head and

stooping figure gave him the appearance of the aged. He was bending over

a tank, with the sleeves of his little velvet jacket turned up. His

dress-coat had been carelessly slung over the back of a chair. The drip

of the water into the tank was the only sound to break the silence.

Montella for the moment remained inert.

At last the Earl turned round.

“Oh—ah—Montella,” he said, with his hands still in the water. “Roberts

announced you, didn’t he? I was rather—ah—preoccupied. Hope you’ll

excuse my shaking hands. Come here and look at—ah—some of my work.”

The young man did as he was told, and advanced towards the tank, which

proved to be a toning-bath. Amateur photography was the Earl’s latest

hobby, and one which for a while absorbed all his time. The photographs

floating in the water were principally views of his country seat, but

there were also a few portraits amongst them. One, of a child of about

six years of age, his lordship picked up and laid in the palm of his

hand.

“There!” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph. “Can you tell me who that

is?”

The face in the photograph had moved horribly, and the eyes were

doubled. It might have stood for any small boy in the kingdom. Montella

hesitated before replying; but at last he received a happy inspiration.

“The King!” he exclaimed. “One can scarcely fail to recognise him. It is

the King!”

“It _is_ the King.” Lord Torrens dipped the print lovingly in the water

once more. “I photographed him in the grounds of the palace by special

permission of his mother—ah—the Queen-Regent. He was a terrible little

rascal to take—moved all over the place; but I’ve got a splendid picture

of him, don’t you think so? Of course it wants touching up a bit; you

can understand that?”

“Oh, certainly,” Montella replied, in good faith. Then he too dipped his

hand in the water, and turned over the prints. He knew that the Earl

liked to be humoured in his hobby, so he proceeded to ply him with

questions relating to the art. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of

pleasure. The portrait of a girl floated towards him—a girl with wavy

hair, whose tendrils strayed on to a low but intelligent forehead; with

large eyes, set somewhat far apart and full of expression; with a

well-formed nose, short upper-lip and rounded chin. She was clasping a

bunch of roses against her breast, and a garland of the same flowers

nestled in her hair. “Lady Patricia,” he said, a softened tone in his

voice. “This is the best portrait of her I have ever seen.”

The Earl was delighted.

“Ah, do you really think so?” he returned. “My daughter is not a good

subject for a photograph; rather too fair, and doesn’t look her best in

repose. However, I flatter myself that I have succeeded in getting a

very happy expression. You must let me give you a copy when there is one

finished.”

“You are very kind.” He gazed at the photograph as if loath to let it

go. “There is no gift that would please me more—unless it were the

original herself.”

He dried his hands and paced the room, overcome by an unwonted

nervousness. The Earl had apparently not noticed the latter part of his

speech, for he went on toning the prints with imperturbability.

Montella, however, intended him to notice it, and after stalking up and

down for some minutes, decided to take the bull by the horns.

“Lord Torrens,” he began, feeling more agitated than when he had given

his maiden speech in the House, “I have come here to-night to ask you a

question on the answer to which my whole life’s happiness depends. Since

I have enjoyed the privilege of your friendship, I have learnt to know

you and your daughter better than would have been possible in ordinary

circumstances. I know that there are very few who are admitted to the

intimacy of your home life as you have so kindly admitted me, and

therefore I appreciate the privilege all the more. But to come to the

point—I wish to speak of Lady Patricia. I have seen her constantly

during the past year, and—and—” His flow of words suddenly broke down.

“My lord, you are acquainted with my family, and I hope by now that you

know something of me personally. Have I your permission to pay my

addresses to your daughter?”

The choice little speech he had prepared forsook his memory just when it

was most needed; even in his own ears the statement of his desire

sounded lame. The Earl turned round slowly, and regarded him fixedly;

but the monosyllable “Eh?” was all he vouchsafed in reply.

It is one of the most trying things in the world to have to repeat a

difficult request. Montella began all over again, and gaining

confidence, succeeded in giving an impassioned appeal. Lord Torrens

listened with some little show of interest, because if there existed a

tender spot in his heart, it was for his daughter Patricia; but he was

inwardly longing to get back to his beloved prints.

“I did not think you were the man to bother yourself about women,” he

said at last, jerking out the words in his characteristic way. “If you

take my advice, as a friend, you will stick to your Parliament and your

politics; leave the women to those young fools whose chief vocation is

to become ladies’ men. The farther you keep away from frills and

furbelows, the better for yourself.”

“You preach what you have not practised, Lord Torrens,” Lionel rejoined,

with a smile. “I suppose that you were once in love?”

The Earl gave an expressive gesture.

“My dear fellow, I was no less susceptible than the rest; and my

sweetheart—afterwards my wife, and Patricia’s mother—was a queen amongst

women. But I sometimes wish that I had never crossed her path; for she

managed to twine herself about my heart, became the chief delight of my

life; and then—”

“Then?” questioned Montella, filling up the pause.

“Then she died; and I was left with two infants to bring up, and a

dreary waste of years before me to fill up as best I could. So you see

that had I never met my wife, I might have made a career of some sort;

at least, I should have been saved a considerable amount of heartache

and pain.”

“And love,” added the youth, secretly wondering that the prosaic and

somewhat crusty exterior of the Earl should conceal the heart-feelings

of an emotional being. “Is it not better to have loved and lost than

never to have loved at all? Tennyson says so. And there is no one who

will ever profit by another’s experience in these affairs. So to return

to my question. You will approve?”

“Have you—ah—spoken to her yet?”

“Not a word. I could not do so until I had obtained your consent. I—”

He broke off abruptly at the sound of the _frou-frou_ of a woman’s

skirt. The small door at the top of the spiral staircase opened, and a

girl in a simple white dress stood on the threshold.

“May I come in, father?” she asked; then noticed the visitor. “Mr.

Montella! I did not know you were here.”

She advanced with outstretched hand, her face lighting up with pleasure.

The blackbirds flew down from their perch, twittering as though in

greeting. The little turret-chamber seemed transformed by her presence:

an air of constraint crept over the two men, and for the moment neither

of them had anything to say. The Earl returned to the tank, and turned

on the tap once more. The momentary emotion caused by the mention of his

dead wife was now a thing of the past.

“I am very busy, my dear,” he said, somewhat pointedly. “Very busy

indeed. Perhaps you would like to entertain Mr. Montella below? This is

my workroom, you know.”

“Yes. I came up here because Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed with a

headache, and I was feeling a wee bit lonesome.” She smiled. “Will you

come down with me, Mr. Montella? I would like to hear what you think of

my latest attempts at verse.”

He rose with alacrity, and holding out his hand to the Earl, turned on

him a questioning glance. Lord Torrens rewarded him with a look and

gesture which implied approval. Then he continued washing his prints.

Montella was foremost in descending the spiral staircase, in order to

assist Lady Patricia down the final steps. Arrived at the base, they

descended the grand staircase together, and made their way to the

library, which was Lady Patricia’s favourite room. Here she was wont to

spend many a long hour in silent communion with men and women long

passed away; for books were her counsellors and friends, and supplied

the companionship which, owing to her father’s idiosyncrasies, she was

denied. Here, too, she wrote the lyrics and sonnets in which her poetic

instinct found its outlet. From her earliest childhood she had possessed

the happy gift of composing verse.

She went to her desk and fetched some sheets of manuscript.

“I am glad Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed,” she remarked, as she gave them

to him. “She always laughs at what she calls my attempts to scale

Parnassus, but I know that you won’t laugh, because you understand.”

“The good lady has not a poetic soul,” he said, as he ran his eye down

the page. “This stanza appears to be very promising, Lady Pat. May I

take the MS. home with me to study when I am quiet and undisturbed?”

She consented readily, and rolling up the sheets, he placed them

carefully in his pocket. Then, closing the door, he began on the subject

on which all his thoughts were set. With a glad light in his eyes, and

eagerness in his voice, he told her of his love.

It caused her no surprise; indeed, why should it? She had invested

Lionel Montella with a poetic idealism almost from the first day of

their acquaintance. She admired the race from which he sprang, and which

seemed to surround him with a halo of romance: she liked to see the

verve which leapt into his eyes when he spoke of the ancestors who had

been so cruelly wronged. More than this, she loved the man himself;

therefore his declaration seemed the most natural thing in the world.

Nevertheless there was a mist in her eyes as she responded to his

confession. She knew that he was not a man who was easily impressed by a

woman’s personality, so that to have so greatly stirred his heart’s

emotions was to have accomplished something indeed. She listened to his

sweet nothings with her own heart beating in response, with her face

upturned, and love’s ardour in her eyes. And so the moments sped

on—moments to be remembered in eternity—until the chiming of a clock

recalled them to the prosaicism of life.

“Half-past ten already,” he said, rising with reluctance. “I have stayed

an unconscionable time, and my mother asked me particularly to come

home.”

“Naughty boy!” she exclaimed playfully. “You must put the blame on me.

Does Lady Montella know that—that—I mean, does she know about me?”

“Not yet, dear.” His brow clouded. “But she shall know very soon.”

“Do you think she will be displeased?”

“Displeased!” He took her in his arms again. “My darling, who could be

displeased where you are concerned?”

“But I am a Christian, Lionel, and you are a Jew.”

“Yes, dear; but what does that matter? Are we to be separated for life

because of the difference in our birth? The sacrifice is too great—for

me, at least. Does it make any difference to you that I am a Jew?”

“None at all,” she rejoined impetuously, “unless it makes me love you

more.”

He pressed her hand.

“I am glad—so glad—and yet—” A new thought came into his mind.

“Patricia, my heart’s dearest, there may be dark days coming for my

people. If Athelstan Moore becomes Premier, Heaven alone knows what new

plans he may be able to carry out. As a Member of Parliament, and a

representative of one of the oldest Jewish families in the kingdom, it

is possible I may be considered the spokesman for my co-religionists. In

that case, I shall have to defend their cause with all the enthusiasm of

which I am capable. So you see that while I am the friend of Christians,

I must, at the same time, be the still greater champion of the Jews.

Patricia, dearest, this may bring me into a most unenviable position,

one which I fear to ask you to share.”

He let go her hands, and paced the room in thought. The girl watched

him, and a look of determination came into her eyes.

“We must not meet trouble half way, dear,” she said seriously; “but

whatever happens, there is nothing that affects you in which I cannot

have a share. You must do your duty to the race to which you belong, and

I—I will help you to do it. I am not a Jewess, Lionel, but I know that

your cause is a just one; therefore I have made up my mind to enter into

it with all my heart.”

“Thank Heaven for so sweet a helper!” he exclaimed fervently. “You have

taken a load off my mind.”

There was a joyous light in his eyes as he kissed her good-bye. With her

love to nerve him, he felt able to withstand the world. At parting, she

made him promise to acquaint his parents of their engagement without

delay. She was anxious to know what they would say when they heard that

he intended to marry a Christian girl.

“You need not fear, darling,” he assured her, with convincing ardour. “I

am certain that my father, at least, will approve of my action, and my

mother’s blessing, if it does not come at once, will soon follow suit.”

His words, although intended to reassure his sweetheart, also served as

an assurance to himself.

CHAPTER IV

THE MASKED BALL

Lionel did not feel it so easy as he had imagined to acquaint his

parents of his engagement to the daughter of Earl Torrens. He tackled

his father first, deeming him the easier to mollify, and succeeded in

obtaining his consent to the betrothal. To win his mother’s approval was

a more difficult matter, and one which he knew necessitated considerable

tact. He postponed the announcement until the last possible moment,

hoping that if Sir Julian had informed her of the news, she would

herself introduce the subject; but as two days passed without a word

having been said, he was obliged to take the initiative. His sweetheart

was eagerly awaiting the news.

Lady Montella listened to her son’s confession with compressed lips and

a cloud on her brow. She had nothing against the woman of his choice—the

Lady Patricia was well-born, and all that could be desired in looks,

manner, and disposition—but there was one great, insuperable objection:

the girl was a Christian.

“Are there not good and sweet Jewish girls among your acquaintance that

you must seek a wife of another race?” she asked, with a touch of

reproach. “Could you not set your affections upon Raie Emanuel, for

instance, or Zillah Lorm?”

“Mother!” He glanced at her in surprise. “I thought you would

understand. Can a man just calmly and dispassionately choose a girl

first, and _then_ pour his love upon her? I admire Miss Lorm, and I am

fond of our little Raie, but I would no more think of marrying either of

them than I would think of a journey to the moon. Don’t you see, mother,

that my feeling for Patricia is totally different. She herself is

different to all other women—whether Jewish or Christian—that I have

ever met. Her thoughts are mine, her sympathies are mine, her love is

mine. Oh, I can’t explain it properly, but surely you must know!”

There was an eager expression, half of entreaty, in his face. His mother

regarded him earnestly, and realised the effort it was costing him to

break through his accustomed reserve. Her face relaxed a little of its

sternness, but the determination remained.

“Lionel,” she asked quietly, “are you a true and zealous Jew?”

“Yes.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “At least I try to be.”

“And yet you would marry a Christian?”

“I would marry the Lady Patricia; that she is a Christian is a mere

accident of birth.”

“Until now the Montella stock has been entirely and purely Jewish. Do

you think the prestige of the family would gain by an infusion of

Gentile blood?”

“If you put it that way, as long as it is ‘blue blood’ I do not think

the prestige of family would suffer.”

Lady Montella could not resist a smile, but it quickly faded.

“Is Patricia willing to become a Jewess or, rather, a proselyte?” she

asked.

The young man’s face clouded.

“I do not know,” was his rejoinder. “Patricia and I have never discussed

the subject of religion, but I believe she belongs, nominally at least,

to the Church of England. If her faith is, to her, a source of

happiness, I scarcely like to ask her to give it up.”

Again the mother’s swift glance seemed to penetrate his being; again the

question passed her lips.

“Lionel, are you a true Jew?”

The colour surged into his cheeks.

“Have you any reason to doubt my sincerity?” he said.

“I trust not; but, my son, I am more far-seeing than you. A Christian

mother means Christian children, a Christian household. In this way the

Montella traditions will be destroyed.”

“If I am blessed with sons, they shall be brought up as strict Jews.”

The colour still suffused his cheeks. “I promise you, and she shall

promise too, that the Montellas shall ever remain a Jewish family, and

faithful to their heritage.”

“Unless Lady Patricia renounces her creed and embraces ours, I shall

never be satisfied. For the sake of the future generation, and for the

honour of the House, I must insist on this.”

“Very well, I will ask her; and I now have your approval and consent?”

“Subject to this, yes.”

She sighed, and received his filial kiss with moisture in her eyes. She

felt that her boy was no longer her own particular idol now that he had

given his heart away. Hitherto she had been the only woman to whom he

offered his sweet tokens of affection; now there was another—and for the

moment more attractive—goddess to whom there was homage due. That this

was in the natural course of things did not mitigate the soreness in her

heart. He was her only and passionately beloved son.

“Lionel,” she said softly. “May I tell you a little story? It is about

myself. When I was a girl, long before I met Sir Julian, I fell in love

with a young officer—a Christian. I was so much in love with him that I

thought it would break my heart to give him up. But in spite of that I

would not consent to become his wife; there was something that held me

back.”

“And that was?”

“Duty.” She laid an accent on the word. “My duty to my race and faith;

my duty to my parents. I sent him away, and he eventually married a girl

of his own faith. The happiness of my married life you know. So you see

that although duty clashed with my own inclinations at the time, it

brought me the truest happiness in the end.”

Lionel paced the room with bent head.

“I am disappointed in you, dear,” she continued slowly. “You must not

mind my telling you the truth. I had thought that with you, as with me,

duty would occupy the foremost place. I had thought that your enthusiasm

for our race and your ambitions in regard to the amelioration of our

oppressed brethren were such that you would forget all personal

inclination. Lionel, I am certain, as I look into the future, that

opportunity will be given you to prove your devotion to our cause. I am

certain that you are destined to exercise a great influence, both

politically and socially, _as a Jew_. Can you wonder, therefore, that I

see in Lady Patricia a stumbling-block to your career? Will your

co-religionists have the same opinion of you when you have married a

Christian? Will you have the same voice, the same power, when you have

married away from the race which you profess to love so deeply? Have you

considered the question from that point of view? If not, you are merely

acting on the impulse of the moment.”

She looked into his face almost appealingly, but knew that all the

arguing in the world would not alter his determination. He was so

convinced that Patricia Byrne was his true mate, that discussion of the

pros and cons was to him beside the question. He wished with all his

heart to do his duty to his race, and to remain faithful to his

inherited religion, and in this he believed that his sweetheart would

help, not hinder him. So the result of the interview was as satisfactory

as, under the circumstances, it could be; on this one point it was not

possible that mother and son should think alike.

Lionel could not make up his mind to tell his beloved of the conditions

of his mother’s approval at once: for a short time he wished to enjoy

her sweet companionship without the smallest cloud to mar the brightness

of their love. He brought her to see his parents, and the Earl dined

with them in state, but not a word as to their difference of religion

was said by either side. The only one who ventured to object was Mrs.

Lowther, Patricia’s companion; but as she occupied a subordinate

position, her opinion was of little consequence. Lionel sought an

interview with her in private, and won her over in less than half an

hour. What Patricia’s relatives would have to say in the matter,

however, remained to be discovered.

The Countess of Chesterwood, at whose masked ball Raie Emanuel intended

to make her _début_, was the widow of Earl Torrens’ nephew. An American

by birth, she possessed democratic views, modified in accordance with

the exigencies of her position in society. She loved to surround herself

with clever people, no matter what their social status, and her house

was the resort of many a young literary aspirant or budding musical

genius. The Montellas admired her for her shrewd common sense and

vivacious manner, and Lionel was certain that in her he and his

sweetheart would find a firm ally. He took Patricia to call on her, but

she was not at home; and they did not see her until the night of the

ball. Her congratulations were offered in the bright way which was one

of her most charming characteristics.

“I wish you love and luck,” she said.

“Luck?” repeated Patricia. “My dear Mamie, you are thinking of the St.

Leger. We don’t intend to run a race.”

“Luck” was the name of Lady Chesterwood’s one and only racer. The little

widow smiled.

“Life is a race, and you need plenty of luck to help you steer clear of

the ditches,” she replied. “However, let me satisfy your fastidious ear

by terming it ‘Providence.’ Mr. Montella, you haven’t asked me for a

dance.”

Lionel apologised, and took possession of her card. Then he glanced at

her costume.

“You are an Italian lady?” he queried, in doubt.

“I am Dante’s _Beatrice_; rather an assumption, isn’t it! But I am _so_

tired of the conventional fancy-dress people. Besides, my mask will

conceal my face until midnight. What made you two choose to represent

the Stuarts?”

“A lack of originality on my part, I think,” Patricia replied. “The

‘bonnie prince’ is one of my pet heroes, so I suggested him for Lionel,

and Mary Queen of Scots seemed to follow suit. By the way, Mamie, what

sort of people have you here?”

“All sorts and conditions. Authors, actors, musicians, artists, a

sprinkling of politicians, and many mere society people. They are all

thoroughly respectable, I assure you, my dear, and as you won’t be

introduced, it doesn’t matter if you should happen to dance with someone

of whom, ordinarily, your chaperon would not approve. Here, Equality is

the watchword. In the matter of this masked ball, at least, I am a law

unto myself.”

She bowed and swept away on the arm of a chivalrous knight. The

musicians struck up the spirited tune of a new dance which had recently

been invented, and the lovers, preferring to witness it rather than to

take part, mounted to the gallery in order to view the _mise en scène_.

The ball-room was decorated in white and gold, the clusters of electric

light arranged to form huge daffodils hanging at measured intervals from

the painted ceiling. The musicians were almost hidden by a bank of

flowers, consisting principally of orchids and the rarest ferns; a

similar bank adorned the other end of the room. The motley dresses of

the guests—some attractive, some merely grotesque—lent a brilliancy

which was somewhat bizarre in its effect. To the onlookers, the

combination of personalities was curious—perhaps not without

significance to some who were there.

“There is Oliver Cromwell dancing with a charming little _vivandière_,”

observed Patrica, with amusement. “What must the shade of that worthy

Puritan think—if think it can?”

“Let us hope that in the course of centuries it has gained sense,”

Lionel responded lightly. “Do you not recognise the _vivandière_? It is

our Raie.”

“Miss Emanuel? How _petite_ she looks; and the Cromwell, who is he, I

wonder?”

“I have no idea; but we had better avoid him, hadn’t we? Cromwell was

rather antagonistic towards the Stuarts, you know.”

She laughed. “All the more reason why we should attempt a reconciliation

now. Don’t be surprised if you see me as his partner a little later on.”

The lovers were obliged to separate when the music came to a close, for

both were engaged elsewhere. Patricia was taken back to Mrs. Lowther,

and Lionel went off to find “Cleopatra,” otherwise Zillah Lorm. He saw

his sweetheart, a few minutes later, dancing with a courtier of the

period of Louis XIV., and could not help remarking how sweet she looked.

Miss Lorm’s eyes gleamed through the eyelets of her mask as she made a

response; she was not one of those who care to hear any individual of

their own sex praised.

“I must congratulate you on your engagement, Mr. Lionel,” she said, with

a slight effort. “I was somewhat surprised when Lady Montella informed

me of the news. I did not think that you—of all people—would marry

without the pale; but, of course, there is no Earl’s daughter to be

found among the Jews.”

The latter part of her speech was spoken jestingly, but the sting was no

less keen. The young man’s face coloured beneath his mask. Had anyone

else proffered such a remark, he could only have received it as an

insult. Restraining the hasty rejoinder which rose to his lips, he kept

silence, and Zillah, seeing that her dart had struck home, immediately

changed the subject. But the pleasure of the evening was spoilt for

Montella, and a troubled expression settled on his brow. It occurred to

him that the singer had perhaps unconsciously foretold the decision of

public opinion—namely, that he was marrying the Lady Patricia Byrne on

account of her noble birth, and in order to strengthen his position as a

member of the aristocracy. He knew that public opinion was never

inclined to ascribe a man’s action to lofty and disinterested motives,

but in this case it would vex him greatly if he were misunderstood.

His mind was busy all the time he danced, and Zillah Lorm might have

been miles away, so little was he influenced by her charms. The room was

crowded, for it was close on midnight, when the culminating point of the

evening would be reached. It needed some amount of care on the part of

the men to lead their partners gracefully through the maze of dancers,

and two or three times Zillah narrowly escaped colliding with the

others. Montella—probably because his thoughts were elsewhere—was

unusually awkward, and just as he was guiding his partner round a

difficult corner, he accidentally trod upon a lady’s dress. There

followed the sound of tearing lace and splitting seams, and an

exclamation of anger escaped from the lady at having been stopped short

in that unpleasant way. Her partner—the Oliver Cromwell whom Patricia

had noticed earlier in the evening—insisted that the offender had been

guilty of gross carelessness, and waiving the young man’s apologies,

proceeded to harangue him on the subject. There was something so

aggressive in his manner that Montella felt his temper rise, and gave

vent to a heated rejoinder, quite foreign to his general equability. The

“Cromwell” took it up, determined to give his pugnacious propensities

full sway, whilst the ladies stood by and listened uncomfortably to the

wordy war.

“You have ruined the lady’s dress, and spoilt her evening,” he said,

glaring at the culprit as if he were a schoolboy. “And all you do in

return is to stand there and make lame apologies. I should think the

least you could do would be to make amends like a gentleman.”

“Certainly. What can I do? If this lady will kindly tell me, I shall be

happy to do it. I have already expressed my deep regret that the

accident should have occurred.”

The lady gathered her train over her arm.

“I accept the apology of ‘King Charles,’” she said, her vexation already

subdued. “It is not worth while quarrelling about.”

The clock struck twelve as she spoke, and as the last chime died away,

the order was given to unmask. The two men fronted each other, and

simultaneously uncovered their faces. Montella almost involuntarily gave

a start, for the countenance of his opponent was curiously and

unpleasantly familiar. He had seen it pictured in all the illustrated

journals in the kingdom, cartooned in _Punch_, caricatured elsewhere; he

had seen it scowling at the Opposition in the House, and at the anxious

journalists in the Lobby. It was most unfortunate that this regrettable

circumstance should be connected with his first personal introduction to

the man.

There was a moment’s silence, during which the young politician’s eyes

fell like an abashed schoolboy. The “Cromwell” was the first to speak.

“Your name?” he demanded curtly.

“Selim Montella.”

“Montella? member for Thorpe Burstall?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! Mine is—as you may know—Athelstan Moore.”

He offered his arm to his partner, and without another word, turned

shortly away. Zillah Lorm looked after them with increasing interest.

“The new Premier!” she exclaimed, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Athelstan Moore, the Jew-hater! Was it wise to offend him, Mr. Lionel?”

“Wise? It was the most foolish thing I ever did in my life,” he

rejoined, with a short laugh.

It was amusing—to the singer—to witness his discomfiture.

CHAPTER V

THE STORY OF FERDINAND

Acting on his mother’s advice, Lionel Montella wrote a letter of apology

to the Premier, and received a short note of acknowledgment in return.

It was some time before he could overcome his vexation at the

unfortunate encounter, even though he was assured by his confrères that

the destiny of a nation is not affected by petty personal spite. He knew

that it was good policy on his part to conciliate the chief Minister of

State, instead of which he had done the direct opposite by personally

offending him.

The new Premier’s attitude towards the Jewish community soon made itself

felt. The greater part of the press—the part which was open to bribery

and corruption—was in his favour, and did not hesitate to voice his

opinions and echo his antagonism. About this time a celebrated

Consolidated Trust, of which the principal directors were South African

Jews, went to destruction, making one of the most sensational failures

on record. Hundreds of people were ruined, but the directors managed to

emerge unharmed, and the rumours of swindling on their part were left

unrefuted. Immediately the papers expressed their sympathy for the

unfortunate Gentile victims who had been preyed upon by swindling Jews,

and long leaders declared that such things should not be. Following the

rule in such cases, the whole Hebrew community was made to suffer for

the reprehensible actions of the few. Public feeling—always ready to

rush to extremes—ranged itself conclusively on the side of the

anti-Semites; and the man in the street, as well as the music-hall

artiste, kept his sneer ready for the unfortunate Jew.

All this did not affect the Montellas so keenly as those who were more

in touch with the masses. They read the papers, and inwardly burned with

indignation, but from the taunts which greeted the ears of their poorer

brethren they were happily exempt. Lionel went out and about, never

seeking to conceal his origin from those who despised his race; but

there was something in the influence of his personality which forbade

any remark of disparagement to fall in his hearing. Raie Emanuel was the

only member of the household who was to some extent personally

concerned. She went to see her relations in Canonbury, and found them

smarting under what they considered a cruel rebuff. Their only son—a

smart youth of nineteen—had been dismissed from the office in which he

had hoped to obtain promotion, and the two little girls had been

expelled from their ladies’ school.

“Expelled!” Raie exclaimed, in dismay. “But why? what have they done?”

For answer her mother handed her the note she had received from the

principal.

“That’s all,” was her reply.

_“Miss Perkins regrets that owing to the wishes of some of the parents

of her scholars she is obliged to ask Mrs. Emanuel to remove her two

daughters, Pearl and Charlotte, from the school. Miss Perkins ventures

to respectfully suggest that the girls would be happier if educated at

a Hebrew school, or by a Hebrew governess at home.”_

Raie tossed the note impatiently aside.

“I wish people wouldn’t call us ‘Hebrews,’” she said. “It irritates me.

Well, I suppose Pearl and Lottie will be able to exist without the

advantages obtained at Miss Perkins’ seminary. But how absurd it all is.

As if Pearl and Lottie were the least bit different to the Smiths,

Jones, and Robinson girls!”

“And I’m no different to the other chaps at the office,” Walter added,

in an aggrieved tone; “but just because old Blank has taken a dislike to

the name of Jew, I’ve got the sack. I wish I’d never been born a Jew.”

“Oh, you must not say that,” Raie said reprovingly. “It is a great

privilege to be a Jew, and if Christians believed what they preach, they

would give us the honour which is our due.”

This little speech was _à la_ Lady Montella, whose views the girl

unconsciously imbibed. The Emanuels regarded Raie as the oracle of the

family, and looked up to her as living on a higher plane than

themselves. Mrs. Emanuel was a widow, with six children and a small

income. It had been no easy matter to rear and educate these children,

even though the eldest had been taken off her hands at the age of

fourteen. The second girl, Harriet, had just become engaged to the son

of a wealthy stockbroker, which was a matter for congratulation to the

Emanuels and their relatives. Harriet was a bright girl of seventeen,

with what her mother called a “taking” manner. She contributed to the

family purse by teaching music at a kindergarten school, and was out

when Raie arrived.

“We’ve been looking at houses all the week,” Mrs. Emanuel said, when the

girl inquired after her sister. “The sooner they get settled the better.

I don’t believe in long engagements; never did.”

Raie considered a moment.

“I wonder if Harriet will be happy with Harry Levi,” she said

thoughtfully. “He is not a man I could care for in the least.”

“You never did like him,” her mother remarked; “but then you’ve not got

to marry him, so it doesn’t matter. He seems affable enough, I think.

Have you any reason for your dislike?”

“Only that the Montellas do not approve of his family. Harry Levi’s

father waxed fat over the Consolidated Trust concern, and Lionel says

that Harry himself is not over-scrupulous. Lionel Montella would not say

a thing like that unless there were good reason.”

Mrs. Emanuel regarded her contemplatively.

“You seem to think a great deal of Lionel Montella,” she rejoined. “You

always talk about him as if he were a prophet or a prince. I shall not

be at all surprised when I hear that he has fallen in love with you and

asked you to marry him. Well, it would be a great _simcha_[2] for us, I

am sure. The _Jewish Chronicle_ would give you a notice—‘_A marriage has

been arranged between Mr. Lionel Selim Montella, M.P., only son of Sir

Julian and Lady Selim Montella, and Miss Raie Emanuel, eldest daughter

of Mrs. Joshua Emanuel, late of Liverpool._’ Wouldn’t it make the

Canonbury people sit up, eh? Instead of Mrs. Abrahams snubbing me like

she does, she would come and implore me to attend her next dinner-party;

and I would say—‘So sorry: I’ve promised to dine with dear Lady

Montella.’”

Footnote 2:

Joy.

Raie put up her hand, as though to stay her mother’s garrulity.

“Mamma!” she exclaimed, her cheeks tingling, “I wish you would not talk

like that. It’s so vul—so horrid. I would not marry Lionel Montella,

even if he asked me, because I do not consider myself fitted to become

his wife. As he will not ask me, however, I shall be saved the trouble

of declining. Have you not heard that he is engaged to Lady Patricia

Byrne?”

“What!” Mrs. Emanuel sat bolt upright. “This is news, indeed. Who is

Lady Patricia What’s-her-name? A Jewess?”

“No; a—Christian—the daughter of Earl Torrens—gloriously beautiful, and

with a face like a Greuze. She is far more suitable as a wife for Mr.

Montella than a plain, insignificant little creature like myself could

ever be.”

There was nothing either of mock modesty or bitterness in her words. She

knew that she was small and slight, with ordinary features and ordinary

abilities. She did not know that when she spoke her eyes sparkled with

animation, and that the sweetness of her smile amply compensated for the

irregularity of her features. She did not know either that there was a

_naïveté_ about her manner which endeared her to those with whom she

came into contact. Perhaps, had she known, the charm would no longer

have been there.

“Lionel Montella has no right to marry a _shicksa_,[3] even if she does

belong to the aristocracy,” was Mrs. Emanuel’s stricture. “If you are

not good enough for him, why doesn’t he marry a Rothschild? It must be a

terrible disappointment to his father, especially after the trouble he

has had with Ferdinand.”

Footnote 3:

Gentile.

“Who is Ferdinand?” asked Raie, her cheeks still burning.

“Ferdinand Montella, of course. Sir Julian’s son by his first wife, who

was a Miss Klonsberg of Birkenhead, and second cousin of your poor

papa’s step-brother’s wife. Do you mean to say, child, that you’ve lived

with the Montellas all this time without ever hearing of Ferdinand, or

that I never told you about him? It seems almost incredible.”

Raie became interested.

“I have never heard the name until you mentioned it just now,” she

replied. “Tell me all about him, please.”

Mrs. Emanuel was fond of relating the personal history of anyone with

whom she happened to be acquainted.

“Ferdinand is the skeleton in the Montellas’ cupboard,” she began,

giving her daughter time to digest the statement. “His mother died when

he was born, and until his father married again he was brought up by a

relation of the Selim Montellas. He was expelled from Eton, and ran away

from boarding-school, and was the sort of little monster who would never

be able to abstain from wickedness outside a reformatory. When he was

about eighteen, he did something shady—I don’t quite know what it was,

for the matter was hushed up, but I believe he tried to embezzle, or

something of the sort. Anyway, Sir Julian disinherited him, cut him out

of his will, and sent him off to Australia with just enough money to pay

his passage. Since then, the name of Ferdinand has been tabooed by the

Montella family, which, I suppose, accounts for your ignorance of the

matter.”

Raie’s eyes were wide open.

“Do they never hear from him?” she asked.

“I don’t know; but I heard that Sir Julian once received a letter from

him, and returned it unopened. You ought to know whether they receive

letters from Australia or not.”

“I never trouble myself about the Montellas’ correspondence; they

receive letters from all kinds of places. Besides, Ferdinand may have

left Australia. How long ago did it all happen?”

Mrs. Emanuel thought a moment.

“Let me see,” she replied musingly. “It was just after Pearl was born. I

remember quite well, because Lady Montella paid me a visit, and I was

wearing a pale-blue dressing-gown trimmed with Irish lace. It was the

first day I sat up in my room. It must be about eleven years ago.

Ferdinand—if he is still alive—will be about thirty.”

“So old?” To Raie thirty seemed like middle age. “What a strange story;

it quite fascinates me, and”—there was a touch of excitement in her

voice—“why, if there is an elder son, Lionel will not succeed to the

title and estate.”

“To the estates, yes; to the title, no. Sir Julian cannot will away the

baronetcy, much as he might like to do so. Lionel will never be a

baronet unless his step-brother dies.”

“Poor Lal! But I do not think he has much craving for a title; he is not

that kind of man. I wonder why Lady Montella has never mentioned her

step-son to me?”

The matter gave her food for speculation during the remainder of the

day. It seemed so strange that Sir Julian—the mild, unobtrusive Sir

Julian—should go to such lengths as to disinherit his own son. The more

she thought about the scapegrace the more her heart went out to him,

although she knew that her sympathy was probably undeserved. When she

returned to the flat she routed out an old family album, and carefully

turned over the leaves. There were photographs in abundance of Lady

Montella in different positions and dresses, chiefly dating from her

early wedded days. There were photographs of Lionel in the various

periods of infancy, as well as of the two little children who had died.

Raie was deeply interested in them all, but she glanced at them

cursorily in her eagerness to find the one she sought. At last her

attention was arrested by a carte-de-visite in platinotype of a youth in

a golf blazer, club in hand. It had evidently been taken some years ago,

and was partially discoloured. The face of the young man was somewhat

sensual in character, the mouth weak, but the eyes, on the contrary

denoted intellect, and were so like Sir Julian’s that Raie looked at

them in doubt. Flicking the dust from the album, she carried it into the

study, where Lionel was writing.

“Lal,” she demanded, as he put down his pen, “is this your father when

he was a young man?”

Montella glanced at the photograph, then up at the girl.

“Where have you been rummaging, Raie?” he remarked, with curiosity.

“This photograph is not my father, but a lad who went abroad a long time

ago. I am afraid I must not tell you his name.”

“It is Ferdinand Montella,” she returned boldly. “You see I know.”

He regarded her with surprise. “Who told you?” he asked, in his quiet

way.

“I guessed it; but mamma was talking to me about Ferdinand to-day. I did

not know there was such a person in existence. There seems to be quite a

mystery about him. May I not know what it is, Lal?”

“You surely do not desire to know what my parents wish to keep secret,

do you, Raie?”

“Oh, no—if you put it like that; but I did not think there was any harm

in asking. Perhaps Aunt Inez will not mind telling me now that I am no

longer a child.”

“I should advise you not to mention the subject for the present, Raie,”

he answered seriously. “It isn’t worth while raking up a story of the

past which people would rather forget, is it? Perhaps, if you wait a

little while, my mother will tell you of her own accord.”

Raie quenched her thirst for information, and acquiesced, but still

regarded the pictured face intently. There was an expression in the eyes

which took her fancy; and in spite of the weakness of the mouth, the

lips indicated good-humour.

“I like Ferdinand Montella,” she said decidedly, with a secret wonder at

her own effusiveness. “He may not be perfect, and I suppose, from what

mamma says, he is something of a scapegrace; but he has rather a nice

face, I think. If ever he comes back I shall stand up for him.”

She was such an impetuous child.

CHAPTER VI

A HOUSE OF MOURNING

Sir Julian was very ill. His physician had to be rung up in the middle

of the night, and arrived to find him in an exceedingly critical

condition. Raie, tucked up in her little white bed, awoke with a start

to hear footsteps in the corridor, and the subdued sound of voices.

Hastily attiring herself in her dressing-gown, she unlocked her door and

peered out to see what was happening. As she did so, the bald head and

gaunt figure of the physician emerged from the morning-room, followed by

Lady Montella in deshabille. Raie, not wishing to be noticed, shrank

back into her own room; but a few minutes later she put her head out

again, and espied a maid.

“Maggie!” she called, in a whisper. “Mr. Lionel isn’t ill?”

“No, it’s Sir Julian; had another stroke. They think it’s the end. Mr.

Lionel has gone for the rabbi.”

“Oh!” There was a scared look on her face. She called the girl into her

room, and shut the door. “It’s frightfully sudden,” she remarked,

sinking on to a little wicker chair. “He was normal when Lady Montella

went to bed.”

“Yes, miss, it came on all of a sudden like. Those things always do. I

remember my grandfather whom we buried a year come Christmas; he had St.

Vitus’s dance—the twitchings, you know, and—”

“Don’t tell me,” interrupted the girl, with a shudder. “I’ve got the

creeps already. Tell me, Maggie, do you think I ought to go into Sir

Julian’s room when the minister comes? I don’t want to go, because I

feel so horribly nervous, and I’ve never been near anyone who is dying

before, but if—if Lady Montella expects it—?”

“I should go back to bed if I were you, miss,” the servant advised.

“There is no occasion for you to go near a death-bed unless you are

obliged. You will not do Sir Julian nor my lady any good by upsetting

yourself.”

“No, but I don’t want auntie to think me unkind. Will you ask her,

please, Maggie? Tell her I send my love, and am very sorry; and if she

wants me, I’ll come.”

The maid rose with an air of reluctance and took the message. Two

minutes later she returned. Her ladyship sent her love, and wished her

niece to go to sleep without frightening herself. Everything that was

possible was being done for the patient, therefore her presence could

not assist.

Raie jumped back into bed and snuggled down, with a sigh of relief; but

sleep was impossible. She was on the alert for every sound, and heard

the coming of the minister with a flutter of excitement at her heart.

The atmosphere seemed to be charged with a sense of death, and the

silence seemed more acute because occasionally broken by subdued

snatches of conversation. She buried her head beneath the counterpane,

as though in fear of beholding the King of Terrors in visible form. She

recollected all the gruesome stories she had heard of death and the

dying, and did her best to induce a nightmare. She imagined she felt the

passing of Sir Julian’s soul, and a tremor ran through her being at the

thought. Wondering if all were over, she heard the physician take his

departure. It seemed as if morning would never come, for long hours

passed without bringing light. Eventually, however, she awoke out of a

short and troubled sleep to hear the yodel of the early milkman. The

long night was over at last.

At breakfast-time she entered the morning-room, scarcely knowing how to

frame the question which rose to her lips. Lionel Montella was reclining

in the easy-chair with his eyes closed; no doubt he was tired after his

sleepless night. He opened his eyes at her approach, and glanced at her

wearily. Then he gave her the usual matutinal greeting.

“You look worn out,” she observed sympathetically. “If I were you I

should go and rest until lunch-time.”

He shook his head.

“My father is dying,” he rejoined, in a low voice. “Did you not know?”

“Yes.” She did not tell him that she had made up her mind that Sir

Julian was already dead. “I am so sorry, Lionel. You must feel upset,

and poor auntie, too. Where is she?”

“In the sick-room; she will not leave his side. I have begged her to

take some rest, but she is determined to stay with him until a change

occurs.”

They sat down at the table, but neither of them could eat. Lionel left

his omelette untasted, and his letters unread; and Raie forbore to

glance through the newspaper, as was her daily custom. After breakfast,

she screwed up her courage and knocked at the door of Sir Julian’s room.

She had made up her mind that it was her duty to visit the old man; in

the daytime the ordeal did not seem so great.

He was awake, and droning Hebrew prayers in an inaudible voice in

company with the minister. Lady Montella sat by the bedside, her

beautiful face drawn and anxious. Raie went over to her and kissed her

without a word; she did not know quite what to say. She was a sensitive

girl, and often restrained herself from mere shyness; but Lady Montella

knew her well, and understood.

Presently Sir Julian made as if he would sit up. “Ferdinand!” he

exclaimed, and then again, “Ferdinand!” He had not mentioned the name

for ten years. Lady Montella rose from her seat with a start; Raie

remained inert, but the name attracted her attention.

The sick man gazed at them as if he were dazed.

“Ferdinand,” he repeated; “I thought he was here. I don’t want to see

him.” His words came with difficulty. “Send him away. Tell him he has

brought down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

Lady Montella bent over the bed.

“Ferdinand is not here,” she repeated, in a low voice. “We do not know

where he is; but if we can find him, will you not forgive him?”

“No. He shall not have a penny.” His words grew fainter. “He is no more

my son. He sold—his—birthright—for—a mess of pottage.”

Raie listened with all her ears, but the dying man did not speak again,

and soon fell into the lethargy which preceded the end. The physician

came again, but the baronet was beyond the reach of human aid. At two

o’clock in the afternoon Lady Montella was led out of the room,

half-fainting. Sir Julian was dead.

Raie had never been in a house of death before, for her father had been

drowned at sea. She was too shy to go in to her foster-aunt at once, and

wandered in and out of the darkened reception rooms as if she were

unable to rest. The household was in a state of confusion, for it was

Friday, and therefore necessary that the preliminary burial rites should

be performed before the Sabbath fell. She heard Lionel and the minister

arrange the details, and afterwards she saw the repulsive-looking

_wachers_[4] who had come to stay with the body until Sunday, when the

funeral would take place. There were people coming and going all the

afternoon, and she was obliged to have her tea in solitude. After it was

over she was sent for to Lady Montella’s boudoir.

Footnote 4:

Professional watchers by the dead.

She obeyed the summons without delay, and clung to her foster-aunt with

the tears welling up in her eyes. When the first outburst of emotion was

over, Lady Montella asked her if she would like to go home until after

the funeral; it would be so very dull for her in the house of mourning.

Raie conquered her first impulse and decided to remain. She did not feel

justified in leaving Lady Montella alone in her sorrow.

It was indeed a dull week. In accordance with Jewish usage all the

blinds in the flat were kept down for seven days instead of being pulled

up directly after the funeral. The principal mourners, including two of

Sir Julian’s sisters, sat on low chairs to lament and receive the

condolences of their friends, whilst near by a tiny float burned in a

glass of oil as a memorial of the dead. Every evening a service was held

in the drawing-room, attended by most of the Jewish gentlemen of the

Montellas’ acquaintance, and not a few strangers. It was Lionel’s

melancholy duty to say _Kaddish_ for his father, which prayer he would

have to repeat daily until his term of mourning expired.

One of the first visitors to offer her condolence was Lady Patricia

Byrne. Accompanied by Mrs. Lowther, she drove up in a closed carriage,

bringing a beautiful wreath composed of lilies and violets. As no

flowers were permitted to decorate the coffin, however, the wreath was

placed in the room where the _shiva_[5] was held. It was the first

opportunity Lady Montella’s relatives and friends had of observing

Lionel’s future wife, and they did not scruple to make the most of it.

Attired in complimentary mourning, with a black picture hat to set off

the fairness of her hair and complexion, and carrying herself with an

unaffected but distinguished air of grace, the girl certainly satisfied

their critical eyes. With her face lit up with honest sympathy, she

conversed with the mourners in a way which proved her tact and her

knowledge of Jewish customs. Lionel’s face glowed with pride and

gratification at the presence of his beloved.

Footnote 5:

Mourning.

Mrs. Lowther was a colonel’s widow, fair, fat, and forty. She was

devoted to her charge, but she did not understand the girl in the least.

She was much too prosaic and matter-of-fact to enter into the hidden

depths of Patricia’s temperament; and although she had lived with her

for years, she knew only her exterior. Her manner towards Lionel

Montella’s relatives was decidedly distant, and sitting apart, she did

not attempt to join in the conversation. She showed unmistakably that

she had come merely for Patricia’s sake, and not for her own. Her face

expressed disapproval as they re-entered the carriage and were driven

homewards.

“You are the most curious girl I ever came across, Pat,” she said, with

a sigh. “I wonder what your poor mother would have thought of you had

she lived.”

“_À propos_ of what?” interrogated Patricia, with wonder.

“Why, your foolish engagement to this young man, of course.”

Patricia’s brow contracted.

“I thought you liked him,” she said.

“Yes; I’ve nothing against him personally, but I do not approve of your

becoming connected with a Jewish family.”

“I am not going to marry the family,” the girl corrected amiably. “I

have no desire to have more than one husband.”

Her chaperon frowned.

“You ought not to joke on this subject, Patricia,” she rejoined. “Your

words confirm my opinion: you do not realise the gravity of the step you

intend to take.”

“Yes, I do—to its fullest extent. That is why I have allowed Mr.

Montella to give me an engagement ring.”

“Do you mean to say that you really have anything in common with those

people—the people we have just left?” Mrs. Lowther asked, still

unconvinced, “Cannot you see that they live in a world of their own,

cemented by their religious and national customs? You may attempt to

enter that world, but you must for ever remain an outsider. Even if you

marry a Jew, you are not, and never can be, a Jewess. There is no strain

of Oriental blood in you.”

“Do not be so sure. I believe if I choose to look up the family tree I

shall be able to discover some remote Hebrew ancestor. But that is

nothing. Lionel is quite as British as I am. The Torrens were originally

French.”

“What shall you do?” pursued her chaperon, unwilling to leave the

subject. “Become a Jewish proselyte, or turn Mr. Montella into a

Christian?”

“I do not see the necessity for either,” Patricia rejoined, with a

slight flush; “but one thing is certain. Situated as he is, Lionel

cannot possibly forsake the faith of his forefathers. Were he to do so,

the whole fabric of his Jewish inheritance would be shattered.”

“Then I suppose that if you were to find it necessary, you would become

a pervert rather than he?”

“I cannot answer that at the moment. But why discuss the matter until we

are obliged to consider it?”

“Why should we shirk it simply because it is disagreeable? It is one

that will have to be faced as soon as you take any definite steps

towards marriage.”

The girl leant back against the cushions with an expression of

weariness.

“We shall not be married until Mr. Montella’s year of mourning is at an

end, so I shall not have to decide hastily,” she answered. “I shall do

what appears to me to be the best. Religion is not meant to separate man

and wife.”

Mrs. Lowther sighed. “What a pity you have an Agnostic for a father,”

she said.

CHAPTER VII

THE UNEMPLOYED

Mrs. Lowther’s remark was not without foundation. The Earl, despite the

fact that he was patron of more than one living in the country, had

severed his connection with the Established Church some years ago, and

now professed no religion, save that of Agnosticism. His son—a youth at

Sandhurst—followed in his wake, talked grandiosely of the First Cause,

and pinned his faith on Huxley. Patricia saved the reputation of the

family—in the eyes of her father’s tenants, at least—by attending the

Parish Church regularly when she was in the country; but as Patricia’s

religion had never been properly moulded, it was liable to variation.

Her first finishing governess being a Roman Catholic, her youthful mind

had been filled with the mystic saint-lore of the Roman Church, and she

fell deeply in love with St. Patrick, her patron saint. As Patricia had

always been deeply in love with somebody or other since the days of her

swaddling clothes, however, her father was not greatly concerned, and

expressed no surprise when she told him one morning that she found

Mariolatry and Saintolatry detestable, and asked to have the Roman

Catholic governess sent away. Good St. Patrick was dislodged from the

little niche she had accorded him, his image was shattered into a

hundred pieces, and Patricia was heart-whole once more. The next phase

through which she passed was that of admiration for Comte and

Swedenborg, but as the ethics of both were beyond her comprehension, she

was little influenced by either. From Positivism she found her way into

Unitarianism, and with her usual craving for some great teacher whom she

delighted to honour, she made Ralph Waldo Emerson—or rather his

writings—her oracle. It was somewhat curious that Patricia’s religion

always concentrated itself around some _person_, yet she did not seek to

render her homage to a personal God. Her only experience of Christianity

other than Romanism was the stern Evangelicism of her old nurse, and

this creed, with its narrow interpretations and material heaven, she

found equally as repellent as the former. Although not lacking in

spiritual perception, she had not yet rightly understood the divine

personality of the Incarnate Deity; she admired Christ, it is true, but

in the same way she admired Gautama—the founder of Buddhism—and

Confucius. To her, the heaven of the Christian and the Nirvana of the

Buddhist were almost synonymous terms; and the gospel of right living

the only one that was necessary. So that when her lover suggested with

much diffidence that she should become a member of his own faith, she

did not meet his proposal with the firm refusal he had anticipated.

They were sitting under the trees in one of the quietest spots in

Kensington Gardens, glad to escape for the moment from the din and roar

of the traffic. Although late autumn, the air was mild and dry, and

Patricia allowed her sables to fall from her shoulders and to rest on

the back of the chair. She listened to her lover’s words with animation

in her face, and wonder in her eyes; she could not make an immediate

reply.

“The idea is so curious, so difficult to grasp,” she said, when he had

finished. “Judaism seems so formidable to the uninitiated. I am afraid I

should break the laws a hundred times a day.”

“I do not think you would. Judaism does not demand so much from a woman

as from a man. All a Jewess has to do is to see that her mènage is

ordered in accordance with Jewish law, and to bring up her children in

the Jewish faith. More will not be expected of you than that; and as we

can have a Jewish housekeeper, you need not be worried with the details

of the dietary and other laws.”

“But what of my own personal religion?”

“As long as you keep to Theism—the absolute Unity—you can believe what

you please,” Montella replied. “So you see your Judaism need not be so

difficult after all.”

Patricia’s eyes waxed thoughtful.

“You must give me a few days to think it over,” she said, after a short

pause. “You are not in a hurry, dear?”

“Not at all. I promised the mater I would ask you. She is such an

enthusiastic Jewess.”

“Yes; I admire her for it. It is a wonder she does not live in the Holy

Land.”

Lionel smiled.

“I really believe she would, if Palestine were a Jewish country,” he

replied. “She cherishes a grudge against the Sultan for shilly-shallying

over the affair all these years. She is, like myself, an ardent

Zionist.”

They rose from their chairs, and made their way towards the Albert Gate.

Patricia was unusually vivacious, and giving a truce to serious

subjects, chatted in lighter vein. When they reached the main road,

however, they were abruptly silenced. The smile faded from the young

Member’s face, and the girl looked on with equal gravity.

The traffic was being stopped by a procession—a procession characterised

by sordidness, for those who took part constituted the great body of the

unemployed in the metropolis. Four abreast they walked, dirty, unkempt

men, with ragged clothes and emaciated faces. They had turned out in

hundreds, organised presumably by a trade-union, in order to enlist the

sympathy of a good-natured public. Here and there banners were

displayed, bearing the legend:—“_Unemployed and starving_”; “_British

workmen thrown out by aliens_”; “_Employ British labour_”; “_Boycott

alien labour_”; “_Boycott foreign Jews_,” and other numerous

inscriptions. Along the route, which was guarded by the police, men were

collecting money from the passers-by. It was indeed a sight to move the

most phlegmatic.

Patricia almost involuntarily tightened her grasp on her lover’s arm. A

more depraved-looking set of human beings she had never seen. Some, it

is true, were stalwart Britons, or had been before the starvation

process had set in; but the majority of them were unable to hold

themselves erect from sheer weakness, and the dogged expression of

misery was on all faces alike. The expression haunted the girl for

weeks; it suggested to her naught else but the faces of lost spirits in

Hades. She turned away with a shudder.

“Terrible!” she exclaimed unsteadily. “It makes me feel quite ill.”

“Do not look, dear,” Montella advised, with solicitude. “Such sights are

not for you.”

“Oh, but I must look.” She turned back again. “One cannot shirk such a

grim reality. I knew that while we were living in luxury there existed

thousands who had not the bare necessities of life, but I have never had

the fact pressed home so forcibly before. I feel as if I had no right to

wear these expensive sables—which I could so easily do without—when

these poor creatures have nothing to eat. The look in their eyes

condemns me. Cannot we do something to help them, Lionel? Surely there

must be something terribly wrong somewhere, or else we should never see

such a degrading sight as this.”

She unfastened the magnificent diamond brooch she wore beneath her

jacket, and impulsively cast it into the collecting-box; her tiny gold

purse with its contents followed suit. Her lover, even if he thought her

proceeding rash, did not remonstrate; he too divested himself of all the

gold in his possession.

“The condition of these people is not exactly the fault of the

Government,” he replied thoughtfully, as they moved on towards

Knightsbridge. “It is always disastrous to trade when the supply exceeds

the demand. It makes labour so cheap that the men cannot ask more than a

starvation wage.”

“But what is the reason?” she asked, with eagerness. “It seems almost

incredible that all these hundreds should be thrown out of employment.”

“Have you not noticed the banners?” he returned. “‘Alien labour’—that is

at the root of their distress. It is hateful to me to have to

acknowledge it—nevertheless the fact remains that the influx of pauper

Jews from the Continent has been enormous during the past few years.

Athelstan Moore once introduced a Bill in Parliament for the suppression

of alien immigration; but there was some flaw in it, and it was thrown

out.”

“Did you vote for or against?”

“Against. You see, whatever my private opinion may be, I am tied down in

this matter. I cannot vote against my own people, especially when I am

told that owing to the persecution abroad they come here to try and

regain their self-respect, and to develop into worthy British subjects.”

“And what is your private opinion?”

“That when they do develop into worthy British subjects, the result is

satisfactory, but when they persist in being clannish and in refusing to

conform to the exigencies of modern civilisation, they are a clog on the

wheel of national progress. I do not consider it politic on the part of

our country to continue to receive them in such great numbers. The

consequence you have just seen.”

Patricia was silent for a moment, but she was not yet satisfied.

“Why do the employers prefer to engage foreigners to work for them?” she

asked, after a short pause.

“Because the pauper aliens require less wages. They are so anxious to

get work of some kind that they will accept the lowest wage possible;

and they can live on next to nothing. Then when they have learnt their

respective trades, they become sweaters on their own account. The whole

system is most deplorable.”

“And the legitimate British workman goes to the wall?”

“Yes.”

“It is a great shame.” Her eyes flashed with indignation. “And yet where

would the poor Jews go if they are expelled from the Continent and we

forbid them to come here? They must go somewhere.”

“Ah, that is the great question.” He sighed. “If America closes her

doors to them as South Africa has done, there seems to be only Australia

left, and in Australia their company will be as little desired as it is

here.”

“It reminds me of the Wandering Jew—the one who insulted the Christ when

He was on the way to His crucifixion, and was condemned to live and

wander through the ages until the Day of Judgment,” the girl said

musingly. “Only in this case the wandering Jew has been multiplied into

a whole horde of wandering Jews. Do you think there is any truth in the

legend, Lionel?”

Her lover smiled.

“I do not know, dear,” he replied. “I dare say it is the same as other

legends—a tenth part of truth, and nine-tenths superstition.”

“Yes, but it is a very fascinating legend. Do you know, Lionel, the

condition of the Jews in modern days has always been to me one of the

strongest arguments in favour of Christianity. It is such an exact

fulfilment of prophecy. I wonder if they will ever fulfil the other part

of the prophecy and eventually make Palestine their home?”

“If the Zionists have anything to do with it they will; but it is

scarcely likely to happen in our time. What an interest you take in

Jewish affairs, Patricia! You might be a Jewess yourself.”

The girl smiled, knowing that her interest was only on her lover’s

account, and that had he not been a Jew, that interest would never have

been aroused. Truth to tell, Mrs. Lowther and Lady Chesterwood were

frightfully bored by what they termed Patricia’s Jewish hobby. The

Countess had forbidden the subject to be mentioned in her presence.

She was there waiting for them when they arrived at Earl Torrens’

mansion, and received them with a sigh of relief. Ten minutes of the

Earl’s society was to her an amplitude, and she had listened to his

dissertation on the triumph of colour photography for twenty minutes by

the clock. Perhaps the Earl was equally glad to be released from his

arduous duty; for he retired as soon as the lovers made their

appearance. Lionel, having an appointment elsewhere was obliged to take

his departure; so, promising to look in again later, he left the ladies

to themselves.

“Mrs. Lowther is out,” Patricia remarked, as she took off her things,

and rang for her maid. “Will you stay to lunch?”

“I should like to very much. I made up my mind to do so directly your

respected father informed me that the she-dragon was off duty. I really

cannot understand how you can tolerate her, Pat.”

“Mrs. Lowther? Oh, she is a well-meaning soul; a little trying

sometimes, I must admit, but I do not see much of her just now. I go out

a great deal, you know. Lionel is a most attentive lover.”

“But I thought you told me you were obliged to be very quiet on account

of his mourning?”

“Yes; we do not attend any society functions unless they are political;

but we go for long walks and drives together, and we spend a good deal

of our time with Lady Montella, who is one of the sweetest women in the

world.”

The Countess regarded her contemplatively.

“So you are in love, and flourishing,” she observed, with a smile.

“Well, I am very glad. Long may it last. Presently I may tell you my

news; but it is such a great secret that I hardly know if I am justified

in trusting you.”

Patricia looked up with curiosity.

“Which means that you will tell me, nevertheless,” she rejoined. “What

is it, Mamie? Something new?”

The little Countess nodded.

“Something very new; but I am not going to divulge until after lunch. I

am too hungry to talk secrets.”

Lunch was a somewhat dreary affair. The Earl seemed to consider it his

duty to lead the conversation; and as he was a peculiarly absent-minded

man, his efforts were not entirely successful. The Countess, having

started her host on the subject of one of his hobbies, confined her

attention to her favourite mayonnaise, whilst Patricia, like a dutiful

daughter, supplemented her father’s disquisitions by the most

intelligent questions she could muster. When it was over, the ladies

adjourned to Patricia’s boudoir, which was the cosiest room in the

house. It was decorated in the style of the Renaissance, and the few

pictures on the walls were of the choicest. Patricia loved to surround

herself with pretty things but she also possessed a leaning towards the

antique. There was on her little table—itself of ancient origin—a gold

snuff-box, which belonged originally to George I.; an old Roman coin,

said to be one of the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas Iscariot

sold our Lord; the quill pen with which the sentence of Lady Jane Grey

was signed; and various other articles of vertu. There was also a small

oaken prie-dieu, with the inscription which St. Paul found at Athens

displayed above it: “_To the Unknown God_”; and there was an exquisite

marble bust of the late Countess Torrens, Patricia’s mother. There were

_editions de luxe_ of the works of Patricia’s favourite poets, and as

many photographs of the said poets as could be obtained. In the bow

window, which overlooked the square, an old-fashioned harpsichord was

placed; here Lady Chesterwood seated herself, and began to play.

The tone of the instrument was mellow, but the fingers of the Countess

were stiff. Pianoforte-playing had quite gone out of fashion, for the

mechanisms for automatic pianoforte-playing—by means of an attachment to

the instrument—were so perfect and in such general use that it was

really a waste of energy for a person to manipulate the keys in the old

way. This ancient harpsichord, however, was spared the indignity of a

mechanical addition. Patricia was too deeply imbued with the sense of

the fitness of things to have allowed it, even had it been possible.

“Have you given up wearing a brooch, or have you lost it, Pat?” Lady

Chesterwood asked suddenly. She was watching her all the time she

played.

Patricia involuntarily put up her hand to her collar.

“Neither,” she answered promptly. “I have given it away.”

“Given it away? You foolish girl!” The Countess ceased playing, whilst a

look of astonishment crossed her face. “You don’t mean to say it was the

diamond spray you always wear?”

“Yes; the one father gave me after I was ill two years ago. I gave it to

the Unemployed.”

“Patricia! Are you mad? Please explain yourself.”

Patricia blushed. “There is not much to explain,” she rejoined. “Lionel

and I happened to come across the procession of the Unemployed—perhaps

you have seen it yourself? Yes? Then you know how it makes one’s blood

run cold to see the misery on their faces. I had only a little money to

put in the collecting-box, so I gave my brooch. If they can sell it, it

will do them more good than myself.”

“Preposterous!” the Countess exclaimed. “Why, it was worth at least two

hundred pounds.”

“So much the better; even if they get only a hundred, it will go towards

buying bread. And I shall not even miss it—I have so many trinkets.”

Her cousin shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, I won’t say any more,” she said. “You always were one of the most

absurdly quixotic creatures of my acquaintance. I should not be at all

surprised if you ended by beggaring yourself.”

“In that case, I shall appeal to you for assistance,” Patricia answered,

with a smile. “But do not let us talk about myself. Tell me your great

secret, Mamie.”

“Presently. There is plenty of time.”

Patricia glanced at her with curiosity.

“You are making a great mystery of it,” she remarked. “Whom does it

concern?”

Lady Chesterwood’s fingers pressed the keys once more. There was a

peculiar expression on her face, and a new gleam seemed to come into her

eyes. She was a pretty woman, and possessed the indefinable charm which

generally associates itself with young widows. She turned round slowly

on the music-stool, and faced Patricia with a glance which almost

betrayed a touch of defiance.

“The secret concerns myself and a man,” she replied slowly. “A great

man.”

CHAPTER VIII

LADY CHESTERWOOD’S SECRET

Patricia’s interest deepened. “A great man?” she repeated. “In what way

is he great?”

The Countess rose with an air of mystery, and closed the door, which had

been left ajar. Then she established herself comfortably in one of the

beautifully carved chairs, and assumed a look of importance.

“First of all, dear,” she said impressively, “you must promise absolute

secrecy. I must have your word of honour that you won’t tell a living

soul, not even Lionel Montella.”

“I will readily promise not to tell any of my friends,” Patricia

answered, “but I have no secrets from Lionel. Is this necessary?”

“Absolutely. I would not have Montella know for worlds. Perhaps I am

foolish in telling you, Pat, but I know I can trust you if you promise.”

The girl hesitated. She was not sure that she cared to be told anything

which must be expressly kept back from her lover; but after a few

moments’ consideration she yielded. After all, it might not be of much

importance—a love-affair probably, for the Countess was still quite

young.

“Very well, I promise,” she said.

“On your word of honour?”

“On my word of honour.”

Lady Chesterwood’s expression was inscrutable.

“Then I will tell you,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “I have

received an offer of marriage from Mr. Athelstan Moore.”

Had she received an offer of marriage from his Satanic Majesty, her

cousin could not have looked more aghast. She started to her feet, the

colour ebbing from her cheeks.

“From Athelstan Moore?” she repeated, in a voice of excitement. “But

surely you will not accept it? You cannot accept it!”

The Countess clasped her hands at the back of her head, and regarded her

cousin imperturbably.

“Why not?” she asked, with irritating calmness. “I am only twenty-six,

and tired of my widowhood. There is no earthly reason why I should not

marry again. What could be more satisfactory than a widow with one

little boy marrying a widower with one little girl? And Athelstan Moore

is one of the first men in England, and has been angled for by every

girl in society since his wife died. I should be very foolish if I did

not give his proposal very careful consideration.”

Patricia paced the room in agitation.

“I thought you loved my Cousin Chesterwood,” she said. “I did not think

you would be faithless to his memory so soon.”

“You have no right to use the word ‘faithless,’” the Countess returned,

with a touch of hauteur. “I made Chesterwood a true wife while he lived;

I have nothing to reproach myself with where he is concerned. But I have

always had the desire for power. I am tired of being a mere society

puppet with a coronet. As wife of the Prime Minister I should shine in a

manner after my own heart. There is a certain fascination in helping to

pull the wires which govern the State.”

“You would help to accomplish the downfall of Lionel Montella’s race?”

said Patricia, her face hardening. “I had thought our friendship was

tried and true, Mamie; but it seems that, like everything else, it is

only transient, seeing that you are so willing to relinquish it.”

“Nonsense! You are too much given to high-falutin’, Pat. Be sensible.

Why should the Premier’s wife be considered unworthy of your

friendship?”

“It is not a case of ‘unworthiness’ at all. The Premier is the enemy of

my future husband and of his co-religionists. If you marry him, it is

not possible that you can still be my greatest friend. There can be no

intercourse between your house and mine. Do you not understand? Mr.

Moore would probably forbid you to visit or receive me, and Lionel would

have to do the same.”

“I do not quite see it,” the Countess returned obdurately. “Politics

need not interfere with a private and personal friendship. I think you

exaggerate the matter, my dear. Why, I might even influence Moore on

behalf of Montella’s cause. I might be the saviour of Judaism, and

receive the thanks of every Jew in the kingdom. Instead of becoming your

enemy, I might prove myself in very truth your friend.”

Her eyes glistened at the picture her imagination had painted. She would

prove what a tremendous influence a woman could have over a man, and how

her feminine will, as frail as gossamer, yet as strong as iron, could

decide the destiny of a whole race. Here would be something worth

accomplishing, a feat at least worthy of the attempt. To subjugate the

invincible will of Athelstan Moore! Her face glowed with a foretaste of

the charm of such a battle.

Patricia was doubtful, but her features relaxed. She wondered if the

Countess, whose nature she had always considered somewhat shallow, would

have the strength of purpose to fulfil her words. If she could succeed,

what a glorious victory it would be! The thought caused her heart to

leap and her eyes to deepen. She paused in front of her dead cousin’s

wife, and held out her hands.

“Would you do this, Mamie?” she asked, in a tense voice. “Would you

really espouse our cause? Oh, it would be so grand, so blessed a thing!

Read the history of the Jews, and you will see what a long-suffering

people they are, surely more sinned against than sinning. It is we who

are to blame—we Gentiles, who, in the name of Christianity, have

persecuted them throughout the ages, who have inflicted on them the

tortures of the Inquisition, who have denied them the rights accorded to

other civilised beings. The Jews are the elder brothers of the human

race, and to hate them is to hate the God who made them. Long before

Greece and Rome held sway over the world, _they_ had their kings,

warriors, poets, and philosophers. Has there ever been in the world’s

history a greater king and philosopher than Solomon, a greater warrior

than Judas the Maccabee, a greater poet than the Psalmist, a greater

athlete than Samson, a greater Christian than Paul the Apostle?—and all

these men were Jews. Oh, if you could only make Athelstan Moore and his

followers see the uselessness and iniquity of anti-Semitism, you would

do a work which would endear you to the hearts of hundreds! But will you

do it? Have you the power to carry out your determination? Have you the

moral courage to risk incurring the disapproval of society? It is no

trivial matter. Think—think what it means!”

Her hands unclasped and fell to her side; her face was unlifted in

appeal. She was evidently actuated by a great sincerity and earnestness;

and Lady Chesterwood’s playful rejoinder froze on her lips.

“Sweet little enthusiast!” she exclaimed, moved in spite of herself.

“Montella is lucky in winning your love. It is your love which casts the

roseate hue over the Jewish people, dear, and you see I do not possess

the same incentive. Still, I will do my best, and if I marry Athelstan

Moore, I promise you that I shall not lack the courage to voice your

opinions. I would rather remain your friend than become your enemy, and

the idea of thwarting the Premier pleases me mightily. It is like David

with his little sling and stone attacking the formidable Goliath, or the

tiny mouse gnawing the rope which great men cannot break. The world

shall see, as it has seen before, what a beautiful woman can do. Have no

fear, my dear child, I know I shall succeed.”

Self-assurance had ever been the keynote to the success of Mamie

Chesterwood’s family. From a mere clerk in an engineering office in

Baltimore, with little more than his pride of descent from the Pilgrim

Fathers to sustain him, her father had risen to the wealth and power of

an American copper king. As a matter of course, both his daughters had

married titles, Mamie’s elder sister, Olive, being the wife of Prince

Charles of Felsen-Schvoenig. It was no wonder, therefore, that Mamie

herself had inherited a love of overcoming difficulties, and of mounting

from one high position to another. She knew that by marrying Athelstan

Moore she would partially lose her freedom; but she felt that this would

amply be compensated for by the exciting situations which would probably

affect her as Premier’s wife. So by the time her conversation with

Patricia came to an end, she had made up her mind to accept the offer of

her would-be swain. She asked her cousin for pen and paper, and wrote

the answer then and there.

There was always a little of her own notepaper in Patricia’s desk, so

that she did not have to use Earl Torrens’ address. Patricia watched her

as she wrote, and wondered what the ultimate result would be. Was the

Countess unconsciously making trouble for herself, or was she really

paving the way of freedom for the British Jews? Who could look into the

future, and foresee the consequence of her act? Only time would show.

“May I not tell Lionel?” the girl asked eagerly, when the letter was

sealed. “Why should he be kept in ignorance of the matter? He may be

able to offer some advice.”

The Countess shook her head.

“For the present I do not wish him to know,” she rejoined. “I must hold

you to your promise, Pat. Remember, you gave me your word of honour.

Soon it will be in all the society papers. You will not have to wait

long.”

Patricia said no more; and soon afterwards the Countess took her

departure. When she had gone, the girl remained long in her boudoir,

deep in thought. Was it Providence, or merely the irony of fate, that

caused her greatest friend to become the wife of her greatest enemy, she

wondered. If only she might talk it over with her lover when he came;

but she was bound to silence. The fire burned low, and as the shadows

gathered, a shadow seemed to oppress her heart. Presently a footman

brought her some tea, and tried to make the room more cosy by stirring

the fire and drawing the velvet curtains together. Certainly the

electric lamps, under their golden shades, conduced to cheerfulness more

than the grey twilight. But the sense of loneliness was not dispelled,

and crept closer as the hours lengthened. At six o’clock Mrs. Lowther

returned, and expounded on all the events of the day; but her

companionship was not of the kind that the girl needed, and she was glad

when it was time to dress. Her lover did not arrive until much

later—just when she had given him up, and was contemplating bed. He had

come straight from the House, and burst into the room with an

impetuosity she had never seen in him before. His face was so pale, and

his eyes so bright, that instinctively she knew that something was

wrong. Being aware of the presence of her chaperon, he said not a word,

but took both her hands in silence.

Mrs. Lowther, with unusual tact, gathered up her belongings, and

uttering a trivial excuse, sailed majestically out of the room. Patricia

gave a sigh of relief, but she was in a flutter of suspense.

“Your hands are as cold as ice, dear,” she said, with concern. “What has

happened?”

“The very worst!” was his reply, in a voice which was hoarse with

emotion—“worse than anything I had anticipated even in my wildest

dreams. Athelstan Moore has declared open antagonism towards my people.

To-night a Bill came up for its first reading in Parliament—a Bill for

the banishment of all the Jews!”

“All the Jews?” the girl repeated questioningly. “The pauper aliens, you

mean?”

He shook his head.

“No, _all_ the Jews, both English and foreign, rich and poor. Moore does

not intend to do things by halves.”

Patricia drew a deep breath.

“Preposterous!” she exclaimed—“preposterous! Surely the man must be mad.

Banish the Jews! Why, anyone can see at first sight that the idea is

totally impracticable. How was it received?”

He sank on to a chair, looking almost exhausted.

“I hardly know. I was so dumfounded that I could scarcely move, and the

whole place seemed to spin. The other Members regarded it with

equanimity, and evidently knew something of it before. I suppose I was

purposely kept in the dark. The House rose before the debate was

concluded, and it will be brought on again to-morrow night. But think,

Patricia, what it will mean. It is enough to make a man’s senses reel!”

The girl poured him out a glass of wine and made him take it. If only

she had known of this before Lady Chesterwood had left! Her heart beat

like a sledge-hammer against her breast, and for the moment she could

find no words; but she knew that her lover needed comfort, and that it

was her duty to help him.

“Your nerves are unstrung, dear,” she said, in a soothing voice. “You

must go home soon and rest. I am sure you need not be alarmed, Lionel.

The Bill will never be carried; it cannot, while there is justice in

England. What man in his senses would counsel intoleration in these

days? This is the age of freedom—of freedom in religious matters most of

all.”

“It is not the Jewish religion that Moore objects to so much as the

Jewish race,” Montella replied, in a dull voice. “He is as rabid as it

is possible for a Jew-baiter to be, and he has, unfortunately, such a

convincing manner that there are few who can withstand him. Of course,

he made a great deal of the Consolidated Trust smash and those

processions of the Unemployed. Yet, as you say, the Bill is

impracticable. I do not see how it is possible to banish the Jews. Where

are they to go? The whole thing is monstrous—absurd!”

“It is, and therefore you must not worry about it, Lal. You must laugh

at it instead. The good-natured British Public will laugh, I am sure,

when they read of it in the papers to-morrow. And now, dear, I am not

going to talk to you any more to-night. You must go straight home to

bed, and try to cool that burning forehead of yours.”

He rose and drew her affectionately towards him.

“My darling! You are brave enough to put courage into any man.” He

sighed, and squaring his shoulders, added: “Well, if it’s fighting they

want, we must fight to the death. But, Patricia, if by any horrible

chance this Bill is passed, it will mean that I also am included under

the ban. It will mean the emptying out of joy from my life—for it will

mean separation from you.”

“Never!” she exclaimed, almost before the words had passed his lips.

“Your cause is mine, and not all the devilish designs of Athelstan Moore

and his satellites shall come between us. If you are banished, then I

shall be banished, too. Oh, Lionel, what is love worth if it fails at

such a time!”

She hid her face on his shoulder, her form shaken with heavy sobs; but

she quickly recovered from her emotion, and regained her

self-possession.

“Mamie Chesterwood was here to-day,” she informed him, as he went

towards the door. “She is our friend, Lionel, and has promised to stand

by us through thick and thin.”

“Has she, dear?” There was little hope in his voice. He did not seem to

think the Countess would prove an ally of much importance.

“There is more in her than we think,” Patricia added, more cheerfully.

“I really believe she will be of use. She is one of those who have to be

fully persuaded in their own minds before they will do anything.”

Then she remembered that her lips were sealed.

CHAPTER IX

THE ZIONISTS

Montella did not go straight home in spite of Patricia’s injunction. He

turned into the park, and crossed over to the Serpentine, scarcely

knowing whither his steps were tending. A slight mist hung over the

water, and the air was chilly with the raw dampness of November. With no

sound to break the stillness, save the echo of his own tread and the

rumble of far-off traffic, he was able to steady his nerves. Moore’s

Bill had given him a blow from which he could not easily recover; but on

due consideration he came to the conclusion that he had been unwise to

have so openly displayed his agitation. What he needed were coolness and

confidence; but instead of showing either he had become as

panic-stricken as an animal driven to bay.

He flung himself down on a seat, with his back to the water, and tried

to think out his speech for the morrow. He knew that as the only Jewish

member of any importance in the House, his co-religionists would look to

him to vindicate their claims. On him had fallen the responsibility of

voicing the appeal for justice of the whole Jewish community, and

although he was but a unit when it came to taking the majority, it was

his duty to oppose the Bill tooth and nail.

The absurdity of the Bill would have caused him amusement had it not

affected him so nearly; for he could see that endless complications

would arise if it were passed. The banishment of the Jews was a matter

easier said than done, seeing that the yellow badge and the _rouelle_

were things of the past. Well, it would be a fine test for separating

true Jews from false: perhaps persecution would—as it had so often done

before—kindle the smouldering fire of Judaism into a flame.

The newspapers next morning were full of the new Bill, and despite the

fact that many of the newspaper proprietors were of Hebrew extraction,

the attitude taken up by the majority of the dailies was in favour of

the project. Instead of displaying the sense of justice and fairplay

which has ever been the Englishman’s boast, the leaders were

characterised by envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. The

jealousy which had been kept under for so long a time now burst forth

with uncontrollable fury; to Montella, it was but the impotent howling

of a totally corrupt press.

His speech that night had nothing of the brilliance of the Premier’s

oration, but it was manly and straight to the point. Like a second

Daniel come to judgment, he stood erect and fearless; and stated his

case with a lucidity which was bound to create a good impression. While

admitting the undesirability of pauper alien immigration, he considered

it the height of folly to desire to interfere with the peace of those

estimable Jewish citizens who kept the laws and contributed to the

welfare of the country. He asked his colleagues to look back to the

reign of Queen Victoria—the reign which brought so much emancipation to

the Jews—to note the friendliness with which she always treated them,

and the consequent prosperity of England during her reign. He begged

them not to allow the beneficent influence of Victoria the Good to be

dispelled; and appealing to their common sense as well as their

humanity, endeavoured to point out the disadvantages appertaining to

such a Bill. He certainly had logic on his side, as well as the

certainty that his cause was a just one; and his words, uttered in a low

but distinct tone, commanded respect. The calmness with which he spoke

contrasted favourably with the lashing words of the Premier, whose eyes

gleamed with a personal hatred as well as an impersonal conviction. But

despite the justice of Montella’s plea, the general feeling was against

the Jews; and as the whole of the working-classes supported the Bill,

there was little doubt as to its final issue.

“It is madness!” Montella exclaimed, when he told his mother and Raie of

the result. “The people are all afflicted with Judaphobia; their

reasoning powers are numbed. They will not be satisfied until they have

broken up our homes and driven us away.”

“And is there no antidote?” asked Raie wistfully. “Cannot we come to a

compromise of some sort?”

“There is the only one which Mr. Lawson Holmes suggested in the House

this afternoon—assimilation. We are to sink our racial affinity, one

towards another; give up our Judaism for Theism; attend Theistic places

of worship, if worship in public we must; pull down our synagogues and

burn our _talithim_; abstain from clannishness; marry only Gentiles; and

forget our descent. That, says Mr. Holmes, is the rational solution of

the whole question. Assimilation is the means by which we are to wriggle

out of the difficulty. Of course, it applies only to us British Jews.”

“No doubt there are many who will think that a very sensible course,”

said Lady Montella. “Still I am surprised that if the racial prejudice

is really so strong the Gentiles should desire the admixture with

English blood. Ah—” as a maid approached bearing a card on a silver

salver, “someone to see you, I suppose.”

“Dr. Engelmacher!” exclaimed Lionel, with pleasure, as he took up the

card. “I had no idea that he was in London. Show him in here please,

Mary.”

“Dr. Engelmacher!” repeated Lady Montella, her eyes brightening at the

name. “He must have come here for some special purpose.”

Max Engelmacher was the great leader of the Zionists in Germany, a man

whose fame had spread throughout every Jewish centre. In appearance he

was a typical German, with fair hair, light blue eyes covered with

spectacles, and rugged features. No less Oriental-looking man could ever

have been found; nevertheless, he was a very Jew of the Jews—to some a

second Moses ready to lead his people to the promised land, to others

the one who should come in the power and spirit of Elijah before the

advent of the national Messiah. As a young man he—in common with

others—had seen his visions and dreamed his dreams; but experience had

hardened him into a genial cynic who was practical before everything

else.

Lady Montella rose as his burly figure blocked the doorway, and held out

her hand with almost the first smile which had passed across her face

since her husband’s death. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of her

welcome.

“This bad business has had one good effect, since it has brought you

here,” she said.

“A bad business indeed, lady,” he replied, in German. “Yet if it stirs

up some of you English Jews to action, I shall not call it altogether

bad.”

“You think we are too cold, eh, doctor?”

“Cold? _Um Gotteswillen!_ yes. You sit at home in your fine houses, with

your maids and footmen, your electric light and your telephone, and you

will scarcely spare a _nebbich_[6] for those of your own race who are

hounded from one place to another, who are scarcely allowed to take a

free breath of God’s air because they are Jews. You metaphorically

gather your skirts together lest you should be defiled by contact with

those whom you choose to call the scum of the earth; but you do not take

the trouble to consider what has brought them so low. And you tie up

your heart-strings and your purse-strings tight, lest you should be

tempted to throw good money away. Cold! You are a nation of icebergs, so

civilised and anglicised that what feeling you ever possessed has been

refined out of you long ago. That is my opinion of the English Jews,

madam. I am bound to speak the truth.”

Footnote 6:

“Poor things!”

“Dear old Engelmacher!” exclaimed Montella, _sotto voce_. “A voice of

thunder, and a heart of gold!”

Then he turned to the mighty pioneer, and entered upon a serious

conversation concerning the present crisis. It was a relief to him to be

able to open his heart.

The doctor, having obtained permission, lit up his old and well-beloved

briar, and puffed away in silence. He always believed that his pipe

assisted his mental digestion, and never troubling to study

conventionalities, was not deterred by the presence of the ladies. Lady

Montella was too much interested in the discussion to mind the smoke.

She considered this an opportunity which should certainly not be lost.

“It is money we want,” the doctor said, when the whole situation had

been explained. “Another two millions, and Palestine will be ours. I

have the best authority for saying this; our colleague Karl Lierhammer

had an audience with the Sultan last week. Only one hundred thousand

pounds is needed to allow us to start operations north-west of the

Jordan at once, and I can lay my hands on fifty thousand Jewish artisans

who are ready to begin. So you see our dream is not so far from being

realised after all.”

Lady Montella’s face glowed.

“How splendidly you have worked while we thought the movement was at a

standstill,” she said. “You may count on us for the hundred thousand; we

will raise it among ourselves and our relations. We can safely promise

this, I think?” she added, addressing her son.

Lionel answered in the affirmative.

“We do not require the money as a donation,” Dr. Engelmacher explained.

“It will all go into the national debt. Palestine will be a

self-supporting country in a comparatively short time; the fertility of

the land is remarkable. Will you believe me, dear people, when I tell

you that before the Zionist movement was conceived, that country was

barren from lack of water; but that since we began our operations there

the rain has fallen in due season, and all Nature has conduced to

further our aim?[7] Is not this a testimony—if such we need—to the

righteousness of our cause?”

Footnote 7:

A fact attested by the Rev. Dr. Gaster.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Lady Montella, with glad surprise. “Yet people

say that miracles do not happen nowadays. Why, even Christians believe

that we are to be restored to our own land—the land of promise. Strange

that some of the Jews themselves should be so reluctant to act on that

belief.”

“Strange indeed,” returned the doctor. “I believe that prosperity and

freedom have combined to dim their spiritual vision. They live only for

the present, and being happy themselves, they are incapable of feeling

for their persecuted brethren abroad. Ah, if I can only succeed in

arousing the interest of all the rich Jews in England so far as to make

them invest their money Zionwards, our cause will be won. It is for this

purpose that I have come here.”

“If England expels the Jews, I’m afraid she will regret it before many

months are past,” said Montella thoughtfully. “I believe the Government

will not have the best side of the bargain after all.”

“The Government will find itself in the biggest pickle it has ever

known,” was Dr. Engelmacher’s reply. “It is safe to say that when

anti-Semitism attacks a country, that country is in a state of decline.

England, the justice-loving happy queen of nations, will soon find out

her mistake. She is but passing through a phase; she will come through

the cloud strengthened and purified. I know and love the English people

well enough to be certain of this.”

“Then you think—?”

“I think nothing yet, my dear Montella. I prefer to wait for the course

of events. For the present I must say _Auf Wiedersehen_. I shall see you

again before I leave London, I hope.”

He rose, and politely declining Lady Montella’s cordial invitation to

dinner, took his departure; but they saw him again at a huge Zionist

meeting on the following night. The hall was packed from door to door,

rich and poor uniting for once under the sense of common danger. Like a

drowning man catches at a straw, they clung to the new hope which was

presented to them; for with anti-Semitism brought so near home, they

could no longer afford to ignore the burning question. And what a hope

it was that, clothed though it was in foreign accents, breathed through

Engelmacher’s words! A land of their very own, where persecution would

be forgotten, where they could lift their heads in freedom, and win back

their good name. The promised land of their forefathers and of their

glorious past—the promised land of the future, where they should behold

the long-looked-for coming of the King! No wonder that their stricken

hearts were inflamed by the national hope. The voices of the prophets—to

which for so long they had turned deaf ears—were reaching them at last.

Who could tell what new revelations they might not have to unfold?

CHAPTER X

PREMIER AND PEERESS

The new Grand Imperial Hotel at Brighton was very full; for it had

become the fashion once again to spend the week-end away from town, and

the Grand Imperial was the hotel temporarily favoured, not so much by

the so-called “smart set” as by those who were popularly supposed to

possess brains. Jaded barristers, glad to forget for the moment that

there existed such a place as the Inner Temple, a trio of actor-managers

who were “resting”; two or three of the most beautiful women in society,

and a sprinkling of clerics were included among the guests.

To-night—Saturday—the Right Hon. Athelstan Moore was expected, and the

hotel complement would be complete.

It was the hour between tea and dinner—the children’s hour. Those who

were not imbibing the salubrious air along the promenade were gathered

in the lounge, whilst the children—there were not many—played

hide-and-seek around the Corinthian pillars and behind the numerous

Chesterfield couches. One of them, a tiny boy of scarcely five summers,

was playing horses with a little girl three years his senior, and racing

up and down as fast as his little legs would carry him, seemed bubbling

over with health and merriment.

“You go too slow, Phyllis,” he piped, almost out of breath with his

mimic galloping and plunging. “Why don’t you run?”

Phyllis Moore loosened the reins.

“If I run I shall make myself tired,” she replied demurely. “My

governess told me to play quietly. I am going to wait up for father

to-night.”

The air of maiden superiority jarred upon the little boy.

“I will wait up for father, too,” he announced sturdily. “Let’s both

wait up.”

Phyllis looked more superior than ever.

“You are very silly, Leslie,” she returned. “How can you wait up for

your father when he is dead?”

“What’s dead?” demanded Leslie, with wide-open eyes.

“Dead? Oh, it’s being put down in a hole in the ground and being covered

with a lot of nasty earth, and then having a great flat stone plumped

down on top of you. That’s what your father is.”

“He isn’t,” denied Leslie, with indignation.

“He is, or else you would not be the Earl of Chesterwood.”

“He isn’t!” Leslie stamped his foot.

“He is!”

“He isn’t. You are a horrid little girl, and I don’t like you a bit.”

“Children, what are you quarrelling about?” said a lady’s voice from

behind one of the pillars. “It is very naughty to quarrel. Come and tell

me what is the matter.”

Leslie dissolved into tears, and hid his face in the folds of his

mother’s skirt, whilst Phyllis stood by abashed. Lady Chesterwood, not

wishing to have her gown marred by her son’s emotion, produced a small

cambric handkerchief, and placed it between the child’s face and her

skirt.

“Now,” she said, addressing herself to Phyllis, “why did you make Leslie

cry?”

“I didn’t make him cry,” the Premier’s daughter answered sulkily. “I

only told him his father was dead. It is quite true. His father _is_

dead.”

“He isn’t,” came from Leslie, in a stifled voice. “She says my father is

in a hole in the ground, with a lot of nasty earth and a stone on top of

him; and he isn’t! My father doesn’t live in a hole.”

The Countess maintained a calm demeanour.

“Your father is above the bright blue sky with the angels, sonnie,” she

said soothingly. “Don’t you remember that I told you he had gone away to

heaven?”

“Yes.” Leslie raised his head triumphantly, and glowered at Phyllis. “My

father is in heaven with the angels. I knew he wasn’t down a nasty hole

in the ground!”

Phyllis, still unconvinced, stalked away to rejoin her governess, and

the Countess was spared the necessity of entering further into the

problem. She wondered what Leslie would have to say if she were to

provide him with a new father, and how he and Phyllis would agree. The

letter which she had dashed off in Patricia’s boudoir had never been

sent, for she had thought better of it before she reached home. She had

not yet given a definite answer to her illustrious wooer, although a

month had passed, but she knew that he was coming to Brighton expressly

to hear what she had to say.

When the nurse came for her boy, she went to rejoin the sister with whom

she was staying—the Princess Charles von Felsen-Schvoenig. She felt

unusually nervous, and could not settle down anywhere. The bravado she

had shown in her conversation with Patricia had gradually evaporated

until there was little left. The nearer it came to meeting the Premier

the less courageous did she feel. She was not at all sure now that she

considered it worth while to become the defender of the Jews.

The Princess was very much like her sister in appearance, but possessed

stronger features and a firmer will. She considered Mamie foolish to

wish to encumber herself with another husband, and to give up her

widowed freedom. Her own husband—with whom she was not in love—was

suffering with a disease of the spine; and as he allowed himself to be

relegated to the castle in Felsen-Schvoenig whenever his presence was

undesired by his wife, the Princess enjoyed life in her own way as a

woman of independence. She was fond of travelling, and journeyed from

one place to another as she felt inclined. Perhaps there was scarcely a

wife in the whole of Europe so little troubled by domestic affairs.

“So the hour approaches!” she exclaimed, as her sister appeared in her

boudoir. “Whence the pale cheeks and troubled brow?”

“Am I pale?” The Countess glanced at herself in the mirror. “I shall

have plenty of colour when the lights are lit. I feel real stupid

to-day; I don’t know why. When Moore begins rolling off his words to me

in that curious manner of his, I know I shall have nothing to say for

myself in return. I might be a girl in her first season instead of a

widow and a woman of the world. And I just wanted to be especially

brilliant to-night. It’s very annoying, isn’t it?”

The Princess regarded her contemplatively. “I believe you are afraid of

Moore,” she said.

“Afraid? What nonsense. As if I could be frightened of a little man

scarcely a head taller than myself!”

“A little man certainly, but he has a great personality. It is said that

the man or woman does not exist who can oppose Moore’s iron will. It is

true enough that when he determines on a thing, that thing always comes

to pass. Therefore, my dear Mamie, you will know what to expect.”

“_Qui vivra verra_,” returned her sister, as the dressing-bell resounded

through the hotel; and then, with a careless nod, she left the room.

She looked much better when, an hour later, she descended to the salon.

Her gown of filmy chiffon and lace suited her to perfection, and

anticipation had lent a touch of colour to her cheeks. The Princess, who

was in black relieved and studded by gems which glittered with every ray

of light, glanced at her with satisfaction.

“Moore is here,” she announced quietly. “He arrived about ten minutes

ago, and has gone up to see Phyllis and dress.”

Nevertheless the Premier was absent from the dinner-table, and the

Countess was kept on tenter-hooks until the gentlemen rejoined the

ladies, when she noticed his short, thick-set figure at the entrance to

the lounge. The band in the north gallery had begun the overture to

Faust, and his coming was—by a coincidence—heralded by the martial tones

of the Soldiers’ Chorus. She put down the untasted cup of coffee on the

little table at her side, and trifled nervously with the diamond collar

on her neck. The next moment she had shaken hands and was exchanging

commonplaces with the first man in England. Her nervousness suddenly

vanished, leaving her natural and free.

The Press had often remarked on the apparent likeness between the

Premier and Napoleon the Great. Certainly Athelstan Moore possessed

eagle-eyes, a Roman nose, and somewhat round and stooping shoulders, and

the brusqueness of his manner considerably strengthened the effect. He

jerked out his words in the tone of one accustomed to command, and was

absolutely devoid of the saving sense of humour. That was why some

people found his society somewhat trying. He never could—or

would—receive a joke.

“You are late,” the Countess said, as she made room for him beside her.

“I expected you long ago.”

“Yes; I was detained in town. I could have been down to dinner, however,

had not Phyllis insisted on my staying with her until she went to

sleep.”

It was a curious fact that while the Premier never suffered himself to

be dictated to by those whose powers of thought equalled his own, he was

as wax in the hands of his child. The Countess smiled.

“Phyllis has been quarrelling with my little Leslie,” she informed him,

with pretended gravity. “It is strange that they two can never agree.”

“I suppose it is because the girl is older than the boy,” he returned

thoughtfully. “A boy does not like to be commanded by a girl, even if

she be older than himself. I must have a serious talk with Phyllis. I do

not wish her to quarrel with anyone, least of all your little boy.”

He laid stress on the pronoun. The Countess knew what he meant, but she

said nothing, and turned over the pages of her book with apparent

carelessness. The lounge was filling, and the music ceased. Espying the

figure of a well-known political bore opposite, Moore leant farther back

in shadow. He knew that if he were noticed he would be called upon to

talk politics for the remainder of the evening; and although it was true

that his life was bound up in his beloved Government, he was not anxious

to enter into a controversy just now.

“I wish to speak to you, Mamie,” he said, lowering his voice. “Will you

come out on the terrace? It is a glorious night; and if you put on a

wrap you will not feel cold.”

The Countess rose obediently, and sent for her fur-lined cloak. It was

just like a man to think that a bare neck and arms could be sufficiently

protected by a flimsy “wrap.” The night was certainly calm, but as it

was winter it could scarcely be otherwise than chilly. The terrace was

deserted, save for a young man who was enjoying a smoke at the far end.

Moore drew the young widow to a rustic seat at the most sheltered

corner. There was no sound save the swish of the sea.

Athelstan Moore was not the man to indulge in sentimentality. He paid no

heed to the moon and the stars and the stillness, but came to the point

at once. Lady Chesterwood had been given a month to consider his offer

of marriage, and as the time had expired, he awaited her answer now.

Lady Chesterwood was still undecided.

“You say you wish to marry me because you are particularly drawn towards

me,” she said evenly. “But in your position as head of the State, is it

wise to saddle yourself with a wife?”

“‘_Amare simul et sapere ipsi jovi non datur_,’” he quoted lightly.

“Besides, I think it expedient for a Prime Minister to be married, since

his wife can perform her duty to the State socially as hostess. Mrs.

Moore, as you know, died a year after our marriage—when Phyllis was

born. Don’t you think I owe a duty also to my motherless child?”

If there was a tender spot in the Premier’s heart, it was for his little

girl. Mamie knew it, and thought she recognised what had prompted the

man’s desire.

“You want a mother for Phyllis?” she asked softly. “Am I not right?”

“Yes; but I also want you for myself. It is not good for man to be

alone, especially a man so harassed and worried by the affairs of the

nation as I am. When a fellow’s brain is so severely taxed that

sometimes the whole universe seems out of joint, he longs for the

sympathy of an intelligent woman to steady his nerves. I am not a young

man, and I do not offer you the passionate devotion which a hotheaded

youth lavishes on a young girl in her teens; but I will do my best to

make you a good husband, Mamie; and as you are a sensible woman, I think

you will understand.”

Mamie did understand, and experienced a feeling of gratification. It

seemed strange to hear Moore—the ostensibly stony-hearted, hard-headed

Prime Minister—talk in this strain. It showed that, strong as he was, he

was not too strong to be able to dispense with sympathy. It showed that,

in spite of all the logic of dry-as-dust professors, there was a force

to be reckoned with in love.

The music had begun again, and the seductive strains of a valse floated

out towards them. The waves, as they broke at regular intervals upon the

beach, seemed to beat time to the melody, and the seething foam rushing

backwards on the pebbles added a refrain. A sense of unreality affected

the little Countess as she listened; it seemed almost as if she were

living the past over again. She had had acquaintance with the man beside

her for at least three years, but she had never liked him so well as at

this moment. Perhaps it was because she saw him in a new light, and felt

the undoubted fascination of his virile personality. She forgot the many

stories she had heard of his despotic dealings, forgot altogether his

hatred of the Jews. She remembered only that he was a great man, and

that he had come to _her_ for sympathy. Was it a wonder that her small

features glowed with pride!

“I will marry you because you want me,” she said, in a gentle voice at

last, “and I will try and do my duty to your motherless girl, as I hope

you will to my fatherless boy. But you will be good to me, won’t you,

Athelstan?” she added, almost wistfully. “You will be our

protector—Leslie’s and mine?”

He raised her hand to his lips.

“It will be my first care to protect you,” he replied, well pleased,

although he had known all along that she would consent. And he decided

that the marriage should take place in six weeks’ time; there was no

occasion for a further delay.

It was getting cold, and Mamie suggested an adjournment within. They

repassed the young man on their way, still unconcernedly smoking his

cigar. The Princess watched their return, but failed to deduce from

their manner what had happened. Before retiring to rest, however, she

presented herself in her sister’s apartment. She was curious to know the

result.

Mamie was sitting in front of her dressing-table shedding tears—though

whether of joy or sadness she did not herself know. She felt as though

she had just come through an ordeal, which, paradoxically, had not been

an ordeal after all. She dried her eyes hastily, declaring that she was

a goose; to which statement her sister unhesitatingly agreed.

Mamie pushed back her chair, and regarded her with an unnecessary

expression of defiance.

“Well, it’s all settled,” she said carelessly. “I am just going to write

to Poppa. We shall be married on the 10th of February if the fates

propend.”

The Princess gave her a sisterly kiss.

“I suppose you know your own business best, so I will congratulate you,”

she remarked. “Did you keep your promise to Patricia and impose some

condition about the Jews?”

Mamie shook her head.

“It would not have been wise to ruffle Athelstan’s feelings just then by

talking about the Jews,” was her reply. “To tell you the truth, I

entirely forgot their existence. However, there is time yet. I will

introduce the subject to-morrow.”

She was not over-anxious to show the red rag to the bull.

CHAPTER XI

THE PREMIER OUTWITTED

The next day Lady Chesterwood sat down and wrote the following letter to

her husband’s cousin:

“MY DEAR PATRICIA,—I have just been up Queen’s Road to see Athelstan

off by the 6.40 to town, but he will be here again in the middle of

the week (Parliament permitting), so the parting will not be for long.

Not forgetting my promise to you, I had a long conversation with him

this afternoon on the Jewish question, and as you know his feelings on

the matter, I think I was _most courageous_ in introducing the subject

at all. He says that the affair has now passed out of his hands, and

that in speaking as he did, he merely voiced the opinion of the great

bulk of the British workmen. That the Bill will be passed is an

absolute certainty, and he thinks the Edict of Banishment will be

proclaimed in about a month from now. I then told him about your

engagement to Mr. Montella, and he said it was _absolutely suicidal_

on your part to become the wife of a Jew. He was so angry about it

that I dared not say a word in defence. He has begged me to do my

utmost to persuade you to break off the engagement; and really,

Patricia, I think you will be _most foolish_ if you persist. Have you

not realised that, as the wife of Montella, you will either be banned

and cut in society, or else you will have to be separated from him

when the new Act comes into force? I don’t know what your father can

be about that he does not interfere. Athelstan intends to pay him a

visit during the course of the week, to acquaint him of his duty.

Don’t think me unkind for taking this view of the matter. What I

really desire is your _ultimate_ happiness.—Ever your affectionate

cousin,

“MAMIE CHESTERWOOD.”

The caligraphy was somewhat sprawling in effect, and much underlined. A

student of graphology would have noticed weakness, and a disposition

easily amenable to persuasion in the unconnected and carelessly formed

characters. Patricia absorbed the contents of the letter with very

little surprise. Knowing how easy it was to influence the Countess in

almost any direction, she had been certain all along that the Prime

Minister would soon persuade her to his way of thinking. That was why

she had been so horror-stricken at Mamie’s anticipated engagement to

Moore.

The Premier did not pay his visit that week, but he came before the

month was out. The Earl received him in the state drawing-room, and

listened attentively to what he had to say. He and Moore had been at

Balliol together, and although they had never been actual friends, they

had always entertained a mutual respect for each other. Therefore he did

not think of resenting the Minister’s interference in the matter, and

went so far as to acknowledge the apparent reasonableness of his

opinions.

Nevertheless he did not consider it necessary to be greatly concerned.

If it had been his son who wished to marry a Jewess, the case would have

been different; he seemed to think a daughter of much less consequence.

“Patricia is of age and able to decide for herself,” he said, with an

air of nonchalance. “As she makes her bed, so must she lie upon it—that

is all.”

“But it is such a disgrace,” persisted Moore, determined on carrying his

point. “It is a case which will excite public comment, and therefore is

not merely a personal matter. For the sake of example it ought not to be

allowed.”

The Earl’s face was impassive.

“What is it you object to?” he asked. “The race or the religion?”

“Both, though if Montella dropped his Judaism it would not be so bad.

But Montella never will; the matter will be solved by your daughter

joining the Jewish Church. That is where the disgrace comes in—for a

woman in these days of grace to voluntarily go back to the religion of

the pre-Christian Era, to fling away the Christianity which has done

more than anything else to civilise the world. Why, it’s absolutely

ridiculous. She might just as well put away her modern dress, education,

and culture. I have never known such an absurd thing in my life.”

“I am afraid my daughter is angry with Christianity just now,” said the

Earl imperturbably, “since it is used as a cloak to cover the

persecution of the Jews. She thinks the end does not justify the means.”

“Nonsense! she does not understand anything at all about it. The rulers

of the State have to look far ahead; what we legislate now is for the

benefit of the future generations. It is surely better that these people

should be expelled than that the whole nation should suffer later on.”

He paced up and down the room, his face crimson with indignation. He

could have shaken the noble Earl for being so dense as not to see the

enormity of the situation. He continued to harangue him for another

forty minutes, until the Earl was so weary that he promised faithfully

to insist on the dissolution of the betrothal. Then just as he was about

to conclude his remarks, the door opened to admit the happy—or

unhappy—pair. To the Premier their appearance was most opportune.

They both bowed to the visitor, but neither attempted to shake hands.

Patricia, forgetting that he was Mamie Chesterfield’s fiancé, saw in him

only the virulent Jew-hater, and could not bring herself to give him a

friendly greeting, even though at this particular moment she felt at

peace with all the world. Montella looked unusually flushed, but the

anxious expression which had been his of late had vanished, and there

was an eager glow in his eyes. He took not the slightest notice of the

Premier’s glance of hatred, and stood by his sweetheart’s side with an

air of self-possession. He knew, without requiring to be told, that the

visit of his enemy was in some way connected with himself; but an event

had happened which caused him to view this visit with equanimity almost

amounting to unconcern.

The day was raw and cold, but Patricia was dressed in the palest shade

of grey, the delicate appearance of which was enhanced by the choice

white flowers at her breast and attached to her ermine muff. She looked

so fair and radiant, that Athelstan Moore’s indignation increased, and

he determined yet again that this beautiful girl should not be lost to

England and the Church by becoming Montella’s bride. He asked for an

interview with her and her father, minus the presence of her lover; but

to this request the girl refused to accede. She was quite willing to

listen to whatever the Premier might wish to say, but it must be said

before Mr. Montella or not at all.

The Premier met the steady glance from her grey eyes without flinching.

“Very well, Lady Patricia, you give me no alternative but to speak out

my mind before one to whom my words must be extremely disagreeable,” he

said, with a glance at Montella. “I will not beat about the bush then; I

will come to the point at once. I have just had a long conversation with

your father, in which I have tried to point out to him the many

disadvantages which would accrue from your marriage with Mr. Montella.

Not to mention the many minor points which I might put forth for his

consideration and yours, I will repeat three great impedimenta to such a

marriage. Firstly, you would have to become an apostate from the

Christian religion—an action, the gravity of which it is possible you

could not realise for many years; secondly, you would be ostracised by

society, and for your father’s sake you should remember the motto

_noblesse oblige_—you are not justified in renouncing your birthright;

and thirdly, you would perform an action contrary to the spirit and

temper of the nation at the present time, by not only advocating the

Jewish cause, but by becoming the wife of a Jew. These three reasons are

surely of sufficient weight to deter you from such a course, especially

as you would give not only personal, but national offence. Of course I

take it for granted that you are not actuated purely by a motive of

selfishness. I presume that you are not unwilling to weigh the pros and

cons of the case?”

Patricia had sunk on to one of the little Chippendale chairs, and was

looking up at him with an air of artlessness, whilst the Earl and

Montella stood inertly by.

“You are very kind to take so much interest in me, Mr. Moore,” she said

quietly, when he had finished. “May I be so bold as to inquire the

reason?”

“Certainly; the reason is not far to seek. Having the honour and

pleasure of your acquaintance, your contemplated marriage would grieve

me inexpressibly. And not only that; as I said before, the marriage of a

lady of high rank and noble family with a leader of insurgent Jews is a

matter of national importance. Your father has agreed with me that such

is the case.”

At the word “insurgent” Montella started forward as though he wished to

speak, but his sweetheart, with a gesture, restrained him.

“The Jews are not insurgents,” she corrected quietly. “It is you and

your party who are endeavouring to make them so. I think it a pity that

the nation has not enough to do to look after its own affairs without

troubling about mine. I am afraid I do not appreciate an interest of

this sort.”

The Premier scowled, and Lord Torrens, noticing it, advanced.

“I wish you to give Mr. Moore a proper answer, my dear child,” he said

amicably. “Since he has taken the trouble to come here expressly on your

account, it is fitting that you should make your defence.”

“Defence?” repeated the girl, with rising colour. “Am I in a court of

law?” She gulped down her angry feelings, and added, in a quieter tone:

“Very well, Mr. Moore, my defence is simply this: If I am of noble

birth, Mr. Montella’s lineage is more ancient than my own, and there is

no member of my family who has ever done so much to promote the general

welfare of his country as did the late Sir Julian Montella for England.

Lionel himself is in every way worthy of respect; and the brilliance of

his university and parliamentary careers has proved that a more gifted

man of his age cannot be found. That he is a Jew is to me an additional

attraction, and for the senseless opinions of society at large I care

nothing whatever. In regard to the religious point of view, I feel

justified in seceding from Christianity if the circumstances necessitate

my doing so. Perhaps had I received a more careful religious training, I

might not have found it so easy to renounce, but since my mother died I

have been left to flounder about in the maze of conflicting and

contradictory doctrines; consequently I have nothing to cling to, and no

treasured sentiment to forego. Finally, I love Mr. Montella with all my

heart, and therefore I am determined to be faithful to my promise.”

She gave a sigh of relief as her voice dropped into silence. Her

listeners could not help admiring the staunch spirit of her words.

Lionel hated to be eulogised, but his heart warmed towards his sweet and

zealous advocate. The Premier realised the futility of his intervention,

but he was not yet willing to throw up the sponge.

“I see that to discuss the matter with you is useless,” he returned,

with equanimity. “It is seldom possible to argue with a woman, I find.

However, I now make my appeal to your father. Lord Torrens, you have

heard my opinion both as politician and friend, and I hope you now

realise the importance and truth of what I have said. It is your duty to

prohibit this marriage by every means in your power; but if you do not

feel disposed to exert your prerogative, will you accept me as deputy in

your place? Do you give me the authority to work for you in this matter?

If so, I think I shall be able to find—by means of the law—an impediment

which cannot be surmounted. If I undertake to fight out the matter, the

marriage _shall not take place_!”

He jerked out the last words as though he were pronouncing final

judgment, and brought his fist down on the table with force. The lovers

looked at each other, and Montella made as though he would speak; but

again Patricia restrained him.

“Father,” she said, approaching the Earl, with a look of appeal, “do you

not think this interview has lasted long enough? I have listened to Mr.

Moore with all the patience I could manage; but when he threatens to

prevent my marriage by means of the law, it is like trying to frighten a

child. We may not know much—Lionel and I—but we are wise enough to know

that the law has no power where we are concerned. Besides, you would not

give Mr. Moore permission to act for you in this matter, would you,

dear?”

The Earl was getting impatient, and took no notice of her caress.

“I give Mr. Moore permission to do as he likes,” he answered, a trifle

pettishly. “If the matter is of national importance, it is in his

domain, and he can take what steps he chooses. Personally, I like

Montella, and have no objection to him as a son-in-law. You must fight

it out between you; I wash my hands of the whole affair.”

The two young people looked triumphant, but so did the Premier.

“Then it is unnecessary to prolong this interview further,” he said,

taking up his hat and stick. “Since you give me authority, Lord Torrens,

I shall know what course to pursue.”

Montella at last came forward.

“One moment, Mr. Moore, before you go,” he put in, drawing his beloved

towards him. “Lady Patricia and I have no wish to maintain a personal

enmity towards you, and we should like to part as friends. It may be

that we shall never cross your path again, for when the barbarous Edict

is published, it is probable that we shall leave England for good.

Meanwhile, we may assure you that whatever steps you may take to prevent

our marriage will be absolutely useless, for the simple reason that—in

order to save further controversy on the matter—_we were married this

morning_.”

He had no occasion to repeat his statement; his words carried conviction

with them. The Earl started in surprise, and then gave vent to a chuckle

of amusement. The Premier was quite taken aback, but in spite of the

sudden pallor which overspread his face, he managed to retain his

self-possession.

“Since you have taken the law into your own hands, then there is no more

to be said,” he returned, in a voice from which all the bombast had

departed. “May I ask where the ceremony was performed?”

The bridegroom produced sundry documents from his breast pocket.

“We were married first at the registrar’s office at Knightsbridge, then

by the Chief Rabbi in my mother’s drawing-room. If you wish to see the

certificate you are welcome to do so,” he said.

The Premier condescended to give the papers his examination. Then he

suddenly veered round, and astonished them all by offering his

congratulations. The newly-married pair were too happy to bear malice,

and accepted them with satisfaction. But they could not help remarking

on his sudden change of feeling when the Premier eventually took his

leave.

The Earl chuckled for the remainder of the day, and in his admiration

for Montella’s smartness, forbore to be angry. He considered that the

interfering Premier had been nicely fooled, and expressed the hope that

the lesson would do him good. Montella wondered what Moore’s next move

would be; he knew that he was not the man to swallow defeat.

“What a strange wedding-day, dearest!” he exclaimed on the drive towards

his mother’s flat—their temporary home. “We could not have been married

in a quieter manner had we been the poorest couple in England. Why, even

our footman had his wedding-breakfast, and a fortnight at Southend; but

we have had to dispense both with festivities and honeymoon.”

Patricia smiled up at him reassuringly.

“Never mind, Lal, we will make up for it later on,” she returned

happily. “It is Parliament’s fault, and you are still in mourning, you

know. There will be plenty of time for our honeymoon when the Edict is

proclaimed.”

“There will be hardships for us both,” he said, with a sigh, his brow

clouding. “I quail when I think of what I have brought upon you, my

beloved.”

She drove away his forebodings with a gentle caress.

“I can bear all hardships and all troubles,” she answered, in an eager

voice. “I can undergo anything—so long as I have you!”

CHAPTER XII

MONTELLA’S OLD NURSE

The Montella-Byrne alliance evoked no little comment in society and the

Press, and it was tacitly agreed that Lady Patricia should be socially

punished for her offence. Nevertheless, friends sprang up in defence of

the newly-married pair from the most unexpected quarters, and Patricia

found that she was not to lose all her Christian acquaintance after all.

When Parliament adjourned for the Christmas recess, she and her husband

travelled to a village near Thorpe Burstall, in the vicinity of which

was situated the Montellas’ country seat. They arrived there at noon on

Christmas Eve, and to their complete surprise, received an ovation at

the railway station. The villagers, too loyal to be affected by the

anti-Jewish agitation, remembered only the never-failing kindness they

had received at the hands of the late Sir Julian Montella, and turned

out in full force to welcome his son’s bride. Between the station and

Burstall Abbey two arches of welcome had been erected, and although the

quantity of highly-coloured paper with which they were adorned conduced

to a somewhat crude effect, to the happy pair they were not lacking in

beauty. When the second was reached, four stalwart men insisted on

taking the horses out of the carriage, and themselves dragged the

vehicle to its destination. Surely there could be no greater honour than

this!

Amidst the joyous sound of cheering they alighted and entered the house.

Montella’s heart was so full that he could scarcely find words in which

to frame his thanks. The devotion of the people, coming at a time when

he had had nothing but unfavourable criticism on all sides, could not

fail to touch him deeply. It showed him that the burning fever of

anti-Semitism had at least not been permitted to penetrate here, and

that it was still possible to show good feeling towards a Jew. He

reciprocated by inviting them to dinner in the large hall on New Year’s

Day, an invitation which, needless to say, was unanimously accepted.

Burstall Abbey—which was built in the Gothic style—had come into the

Montellas’ possession in 1870. It was a fine old place, and Sir Julian

had taken pride in seeing that it was kept in good repair. There had

been two chapels attached, the first of which had fallen into decay many

years ago. The second had been transformed into a dining-room, and was

one of the finest apartments in the house. The altar had long since been

done away with, and its place was now occupied by a massive chiffonier;

but the oak wainscot and mullioned windows remained, as well as the

high-pointed arches and lofty roof.

“What would the old monks say if they could see us enjoying our lunch

here?” remarked Patricia laughingly, as she sat down to the table. “They

would call us vandals and barbarians, I suppose.”

She was so delighted with everything in the place, that Lionel was all

the more grieved that the property would so soon pass out of his hands.

It seemed such a great pity to have to give up the Abbey, where both he

and his father had been born. There were so many tender memories and

associations of his childhood connected with it, that it would be like

renouncing part of his own personality. But when the Edict was

proclaimed there would be no other alternative; and sell it he must.

“I wish my father would take it over,” Patricia said eagerly, when they

had discussed the question several times. “We can ask him to hold it in

trust for us; some day we may be able to have it back again. Shall I

write to him about it, Lionel?”

“If you like, dear; but there is no immediate hurry. You are more

hopeful than I am,” he added half sorrowfully. “Some day to me means no

day.”

Patricia looked up quickly and noticed the little furrow on his brow.

“It is not like you to be despondent, Lal,” she said, with a touch of

reproach. “You have worried too much, and eaten too little of late I

think. I want you to promise me not to give another thought to the Jews

whilst we are down here. Let us be happy as long as we can.”

Had she been less unselfish, the girl would have been jealous of the

subject which engrossed so much of her husband’s attention; but she was

so anxious to be his helpmate as well as his wife, that she concentrated

her own interest on the same question. She knew that when the call to

action came he was the man of all men to be inspired with hope, and to

press on towards the end he had in view. It was the forced inaction—the

waiting for events—which proved such a strain to his mental system, and

it was for this reason that she sought to divert his thoughts elsewhere.

She encouraged him to go out as much as possible, and scoured the

surrounding country with him in his motor. There were also his numerous

cottages to be inspected and his favourite tenants to be visited, for

Montella was not only landlord, but friend.

It was while they were on their peregrinations through the village that

they came across one Anne Whiteside, who had once been Lionel’s nurse.

They happened to meet her just outside her own dwelling, and she

insisted on their entering to partake of tea. The Montellas, nothing

loath, stepped into her little parlour, and settled themselves

comfortably on the stiff horse-hair sofa. It was a pleasant little room

in spite of its plainness, and everything in it was scrupulously clean.

There was an old-fashioned piano which had probably not been opened for

years, and a still more old-fashioned cabinet. The table—round in

shape—was covered by an elaborately worked cloth, upon whose surface

rested a number of books, including a huge Family Bible.

The old dame took such evident pleasure in preparing the tea, that the

visitors felt no compunction in giving her the trouble. She toasted the

cakes in the kitchen, but popped into the parlour every few minutes,

fork in hand, to assure them that she would not be long. When all was

ready, she donned her best widow’s cap, and took her seat at the head of

the table. Then Montella inquired after Tom.

“Oh, Tom’s well enough,” she replied, with affability. “He’s grown

mightily since you saw him last, Master Linie, only his poor brain seems

to stand still. He is sitting in his corner of the kitchen, looking at a

picture-book the lady up at the lodge has given him. He’s mighty fond of

pictures, is my Tom.”

The “Master Linie” caused a smile to flit across Patricia’s face, and

immediately she called up the vision of her husband as a child in frocks

and pinafores.

“Is Tom your little grandson?” she asked.

The old nurse nodded.

“Yes; leastways, he isn’t a little boy, for he will be fifteen next

March, and he’s an orphan, poor lad! Perhaps you would like to see him,

my lady, after tea?”

Patricia answered in the affirmative, and proceeded to attack a somewhat

substantial toasted bun. She knew that if she did not do justice to the

tea, Mrs. Whiteside would feel aggrieved, so she strove courageously to

demolish her share of the feast. Her duty fulfilled, she followed her

kindly hostess to the kitchen, where the shining cleanliness of the

stove and culinary utensils excited her admiration. In a corner by the

window sat the afflicted boy. Patricia went over to him, and held out

her hand.

He was small for his age, but he had a large and peculiarly-shaped head.

His abnormally developed forehead contrasted almost grotesquely with the

receding chin, and his small nose was out of proportion with both. His

eyes were large, and surmounted by heavy lids, but there was little

intelligence in their depths. They roamed shiftily from one object to

another, never concentrating their gaze on anything for more than two or

three seconds at a time. His mouth was large and weak, and he was unable

to close it with firmness. Moreover, he was afflicted by an impediment

in his speech, which added to the difficulty he experienced in making

himself understood. To strangers, it was hard to understand the purpose

of the poor lad’s existence, for to the end of his life he could be

nothing but a useless burden. But his grandmother loved him, and never

considered him a load of care. Since her husband’s death, she had saved

and pinched in order to put by enough to keep the boy when she was gone.

It was nothing to her that he could not understand and appreciate her

self-denial; all the wealth of her affection was lavished on the lad. He

took no notice of Patricia’s outstretched hand, but glanced at her out

of the corner of his eyes, whilst Mrs. Whiteside coaxed him to say “How

do you do?” to the lady. Montella’s deep voice seemed to attract his

attention more than Patricia’s gentle tones, and an expression which was

almost intelligent passed over his countenance as he gazed steadily for

a moment at the stalwart figure of the man. Montella noticed it, and

smiled back encouragingly, but he could not persuade the boy to speak.

“Do you think he has improved at all?” he inquired of the grandmother,

whose face beamed with pride. “I suppose he is not able to go to

school?”

“Oh, no; I couldn’t bear to trust him out of my sight, and to think that

the other boys might make game of him. Besides, he could not learn

anything, poor lamb. There will be time enough for him to learn when he

has put off this mortal flesh, and received his incorruptible

inheritance.”

She spoke so cheerfully that Lionel was puzzled.

“Do you mean when he has finished with this life?” he asked.

She nodded.

“That thought is my greatest comfort, Master Linie,” she replied. “You

see, if poor Tom cannot do any work in the world by reason of his poor

weak brain, he cannot commit sins either. I would far rather have him as

he is than see him grow up to drink and gamble like Widow Robson’s son

next door. And I know that the Lord will make up to him in the next

world for all he has missed in this; so you see that it will all come

right in the end, after all.”

“What faith you have!” exclaimed Patricia, in admiration. “I suppose

that you would have him cured if you could, all the same?”

“Certainly, my lady; I would travel to the other side of the earth if I

thought that I should find an infallible cure at the end of the journey;

but as the doctors have assured me over and over again that nothing can

be done for the boy, I am resigned to the inevitable. As long as the

Lord spares him to me I shall never complain.”

“Your resignation is exemplary, nurse,” said Montella, as they returned

to the little parlour; and then Patricia having refastened her jacket,

they took their leave.

They saw more of Mrs. Whiteside, however, before they went back to town.

She had heard something of the anticipated Edict, and desired full

information on the subject. Leaving Tom in the charge of a neighbour,

she came up to the Abbey one morning, dressed in her best. The Montellas

were in the library discussing a letter they had received from Dr.

Engelmacher. The news was good, insomuch as building operations on the

portion of land between Haifa and Akka, stretching to the Sea of

Galilee, had now commenced.

“Haifa will be our capital for the present,” the great leader wrote,

after he had given vent to his jubilant feelings. “There is a fairly

good harbour here, except when the wind is in the north-west. The town

seems more capable of improvement and extension than any other on the

coast of Palestine, and there is already a Jewish colony near by. By the

time you and your charming wife come out, my dear Montella, your place

of residence will be ready for your occupation. Picture to yourself a

magnificent white-painted, flat-roofed house situated amidst

olive-trees, with Mount Carmel to look down upon you, and hill after

hill as far as eye can reach. Why, you will wonder how you could have

remained in prosaic London for so many months at a time. And the thought

that we are no longer on sufferance, but that this is our own

country—our own little republic—will be best of all!”

He was not lacking in enthusiasm, this big, burly, and usually

matter-of-fact doctor. His letter brimmed over with expressions of

cheery optimism, and he refused to be disheartened by those who opposed

his schemes. What mattered the growlings of France and Russia so long as

Turkey could be conciliated by _backsheesh_? Once the Palestinian

negotiations were concluded and the treaty signed, he was certain his

people need have no fear.

Montella put the letter away as Mrs. Whiteside was shown into the room.

To the old nurse every chair in the place was familiar, and she entered

with the air of one who knew her way about. She remained standing,

however, and refused to be seated. She did not wish to detain Master

Linie and her ladyship; she had only come to make a request. Lionel

expressed his willingness to grant it whatever it might be. He thought

she might want to change her abode, or to have some improvements made to

the cottage, or something of a like nature. He was always ready to meet

the wishes of his tenants, including this one, in spite of the fact that

she lived rent free. But Mrs. Whiteside’s desire lay in another

direction altogether; she was quite satisfied with the present condition

of her house.

“Is it true that if Parliament persecutes the Lord’s ancient people you

will go and live in the Holy Land?” she asked, in her quaint way. “Mr.

Bell, the policeman, said you might; but I said you would never leave

Burstall Abbey for good.”

“It will be a case of needs must, I am afraid, Anne,” Montella replied,

noticing the look of concern on her face. “If it comes to being false to

Judaism or leaving the country, Lady Patricia and I will have to go. But

I will not sell the Abbey except to some good and responsible man, and

you need have no fear that you will suffer by the change. Your house

belongs to you, nurse, and no one shall rob you of it. I will tell my

solicitor to prepare a document to that effect.”

The dame’s eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that, Mr. Linie,” she said quickly, with a

touch of reproach. “Only it will nearly break my heart to see strangers

in the old place. It was your grandfather who first got me a situation

down here, and I’ve been here ever since. I remember every birth,

marriage, and death in the family, and I’ve just counted time by those

events.”

“You have always been a faithful retainer, nurse,” he rejoined kindly.

“It is gratifying to know that our departure will be regretted.”

“Ay, it will be regretted by every man, woman, and child in the place,

but by me most of all. Mr. Linie, will you do me a favour—the greatest

I’ve ever asked of you? Will you take me and my boy with you when you

go?”

It was out at last, and the old woman’s form quivered with excitement.

If he were to refuse, it would be the greatest disappointment she had

ever received. She was so devoted to the very name of Montella that she

could not bear to be left behind. She watched Lionel’s face as she put

the question, and awaited his answer in an agony of suspense. Lady

Patricia drew forward a chair, and made her sit down. She could see that

the nurse was intensely moved.

“We intend dismissing our staff of servants both in London and down here

if we go,” the young man replied thoughtfully. “We shall be expected to

employ Jewish labour as much as possible in the new land.”

“But you will have to employ some Gentile servants to work for you on

your Sunday, sir,” she interposed eagerly. “I could see to that for you,

and I could do all sorts of odd jobs for your lady and Lady Montella. I

am getting old, maybe, but I can get about just as well as ever I could.

I am sure you could manage the matter, Mr. Linie, if you were to try.”

The pleading in her manner touched Patricia.

“Say yes, Lionel,” she said to her husband, in a quiet voice. “As Mrs.

Whiteside seems so anxious to accompany us, it would be a pity not to

take her with us if we go.”

Lionel smiled.

“The Queen hath spoken: so be it,” he returned lightly. “Very well,

nurse, I will promise you this. If we go, you shall go with us.”

“And Tom, too, sir?”

“Yes, certainly. We should not think of parting you from your boy.”

The old nurse was not effusive in her gratitude, but her eyes shone as

she thanked them and went away.

“I believe that woman would be faithful to the death,” Lionel said, as

the door closed behind her. He felt that it was good to be the possessor

of such loyal allegiance.

CHAPTER XIII

A DIFFICULT ALTERNATIVE

The Jews’ Expulsion Bill had been passed through the House of Lords at

last, but the Act would not be put into full force until the April of

the next year. The fourteen months’ grace was given for charity’s sake,

in order that those Jews who came under the ban might have time to

settle up their affairs. This was certainly an improvement on the

Expulsion of 1290, when the Jews were deprived of all they possessed,

and cast adrift in such a manner that many of them succumbed before

reaching the other side of the Channel. Nevertheless, Athelstan Moore

and his party had taken care to impose certain restrictions, so that the

interim would not be entirely a respite. The immigration of aliens from

abroad, whether _en route_ for other countries or not, was immediately

stopped, no foreign Jew of whatever status being allowed to land. No Jew

was allowed to rent or purchase any new property, and the money-lending

business was brought to an abrupt standstill. Jewish marriages were

forbidden, and all Jews holding civic positions were deprived of office.

Besides all this, there were numerous rules and regulations of lesser

importance, so that the Jew would find himself hedged in on every side.

But there existed a loophole of escape available to all; it was nothing

to the Government that it would be accepted only by the few.

This loophole consisted of a certificate of assimilation granted by

every local magistrate on certain conditions. Any Jew or Jewess over the

age of fifteen was eligible as a candidate, and children could be signed

for by their parents. In order to obtain it, certain statements had to

be declared on oath in the presence of a commissioner and three

witnesses, and once the oath was taken, the penalty for breaking it

would be extremely severe. The conditions were embodied in the following

form of declaration:

“I ............ hereby declare that I am a Jew (or Jewess) by birth

only, and not by religion; that I totally renounce Judaism, and

everything connected therewith; that I will mix freely with Gentiles,

and do my best to dispel all clannishness and cliquism of race.

“I further undertake to make the Christian Sunday my day of rest, and

to celebrate socially the great Christian festivals; also to partake

of ordinary Gentile food, and to cease to observe the Jewish dietary

laws; to refrain from speaking or reading Hebrew, and from the use of

Jewish idioms. I promise to abstain from every Jewish rite, to attend

either a Christian, Theistic, or Unitarian place of worship, and to

associate myself religiously and socially with either of these three

bodies.

(If eligible for marriage.) “I undertake to marry one of Gentile birth

only, and to bring up any children of the said union in the faith of

their Gentile parent.

(If already married.) “I undertake to teach all my children, both now

and in the future, the religion of the Church (Christian, Theistic, or

Unitarian) I intend to make my own.

(Signed) .....................”

Here was to follow the full name address, and description of the

candidate, with photograph attached.

This certificate was granted only to those who were already British

subjects either by birth or by naturalisation of five years’ standing.

No “greener” was therefore eligible, and foreign labour in Whitechapel

was thereby done away with. The formula had been drawn up by Mr. Lawson

Holmes, M.P., the ardent advocate of assimilation in its most thorough

form. To him it seemed fair and just, and the only means of refining the

Jewish element of the English nation to its due proportion. He

considered that from the point of view of utilitarianism, mere sentiment

must be put aside. He was not an anti-Semite, and he disagreed on many

points with the Premier; he was undoubtedly a man of sound common sense.

As was to be expected, however, his formula evoked a storm of

indignation in the Jewish press. Eloquent appeals to the

patriotism of the race were issued and disseminated amongst the

British Jews throughout the land, and meetings of protest were

held despite the vigilance of the police. What People—were they

ever so irresponsible—would renounce their race and religion,

together with their ancient and illustrious past, at the mere word

of command? The very thought of persecution was enough to make men

cling to their cherished traditions with a new and greater

strength. Such a result—the deepening of their peculiar unity—had

been proved in the annals of history over and over again.

“I shall go and see Holmes to-night,” Montella said to his wife, as soon

as he had received notice of the formula. “I cannot rest until I have

made him see the absurdity of the whole thing. He used to be a friend of

mine.”

“Ask him what would be his answer if he were commanded to give up his

birthright as a freeborn English Christian,” advised his mother, with

heat.

“But don’t make matters worse by quarrelling with him, dear,” added

Patricia gently.

Montella promised to use his discretion; he was not of a fiery

temperament. He met Mr. Lawson Holmes in the lobby of the House of

Commons, and adjourned with him to his club. His friend insisted on

dining first before entering on the subject, and Lionel consented to

partake of a vegetarian repast. It was when they lingered over their

wine that the Cabinet Minister began his defence. He could not help

being impressed in spite of himself by Lionel’s reproachful mien.

“Now, my dear fellow, let us survey the question from an economic

standpoint,” he began, as he puffed away at a cigar. “I shall proceed to

dissect you metaphorically, if you have no objection?”

“None at all, so long as you leave the ego—that which is my real

self—intact,” Lionel replied.

“Very well, then, let us begin.” The Minister removed his cigar from his

lips, and placed it between his fingers. “First of all, I take it that

you are one of the units of which the English nation is composed: that

you are by birth and education an Englishman, and a subject of the

King?”

Montella acquiesced.

“That being so, then, your tastes are naturally British, and your

interest is to a great degree monopolised by the country of your birth.

This is proved by the mere fact of your being an ex-member of

Parliament, in which capacity I know you desired to exercise your

influence for the national good.”

“Certainly.”

“Yet when you are told that a certain legislation concerning the

question of the Jews is for the national good, you steadfastly set your

face against it, and resent its introduction. Being hemmed in by the

narrowness of your creed, you are unable to get outside yourself, so to

speak, and look at the matter from a rational and utilitarian point of

view. That is the great difference between you and your parliamentary

colleagues.”

“Exactly,” put in Montella eagerly. “I am a Jew.”

“A Jew, yes; but I wish to discover how much of the Jew there is in

you—the real Jew, according to the Oriental sense of the term. That

there is an element of Hebraism in your moral and intellectual nature I

do not dispute; but there are other and Occidental elements which you

have inherited to a greater degree. Do you think your forefathers, when

they left Palestine and lived in the West, were not affected by the

influences of Hellenism, of Chivalry, of the Renaissance, of the

Reformation, and of the Christian ethics in general, with which they

came into contact? My dear fellow, the Occidental Jew—such as

yourself—is no more like the Hebrew of old than I am! Do you think that

if you were forced to live in strict accordance with the Talmudic law,

you would feel that you were fulfilling the obligations of your race? I

assure you that you would feel nothing of the kind; you would know that

you were returning to darkness, shutting out civilisation and light.”

“Perhaps so,” replied the young man thoughtfully, “but for all that, I

am a Jew, and not all the Occidental influences in the world have been

able to break the bond which unites me to my forefathers. Blood is

thicker than water, Mr. Holmes; and when once the blood of an Israelite

flows in a man’s veins, it is impossible for him to forget his heritage.

He may renounce it as he likes, but by his looks, his temperament, his

associations, his very tricks of gesture, he betrays it. That I have

nothing in common with the typical Jew of tradition, and that I am a

thorough Englishman at heart I am glad to admit; nevertheless there is a

difference between myself and you, for instance. Small and indefinable

though it may be, you know that it is there.”

He had drawn his chair back from the table in his ardour, and leant back

with a flush on his brow. His dark eyes glowed with the intensity of

feeling, and about the youthful, clean-shaven face, with its splendid

forehead, sensitive nostrils, and firm, yet gentle mouth, there was a

nobility which it was hard to resist. Holmes secretly considered

Montella a perfect specimen of his race, but he was loath to believe

that he had inherited a single good quality from his Hebrew ancestors.

“As long as you remain an idealist, my dear boy, you will never be able

to take a dispassionate view of the matter,” he returned, with

deliberation. “It is that sentimental clinging to tradition which is

your people’s bane. My standpoint, however, is simply this: A Jewish

element in a nation is a desirable and almost an essential thing to

have, but as soon as that element preponderates—as now—it becomes a

danger to the State. Therefore it must be kept within bounds, and those

Jews who refuse to conform to the customs of this country must be weeded

out. The only way out of the present crisis, it seems to me, is

absorption, for as long as you Jews remain separatists you have no right

to the full privileges of the land of your adoption. Therefore the

Government has thought fit to take stringent measures to bring about

this result; and although I admit that those measures seem unnecessarily

harsh, I know that they are for the benefit of the nation at large. Let

those Jews who cherish the scriptural tradition and maintain their

clannishness return to the land of their fathers. There must be either

assimilation or a separate Jewish state.”

“And you think this justifies the persecution of two hundred and seventy

thousand people, the majority of whom are loyal subjects of the King?”

The Minister frowned.

“I do not call it persecution when the alternative is such a reasonable

one,” he replied. “It is not as if we were compelling you to become

Christians. You can retain your religious belief in the Absolute Unity

by declaring yourselves Theists or Monotheists instead of Jews; the

change is only in the name.”

“But we are to give up our customs and our Sabbath, our fasts and our

feasts, and everything which throughout the centuries has made Judaism

the bond of union twixt Jew and Jew!” He sighed, knowing that they might

argue till Doomsday, and yet remain as far asunder as the poles. Mr.

Lawson Holmes was well informed concerning the Jews, and indeed

possessed more knowledge than the average Gentile; but he was not

capable of putting himself in the position of a Jew; he could not

understand the racial claim.

In spite of all Jewish obligations and the condemnation of the press,

however, the assimilation plan was not unanimously rejected by the Jews.

Some were too deaf to the claims of race and faith to care to retain

them; others were less insensible, but could not bear the thought of

suffering; others, again, were prepared to sacrifice their personal

feelings for the sake of the public good. It was one thing to cherish

one’s old traditions, and look kindly on all things Jewish for old

association’s sake; it was quite another thing to have to pay for the

privilege of doing so by expulsion, physical discomfort, money, and loss

of pride. It was found that the majority of those Jews who had long

mixed with the _élite_ of English society, including some of the princes

of finance, were quite willing to take the oath; but the number of

faithful Jews increased as one descended the social scale. It is ever so

when a religious or moral upheaval affects the heart of a people; for a

passionate and public adherence to a religious or moral belief one has

to look amongst the poor.

The Montellas were a notable exception amongst their prosperous

_confrères_. The loyal faith and inherent sense of duty possessed by

Lady Montella were shared by her son, and to him the rest of their

co-religionists looked for help. Young as he was, he possessed all the

characteristics which conduce to the making of a good leader, and in his

devotion to the cause he made a worthy protector of his people’s

interests. It was good to know that amidst the trouble and confusion of

this terrible crisis there was a man in Israel on whom one could

depend—a man who possessed the power of wealth and influence as well as

that of intellectual attainments, whose very personality inspired

confidence in the souls of the depressed, whose heart was in truth a

heart of gold. Encouraged by the resolute faith of his mother, and

influenced by the beautiful disposition of his wife, his character

expanded in breadth without losing its manliness. Difficulties which

would have filled others with alarm, were to him as so many easily

surmounted obstacles to be overcome. With a clearness of vision, granted

only to the few, he was able to look onward in the future, seeing not

the immediate distress of present circumstances, but only the coming

glory of that Eastern Land.

BOOK II

THE LAND OF THEIR FATHERS

“_And he shall set up an ensign for the nations, and shall assemble the

outcasts of Israel, and gather together the dispersed of Judah from the

four corners of the earth._”—ISAIAH xi. 12.

CHAPTER I

PURIM IN HAIFA

Haifa, the most modern city in Palestine, lay at the southern point of

the Bay of Acre, about fifty miles north of Jaffa. Situated amid

palm-trees, it retained its Eastern character whilst bearing witness to

the innovations of the West. During the two years which had elapsed

since the English Edict of Expulsion, the great army of Jewish artisans

had laboured well. Rows upon rows of white bungalows had sprung up

almost, as it seemed, in a night; and although they could not boast of

the substantiality of their construction, they could be improved by

degrees. The greater part of the population consisted of British

refugees, who, linked together by the same home ties, concentrated

themselves as much as possible in one quarter, leaving their brethren of

other nationalities to settle in different parts of the country.

Therefore, although it was an accepted rule that Hebrew was to be learnt

and spoken, they instinctively clung to their native tongue.

They were very aristocratic, these exiled English Jews. Like many

English people who travel abroad, they considered themselves vastly

superior to all the foreigners with whom they came into contact. They

looked down on their poor Polish and Roumanian brethren, who in their

turn considered the English as irreligious moderns, scarcely worthy of

the name of Jews. The brotherly feeling of equality which their leaders

endeavoured to instil within them was as yet entirely lacking. Although

of identical race and religion, and gathered together under one banner,

the distinctions of class and nationality held them aloof.

It was the eve of Purim, the Feast of Lots. By decree of the council, a

public holiday had been proclaimed; for it was intended that this day

should annually be observed, and that the rejoicings should be akin to

the nature of a carnival. It was not until dusk, however, that the

festivities began. The day had been unusually hot, even for Syria, and

the majority of the inhabitants had chosen to spend the holiday indoors.

At sunset came the breeze, and the heat of the day was replaced by a

refreshing and welcome coolness. No matter how hot the day in Haifa, the

nights were always cool.

In a sequestered corner of a city roof-garden were Lionel Montella and

his wife. Above them the moon shone with dazzling splendour, making the

numberless hills stand out as sentinels on guard, and causing the waters

of the bay to sparkle like myriads of jewels. Patricia reclined against

the cushions of her chair, and inhaled the fragrance of the breeze with

keen enjoyment. She found the Syrian climate so trying that she was

thankful for every breath of air.

The two years in Palestine had changed her little, and she was still a

delicately fair and beautiful girl. Devotedly attached to her husband

and baby boy, she found no occasion to pine for her friends in the West.

She had always possessed the power of adapting herself to her

surroundings, and she soon became accustomed to the strangeness of her

new life. Recently the Princess Charles von Felsen-Schvoenig had arrived

to “do” Palestine, and was at present in Haifa, so that she was not

entirely destitute of friends.

“The Princess is late,” she remarked, as Lionel took a seat at her side.

“She said she would come here to see the fun.”

“Perhaps her carriage has some difficulty in getting through the crowd,”

Montella replied. “I am just wondering if this carnival idea of

Engelmacher’s is a wise one. It means practically setting the people

loose.”

“I rather like the idea,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “The people have

had such a serious time of it that it will do them good to relax for

once. I do not see why they should not behave as well as the people at

Nice or Cannes. The soldiers will keep them within bounds.”

“I can scarcely reconcile myself to the thought of vociferous Jewish

rejoicing,” he rejoined. “We have sung in the minor key for so many

years. Do you know, dearest, these last two years seem to have passed

like a dream. I have difficulty in convincing myself sometimes that I am

awake.”

“A dream of hard work, then,” was her reply. “To be governor of a city

so cosmopolitan as Haifa, and where the inhabitants have scarcely

settled down, is no sinecure, Lal, dear. I know of no man, not excepting

Dr. Engelmacher himself, who could have done so much in so short a time.

It is no wonder that there is already a streak of grey in your hair.”

He bent down and kissed her with eyes full of tenderness. His life in

Palestine would have been almost unbearable without Patricia’s sweet

sympathy and encouragement; for there was much in the city and the

people over whom he was placed that vexed him sometimes beyond

endurance. Her love was the sustaining power which made the rough places

smooth, and she possessed so winning a manner that she could exert a

greater influence over the people by a single sentence than he could by

a long and forcible address. Political administration could do much to

improve the conditions of the city, but it could not instil a high moral

tone.

The rustle of silken garments announced the approach of ladies, and

Montella rose from his chair. The Princess, clad in a gown of filmy

white, was accompanied by Lady Montella and Raie. Just at that moment

the sound of cheering came up to them from below.

“My little car has met with the approval of the people,” the Princess

said, smiling. “It is the one I had in Rome.”

Montella went over to the parapet and looked down. A small white

swan-shaped car, drawn by four Arabian ponies, was being driven slowly

away. It was decorated with choice flowers, and illuminated with tiny

lamps, resulting in a fairy-like effect. In the procession which would

presently set out for the mock hanging of Haman’s effigy, it would serve

as Queen Esther’s triumphal car.

“Lady Montella took me over your new house this afternoon,” the Princess

informed Patricia, as she settled herself at her side. “It will be the

show-place of Haifa. I like your Roman atrium immensely. Who designed

it?”

“Lionel. He is so determined that I should have an artistic home that he

has spared no pains to make it beautiful for me. That is why the

builders have taken so much time over it. For myself, I am quite happy

in this little place, in spite of its plainness. It was a sort of

hospice before we came, you know.”

She smiled as she thought of her husband’s enthusiasm over the house he

was having built. That house was his hobby, and he took the same pride

in it as an artist over his picture. And she knew the motive of his

interest was concentrated in herself; in his eyes there was no home

which could be beautiful enough for his wife.

“You must invite me to come and stay with you when it is finished,” said

the Princess lightly. “Meanwhile I must be content with my exalted

position on the top of Mount Carmel. It is something, is it not, to stay

in the very place where Elijah conquered the prophets of Baal? I love

Mount Carmel!”

“You seem quite enamoured of Palestine altogether,” said Montella,

joining the group. “I did not think you would stay so long, Princess—you

who have seen so much of other countries.”

“I do like Palestine,” she admitted readily. “I like the Oriental

colouring, and it amuses me to note the curious blending of types and

nationalities to be found here. Besides, Palestine possesses an interest

all its own. I am not religiously inclined myself; but it is, after all,

the _Holy Land_.”

“The Holy Land!” repeated Patricia musingly. “Do you know of what the

phrase puts me in remembrance? Why, of the dreaded Scripture lessons I

had in the days of my childhood. My governess used to make me learn the

exact position of every place mentioned in the Bible, until I could

almost find them, blindfolded, on the map. I am afraid I used to hate

the Holy Land in those days. I never dreamt that I should go there

myself.”

“And do you like it better now that you are here?”

“Yes; but I should like any place for so long as my husband were with

me.”

She glanced affectionately at Lionel. The Princess sighed. Perhaps a

pang of compunction smote her for having left her own husband to lead a

solitary life in the castle at Felsen-Schvoenig. Hers was a curious

blending of character which the German Prince could not understand. She

was alternately defiant and yielding; unfortunately, whenever she came

into contact with her husband, the defiance predominated.

“To-day’s mail brought me a letter from Mamie,” she said, after a

moment’s silence. “She seems to be getting on very well with her new

husband, considering Moore’s temper. She says that he is more

interesting than Chesterwood, because she never knows what sort of a

mood he will be in next. There is something in that, you know.”

Patricia smiled.

“How does she like being the Prime Minister’s wife?” she asked.

“Oh, Athelstan is horrid in that way,” the Princess replied vaguely. “He

doesn’t believe in women meddling with politics; and won’t tell her any

State secrets.”

“Sensible man!” remarked Montella, with a playful glance at his wife;

and then the cheering having begun anew, he returned to the parapet.

“The procession is coming,” announced Raie, who was looking down on the

crowd. “Look: ‘_What shall be done to the man whom the King delighteth

to honour?_’ There is the Scroll of Esther. I suppose they are going to

the synagogue to read it.”

The procession was headed by the students of the new Haifa Jews’ College

in full dress, and was unenlivened by the strains of any brass band.

Instead, the weird chanting of Psalms in Hebrew smote the air, the

voices sounding clear, but somewhat harsh. Men of all sorts and

conditions followed on: the swarthy Pole walked side by side with the

ruddy Saxon, the fair and slender Jerusalemite with the wiry Roumanian.

Coming from a source so heterogeneous, they were yet able to sink their

national differences on one common meeting-ground; and Hebrew, that

sacred tongue of their fathers, served as a language for them all.

Lady Montella, with her arm within her son’s, watched them with swelling

heart. To her, there was a deeper significance than the mere joy of

Purim in the procession of rejoicing Jews. The chord of racial

nationalism which lay so far down in her nature responded as to an

harmonious touch, and quivered with an emotion which could scarcely be

expressed in words. Years ago she had dreamt of a free gathering under

the sign of the Shield of David. It seemed as if her dream had at last

come true.

“Can I go down amongst the crowd, Aunt Inez?” asked Raie, breaking in

upon her reverie. “I want to have a look at all the funny things the men

are selling.”

“It would not be safe, dear,” Lady Montella replied. “You would need a

stronger escort than Anne.”

“You can come with me presently, Raie,” volunteered the Princess,

noticing the girl’s air of disappointment “If Lady Montella has no

objection, you shall spend the night with me at the Mount Carmel Hotel.”

Raie was delighted, and having obtained permission, went to get ready

forthwith. An hour later they were being driven through the densely

thronged streets. The festivities had taken a more hilarious turn, but

there was nothing riotous in the behaviour of any of the people. When

the Jew rejoices as a religious duty, he does it with his whole heart;

but as he is not addicted to drink, he is able to keep his merriment

within bounds. The throwing of the modern confetti and the trampling

underfoot of Haman’s effigies constituted the chief source of amusement.

Indoors the better-class families were celebrating the occasion by a

grand Purim feast.

Arrived at the summit of the mount, they found the hotel in a state of

confusion. A tourist—arrived only that day—had been attacked by an Arab

in one of the caves, and—it was said—lay in a critical condition. It was

the first time for many years that an outrage had been committed so near

the town.

The Princess was much concerned, for she had made the acquaintance of

the tourist in question immediately after his arrival.

“His name is Frank Merryweather, and he comes from Australia,” she said

to Raie, who was always anxious for information. “He is one of the

finest men I have ever seen.”

“He is not a Jew?” affirmed the girl, with interrogation.

“I am not sure. He is the sort of man one can’t easily place; but as he

spoke of going on to England shortly, I suppose he is not.”

Later in the evening, the physician, who happened to be staying in the

hotel, informed them that his patient’s wound was not so serious as had

been feared. The next morning the patient himself was brought up to the

roof-garden to enjoy the air before the heat of the day.

The Princess and her friend were up early, and found him propped up on a

couch beneath a shady palm. The air was fragrant with the breath of

tropical flowers, and was made melodious by the sweet carolling of the

birds. The sick man lay with his eyes closed, but he opened them as he

heard the rustling of a woman’s dress. His glance first fell on the

stately figure of the Princess, and his features relaxed in greeting.

Then he looked at Raie, who, in a simple linen gown which suited her

well, might have stood for a picture of perfect girlhood.

“Miss Emanuel, Mr. Merryweather,” said the Princess; and Raie shook

hands with a new tinge of colour in her cheeks. Then an almost

involuntary look passed between them—the intuitive sign when Jew meets

Jew.

“We were distressed to hear of your accident last night,” the Princess

said, as they took their seats beside him. “Do tell us about it. Do you

feel better this morning?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” he replied, in a genial voice. “It was a mere

scratch, which the people chose to magnify into a serious wound. I shall

be as right as ninepence pretty soon. It was my own fault for prying

where I wasn’t wanted. I got into one of the caves on the other side of

the mount, not knowing that it was the parlour of an Arab gentleman

until he set on me and whipped out a knife. I wouldn’t have intruded if

I had known it was his den. I guess I’ll keep to the township for the

future, anyway.”

“Have you been long in Syria?” asked the Princess, when they had both

commented on the adventure. “I suppose you have visited Jerusalem and

the neighbourhood?”

He answered in the negative.

“I came from Port Said to Jaffa, and from Jaffa to here,” he explained.

“I am really _en route_ from Australia to England.”

Raie wondered what business had brought him to Haifa, but she was too

well-bred to ask.

“I suppose England is your home?” she said gently, thinking that there

was no harm in questioning so far.

“I have no home, Miss Emanuel,” was his prompt reply. “The world is my

home.”

There was a touch of sadness in his words, as well as in his voice. The

girl glanced up suddenly, and meeting the gaze from his deep eyes looked

as suddenly away. She felt instinctively that this was a man who had

been brought into contact with the rough side of life, but who yet

retained his natural refinement of birth. He interested her strangely,

and so strongly that she longed to find out more about him. If he were a

Jew, how was it that he intended to go to England? Surely he must be

aware of the expulsion of the Jews?

She was so impressed by his personality that she could not help thinking

of him, even after her departure from the hotel. She visited her

people—who lived in one of the white houses in the suburbs—later in the

day, and could scarcely refrain from mentioning him to them. She was

glad, however, that she was able to check herself in time, for Mrs.

Emanuel’s badinage was the last thing that she desired. In talking to

her mother, however, a half-forgotten chord of remembrance was stirred

in her brain—a psychological connection between Mr. Merryweather and a

former conversation. She tried to fathom it out, but the solution

escaped her. One thing she was certain about: she had seen something of

the tourist before.