RAIE AND THE TOURIST
The Princess had taken a fancy to Raie. She admired the girl’s winsome
face, with its coronal of curly hair, and the animation which shone in
her dark eyes. She liked, too, her naïve manner and natural freshness,
for, in spite of her thoughtfulness, Raie was a child of Nature. In
England the two had scarcely spoken, although they had met several
times; but in Haifa the conditions of life were different, and the
friendship, once begun, soon ripened. Thus it happened that Raie spent a
great part of her time at the Mount Carmel Hotel, either lunching or
dining with her friend.
The air of mystery which pervaded the Australian tourist still
prevailed. He would give a certain amount of information about himself,
but no more; and concerning his own life he was extremely reticent. He
seldom ventured far into the town, and had not troubled to call at the
Government House. What attracted him to Haifa, therefore, no one exactly
knew; he had evidently come for a private purpose of his own.
Now the Princess possessed acute powers of perception. She soon saw that
Mr. Merryweather took pleasure in Raie’s society, and that Raie
reciprocated in like manner. So she set the seal of her approval on the
acquaintance by giving them opportunities for its further cultivation;
and in spite of her worldly wisdom she did not pause to consider whether
such a friendship were desirable. The tourist was much older than Raie,
and of his connections nothing was known. Yet she encouraged the girl to
form a liking for him which gradually deepened into love.
He had travelled so much that conversation never languished for want of
subject matter. Raie was profoundly interested in his graphic accounts
of life in the bush, but she would have preferred to hear him talk about
himself. She did not even know if her instinctive belief that he
belonged to her own race was correct; for although they had often
approached the subject, he had not yet confessed himself a Jew. She
thought so much of him that she was determined to find out. It would
make all the difference in the world if he were not a Jew.
He was fond of taking excursions in the surrounding country on
horseback, and often remained away over night. He invited the Princess
and Raie to picnic with him near the ruins of the Castellum Peregrinorum
of the Crusaders one day, and seemed so bent upon their going, that they
did not like to refuse. They set out at dawn, accompanied by two other
gentlemen who were staying at the hotel, and three Arab servants. Their
way lay along a cultivated plain between the mountains and the sea, with
villages nestling on the slopes above them, and rocks and ruins below.
The gaudily-dressed peasants gazed at them with distrust, evidently
regarding them as intruders. Arrived at Athlit, they put up their horses
at a neighbouring khan, and prepared to partake of a light repast. Their
appetites had been sharpened by the ride.
Raie felt like a schoolgirl out for a holiday. She had come out with the
express intention of enjoying herself, and she meant to fulfil it to the
letter. Outside the khan lay a solemn-looking camel; immediately she
made up her mind that she must have a ride.
The Arab in charge was a gentle-looking individual, with somewhat
melancholy eyes. He wore both a tarbûsh and keffiyeh on his head, and
his abbâ—or shawl—fell from his shoulders in graceful folds. He shrugged
his shoulders when Mr. Merryweather’s servant proffered Raie’s request,
and in consideration of _backsheesh_ allowed her to mount. This was
easier said than done, for when the camel began to rise from the ground
she was nearly thrown over his head. She clung on, however, with all the
tenacity of which she was capable, and felt as if she had attained a
victory when the animal set off at a jog-trot.
Mr. Merryweather walked alongside in order to keep her company, and
endeavoured to sustain a conversation with the Arab on the way. When the
girl declared that the motion gave her a peculiar sensation, he
suggested a halt, and the animal was brought to a sudden standstill.
Raie was not sorry to dismount, and gave a sigh of relief when her feet
touched the ground. She had no desire to repeat the experience which had
been hers on the sea.
Her companion paid the Arab, and sent the camel back to the khan. Then
he drew Raie towards one of the fine carob-trees which abound in that
district, and bade her rest beneath its shade. She settled herself
comfortably on a boulder, and he flung himself down at her side. The
opportunity for which he had sought had come.
“Miss Emanuel,” he said suddenly, “are you fond of Heine?”
The question was so unexpected that Raie glanced at him in surprise.
“Do you mean the German poet?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The girl waxed thoughtful.
“I admire his genius,” she replied, at length, “but some of his poems
irritate me. He is so apt to descend from the sublime to the ridiculous,
and to him absolutely nothing is sacred. He has the poet’s mind without
the poet’s soul. What makes you think of Heine, though, just now?”
“I was thinking of a little poem I read of his a long time ago—‘Life’s
Salutations.’ It was about meeting each other on the highway of life,
but having little time to greet before the postillion gives the starting
signal, and we have to be off again.
“‘In passing each other we nod and we greet
With our handkerchiefs waved from the coaches,
We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet,
And speed on, despite all reproaches.’
That seems to apply to our case, does it not? We have had time to greet
each other, but that is all. The signal has been given for my coach to
start.”
“Do you mean that you are going away?” Raie asked, with a sinking at her
heart.
He nodded his head.
“Yes,” was his reply. “I have stayed here much longer than I intended,
already. I must be in London at the beginning of next month.”
“You are going to England!” she exclaimed, with disappointment in her
voice. If he were going to England, he could not be a Jew; and if he
were not a Jew, he could be nothing to her. She glanced at him with an
unspoken question in her eyes, whilst across her bright face flitted an
expression of pain.
He captured one of her little sunburnt hands, and held it between his
own.
“You are sorry—Raie?” he said, in a quiet voice. “Tell me the truth.”
“Yes, I am sorry.” She glanced away, and refused to meet his gaze. “I
can’t help being sorry. You have been so kind to me.”
She had never felt so near crying in her life, and yet she could have
laughed at her own foolishness. A mist rose before her eyes, and the
mountains in the distance seemed blurred. She released her hand, and
fumbled for her tiny lace handkerchief. Mr. Merryweather’s features
relaxed into an expression of gentleness.
“Raie,” he said, with a tender accent on the name, “I am going to
England, but I am not bound to stay there. In three months’ time I can
be back in Haifa—that is, if you will give me permission to come.”
“I?” she exclaimed evasively. “What has it to do with me?”
“Everything. If I return to Haifa it will only be for you. Perhaps I
have no right to speak to you like this, dear, but I could not go away
without declaring myself. Raie, look me in the face and tell me the
truth. Do you love me?”
He raised her chin gently with his two hands, and brought her face on a
level with his own. The girl’s cheeks grew crimson as she looked back
into the depths of his eyes. She answered not a word, but he was
satisfied.
“You do love me,” he said, with conviction. “I can read the answer in
your eyes.”
There was a moment of silence as he relaxed his hold. The girl was
undergoing an inward struggle, and her heart beat fast. She was
wondering what the Montellas would think of her secret lover, and what
her mother would say. Would they be angry with her, and consider her
conduct underhand? Would they approve of one who was presumably a
Christian and a wanderer? Would it not be wiser to send him away before
it was too late? In less than a minute these suggestions crowded in upon
her mind.
Mr. Merryweather seemed to guess her thoughts.
“I wonder if you love me enough to trust me, dear,” he said slowly. “You
have a right to want to know something about the man you intend to
marry, but I cannot tell you all about myself just yet. I can assure
you, though, that I come of a good family—my father is a baronet; and
although I am over thirty, I am a bachelor, and have never had a
love-affair. More than this I cannot tell you now, but you shall know
everything some day. Until then, will you be content to take me on
trust? Will you promise to become my wife?”
He spoke in the sharp, disjointed sentences which were—with him—a sign
of deep feeling. Raie looked up at him almost piteously, and for the
moment knew not how to reply. He was so much older and stronger than
herself that she instinctively felt that resistance would be useless;
besides, she did not want to resist. But something within urged her not
to be rash, and she felt compelled to listen to her conscience.
“I do trust you,” she answered, almost inaudibly, “but I cannot promise
to become your wife. I owe so much to Lady Montella that I could not—I
dare not—engage myself without her consent. You see I believe in you
because—because I know that you are good; but in her case it would be so
different. I am sure she would not give her consent to our engagement
unless she were satisfied that you—that you—oh, I can’t explain, but you
know what I mean. And she is so particular that I am afraid she would
never allow me to marry away from my religion. I suppose you are—not a
Jew?”
She studied his features as though their contour would reveal what she
sought. He was neither fair nor dark, and his life in the open had lent
a ruggedness to his countenance which baffled her completely.
Fortunately she was not kept long in suspense.
“That objection can be easily dispelled,” he answered, with a slight
touch of colour. “I have the right to call myself a Jew.”
She gave a sigh of relief.
“And yet you are going to England?” she questioned, not yet satisfied.
“And—and—Merryweather is not a Jewish name?”
He bent down and regarded her steadfastly once more.
“Did you not say you would trust me, Raie?” he rejoined, with a touch of
reproach. “What if, for a certain grave reason, I have been obliged to
change my name? Listen, child,”—his voice became almost stern—“I am a
Jew; but for many years past I have made mankind my brethren, the world
my country, and God in Nature my religion. When I was a youth I was
expelled from home and people for a crime which I never committed, since
when I have lived alone. Recently I have had reason to believe that by
returning to England I may be able to prove my innocence, and as I have
made my fortune out on the goldfields, I shall have the power that money
can give. I can tell you no more, perhaps I have told you too much
already; but I have made you a most serious confidence. Surely you can
trust me in return?”
Her face was full of trouble.
“I do trust you!” she repeated, with a catch in her breath; “but what
you have told me makes it harder still. Unless she knows the whole
truth, I know Lady Montella will not consent.”
“She must know nothing for the present. Not a word of what I have told
you must pass your lips. Raie, my darling, I must insist on this for the
sake of us both. Promise me you will not say anything of this.”
She promised—but with reluctance, because she hated to have a secret
from her foster-aunt.
“Won’t you tell me your real name?” she asked half wistfully. “I do not
want to think of you as ‘Frank Merryweather’ if that is only a
pseudonym.”
But he shook his head.
“You must have patience a little longer, dear,” he rejoined. “I dare not
tell you yet.”
She glanced at him with reproach in her eyes, but forbore to put it into
words. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead, and then assisted
her to rise. They were both silent on the way back to the khan, and
Raie, at least, was deep in thought. Suddenly a flash of light as
dazzling as a revelation burst in upon her mind. She knew now why her
lover’s personality had always seemed so familiar to her. The son of a
Jewish baronet—expelled from home—fortune made in Australia. It was
impossible that there could exist two such men.
She stopped short in her walk, and faced him with excitement.
“It is not necessary for you to tell me your name,” she said hurriedly.
“I know it already. I first heard of you from my mother some months ago,
and I have seen your photograph. You are the son whom Sir Julian so
cruelly disinherited. You are Lionel’s half-brother—Ferdinand Montella!”