A GIRL IN LOVE
He met her gaze of astonishment with a curious expression on his face.
“Ferdinand Montella is dead,” he returned slowly, “or at least he is
sleeping. For the present Frank Merryweather remains to take his place.
You are a clever child, Raie. I did not think you would find me out so
easily.”
“I seemed, somehow, to know you from the first,” she said gladly, as
they continued their walk. “There was something about your personality
which gave me the impression of having met you before. I suppose I never
have met you before; but your ways of looking and speaking are very like
your poor father’s, and of course I knew him well.”
The adjective arrested his attention.
“You do not mean to say that my father is—” He broke off shortly. “Why
did you say ‘poor’?”
“Because he is dead.” Then realising her abruptness, she was filled with
compunction. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she added respectfully. “I ought not
to have told you like that. I made sure that you knew; it was in all the
papers. He died over three years ago.”
The tourist’s face grew grave, and unconsciously hardened.
“I have lived practically away from civilisation for some time, where no
news could reach me,” he rejoined, “but I do not suppose I should have
been sent for, even had it been possible. Sir Julian treated me very
unjustly, Raie, and I find it hard to forget. Still, he was my father,
and loved me when I was a child. I am sorry he has died believing me
guilty.”
Raie was silent for a few moments, and left him to his own reflections;
but before they rejoined their party, she spoke again.
“Why did you come to Haifa without making yourself known to your people,
Ferdinand?” she asked, eager for information.
“Frank, dear, not Ferdinand—for the present,” he corrected, starting
slightly at the name. “My coming to Haifa was a mere chance, and it was
not until I arrived here that I learnt that my brother Lionel was
Governor. I suppose Burstall Abbey has been sold? Who lives there now?”
“It belongs to Earl Torrens, Lionel’s father-in-law; but it is standing
empty for the present. Do you remember the nurse—Anne—from Thorpe
Burstall? She came with us to Palestine, and is with us now.”
“Anne Whiteside? Yes, I remember her well. I must be careful, or she
will recognise me. She was always very shrewd.”
Raie glanced up at him thoughtfully.
“I wish you would go and see Lady Montella and Lionel before you go
away,” she said, with a touch of entreaty. “I am sure they would receive
you well.”
He shook his head.
“I intend to have nothing to do with the Montellas until my innocence
has been proved,” he rejoined firmly. “I do not desire pity or
forgiveness; I want only justice.”
“But you will claim your title, surely? Even if it is not of much value
away from England, it is your right. Some day we may all return.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“For myself I care nothing; I have roughed it too long to wish for
anything of the sort. If I claim it, dearest, it will be for you.”
The colour came into her cheeks, and she made no reply. Of all the
strange coincidences she had met with during her short life, this seemed
the strangest. Her eyes shone with a new light when, a few minutes
later, she rejoined the Princess; and on the homeward journey she was
unusually silent. As they passed through the outskirts of Haifa, she
found herself with her lover at the head of the little cavalcade a few
paces in advance, and begged him to allow her to confide in her friend.
She was so anxious to tell someone that she was afraid she would not be
able to refrain from introducing the subject; so Ferdinand, knowing that
the Princess could be trusted, consented. The occasion was celebrated by
a dainty supper in the hotel, and Raie’s eyes shone as they had never
done before. And even when her lover took his departure a few days
later, the love-light in her eyes remained, so that the Montellas
wondered what had come to her, and why she was so unusually joyous.
Perhaps the girl wondered at herself, for it seemed almost incredible
that the mere fact of knowing Ferdinand should make so great a
difference. But the fact remained, and she had no power to prevent
it—indeed, she had no wish that it should be otherwise. Gazing into her
mirror one morning, she was astonished to find how well she looked—how
her eyes sparkled, and how vivacious was the expression on her face.
“I shall be quite pretty by the time Ferdie comes back,” she said softly
to herself, exhibiting for the first time a sense of vanity. “I want to
be pretty for him. For myself, I do not care at all; but for him—”
And then she leant her elbows on the dressing-table and lost herself in
a delicious reverie; but presently a cloud passed over her brow.
Supposing Ferdinand were unable to prove his innocence, what would she
do? Had she the courage to marry him with a stain upon his name and
character; and even if she had the courage, would it be right for her so
to do? Besides, she could not marry him whilst he retained his
pseudonym, and neither in Palestine nor England could they be united
under the name of Montella. Looking into the future, she foresaw
difficulties so immense as to be almost insuperable, but she could not
bear the thought of ever having to give up the man she loved. No
sacrifice would be too great so far as she personally was concerned; but
she hated the thought of grieving the one to whom she owed more than she
could ever repay. It was not in her nature to act clandestinely or to
rebel against authority, especially when she knew that that authority
was worthy of esteem. So that if it came to breaking with either Lady
Montella or her lover, the struggle would be keen and bitter; for
whichever way it went she would lose a friend. She could only hope that
what she dreaded might never come to pass, and that her lover would
return with his honour unimpeached. Once he were able to reclaim his
forfeited rights, all impedimenta to their marriage would be removed.
Her foster-aunt would not withhold her consent without due cause.
“Haifa seems to agree with you better than it does with us,” her mother
remarked, when in the cool of early morning she betook herself to the
little white bungalow which the Emanuels inhabited. “You are looking
splendid, Raie—different to our pasty-looking, freckled Harriet.”
Raie was sorry for her sister, who, since the dissolution of her
engagement with the young man who had cruelly jilted her some months
before they left England, had come in for an unpalatable number of
home-truths.
“Harriet cannot help her freckles, mother,” she rejoined, taking up the
cudgels in her defence. “I think she finds the climate trying, and I
know she does not like the food.”
Mrs. Emanuel tossed her head in impatience.
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, with anger. “She doesn’t give the food a
chance; it is all I can do to get her to eat at all. Ever since her
engagement was broken off, she has done nothing but mope and pine for
Harry Levi. She has lost all her good looks, and she takes no trouble
over her appearance; and I’m sure the fellow isn’t worth a thought. I’m
ashamed of her, and that’s the truth; I never thought she would develop
into a crotchety old maid.”
The girl was silent, scarcely knowing what to say. Thinking of her own
lover, she felt more sympathy for her unfortunate sister than she dare
own. But when Harriet made her appearance a little while later, she
could not help experiencing a shock. Was it really love—or the lack of
it—that could make such a change?
“She does look ill,” she admitted, when the girl had left the room, “I
wonder if it would do her good to stay at Government House for a few
days? I am sure Lady Montella would allow me to invite her. What has
become of Harry Levi, I wonder. He is not in Palestine?”
“No, of course not. He is one of the ‘assimilated’ Jews. I suppose he
will marry a _shicksa_,[8] and bring up his children as Christians. He
doesn’t deserve to get on, spoiling a girl’s life as he did. I’d like to
‘assimilate’ him, the scoundrel! There wouldn’t be much of him left by
the time I had finished. I hope you’ll be more careful when you get a
young man, Raie.”
Footnote 8:
Gentile (fem.).
Raie blushed to the roots of her hair. “My young man would not throw me
over,” she said playfully, and quickly changed the subject. With a
somewhat forced carelessness she inquired if her mother were getting
more used to the place.
“Getting used to the place?” repeated Mrs. Emanuel, in her usual
high-pitched voice. “I shall never get used to Haifa if I live to be a
hundred. When I want to be in bed, I’ve got to get up because it’s cool,
and when I want to be up and about, I’ve got to go to bed because it’s
hot. And as soon as I move out of doors I’m pestered with a lot of
Moslem beggars, until I come home without a farthing in my pocket. What
with the difference in the food, and the water that isn’t fit to drink,
and the funny people with their silly jargon, and the stupid currency,
which gives me a headache every time I have to buy anything, and the
peculiar mode of living, it’s enough to turn one’s hair grey. Besides,
the place is overcrowded. Palestine is too small for all the people who
want to settle down here.”
Raie could not resist a smile.
“There is bound to be a little overcrowding until the people are more
dispersed,” she returned convincingly. “When the other towns are ready
to receive them they will leave the larger cities. There are building
operations going on all over the country, and in a few years Palestine
will be extended to double its present area. So you see there will be
room for everybody, mother.”
“Give me Canonbury,” continued Mrs. Emanuel, following her own train of
thought. “I would rather live in the Petherton Road than anywhere else
in the world;” and no amount of persuasion or argument would make her
think otherwise. She was too old to bear transplanting successfully,
Raie thought.
She found her foster-aunt and Lionel in the morning-room when she
returned to the Government House an hour later. They were engaged in a
desultory conversation, for Lady Montella was writing, but a few words
reached her as she passed down the corridor. Her heart seemed to leap,
and she paused irresolute at the door; for they made mention of her
lover’s name.
“Anne declares she has seen Ferdinand in the town,” Lionel was saying,
as he put down the newspaper he was reading; “but why should Ferdinand
come to Haifa? And if he did come, would he not seek us out?”
Then seeing Raie’s figure framed in the doorway, he spoke of something
else, but not before the girl had had time to hear.
“Ferdie will have to be careful when he comes back, or he will be
discovered,” she thought, as she advanced farther into the room.
It was a very difficult matter to elude the lynx-like eye of the old
nurse, Anne.