THE BLOW FALLS
It was quite late (for Jerusalem) when Patricia drove home in her
friend’s little _arabiyeh_, but the Engelmacher household was still
astir. In the drawing-room she found her husband playing cards with the
doctor and two other gentlemen, and smoking a Turkish nargileh. The
fumes were not unpleasant, so she would not allow him to put it away on
her account. Taking the little chair he placed for her, she sat down at
his side. She had no desire to watch the play—indeed the very sight of
cards was distasteful to her just then; but she liked to be near her
husband, and to talk to him between the deals.
“There is a letter from your father,” he said, when she had been
introduced to Dr. Engelmacher’s friends. “He has been staying at
Burstall Abbey, but thinks of coming over here on a visit for a change.
He has photographed almost every place of interest in Europe, and would
like to add a few Oriental scenes to his collection. You would be
pleased to see him, would you not, dear?”
“Yes, of course, dear.”
She took the letter out of his pocket-book and read it for herself. Lord
Torrens did not write often, and his epistles were generally brief and
to the point, but this one extended over four pages of closely-written
notepaper, and had evidently taken him some time to indite. He said he
was longing for a sight of his daughter’s bonnie face; and as he usually
concealed his feelings by a mask of cold austerity, Patricia was
somewhat surprised. Wrapped up in his books and hobbies, she had always
left him severely alone unless he particularly asked for her society.
She had never given him credit for the human sympathy which, in spite of
his crusty exterior, he undoubtedly possessed.
She put the letter back into the envelope as the men threw down the
cards in order to partake of the refreshments which Mrs. Engelmacher had
thoughtfully provided; for although they had had supper scarcely an hour
before, they were already thirsty again. Montella rose and stretched
himself with an air of relief. At the same moment there came a violent
ringing at the courtyard bell.
“_Donner und Blitz!_” exclaimed Dr. Engelmacher, with resentment. “Is
the house on fire? Who has the impudence to pull the bell so that it can
be heard all over Jerusalem? _Dummkopp!_ Stupidhead! I will tell him so
to his face.”
He continued to demolish a huge slice of cake, however, with
imperturbability, and carefully filled his friends’ glasses with wine. A
moment later the door was thrown open with a flourish, and after a brief
altercation without, three men appeared on the threshold. The foremost
was Ben Yetzel, the Chief Rabbi, in all the glory of his official robes.
His visit at that hour, and after his quarrel with Montella, was so
totally unexpected that the occupants of the room were all taken aback.
Dr. Engelmacher swallowed the remaining portion of his cake in one
mouthful, after which he was obliged to hastily gulp down a glass of
wine to save himself from choking. His friends stared at the new-comers
with curiosity, and Lionel grasped the back of the chair with an air of
defiance. But the most agitated of all was Patricia, who had recognised
in one of Ben Yetzel’s companions the man she had met by Jeremiah’s
Grotto, and again at the Tombs of the Kings. No wonder he had watched
her so carefully; he was evidently in the Chief Rabbi’s service as a
spy.
Judging by the pomposity with which Ben Yetzel advanced into the room,
his errand was aggressive in intent. Taking not the slightest notice of
Montella, he began to talk to Dr. Engelmacher in Hebrew, his voice
raised in excitement, and his features glowing with a fanatical light.
For a while Lionel took no part in the colloquy, and listened in
silence, with lowering brow; but at last he could restrain himself no
longer, and spoke in the deep and peculiarly resonant voice which
betrayed his agitation. Then there ensued a veritable babel of noise and
confusion of tongues; for the simultaneous combination of Hebrew,
German, and English, and all spoken in anger, did not conduce to the
clear understanding of either side.
Patricia had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Although she could
not understand exactly what they were saying, she knew that the
dissension was in some way connected with herself. Her one desire was to
escape from the room, but she dare not attract attention by rising from
her seat. So she remained, until hearing her little boy crying in the
room above, she took courage and moved towards the door. But the Rabbi’s
lynx eyes caught the action, and just as she reached the threshold, she
was asked by Dr. Engelmacher to remain.
“I am very sorry, Lady Patricia,” he said, in a more gentle voice than
he had used to the men, “but the Chief Rabbi is labouring under a
misapprehension, and we had better set him right. He declares, on the
authority of his employee here, that you joined in the service at the
Church of St. George this evening. I have told him that the employee
must have made a mistake, and perhaps confused you with your friend, the
Princess; but he will not be satisfied until he hears the denial from
your own lips. He wishes you to tell him yourself that you did not enter
the church while service was proceeding.”
There was a breathless pause. Patricia remained standing, her fair face
proudly raised.
“I cannot tell him that,” she said, addressing the doctor, but looking
straight at the Rabbi. “I went to the church with the Princess—the first
time for many years. I saw no harm in it, or I would not have gone. I
did not think I was being watched.”
Montella beat an impatient tattoo on the table at his side.
“Absurd!” he exclaimed, with irritation. “Ben Yetzel has no right to
send out spies. Besides, what harm has my wife done? Surely she can
accompany her friend to church without all this fuss being made? She
went simply on account of the Princess; she could scarcely have done
otherwise, since she was on a visit to the hospice. Dr. and Mrs.
Engelmacher know that Lady Patricia is a faithful Jewess and observes
the Law.”
The Chief Rabbi understood English, although he seldom cared to speak
it.
“A faithful Jewess bends not the knee in a Christian church,” he said.
“Yussuf here sat just opposite her and saw her join in the prayers and
hymns. The lady is not a Jewess, even though she does profess to keep
the Holy Law. She is a Christian; and for the wife of the Governor of
Haifa to be a Christian is a scandalous thing.”
“She is not a Christian!” denied Montella, with heat. “She renounced her
Christianity before she became my wife. Ask her, and she will tell you;
she does not believe in Christ.”
Again the appeal was made to the girl herself. Patricia felt the eyes of
the room upon her, and the colour rushed to her cheeks. With beating
heart she gazed almost piteously at her inexorable accusers. Oh, Lionel,
most devoted of husbands, most foolish of men! Why had he put the
question direct, with so much confidence in her unbelief? Neither
sophistry nor prevarication would avail now; she must speak the truth,
even though to utter the words might ruin her life’s happiness. But
then—quick as a lightning flash the thought came—why give these people
the satisfaction of victory? Why play into their hands, and witness the
chagrin of her husband? Why not say no in public and yes in private. Ah,
but she could not do that; she dare not again deny her faith.
“My husband does not know,” she said, in a stifled voice. “I did
renounce Christianity before my marriage, and I have tried to keep the
Jewish Law until this day, and intend still to do so as long as it is
necessary. But while I have been in Jerusalem my religious views have
undergone a change. The Chief Rabbi is unnecessarily harsh, but he is
correct in his statement. I do believe in Christ. I believe in Him with
all my heart and soul!”
Had a thunderbolt fallen, the silence which succeeded her avowal could
not have been more pregnant with surprise. The Chief Rabbi’s expression
lightened into one of triumph, and his satellites, taking their cue from
him, looked about them with calm contempt. Dr. Engelmacher spread his
hands deprecatingly, and gave vent to a shrug of the shoulders which was
eloquent with meaning, whilst Montella—almost stunned by the
unexpectedness of the dénouement—started to his feet in sorrow and
amazement.
“Patricia!” he exclaimed, in a voice of poignant grief. “You don’t mean
it—you, who have been so staunch and true ever since you became a
Jewess. Oh, you don’t realise what you are saying, dearest. You have
been carried away by the emotions called up by these historic scenes!”
She shook her head. “I must speak the truth, dear,” she answered,
softly, “or I should despise myself for a coward.”
Then she sank on to a chair, almost overcome with the heat and the
excitement. The blow had fallen; she dared not think what the
consequence would be.
“For the wife of the Governor of Haifa to be a Christian is a scandalous
thing,” repeated Ben Yetzel quietly, in Hebrew. “Either Mr. Montella
must resign his post, or there must be a divorce.”
Dr. Engelmacher was the only one near enough to hear his dictum.
“Gently, my dear sir,” he returned, in a tone of reproof. “If we live,
we shall see; there is plenty of time.”
But he knew that his friend Montella was in a most difficult
predicament, and that it would need all his astuteness to extract him
from the same.
He rose, in order to show that he considered the interview at an end;
and the Chief Rabbi, well satisfied with the work he had accomplished,
took his departure with due ceremony. There was an awkward pause when
the door had closed behind him, and Patricia seized the opportunity to
escape from the room. Scarcely knowing whither she went, she rushed up
the shallow staircase to the apartment which served as her boudoir. Her
one desire was to be alone for a few minutes—anywhere away from the
people she had offended. Opening the door which led into the
night-nursery, she peeped timidly into the room, and seeing that her
baby was alone, advanced gently towards his little cot. Although he
seemed so still, he was not asleep, but lay staring up at the pattern on
the wall with wide-open eyes. Hearing the rustle of her dress, however,
he sat up in eager anticipation.
“Nanna just gone down’tairs,” he informed her, even before she asked
him. “Baby hot.”
“Too hot to sleep?” she asked gently, and lifting him up into her arms,
pushed the curls away from his forehead.
It was a relief to feel his loving little caress, to have the golden
head nestling against her shoulder, to hear the piping notes of the baby
voice. His very presence soothed her as no other earthly thing could
have done; he seemed just like a little cherub of peace.
“Mammy not go ’way,” he said contentedly, his tiny hands grasping her
wrist. “Mammy ’tay wiv baby always?”
He looked up confidingly into her face, but the expected answer was not
forthcoming. A hot tear splashed on to his hair; and although but a
baby, he knew instinctively that something was wrong. He did not know
that his words had caused a dread possibility to flash across his
mother’s mind—for the result of that evening’s confession might mean
separation, not only from her husband, but from her child. Seeing her
distress, he began to sob in sympathy, and clung to her with almost
convulsive force.
“Mammy not go ’way!” he wailed, over and over again. “Mammy ’tay with
baby!” and he refused to be consoled, until Patricia declared
unceasingly that she would never forsake him.
She stayed until he was asleep again, and then, leaving him in the
charge of Anne, returned to her own room. Too much perturbed to
methodically disrobe, she took her favourite seat by the casement
window, and rested her elbows lightly on the ledge. The moon still shone
with brilliant splendour, illumining the whole city with its silvery
radiance; and away to the east she could see the Sacred Mount upon whose
slopes she had so recently stood. The view recalled her lofty
aspirations, and endued her with courage. She was surely not so weak as
to quail at the first attack!
But the sound of her husband’s footsteps caused her heart to beat fast
again with apprehension. What would he say, she wondered, and how
display his anger? She had never seen him angry—at least, never with
her; for in all the four years of their married life they had not
quarrelled once. She glanced up from beneath her long lashes as he
entered the room, and noticed with a pang of compunction that he looked
haggard and pale. But although she longed to say something, the words
froze on her lips. Always reserved by nature, she became suddenly
self-conscious, and instead of showing sympathy, as she longed to do,
the result was a stony silence.
But Montella understood. Locking the door with his usual care, he
advanced towards the dressing-table and turned up the light. Then taking
a little chair at her side, he grasped both her hands.
“Patricia, how could you?” he said, so quietly that she could scarcely
catch his voice. “How could you, dearest? You do not realise what you
have done!”
He gazed into the depths of her eyes, as though he would read her very
soul. She looked back, and saw that there was no anger, but only deep,
impenetrable sorrow reflected there. And then he explained. He was not
so shocked that she had returned to her former religion—indeed, he had
always known that she had found Judaism difficult; but that she should
have publicly confessed her relapse, and in the very presence of the
Chief Rabbi—that was where she had done irreparable harm.
“Under those circumstances prevarication was justifiable,” he said, when
she had protested her inability to answer otherwise. “You could have
said something—anything—only to defy Ben Yetzel and put him off the
track.”
“I could not tell a deliberate falsehood,” she answered, in a voice as
low as his own. “I am sure no good ever comes of telling a lie.”
“Ah, but you do not understand!” he said, in agitation. “To Ben Yetzel
your admission is the peg on which to hang his revenge. He has hated me
ever since I opposed his priestly tyranny, and now he has the power to
ruin me. Shall I tell you the ultimatum he has given to Engelmacher
concerning us? Believe me, dearest, it is as hard for me to say as it is
for you to hear; but it is this: either I must resign my post—which
means leaving Palestine in disgrace—or—or there must be a—divorce.”
He brought out the last word as though he could hardly get it to pass
his lips. Patricia pressed her hands to her face in an agony of feeling.
“Oh, no! no! _no!_” she cried, in a passionate voice. “Not divorce! It
is too dreadful! Anything but that! I will go away, to Germany, to
England, anywhere in Europe; but you must remain my husband, and I your
wife. Surely if we are separated for ever the Rabbi will be satisfied;
surely he, a minister of God, is not so utterly wicked as to wish to
break the most sacred bonds of our marriage. Let him part us so that we
shall never meet again. In the sight of Heaven I shall always be your
wife!”
Her self-control collapsed completely, and she gave vent to such sobs as
seemed to come from the depths of her being. Montella took her in his
arms, and endeavoured to comfort her with the assurance that the hated
contingency should never occur. But he felt no less miserable in his way
than she did in hers. He knew that their separation was inevitable, and
that it might be indefinitely prolonged. He knew also that life in
Palestine would be almost unendurable without Patricia at his side.
“Oh, darling, darling, what grief you have brought down upon us both!”
he exclaimed, in anguish. “Truly did your Christ say, ‘_I came not to
send peace, but a sword!_’ Is not that sword piercing your heart and
mine? Cursed be all creeds which bring dissension and sorrow in their
wake, which separate a husband from his wife, a mother from her child!
How can I send you away—you whom I have sworn to protect and cherish? To
know that you are lonely, and that I cannot comfort you; that you are
ill, and I cannot sit beside you; that you want me, and I cannot come.
Oh, Patricia, they have laid their finger on the weak spot in my
manhood’s armour! I cannot bear to let you go away!”
She had never seen him so intensely moved. She dried her eyes with a
feeling almost of awe, and in her desire to comfort him, recovered her
own self-possession.
“We must both be brave, dearest,” she said, in a broken voice. “If it is
necessary for us to part for a time, it will not last for ever—nothing
lasts for ever. Don’t let us make it harder for each other than we can
help. Let us try to think of the—the—happy reunion in the future.”
“The future? But when? So far as I know, I am settled in Haifa for life.
If we part, it may be for years, for we do not know when we shall see
each other again.” He paused, evidently struck by a new idea, and
continued impulsively: “Patricia, why should we give up our happiness
for the sake of people who do not care two straws whether we live or
die? Why should I slave and toil and worry, only to be rewarded by base
ingratitude? Resign my post! Well, why not? What is the governorship
worth in comparison with you!”
He rose and paced the room with bent head and folded arms. It was his
moment of weakness, and the girl knew it; but she could not help
considering the alternative he suggested. If he left Palestine, they
could go and live quietly somewhere on the Continent; he might even
obtain permission to return to England. At least, it would be better
than an indefinite separation; she did not care where she lived, so long
as she were with him. But she knew that by so doing he would be guilty
of forsaking his people and losing his honour, and that she would never
forgive herself for having blighted his career.
“No, dearest; you must not abandon your post just when you are most
needed,” she said, with a heavy sigh. “An Englishman must do his duty at
the cost of life itself. I know you better than you think, Lionel. Life
would not be worth living to you without your honour. Besides, it would
break your mother’s heart; in her eyes, you are ever the dauntless
champion of the Jews.”
“The dauntless champion of the Jews!” he repeated bitterly. “I wonder
sometimes if the Jews are worth championing. Where is the grand spirit
of unity and discipline which held together the nation of old?
Quarrellings, bickerings, murmurings, grumbling at every semblance of
authority, one striving to out-do the other; that is what one has to
contend with in these days. Oh, how I long to throw it all up, to let
them go their own way, and end the struggle by the survival of the
fittest! How I long to escape with you to some quiet little spot, where
we might live in peace and quiet happiness with our child. Since all
these people are selfish, why should not I be selfish too? The
temptation is so great—so great! I have not the power to withstand it!”
“But you must!” she cried, in a tense voice. “Lionel, this is unworthy
of you! When the children of Israel complained and murmured in the
wilderness, did Moses forsake them in disgust? Ah, no; a leader must
expect to suffer by and for his people. Having put your hand to the
plough, you must not look back. You have been so brave and so noble
until this very day. Do not spoil your record by turning coward at the
last.”
“Coward!” The word stung him like a lash. “Good God, no! But, Patricia—”
He turned towards her with a gesture of appeal. “You love me? Ah, I know
you do! And yet you can urge me to stick to my guns whilst you go away
to live in loneliness, perhaps for the remainder of your life? I cannot
understand it.... Is this love?”
“Yes, of the truest kind,” she answered, her deep eyes glistening with
tears. “‘_I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour
more._’ Do you think I’m not longing to say, ‘Come with me to the other
end of the world, and leave these people to look after themselves’? But
I must not, I dare not! Your duty lies in Palestine, and here you must
stay. I know that when you are your old self again, you will say that I
was right.”
“Of course you are right; but I am not of the self-sacrificing sort. I
wouldn’t mind going under fire and having a bullet put through my head
for my country’s sake—that’s soon over; but I don’t like having the
agony prolonged.” He flung himself on to a chair, and added, in a
different voice: “What of the child? My mother will never free you from
your promise to have him brought up as a Jew. She will do her utmost to
retain him in her custody. You must not let him go back to Haifa if you
wish to keep him with you. Possession is nine points of the law.”
She shuddered. “It is terrible to have to use force in the matter.
Surely Lady Montella will not object to my having him with me while he
is so young? I am his mother, and his place is with me. Afterwards, when
he is grown up, it will be a different matter; but now—”
She covered her face with her hands, unable to finish the sentence. She
knew even while she spoke that she would have to drink her cup of
bitterness to the dregs. To part with her husband was terrible enough;
yet they would both have the consciousness of having done their duty to
sustain them. But in the case of her child it was different, since there
was no such urgent necessity. She knew that if Lady Montella succeeded
in keeping him from her, her last ray of comfort would be gone.