THE EMPTY HOUSE
The Montellas were back in Haifa. They arrived late in the afternoon,
after a stormy passage from Jaffa, and received a hearty welcome from
the two girls. But of course the absence of Patricia made itself felt,
even though they were careful not to mention it. It was as if a shadow
had fallen on the house which made them speak softly, as though there
had been a death. Lionel spent the greater part of his time in his
study, and seemed always anxious to get away from his family. His most
constant companion was his little boy; otherwise he preferred to be
alone.
He had dreaded the return to Haifa, and had postponed it as long as
possible, knowing that his worthy citizens were all agog on the matter
of his wife’s departure. His eyes were open to the mingled glances of
scorn and sympathy which were cast upon him when he walked through the
streets of the town; and he refused to give the explanation which was
expected, yet could not very well be sought. He took his part in
communal matters with the same energy as of old; but apart from his
official duties he was as immovable as the Sphinx. Declining all the
invitations which poured in upon him from the wealthier members of the
corporation, he seemed to wish to lead the life of a recluse. His mother
knew not whether to be displeased or grieved, but remonstrated with him
vigorously on the subject one day.
“This will never do,” she said, when for the third time he had absented
himself from her weekly receptions. “You will make yourself unpopular if
you persist in holding yourself aloof socially from the people. Besides,
it isn’t manly, Lionel; you are wearing your heart on your sleeve.”
So he promised to amend his ways; and the study saw less of him again;
and joining more in the social life of the town, a little of his old
buoyancy returned. But there always remained a sore place in his heart,
only to be temporarily relieved by the balm of her precious letters.
They arrived with every mail—those dear messages from his beloved.
He had been back a full week before he could bring himself to visit his
new house. The operations of the builders and decorators had been
suspended during his stay in Jerusalem, and he had not yet given the
order for them to resume their work. Making a sudden decision one
morning, however, he walked quietly up the avenue of palm-trees, and
unlocked the great oaken doors at the entrance to the hall. The house
was, as he had anticipated, totally deserted, and his steps echoed and
re-echoed drearily on the stone floor. Passing through the wonderful
atrium, whose fame had already reached from one end of Syria to the
other, he entered the boudoir, and removing the holland covering, sat
down on one of the dainty chairs. What a hideous, ghastly mockery the
whole place appeared! how it seemed to rise up and taunt him with its
emptiness, with its bright but hollow splendour! He glanced about him
with a shudder, and rested his head wearily on his hand. The
decorations, to which he had given so much thought—for Patricia; the
exquisite frescoes painted by an eminent Jewish artist—for Patricia; the
beautifully carved bureau with its cunning design—for Patricia; the
hangings of vieux rose—Patricia’s favourite hue; the little oil-painting
of the Thames—Patricia’s own picture. All for Patricia, the one woman in
the world to whom it was a joy to render homage; and she had been
snatched from him by the crass stupidity of his people, by the ignorant
prejudice of a stubborn race! Oh, the foolishness of men, to bow down to
the fanatical ceremonialism of dogma and creed, and turn away from the
purest of all passions—conjugal love! Rising, he threw open the windows,
and with bent head, paced the room; then espying the flutter of a white
gown amid the myrtle bushes in the avenue, paused in silent wonder. How
came a woman in the grounds—his grounds—not knowing that he was there?
He closed the window, and went forth to investigate, almost inclined to
believe that he was the victim of an illusion. But no; for as he
appeared beneath the portico, the figure approached and sauntered
leisurely towards him. For one moment his heart stood still, a wild
hypothesis taking possession of his brain. Patricia in some mysterious
way had come back to him, either in the flesh, or by the projection of
her astral body—he had heard and read of such things. Thought telepathy,
spiritualism—he had never believed in either, yet he knew by hearsay
that the most wonderful phenomena had actually occurred; and if to other
people, why not to himself? But the fantastic idea born of his ardent
longing was suddenly doomed to disappointment; the figure proved to be
not Patricia, but merely that of Zillah Lorm.
“I wondered if you were here,” she said sweetly, as he advanced to meet
her. “Do you know, I come here every day, just for a walk—the little
side gate is always open. But I have never been inside the house,
although I have heard so much about it. Would you not like to show it to
me? We have a good opportunity now.”
He had never felt more disinclined to play the part of showman, but
knowing that she was really eager to go over the place, he could not
well refuse. Admitting her by the principal entrance, he allowed her to
wander through the rooms at her own sweet will, and listened to her
enthusiastic observations with no pleasure, and perhaps a little pain.
Yielding to a feeling he could not describe, he passed over the door of
the boudoir; but Zillah was quick enough to notice his hesitation, and
inexorably demanded a view.
“What is it, Lionel?” she asked playfully. “Bluebeard’s chamber, or the
_sanctum sanctorum_?”
He threw open the door, and stood back for her to enter.
“Neither,” he answered quietly. “It is the room which was to have been
my wife’s boudoir.”
“Oh!” She threw him a glance of somewhat steely commiseration, and
proceeded to look about her with cold criticism. Montella went to the
window, his eyes dreamily scanning the distant mountain ranges of
Galilee. He wanted to be blind and deaf for a few minutes, until his
visitor had concluded her examination of the room. He did not want to
hear her careless remarks; they affected him like so many knife thrusts.
But Miss Lorm was not the woman to spare him one small thrust. She sat
down at the little piano—Patricia’s own piano—and playing a short
prelude, glided into that song of Goring Thomas’s “A Summer Night.” Then
her rich voice, subdued to a low tone of sweetness, sent forth its full
notes to thrill her listener and fill the house with music:
“‘_Have you forgotten, love, so soon
That night, that lovely night in June?_’”
She sang without effort, and almost as if her thoughts were elsewhere,
but as the song proceeded, her voice gained in intensity. Lionel stood
immovable, hating the sound of music in that house and under those
conditions. The empty corridor beyond caught the echo and threw it back
with a hollow and depressing sound. But she could sing—Heavens, how she
could sing! Whatever soul she possessed seemed to be concentrated in her
voice.
“You are not in the humour for music, my friend?” she said, veering
round on the music-stool when she had finished, to see no gaze of
admiration, but only an unappreciative back. “It does sound strange in
this great unfinished house, I admit. By the way, when will the workmen
have finished? When will you come into residence here?”
“Never.” He turned away from the window and faced her, with a set look
in his eyes, then added, in explanation: “The house is a wilderness, an
empty barn. It can never be a home—to me.”
“No?” She glanced at him questioningly from under her thick lashes. “But
I thought you took such pride in it. Lady Montella told me long ago that
it was your hobby. And the expense—why, it must have cost a fortune.
What will you do with it if you do not intend to live in it? Oh, it
seems such a shame—such a magnificent house—!”
“I shall sell it if I can,” he said, meeting the reproach in her eyes
steadily. “I had hoped to spend many happy years here, but now— It is a
mere white elephant to me. They can call it ‘Montella’s Disappointment’
if they like; I don’t care. I shall have this furniture removed as soon
as I can; and I shall never come here again.”
“But if she should come back?”
“She will never come back; it is not possible for her ever to live in
Palestine again. That dream is over, but of course the awakening is
hard: and this”—he touched the silken hangings behind their cover—“this
all seems part of it. I can’t realise....”
He broke off suddenly, fearing he said too much. He had spoken
incoherently, and with a sharpness which betokened deep feeling.
Zillah’s features relaxed into a forced expression of sympathy.
“Poor fellow!” she exclaimed softly. “You have suffered, and you are
lonely. I can sympathise with you; for—although you would not think it—I
am lonely too.”
“Yes?” He looked up quickly, to encounter the radiance of her eyes.
“I left England because I was unhappy,” she went on, in a confidential
tone. “I was engaged to Lord St. Maur; but he was much younger than
myself, and when his people found out, they persuaded him to break it
off; and he was weak, and consented. Of course I wasn’t in love with
him—he was a mere boy; but I would have married him if I could, since
the man I did love—once—was beyond my reach.” She looked at him
steadily, and added, in a different voice: “It is the loneliness I
dread, and now I seem to have no aim in life. What is the use of my
voice in Palestine? The greatest of singers is not wanted here.”
“Not yet, perhaps,” he added, in his usual voice, “but the time will
come. At present all our energies are directed on the things necessary
to the welfare of our citizens, the introduction of hygiene, the
prevention of drought and famine, and so on. Afterwards we shall be able
to turn our thoughts to lighter matters—the recreation of the people;
and then you may be sure music will not be left out of account.”
“And meanwhile I must wait as patiently as I can?” She sighed. “Oh,
dear, how I hate life—hate it! The inconsistencies, the mistakes, the
waste of suffering—all one long series of disappointments.”
“And yet there do occur moments, sometimes, which make it worth while to
have lived!”
“To you, perhaps, because you have experienced the joy of requited love,
but not to me. Why, even that shallow-minded little Raie is happier than
I am. She has a lover—she meets him every day, and that gives her a zest
and joy in life which are like the condiments in food. But I am boring
you—” She paused abruptly, and rose from her chair. “Let us go, or we
shall have the full glare of the sun upon us. This intolerable heat is
another of the evils which has fallen to our lot to bear.”
Lionel rose with alacrity, and replacing the coverings, relocked the
door. He could not help wondering what had made Miss Lorm so unusually
serious, and why she had chosen to favour him with her confidence. He
was silent as they passed through the atrium, and Zillah, on her part,
had little to say. She was thinking how much better it would be if
Montella would and could get a divorce, so that he might be free to
marry again. She knew that she was liked by his mother; and that if it
were possible, she would have a good chance of becoming his second wife.
To be mistress of this mansion! She caught her breath at the thought,
albeit a foolish one. She knew that Patricia would be his wife as long
as she lived, even though they never saw each other again.
“Did you not say Raie had a lover?” asked her companion, as he closed
the great doors. “I did not know it.”
Zillah opened her sunshade, and held it daintily at the back of her
head.
“Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it,” she responded carelessly,
“but I think you and Lady Montella ought to know. Raie has not told me
much, but it is evidently a secret love-affair. They meet clandestinely
every day somewhere in this direction.”
“And the man?”
“Is a Mr. Merryweather, presumably a tourist. He came to the Government
House one evening, and I was rather favourably impressed. But he is too
old and too worldly-wise for Raie. He must be over thirty, and has
evidently been about a good deal.”
“Merryweather?” repeated Lionel thoughtfully. “Is he a Jew?”
“Yes; at least Raie says he is, although he has not the appearance of
one.”
“And they made each other’s acquaintance while we were in Jerusalem, I
suppose?” There was a note of vexation in his voice. “I am surprised at
Raie. My mother will be very displeased. But perhaps Mrs. Emanuel—Raie’s
mother—knows something about it?”
Miss Lorm gave vent to a little shrug. “Perhaps,” she replied
carelessly. “I do not know. Don’t say I told you anything about it, will
you, Lionel? Raie would be so cross, and— Good gracious, there they
are!”
She stopped suddenly in her walk, and placed her hand detainingly on his
arm. Montella’s eyes followed the direction of her glance with
astonishment, and he could not resist an exclamation of surprise. The
two delinquents were seated in a shady arbour, almost concealed by
deeply-hanging evergreens. Their faces were in shadow, but Miss Lorm
recognised the girl’s light hat.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, with a touch of excitement.
“Catch them red-handed, or pretend not to see them?”
“I don’t know.” Montella paused irresolute. It was very wrong of Raie to
meet a young man in this unconventional manner, especially as she had
been brought up so strictly; but not being aware of all the
circumstances, he was at a loss to know how to proceed. He had half a
mind to pass by quietly, and speak to the girl afterwards; but
approaching the arbour he caught the sound of his own name, and could
not help standing still.
“Lionel is wiser than I thought,” the man was saying, in a tone of
dissatisfaction. “So he will not trust you with the keys? But are you
sure you went the right way to work, Raie, dear? You see if you looked
at all agitated when you asked him, you probably made him suspicious.”
His accents were strong and well-bred. Montella started as at a familiar
sound, but was almost too dumfounded to move.
“My cheeks did burn,” the girl acknowledged, almost tearfully. “You see
Lionel gave me one of his straight looks—as if he were reading me
through and through, and I felt so guilty that I dared not say a word.
He gave me my letters out of the safe, and I just took them and went,
thankful to get away. I did my best really, but it is such a difficult
task, dear. I am sure I shall never be able to succeed.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” he returned encouragingly. “You can ask for the
keys to return the letters, and have another try. Or if it comes to the
worst, we must resort to stratagem; all’s fair in love and war.”
“Is it?” thought Lionel, who could remain hidden no longer. Motioning to
Miss Lorm to keep in the background, he suddenly presented himself
before the apparent conspirators. Raie gave a scream, and turned as pale
as her dress; Ferdinand rose to his feet in an attitude of defence, his
large sun-hat well over his face. For a moment there was a breathless
silence, whilst Zillah looked on with enjoyment. Then Lionel spoke,
although he scarcely knew what to say.
“I am the son of Miss Emanuel’s foster-aunt, and these are my grounds,”
he said stiffly. “Hearing my name mentioned as I passed, I could not
help listening to a scrap of your conversation. I cannot quite
understand what you have to do with this young lady, who is very young,
and has no right to form any attachment without the consent of her
guardians. From what I can gather from your words, however, I understand
that you pose as her lover merely to win her as a confederate. I shall
be glad of some explanation, if you please. I can scarcely believe that
Miss Emanuel—of whom I hold a very high opinion—would deliberately help
you to burgle my safe!”
He addressed the tourist alone, and vouchsafed not a glance at Raie. The
girl looked appealingly at her lover, who seemed to be rapidly summing
up the situation. His decision was evidently a desperate one, for he
threw back his shoulders with a gesture of courage.
“I am not a burglar,” he replied, carefully choosing his words, “and I
need not explain unless I choose. But I know that if I keep silence I
shall be putting Miss Emanuel in a false position, and I would not do
that for the world. It was my intention to keep my incognito until my
innocence was absolutely proved; but I suppose that is impossible since
you have found me out. Look at me, old fellow. Don’t you know who I am?”
He pulled off his hat, and stood bare-headed in the sunlight—a veritable
picture of manly strength. Lionel scanned the rugged face—the deep-set
eyes so like his own—and recognised it even as he had partially known
the voice.
“Ferdinand!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “What does this mean? How
in Heaven’s name have you come here? Where have you come from?” and
suppressing the hundred and one questions which rose to his lips, he
regarded his step-brother in bewildered astonishment, whilst Zillah Lorm
advanced, an eager glow in her eyes.
Ferdinand assisted his sweetheart to rise, and bowed to Miss Lorm.
“I will tell you everything presently, Lionel—when we are alone,” he
answered complacently. “I should not like to tire the ladies with an
account of my adventures.”
Zillah swept past Raie and held out her hand.
“I congratulate you on your return, _Sir_ Ferdinand,” she said, with
stress on the title, and a curious smile on her face.
“Frank Merryweather” had risen considerably in her estimation during the
last ten minutes. No matter what crime he had committed, he was a
baronet, and evidently not in captivity. She was determined to enter the
lists with Raie.