CHAPTER XIV

IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOON

To Raie the recognition of Ferdinand was the best thing that could have

happened, and a load was thereby lifted from her mind. The task he had

set her to perform had been most repugnant to her taste, and she was

thankful in the extreme that the difficulty had been obviated in a more

open-handed way. As it happened, the necessary documents were not in the

safe at all, but in a private bureau in Montella’s bedroom; so that all

her trouble and heart-burning would have been in vain. Lionel readily

forgave the intended ruse, and produced the papers without delay. His

greatest desire was to help his step-brother to regain his honour and

good name.

But Lady Montella was not so easily won. The circumstances of the

forgery had been very black against Ferdinand, even if he had been, as

was supposed, the mere tool of another and older man. She knew that her

husband until his dying day had believed him guilty, had wrested him

from his affection, had deprived him of all his privileges of sonship to

bestow them on her own—the younger—son. If, therefore, Ferdinand had

been wrongfully accused, he was a much-injured man; but his personality

did not impress her in that way. At least, he bore no malice towards any

of his accusers, and seemed to desire to forget the actors in the

unpleasant drama of the past. But, on the other hand, he appeared

anxious to claim his title—valueless though it was in Palestine—to

reinstate himself as a member of his fathers House, and to win back his

reputation as an honourable man. Until his innocence had been

established, therefore, she preferred to remain on neutral terms. But

she allowed him to come to the Government House as often as he pleased,

even though she would not yet receive him as a son.

He informed her of his desire to marry Raie on the very first evening of

his reconciliation; and begged that if Mrs. Emanuel gave her consent she

would not withhold hers. Lady Montella knew not whether to be displeased

or glad, and held her answer in abeyance until Ferdinand should have

paid his intended visit to England; but she sent for Raie’s mother in

order to discuss the affair.

Raie was not in the room when the consultation took place, but waited on

tenter-hooks in the roof-garden above. Occasionally sentences in her

mother’s high-pitched voice reached her through the open window, but she

riveted her attention on the book she was supposed to be reading, and

resolutely determined not to hear. After what seemed an unconscionable

time, she was sent for to express her views. Lady Montella was, as

usual, calm and placid; Mrs. Emanuel beamed with delight.

“We have come to the conclusion that if Sir Ferdinand is able to

establish his innocence in England, your engagement will receive our

consent,” her foster-aunt said, in answer to her glance of

interrogation; “but are you sure you love him well enough to marry him,

dear? Remember the difference in your ages. He is nearly eleven years

older than yourself.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” put in Mrs. Emanuel quickly, before her daughter

had time to reply. “It’s much better than if it were the other way

about. Besides, I should not care for Raie to marry a much younger man;

and if she loves him—”

“I do love him,” said the girl, with fervour. “I should love him if he

were a hundred. If I can’t marry him, mamma, I shall be an old maid.”

“God forbid!” ejaculated Mrs. Emanuel piously, under her breath. “Not if

I know it.” She had not yet recovered from the rupture of Harriet’s

betrothal.

“I should advise you not to place too much confidence in Ferdinand’s

success, dear,” advised Lady Montella thoughtfully. “It is always

difficult to reopen an old case, and two of the witnesses in connection

with it are dead. And you see if he fails to prove his innocence, the

slur on his name remains.”

“Oh, but he will succeed, Aunt Inez—he must!” rejoined Raie, with

youthful optimism. She did not add that she meant to be true to him

under any circumstances, nevertheless such was the case. As long as she

was morally convinced of his innocence, the opinion of the world

mattered little. She knew, however, that she could not marry him for

some time to come unless the proof were found.

So the matter was settled, pending the decision of the judicial court;

and Ferdinand was tacitly acknowledged as Raie’s _fiancé_. There was now

no need for any clandestine trysts, but they still met constantly in the

grounds of the empty house. Zillah often passed their arbour in her

daily walk, and observing that they seemed absorbed in mutual

admiration, experienced a pang of envy at her jealous heart. She had

scarcely spoken to Raie since the recognition of her lover, but she

always seemed to have a good deal to say to Sir Ferdinand whenever she

came across him. Secretly she longed to display her superior charms; to

fascinate him by the power of her voice and smile. Realising that Lionel

was for ever beyond her reach, she desired to transfer her attention to

his step-brother. That he was already engaged seemed to trouble her not

at all; for until he were actually married she considered him free.

But as the day of his departure approached, and she had made no

progress, she grew desperate; and on the last evening a crisis came.

Raie, as it happened, was confined to her bed with a cold, and her lover

was obliged to say his farewell by proxy. Lady Montella conveyed all the

tender messages, after which she drove off to a reception with her son.

Zillah, therefore, was left to entertain Sir Ferdinand for an hour

alone, an opportunity of which she was determined to make the most.

As usual, she tried the effect of music first, and sang her sweetest

songs. She knew, of course, that he was watching her through a thin haze

of smoke; and felt almost magnetically the power of his eyes on her

face. Then, rising suddenly, she suggested an adjournment to the roof.

She felt, somehow, that they would both feel less restraint in the open

air and under the light of the moon.

He helped her to place the filmy lace mantilla, with its red roses, on

her head, and in doing so his fingers touched hers. She looked up,

thrilled and eager, the colour slowly spreading over her cheeks; and

struck by her expression, he returned her gaze with surprise. But they

exchanged not a word, and ascended to the garden in silence; and with

scarcely a remark he settled her comfortably in a deck-chair. Then he

lighted a fresh cigar, and puffed away in contentment, whilst the soft

breeze dispersed the smoke and gently caressed their hair.

“I have often wondered what the exact pleasure is that you men find in

the weed,” Zillah observed, thinking he had gazed long enough at the

deep blue of the sky. “I suppose it soothes you in a way we women cannot

understand.”

“I really don’t know.” He held the cigar between his fingers and

surveyed it contemplatively. “It’s all habit, I suppose; but I do think

a good cigar aids one’s mental digestion. And I know that if I am in a

bad temper, a quiet smoke will always pull me round.”

“‘Open confession is good for the soul,’” she quoted, with a smile. “I

hope that does not often occur.”

“What—the bad temper?”

“Yes; but _I_ ought not to say anything.” She sighed. “People in glass

houses should not throw stones. I am in a bad temper with everybody and

everything, most of all with myself.”

She spoke impulsively, and with such force that the young man glanced

towards her with wonder.

“Indeed,” he responded courteously. “That sounds rather depressing. May

I ask for what reason you have quarrelled with yourself?”

Zillah turned her face away, so that the moonlight caught her classic

profile.

“The reason—oh, simply that I am unhappy.”

“And why?”

“Because I hate Palestine and everything connected with it!” she

answered, a defiant ring in her voice. “I came here because I could not

help myself—because—as a Jewess—I could no longer stay in the old

country. I thought from Lady Montella’s letters that Haifa was a _beau

ideal_ of a place; but she sees everything Jewish from behind

rose-coloured spectacles. To me it is a desert with scarcely an oasis to

break the monotony, with a climate as sultry as that of the Inferno, and

an atmosphere of brick-dust and tar. Building to right of us, building

to left of us—scaffoldings, ladders, and paint-pots; what is so

depressing as a half-built town? And as for society—why, there isn’t any

worth speaking of, because the people here will not recognise

distinctions of class. Yesterday a poverty-stricken woman—an odious,

unkempt individual—had the audacity to approach me in a most familiar

manner, in order to tell me that she lived next door to my grandfather

in Poland, and as my father was no better than hers, she thought she

might claim me as a friend. That is the result of liberty and equality;

we are all children of Abraham, and education counts for nothing. Oh,

it’s disgusting! I hate it! Until Palestine gets a king and an

aristocracy the country will not be worth living in to cultured Jews.”

She raised herself on her arm, her eyes flaming with the emotion caused

by her outburst. Ferdinand remarked the passion in her voice, and felt

vaguely stirred. But she did not give him time to speak, and continued

hurriedly:

“I want to escape—to get away from Palestine, even at the risk of

offending your step-mother. If I stay here while the country is in its

present condition, I shall only droop and die. Sir Ferdinand, you are

the only man in the world who can help me; but will you? I have no

right—except that of old friendship with the Montellas—to ask you; and

yet—”

“I will help you with pleasure if I can,” he put in, unable to resist

the pathetic look of appeal. “What is it you want me to do?”

“You are going to England,” she said abruptly. “But England does not

admit a Jew. Tell me: how do you intend to evade the authorities?”

He flashed her a quick glance. “I have a special permit from a member of

the Cabinet—Mr. Lawson Holmes,” he replied promptly. “I shall be allowed

to stay until my case is concluded without being forced to take the

Assimilation Oath.”

“Then you will go as Sir Ferdinand Montella?”

“No; I shall retain my old pseudonym _pro tem_. We have all come to the

conclusion that that will be best.”

Zillah drew a deep breath. “Then my scheme is practicable,” she said,

with clasped hands. “I too cannot enter the country in my own name; but

disguised and under an alias—it is my only chance. Sir Ferdinand, will

you take me with you? It will only be for the journey; at Charing Cross

Station we can part. Once in England, I have friends to whom I can go.”

“Take you with me?” he repeated, starting with a feeling of uneasiness.

“But, Miss Lorm! I don’t see how I can.”

“Why not? I can go as Miss Merryweather, your sister—a lady missionary,

if you like.” Her eyes shone naïvely. “Oh, there’s not a shadow of harm

in it. I merely want your protection politically; and when I arrive

there I will write to the Montellas and explain. I dare not tell them

before I go. They would want to keep me here.”

“And meanwhile?” He flung away his cigar, and rising, paced the garden

in agitation. Then he came back and stood at her side. “You don’t

understand,” he said, in a voice which sounded almost stern. “What would

my people say; what would Raie’s feelings be? They might place a wrong

construction—might think.... Oh, no, it wouldn’t do—wouldn’t do at all.

It would place us both in an utterly false position. You must see that

yourself.”

Zillah’s mouth grew stubborn.

“I don’t see it at all,” she returned, looking straight before her.

“‘_Honi soit qui mal y pense._’ If Raie cannot trust you, she is not

worthy of your affection. Besides, it’s so ridiculous. Surely a P. & O.

steamer is large enough to hold us both. In my part of official sister I

need only speak to you at meals.”

Ferdinand shook his head.

“Whether you speak to me much or little has nothing to do with the

question,” he said imperturbably. “Miss Lorm, do be reasonable. If you

were engaged to a man, and that man went on a three weeks’ journey with

another lady—and that lady an inmate of your house—without telling you,

how would _you_ take it? Excuse my putting it so plainly, but you give

me no alternative. Raie is the most trusting little soul in the world,

but she would not be human if she did not have her doubts. Were I to

accede to your request, I should be landed in a most unpleasant

situation. Besides, it can’t be done; my permit is available only for

myself.”

His decision was evidently final, and Zillah knew that it was not to be

shaken. Once on a P. & O. steamer, she had hoped to win him through the

social amenities of life on board ship; and if the Montellas—as

Ferdinand feared—should place a wrong construction on her departure, so

much the better for the success of her plan. But seeing that she could

not enlist his aid, her dream gradually and regretfully melted away,

until, overcome by disappointment and mortification, she threw away her

self-control and burst into tears.

“I did not think you would refuse,” she sobbed, using her handkerchief

with great ostentation. “I had packed my things and made all

arrangements; I could have got off without telling a soul.”

Ferdinand hated to see a woman cry, and felt suddenly mean and

despicable. But he could not bring himself to give way to her desire;

something within him seemed to rise up and say, “_Thou shalt not!_” It

was his love for Raie, his fear of doing her a seeming injustice. For

himself he cared not at all—he was too well-seasoned a man of the world.

Zillah dried her eyes, feeling that she had betrayed herself for nought,

and shivering, asked to return to the drawing-room. As they entered

through the somewhat narrow doorway, a slender, white-clad figure rose

from the embrasure formed by the window. Coming from without into the

glare of the artificial light, Ferdinand could scarcely believe his

eyes; but he was not deceived—it was indeed Raie.

“I was so hot that I could not stay in bed, Ferdie,” she explained,

putting her arm confidingly in his. “Besides, I could not let you go

without saying good-bye properly, dearest, if I had fifty colds.”

And clinging to him like a child, she drew him into the library, whilst

Zillah was left to nurse her anger alone. Watching them depart, her

heart burned with impotent rage, as she realised how miserably she had

been defeated. It seemed to her that failure was written right across

her life, that she was pursued by a hard and inexorable fate. Gifted

with a good voice and personal charms of no mean order, she had been

ambitious—over ambitious to do well. Consequently she had frequently

overreached herself when just at the point of success. She was at enmity

with God, the world, and herself; and she was obliged to acknowledge

it—she had only herself to blame. Nevertheless, her courage revived when

her first feelings of depression had dissolved.

“He goes to England to-morrow without me,” she said to herself, in a

whisper. “Never mind, I shall soon follow him up. In England I shall at

least be happier than here. Assimilation is the way—I ought to have done

it long ago. Fool that I was to consider the Montellas! They are

intoxicated with their Judaism—but I—I—am a total abstainer from

Judaism.”

And then she laughed hysterically at her feeble joke. She was clearly

much overwrought.

BOOK III

THE LAST OF THE EDICT

“_And it shall come to pass, after that I have plucked them out, I will

return, and have compassion on them, and will bring them again, every

man to his heritage, and every man to his land._”—JEREMIAH xii. 15.

CHAPTER I

ENGLAND ONCE MORE

Patricia left the Princess with her husband at Felsen-Schvoenig, and

journeyed back to London with Lord Torrens, whom she had met at Port

Said. The Earl was somewhat annoyed at having been baulked of his

Eastern tour; but as he did not care to visit the Holy Land in his

daughter’s absence, his only alternative was to turn back. Secretly, he

considered Patricia’s action absurdly quixotic, for he could not in the

least understand her point of view. To him all creeds were but

variations of one fundamental principle, and to quarrel over individual

shades of opinion seemed unnecessary in the extreme. As for sentiment in

religion, he refused to recognise that at all, since it could be

analysed and physically accounted for by the materialistic exponents of

modern thought. Nevertheless he was considerate enough not to add to the

girl’s suffering by vain reproaches; he knew that, for the present, it

was best to leave her alone.

The home-coming seemed so strange that Patricia felt as if she were in a

dream. Coming from the brilliant sunshine of the East, London looked

cold and grey, and the dresses of the people curiously prosaic after the

gay colours of the Orient. It was about six o’clock in the evening, and

the lamps were already lit. Clerks and business people generally were

travelling homewards, newspaper boys were calling out the special

editions of the evening papers, and the traffic rushed bewilderingly

through the crowded streets. Leaning back in the brougham, Patricia’s

head seemed to swim, for the roads and shops and people had apparently

magnified themselves tenfold, and loomed large and vast through the

gloom of the evening twilight. She was thankful when the carriage

slackened pace, and pulled up before the familiar door. But even

Grosvenor Square seemed to have extended in area. She could not imagine

why everything looked so immense.

The house was still in a state of metaphorical curl-papers and overalls,

for they intended to stay there only for one night. By Patricia’s

orders, Mrs. Lowther—her old companion—had taken a small villa near

Richmond, where the girl intended to live out her days. She established

herself there the very next morning, thankful to have some occupation to

distract her thoughts. The villa, which rejoiced in the romantic name of

“Ivydene,” was light and pretty, and more attractive in its way than the

solemn magnificence of the parental mansion. Mrs. Lowther, too, had done

all in her power to make it home-like: there were bright fires in the

grates and flowers in the vases, and the hundred and one little things

which contribute to domestic comfort. The girl could not help feeling

touched by the thoughtfulness which had evidently been expended on her

account, and as she went over the small but prettily-decorated rooms,

her eyes grew misty with no far-distant tears. There was one room in

particular which held her spellbound, for the wall-paper depicted

well-known nursery rhymes, such as “Jack and Jill,” “Little Miss

Muffit,” and “Red Ridinghood”; and in one corner stood a brand-new

rocking-horse.

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Lowther said, half-apologetically. “I had

thought—had made sure—that you would bring your little boy.” And she

wished she had had the tact not to allow the young mother to enter the

room just then, for the sight of the childish appurtenances evidently

called up an emotion of pain.

But Patricia begged her not to be concerned.

“It was very kind of you to take so much trouble,” she said, going to

the window and looking at the tiny lawn without. “Oh, how I wish we

could have Julian here! He is such a lovely boy, Lowthy, and so

wonderfully intelligent. It nearly broke my heart to have to leave him

behind.”

“I don’t know how you could,” her companion returned, almost severely.

“It seems unnatural to part a mother from her child. If I had been you—”

Patricia put up her hands as though to ward off a blow. “Yes, I know,”

she put in hastily. “Don’t hurt me, dear. If you had been in my place

you would have acted just the same. You don’t understand what Judaism

is—how it used to rise up between the Montellas and myself like a wall.

They would not let me bring baby away for fear I should make a Christian

of him, which of course I should do; for I could not help wanting to

consecrate his little life to Christ. Oh, I don’t wish to go over the

whole story again; it is too painful. The Montellas are quite right from

their point of view, and I am quite right from mine. We must all do what

seems to be our duty according to our own conscience, even if it seems

hard at the time.”

Mrs. Lowther regarded her contemplatively.

“How you have changed, Patricia,” she observed, placing her hand on the

rough mane of the horse. “At the time of your marriage none of these

considerations seemed to trouble you. Did I not warn you during your

engagement that although you might attempt to enter their Jewish world,

you must for ever remain an outsider? I don’t want to be cruel, but I

can’t help telling you how I regret that you did not listen to me. For

look at your present position: a wife, and yet practically without a

husband—a mother, and yet without a child. Oh, you poor dear girl, if

you had only taken my advice you would never have made such a shipwreck

of your life!”

Had she not been sincerely sympathetic, Patricia would have been

irritated by her comments.

“Oh, I don’t regret the past,” she responded quickly, “not one little

bit; and if I had it to live over again I would marry Lionel just the

same. It is not his fault that things have turned out like this; it is

the fault of a fanatical Chief Rabbi and a narrow creed. But Lowthy, if

you don’t mind, I would rather not talk about it any more. You see it

hurts; and—and—I shall have to get used to being alone.” She held up the

locket containing the portraits of her husband and baby, and looking at

it thoughtfully, added sadly: “Not that I want to forget these two dear

ones. The remembrance of them will remain with me day and night. I can’t

yet realise that they are all those hundreds of miles away; I want to

consult my husband at every turn.”

And then dashing away the tears which in spite of her will would come,

she left the intended nursery, and descended to the hall.

It took her some time to settle down to her new life in Richmond. Lord

Torrens, scarcely caring for the menage of a suburban residence, left

after a few days, but the faithful Mrs. Lowther remained. Of callers

there were none; for Patricia’s object in coming to live so far out was

to avoid those who would have visited her in Grosvenor Square. She was

in no mood for any kind of social pleasure, nor for the sympathy of kind

but curious friends. So she kept her arrival a secret from those who

would have been glad to know, and preferred to spend the greater part of

her time in solitude.

But Montella had given her a task to perform. He wanted to know her

version of the condition of English affairs; and in order to form an

opinion, she was obliged to go out and about. So far as she could see,

the assimilation process seemed, socially, to be working well enough.

The names of Cohen, Jacobs, and Levy no longer existed; but those of

Cowan, Jackson, and Leigh were on the increase, and perhaps sounded more

euphonious in English ears. In spite of the exodus of the alien

immigrants whose presence had been so greatly deplored, however, there

were still a great number of the unemployed. Trade was bad—so bad that

the prosperity of many families of the middle class was seriously

threatened, and complaints were heard on all sides. Several well-known

shops in the West End were shut up, and the bankruptcy of a celebrated

mercantile house had ruined hundreds. Affairs on the Stock Exchange were

quieter than ever they had been before, and finance, in the absence of

two or three of the greatest Jewish capitalists, was at a low ebb.

Moreover, people began to attribute the decline in commerce to the

removal of Jewish influence by the Expulsion. Many said that the Jews

who had gone to Palestine had taken the prosperity of England with them;

many more heartily wished for their return. Certain it was that a wave

of adversity had spread over the country; the nation seemed to be under

a cloud.

“I have not come across many Jews so far,” she wrote, “although there

must still be a great many here. I went on an exploration expedition to

Canonbury and Highbury last week, and found most of the houses there to

let. The shops there—or, rather, those that remain—seem to be undergoing

a hard struggle, and I was told on inquiry that it was because their

principal customers in the past had been those of the Jewish race. The

synagogues have, of course, all been swept away; but, judging by

statistics, there appears to be very little increase in the attendance

at the various churches. The theatres also are not doing so well as of

old, as a considerable amount of both talent and patronage has by the

Expulsion been sent away. So the practical side of the Bill does not

answer so well as it did in theory, and by the man in the street the

Government is roundly blamed.”

She experienced a peculiar sense of gratification in having to give so

unsatisfactory a report. Perhaps she thought it would comfort her

husband to know that England missed the Jews, and was not flourishing so

well without them; yet she knew that his love for his native country was

such that he could not help feeling sincerely grieved.

She had just returned from her peregrination westwards one day, and was

walking through the High Street on her way home, when she came face to

face with a lady who was preparing to re-enter her carriage. Patricia,

full of her own thoughts, would have passed on; but the lady, with an

exclamation of surprise, barred the way.

“So I have found you at last, you truant!” she said, in a voice full of

satisfaction.

It was Lady Chesterwood, the wife of Athelstan Moore.

Patricia looked up, half abashed, and held out her hand, scarcely

knowing how to greet her old friend under the changed circumstances. But

Mamie had heard the whole story of the Montellas’ separation from the

Princess, and had the good grace not to refer to the affair. She

insisted on taking the girl into a neighbouring tea-shop in order to

have a chat, and gossiped away to her heart’s content. Then she suddenly

remembered the purpose for which she had come out, and broke off in the

middle of her conversation to ask Patricia’s advice.

“I meant to call and ask the doctor to come and look at

Phyllis—Athelstan’s child, you know; but I have not made up my mind

whether to do so or not,” she said, with an expression of doubt.

“Athelstan slept in town last night, but I expect him home to dinner;

and if he hears that the doctor has been, he will be so frightfully

alarmed. He absolutely worships that girl; and if her little finger

aches, he immediately makes up his mind that she is going to die. So I

never send for the doctor unless it is really necessary; it doesn’t seem

worth while to have a fuss for nothing.”

“What is the matter with her?” asked Patricia equably. “Nothing serious,

I suppose?”

“No, only a sore throat; a cold probably. I dare say she will be better

to-morrow.”

“A sore throat,” repeated Patricia meditatively. “I don’t like anything

the matter with the throat. I should send for the doctor if I were you.”

“You would? Well then, I think you ought to help me to bear the brunt of

Athelstan’s alarm. Come to dinner, and bring your she-dragon with you if

you like. You know where we live: the other side of Richmond

Park—Ravenscroft Hall. We dine at seven o’clock, but I shall expect you

at half-past six. Now”—as Patricia prepared to remonstrate—“I know you

are going to put all sorts of objections in the way, but I shall not

accept one of them. I will take absolutely no refusal; you _must_ come.”

“But, my dear Mamie, how can I?” The girl looked almost bewildered. “To

meet the Premier in his own house at dinner, after he has been the means

of sending my husband to the Antipodes! Oh, it’s impossible! Can’t you

see the irony of it? There can be no friendship between a Montella and

Athelstan Moore.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the Countess, unconvinced. “Richmond is not

Downing Street. In our own house we have nothing to do with politics;

besides, Athelstan may not put in an appearance after all. Don’t be so

absurdly sensitive, Pat; I want you to come.”

But Patricia still hesitated. The thought of being a guest at Mr.

Moore’s table was so repugnant that it could scarcely be tolerated; yet

she felt a secret curiosity to meet the great anti-Semite again. She

would, at least, have something of interest to report to Lionel; and

although she could not introduce the subject of the Expulsion, she might

indirectly glean an inkling of the Premier’s views. So—not without

misgivings—she yielded, and promised to be there by the appointed time.

Whether good or evil would come of the visit, however, remained to be

seen; and as she left her friend, she felt as if she were about to

trifle with edged tools.

CHAPTER II

AN ANTI-SEMITE STILL

The “she-dragon,” as Mamie unkindly dubbed Mrs. Lowther, did not care

to accept the invitation to Ravenscroft Hall, and asked to be excused;

so Patricia dressed herself in a simple evening-gown and drove off

alone. Excitement had lent a touch of colour to her cheeks, and as the

carriage swept up the avenue she trifled nervously with her long

neck-chain of pearls. Arrived at the house, however, she soon regained

her self-possession, and followed the footman up the stone staircase

with her usual equanimity. The Countess received her with cordiality;

but seemed curiously diffident. She glanced at the door every now and

then with marked uneasiness; her mind was evidently—on some

account—disturbed.

“The doctor has not been yet,” she said, in answer to Patricia’s

enquiry. “I am expecting him every minute. I don’t quite like the look

of Phyllis; she has been shivering so terribly. I do hope she isn’t

going to be ill.”

“Has Mr. Moore seen her?”

“No, he has not arrived yet, but he will be here soon. He wired that he

is bringing Mr. Lawson Holmes back with him.” Her brow grew troubled. “I

want to keep him away from Phyllis until after dinner, when I hope the

doctor will have been. The children always come in to dessert, you

know.”

The words had scarcely passed her lips when the scrunch of carriage

wheels on the gravel approached them, and the hall door closed with a

heavy sound. A moment later the men’s voices were heard on the stairs,

as they parted to go to their respective rooms. The Countess, excusing

herself to her guest, went dutifully to greet her husband; but she

returned before Patricia had time to notice her absence, and together

they descended to the rooms below.

“I think you will find a great change in Athelstan,” she said, as

Patricia glanced at the large portrait of the Premier which adorned the

wall. “He has aged terribly during the last three years, and suffers

from periodical fits of depression which seem to take all the life out

of him. The doctors cannot account for it, and put it down to overwork.

But I believe I know what it is: there is something preying on his

mind.”

“Yes?” Patricia looked up half wonderingly. “I suppose he is troubled

about State affairs?”

The Countess waxed confidential.

“It’s the Jews,” she said impressively, forgetting, perhaps, the

political position of her friend. “I believe they’ve affected his brain.

He thinks about them all day, dreams about them at night, and talks

about them in his sleep. It’s Jews, Jews, Jews—always Jews! The fact of

the matter is, that in pushing the Expulsion Bill he made a tremendous

mistake; and he knows it, and is suffering from remorse. But in spite of

this he maintains his ground, and won’t budge an inch from his original

standpoint. He is as hard and as obstinate as a piece of flint.”

Patricia turned over the leaves of a magazine with agitation. “Mamie,

ought you to tell me this?” she asked, feeling that she had received a

confidence which should have been withheld. “Do you think your husband

would care for me to know that he is attacked by remorse? Remember, I am

the wife of an exiled Jew.”

“I don’t care anyway,” the little woman returned recklessly. “If you can

act on that knowledge, so much the better. Oh, Patricia! you do not know

what I have suffered during the past two years. You do not know what it

is to have a husband so morose that he will scarcely speak, except to

say something unkind. For the first few months of our married life,

Athelstan was as genial and happy as a boy; but now—now—his only smile

is for Phyllis—never for me.”

She sank on to a chair, a look of wounded pride in her eyes. Patricia

was genuinely sorry, but she scarcely knew what to say. She remembered

the boasted power, the desire to rule which had animated the Countess at

the time of Moore’s proposal. Where was that conquering influence of her

feminine personality which was to have decided not only the affairs of

her husband, but also of the State? Gone—all gone; nay, it had never

been there. For Mamie’s will was far too frail to have ever run counter

to that of the Premier; and now, after repeated storms, only a crushed

and broken spirit remained.

The girl sympathised as best she could, and skilfully drew the

conversation to matters of lighter trend. She did not want to hear such

secrets, and shrank from prying into the private life of her husband’s

enemy. But Mamie was naturally loquacious, and her thoughts expressed

themselves in words almost as soon as they entered her mind. It was

probably this very garrulity which had sent Moore back into his shell;

for knowing that his wife could not be trusted with a secret, he

naturally became more reserved.

They were both glad of the presence of Mr. Lawson Holmes at the

dinner-table that night. He was a man who could converse well on almost

any subject, and possessed a good many interests besides that of

politics. Moore was, as usual, preoccupied and gloomy, and had shaken

hands with Patricia as though she had been a complete stranger. The

Countess, who had quietly been called away to see the doctor before the

commencement of the meal, was pale and silent, so the two guests had the

conversation principally to themselves. When the dessert was reached,

however, the Premier suddenly awoke as from a sleep, and fixing his

steely eyes on his wife’s face, inquired solemnly for the children.

Lady Chesterwood’s eyes fell.

“Leslie was a naughty boy this afternoon, and I was obliged to punish

him,” she returned quietly. “And Phyllis—Phyllis is not well.”

“Not well?” Moore became visibly alarmed. “What is the matter with her?

Has the doctor been?”

“Yes; he says she has a bad sore throat, and must stay in bed. He

suggested moving her to the south wing of the house, because it is

warmer there and the aspect sunnier, so we have done so. And he doesn’t

think much of Leslie’s old nurse, so he is going to send a trained nurse

from the hospital, and perhaps an assistant as well.” She paused, out of

breath. “He is coming again to-morrow morning,” she added rapidly, “so

you can see him then.”

Moore tossed off a glass of wine, and excusing himself, rose from the

table.

“I shall not wait until to-morrow morning,” he said, in a rough voice.

“I shall see him to-night. But I must have a look at the child first.

Poor little girl! A sore throat—” and without finishing the sentence he

left the room.

There was a moment’s silence, and then the Countess also rose.

“I suppose I shall have to tell him,” she said, with an interrogative

look at her two guests. “The child has a touch of diphtheria; that is

why we have thought it best to isolate her at once. It is not serious at

present, but of course there is no knowing how it may turn out. I think

I had better go up to them, if you will not think me very rude. I am so

sorry this should have happened just now; it is so unpleasant. But, of

course, one cannot help these things.”

“Don’t apologise, dear,” said Patricia kindly. “I will amuse myself in

the library until Mr. Holmes has finished his wine. Go to your husband

now. I am sure you ought to be with him. It is very unfortunate

altogether; I do hope Phyllis will soon be well.”

“I should advise you to tell Moore exactly what it is,” advised Holmes,

as the ladies passed across the threshold. He knew that to keep the

Premier in ignorance of the true nature of the illness would only serve

to make matters worse, since he must inevitably find out in the course

of two or three hours.

He smoked his cigar in solitude, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The presence of Lady Patricia Montella in that household had caused him

a deep sensation of astonishment, for he had not been aware of her

arrival in England. He knew, of course, that Lady Chesterwood was a

connection of hers by marriage; but even so, he was surprised that she

should be friendly with Moore. Thirsting for information, he threw down

his cigar half smoked, and rejoined her without delay. Without appearing

unduly curious, he elicited the whole story of her pathetic separation.

Then he inquired after his old friend, Montella, in almost affectionate

terms, and expressed his regret that Parliament should have lost such a

gifted and true young statesman.

“I always liked Montella,” he said, when he had related more than one

reminiscence of past years; “but he had one weakness: he allowed himself

to be ruled by his mother. Now, I have the greatest respect for Lady

Montella, but I do not believe in petticoat interference. Montella was

quite capable of riding his political horse without the aid of feminine

spurs.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Holmes,” assented the girl, almost surprised

at his perception; “but Lady Montella is a strange woman; she has the

spirit of a Joan of Arc, and the self-discipline of a nun. I have often

wished myself that Lionel were left more to act on his own initiative.

His ideas are on a broader plane than his mother’s, although he may be

less of a Jew.”

“Quite so. Dear me, but how the poor fellow did scold me for introducing

the Assimilation Bill! And, by Jove! I think he was right. We’ve made a

ghastly mistake over the whole business, Lady Patricia. You can tell him

so if you like.”

Patricia was all attention.

“You mean that the result of the Expulsion is unsatisfactory,” she

interrupted eagerly. “I thought so, judging by all the reports I had

heard.”

The Cabinet Minister bent forward confidentially.

“Shall I tell you something?” he answered impressively. “England can

_not_ get along without Jewish money and Jewish brains; and she’s

shipped all the best of it away—sent it to Palestine to enrich the Holy

Land. That’s the plain truth—and a truth which is going to be expressed

pretty forcibly by the people in Hyde Park next Saturday. Of course,

Moore pooh-poohs it, and means to hold out to the end; but it strikes me

that there will be a fairly sharp ministerial struggle before long.”

“And the result?”

“Ah, who can tell? I don’t think we have ever had such a feeble

Government as there is now. There’s scarcely a man among them worth his

salt. Moore still wields that sort of one-man power which is

occasionally beneficial, and at times so dangerous; and I believe

Moore’s mind on the Jewish question is warped. We’ve got to try and drag

that rabid anti-Semitic feeling out of him: it’s no easy task.”

Patricia remembered what Mamie had told her concerning the Premier’s

inmost feelings, and grew thoughtful.

“I wonder if I could do anything to change Mr. Moore’s opinions,” she

said slowly. “I have seen so much of both sides that I ought to be able

to speak with authority. At present he distrusts me; he has scarcely

spoken a word to me this evening, but of course he may have just felt in

a taciturn mood. If I can win him over from anti-Semitism to common

sense, will you excuse the petticoat interference for once, Mr. Holmes?”

He smiled good-humouredly at her naïve use of his own expression, but

quickly regained his gravity as the door opened to admit the Countess.

The unfortunate little lady seemed full of trouble, and sank on to the

settee with an expression of despair. Athelstan was behaving in a most

ridiculous manner, and declared he would have no trained nurses creeping

about the house.

“He wants me to nurse her myself, with the assistance of an old and

trusted servant of his first wife’s,” she said, in a voice which was

almost tearful. “He says Phyllis has a horror of strangers. But,

Patricia, how can I? I know I’m not strong, and I should be sure to

catch it. My throat feels quite sore already at the mere thought.”

She looked the picture of misery, with her pale face and troubled eyes.

Patricia wondered that she could so easily collapse, but taking pity on

her, made a sudden resolve.

“Would Mr. Moore be satisfied if I undertook to nurse her in your

place?” she said impulsively, without giving herself time to consider

the consequence. “Phyllis will probably remember me; I am not quite a

stranger. And I am a good nurse—I like it. So if you will have me, I am

quite willing to stay.”

Mr. Lawson Holmes cast her a glance of admiration. It seemed to him that

her beautiful eyes shone with the light of heroism; and he recognised

that hers was the material of which soldiers are made. But the Countess

could not conceal her astonishment.

“You!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet. “Oh, Patricia, you _can’t_

mean it? Why should you do it for the child of Athelstan Moore? And

think of the responsibility and the risk. Diphtheria is so infectious.

Are you not afraid?”

“Afraid? No.” The girl met her gaze bravely. “I shall not neglect the

necessary precautions, you may be sure; but even if I do take the

disease, it won’t matter—much. Away from my husband, I don’t care what

happens to me, and that is the very reason why I shall be immune.

Besides, this would be what Lionel calls a _Mitzvah_—a good deed which

brings a blessing. Oh, I should like to do it; it would give me

something to occupy my thoughts!”

Her words unconsciously betrayed the unhappiness of her present

position. Her recklessness with regard to the danger amounted almost to

desperation; and she seemed to have fully made up her mind. So the

Countess, with a feeling almost of awe, went to acquaint the Premier of

her unselfish offer; she could not understand her cousin’s frame of mind

in the least.

The Premier manifested not a flicker of surprise. He returned with his

wife to accept the offer with formal gratitude, but Patricia could see

that in reality he was much stirred. Moreover, it pleased her to know

that he had confidence in her ability, that he could bring himself to

trust her with his precious child. Realising the tremendous

responsibility she had taken upon herself, she sat down with trembling

hand to write to Mrs. Lowther for what she required. She could imagine

what that good lady would say when she read the note, and the flutter

there would ensue at Ivydene. Truly the situation was a curious one,

though not so outrageous as Mrs. Lowther would make out. But she had

long ago made up her mind that life was full of the strangest

inconsistencies, and had therefore no compunction in adding one more to

the list.

“I have ordered my _chauffeur_ to get the car ready,” said the Premier,

when she had finished the note. “Will you come with me, Holmes?”

“With pleasure.” The Cabinet Minister rose with alacrity. “You are going

to the doctor, I suppose.”

“Yes; but I haven’t any faith in him—he is only a local practitioner. I

want him to get hold of that specialist, though—I’ve forgotten the man’s

name, but you know whom I mean. He cured the Crown-Princess of Germany

from the same complaint, and it was stated at the time that he was the

only doctor in the world who could have pulled her through. I am certain

my little girl will be all right if she is in his hands, and it will be

a great comfort for me to have him. But I can’t for the life of me think

of his name. It was something beginning with a K.”

“I know!” exclaimed the Countess, glad to be able to come to the rescue.

“It was Dr. Kesten.”

Moore gave a sigh of relief.

“That’s right,” he replied, almost cheerfully. “Kesten. He’s a splendid

doctor, and a really good and conscientious man. I believe he lives in

Portland Place.”

“Dr. Kesten?” repeated Mr. Lawson Holmes, in astonishment. “Good

gracious, Moore, you can’t have him. He’s in Palestine—one of the

victims of the Expulsion. Have you forgotten that Kesten is a Jew?”

Patricia looked up with a startled expression on her face, and exchanged

a glance with Mr. Holmes. Here indeed was a curious dénouement: Moore

was personally feeling the dire result of his own Bill.

And the Premier in his rage and emotion forgot himself for once.

“Hang the Jews!” was his uncivil, but forcible remark.

CHAPTER III

THE MIND OF THE PREMIER

Patricia found her post no sinecure. The first thing she did was to send

Lady Chesterwood and her little boy to Ivydene; for Mamie’s fear of

infection was so great that she would most certainly have caught the

disease had she remained, even though the south wing in which the child

lay was quite apart from the rest of the house. Moore’s foolish aversion

to professional nurses entailed greater vigilance on the part of the two

physicians who were attending the case, and they were obliged to visit

the Hall three or four times in the course of the day. In reality the

little girl was suffering from a peculiarly mild form of the disease,

but her father was so nervous that the very pronouncement of the word

“diphtheria” had frightened him beyond measure. For himself he

entertained no fear—his was too strong a nature to admit of cowardice;

but his love for his child was passionate almost to excess. Patricia had

never seen anything like it in her life.

His time was divided between Downing Street, the House of Commons, and

Ravenscroft Hall. At the Foreign Office he was dictatorial and shrewd;

in the House his speeches lacked nothing of their usual brilliance; but

as soon as he returned to the Hall he became a different man. The

pomposity departed from him, his step became light, his voice subdued;

and ascending the staircase on tiptoe, the usual question, “How is she?”

fell almost pathetically from his lips. If she were a little better his

happiness knew no bounds, but if worse, his spirits sank to zero; and

one night, when the child was really in danger, there ensued a scene

which the Hall servants remembered for months. The doctors would not

allow him to remain in the room, so he paced the corridor, almost

distraught; and as no one dared say a word to comfort him without the

fear of instant dismissal, he was left to drink his cup of bitterness

alone.

But Patricia, coming off duty an hour later, brought him the welcome

news that Phyllis was asleep and the crisis almost past; and inducing

him to accompany her to the adjoining housekeeper’s room, talked to him

quietly for a little while. She looked pale from lack of sleep, and her

eyes were heavy; but in his stress of mind and self-absorption he

scarcely spared her a thought.

“Do you really think she will get better—on your word of honour?” he

asked, for the hundredth time; “or are you only saying it to comfort me?

I don’t want to be buoyed up by false hopes; I would rather know the

worst. I— Oh dear, how my head seems to spin! Or is it the room that is

going round like a top?”

The girl helped him to a chair, and forced him to take a little brandy.

“No wonder you are exhausted,” she said, when he was somewhat revived.

“You are wearing yourself out; your nerves are constantly on the rack. I

don’t understand you at all, Mr. Moore. In public life you have the

courage and strength of a giant—I have been reading about you only this

morning in the _Post_; but in private life—here—you behave just like a

nervous woman. I really feel quite ashamed of you before the doctors. If

you do not take care, they will form a very poor opinion of the Prime

Minister’s fortitude.”

She spoke boldly, knowing that the rebuke was just what he needed, and

that it would have a salutary effect. The Premier regarded her with

astonishment, and a sharp rejoinder rose to his lips; but he repressed

it, and the momentary gleam of anger died out of his eyes.

“You are right,” he returned, his hands falling dejectedly to his side;

“but I have had so much worry lately; I think my nerves are unstrung.

And you don’t know—what it is to love a child—as I love my Phyllis.”

Her eyes deepened with feeling. “Ah, but I do!” she said, with a sudden

catch in her voice. “I too have a child—a little darling whom I may

never see again, although he is as dear to me as your little girl is to

you. But I am brave, or at least I try to be.... And Phyllis will get

better. My case is more hopeless than yours.”

“Phyllis will get better?” He grasped at the words as a drowning man

clutches a straw. “I pray God she may! I pray God she may!” Then he

leant his head against his hands, and continued, as though speaking to

himself: “I am not superstitious—a sensible man has no right to give way

to such folly; but I thought the judgment of Heaven had fallen when

Phyllis was taken ill. The Jews.... They are the bane of my life ...

they would pay me out if they could. Pharaoh oppressed them, and was

smitten with the ten plagues.... But I won’t be beaten; I _won’t_....

Not if fifty plagues come on my people—not if Phyllis dies. _If Phyllis

dies...._ Good God, what am I saying? She must not die.... Any judgment

from Heaven—but not that ... my one little ewe lamb. Eh?” he added

thickly, as Patricia made a movement. “What was I talking about? The

brandy has got into my head, I think. Let me go—into the garden; I must

have air.”

He stumbled up to the French window, which, by means of a flight of

steps, gave access to the lawn. Patricia assisted him to descend, and

rang hastily for his valet. Then she returned to the sick-room, thereby

incurring the displeasure of the doctor; for in the hours that she was

not on duty it was necessary that she should rest.

“I am on my way to bed now,” she whispered, glancing tenderly at the

unconscious child; “but I wanted to tell you something, doctor. Mr.

Moore seems very much unstrung, and I should like you to prescribe for

him before you go. He has to preside at a Cabinet Meeting to-morrow, and

unless he sleeps to-night, I am sure he will be unable to attend.”

The physician nodded.

“Very well, I will, as soon as I have given my instructions for the

night to nurse,” he whispered back. “And now, Lady Patricia, I must

insist on you going to bed; otherwise, we shall be having you on the

sick-list too.”

The girl smiled, and quietly withdrew; but although she was tired, she

felt little inclination for sleep. The stray glimpse into the secret

chambers of the Premier’s mind had filled her with all sorts of curious

cogitations, and she could not help pondering on the strange character

of the man. He was evidently suffering either from distorted mental

vision or—as Mamie had said—from remorse; and his recently-grey hair and

haggard features testified that his health was being injured in

consequence. But if that was the case—if his part in connection with the

Expulsion was weighing so heavily on his mind, why did he not seek to

atone for his action by advocating retractive measures? If he were a

brave man—and his brilliant Parliamentary career proved him to be a

morally strong one—why did he shrink from owning himself to have been in

the wrong? Was it cowardice or sheer obstinacy which made him hold on

grimly to his original views in spite of his inmost convictions? And how

long would he be able to maintain that line of conduct—how long before

the great mind would over-balance itself, and travel along the course

which led to insanity? Could it be possible that they should ever see

“_that noble and most sovereign reason, like sweet bells jangled, out of

tune and harsh_?”

But the next morning she found him as abrupt and self-possessed as

usual. All traces of his recent emotion had disappeared, and he had

evidently regained complete command over himself. The child had passed a

better night, and his matutinal visit to the sick-room caused him such

satisfaction that he was able to leave for London almost as soon as the

doctor had been. And that day his dialectics at the Foreign Office were

more irresistible than ever; he was once more his old self, now that the

danger to his child was past.

Patricia found the period of the little girl’s convalescence more trying

than the actual illness, for there seemed more to do, and Phyllis was

often peevish and cross. Lady Chesterwood and Mrs. Lowther called every

day, and sometimes twice a day; but unless she changed all her clothes,

for fear the germs of infection should—according to the Countess—lurk in

the folds of her nursing costume, she could not see them, and often she

was obliged to let them go away: so that all communication with the

outer world had practically ceased for the present, and of the daily

inquirers who drove up to the Hall she saw not one. She looked over the

visitors’ book sometimes, and collected the numerous visiting-cards for

Phyllis to play with; but although some of the names were so familiar

that they called up vivid remembrances of the days of her early

girlhood, she felt no desire to see any of these quondam friends.

Whether they knew of her presence in the Premier’s mansion she knew not;

but it was likely that Mamie had spread the news.

One afternoon, however, a card was brought up to her which dispelled her

usual indifference, and caused the colour to mount to her cheeks. It

bore the inscription “Sir Ferdinand Montella,” and on the reverse side

the intimation of his immediate return to Haifa. Scarcely pausing to

smooth her fair hair, Patricia rushed down to receive him; for although

she had never seen him before, she looked upon him as a link from the

East.

His visit was the best tonic she could have taken, for his breezy manner

had an exhilarating effect. He brought good news of her beloved ones in

Palestine, inasmuch as they were both well, and the baby bonnier than

ever. He expressed himself willing to take back any messages she cared

to send, and apologised deeply for not having come before.

“I was so busy with my affair,” he said, with the light of satisfaction

in his eyes. “Thank goodness it’s all settled, and I’ve won the case. I

was the cat’s-paw of another fellow, you know; and I could not have come

forward before without betraying him. But now he is dead, and I have

been able to prove my innocence; and now that I am a free and honourable

man in the sight of the world, I am going back to marry my little Raie.”

Patricia held out her hands.

“I am very glad,” she said sincerely. “I congratulate you from the

bottom of my heart. And I hope you and Raie will be very happy; she is a

sweet girl, and will make you an admirable wife.”

“So I think,” he returned, with a glad smile, as his grasp on her

fingers relaxed. “I believe we were cut out for each other; it was love

at first sight, anyway. But I don’t want to talk about myself, Patricia;

I want to know something about you. Lionel will be full of questions

when I get back. I was astonished when Mrs. Lowther informed me that you

were here. Whatever made you walk direct into the lion’s mouth?”

“Providence, or a combination of circumstances,” she answered slowly.

“When I advised Mrs. Lowther to rent Ivydene for a year, I had quite

forgotten that Ravenscroft Hall was so near; and you see, Lady

Chesterwood was in such trouble that I was bound to offer to help. I do

hope Lionel will not be angry; I would never have become an inmate of

the Premier’s household under any other circumstances, and I shall leave

as soon as I can. They have treated me very courteously here; I cannot

complain.”

“It seems so strange—so unnecessary,” he said, with a puzzled

expression, “that you, a Montella by marriage, should go out of your way

to nurse the child of an anti-Semite. It is heaping coals of fire on his

head with a vengeance. I cannot understand how the man could accept your

services if he has any pride about him at all.”

“You do not know him, Ferdinand. He has pride, but he would not let it

stand in the way where the welfare of his child was concerned. Besides,

I did it for Mamie’s sake; her husband was my first-cousin. And, do you

know, I am glad I came. I believe I shall be able to convert the Premier

before I leave.”

“Convert the Premier,” he repeated, with an ironical smile. “What

to?—Judaism?”

She laughed.

“Not quite; but you are not far wrong. I want to cure him of his

anti-Semitic mania, and so far I have progressed well. At first I dare

not mention the Jewish question to him; but now that I have nursed his

child through a serious illness, he is beginning to trust me, and to

listen to what I choose to say.”

“But do you really think that you, a mere woman—I had almost said

child—can influence Athelstan Moore?” he asked incredulously. “Why, I

know of no one in England who is able to do that.”

Patricia was too sensible to be piqued by his scepticism.

“I do think so,” she returned, with enthusiasm. “Mr. Moore is a man who

can be led, but not driven. You know what Shakespeare says:

‘What thou wilt

Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile,

Than hew to’t with thy sword.’

Mr. Lawson Holmes and his colleagues might talk to him till Doomsday

without the slightest effect, because he is strenuously determined to

oppose them; but I have the opportunity of approaching him in his

tenderest moments—when he is with his child. There are some cases in

which a ‘mere woman’ can do more than the strongest man.”

He glanced at her with admiration, not unmixed with wonder.

“And if you do cure him of his anti-Semitic mania, as you call it,” he

said slowly, “what will be the practical result?”

“I cannot say; but it will be a victory worth achieving. Everyone knows

how the Premier dominates the Government, both collectively and

individually—how they have not the courage to move a step without his

approval, how they follow him just like a flock of sheep. Cure him of

his anti-Semitism, and there is no knowing what may happen. Do not

discourage me, Ferdinand, I mean to try very hard.”

The clock struck four, and warned her that she was due in the sick-room;

but she had so many messages to send that she could scarcely bear to

tear herself away. If she had only known of his coming, she would have

loaded him with presents for her dear ones, but he intended to start on

the morrow, and it was too late to get anything now. So she was obliged

to be content with sending her love—so much of it that Ferdinand

laughingly declared he would never be able to carry it; and she wept a

little in spite of his cheerful words. Then she said good-bye, and went

to her own room for a few minutes to finish her cry.

It might be a long time before she saw a Montella again.

CHAPTER IV

LADY PATRICIA’S CONQUEST

Slowly, but surely, Phyllis Moore crept back to health, and as the

danger of infection was over, Lady Chesterwood and Leslie returned to

the Hall. The child had been ordered to Bournemouth to recuperate her

lost strength, but the weather was so unfavourable that her father

thought it advisable to wait for a possible improvement. He himself

would not be able to leave London until the Christmas recess, and was

rather glad than otherwise of the enforced delay.

Patricia was asked to accompany them, in order that her health might

also benefit by the change; but as her services were no longer required,

she politely but firmly declined. She acknowledged to Mamie that her

stay at Ravenscroft Hall had been somewhat of a strain; and although she

was glad to have been of use at so urgent a time, she did not care to

remain as the Premier’s guest.

Athelstan Moore had shown very little appreciation of her magnanimity

during the child’s illness, but as her stay drew to a close he gradually

unbent, and on the last night he made an effort to express his gratitude

for her kindness. Perhaps he felt more demonstrative than usual, for all

Richmond was rejoicing at his little daughter’s happy recovery; and they

had just returned from a crowded thanksgiving service at the parish

church. He took her into the library after dinner on the pretext of

showing her a particular _edition de luxe_, but in reality it was

because he had something to say. He fidgeted uneasily with his diamond

stud, and launched forth into a long explanation concerning the merits

of his various editions of Shakespeare, whilst Patricia, knowing that he

had not brought her there to discuss bibliography, waited as patiently

as she could.

She sat down in front of the blazing log-fire, and watched him from the

depths of a heavy arm-chair. He looked almost handsome that night, in

spite of the lines on his forehead, and seemed to have regained a little

of his former sprightliness. Yet, recollecting his visit to her father

on the day of her marriage, she recognised a great difference. She

remembered how his short, thick-set figure had bristled with

indignation, and how the steely grey eyes had gleamed. She remembered

his gestures—sharp, stern, commanding, just as the political

caricaturists had pictured him in their cartoons—but there was little of

that fiery alertness in his bearing now. He looked like a man who had in

some peculiar way lost all verve: the features, the form, and the voice

remained, but the animation which had given life to the whole

personality was gone.

Abruptly finishing his superfluous dissertation, he took up his position

on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, and gazed moodily down at

the parquet floor. Then glancing up suddenly his eye caught Patricia’s,

and his face lit up with the faintest glimmer of a smile.

“I want to ask you something,” he said, leaning his arm against the

oaken mantel-shelf. “In reviewing the events of the last three weeks, it

has struck me as curious that you, of all persons, should have nursed my

little girl, since neither she nor I had the slightest claim on you.

Tell me, Lady Patricia, and do not be offended at my question—why did

you do it?”

“Why?” She hesitated. “Oh, because I thought it was a case in which I

could assist. I am always ready to help _anyone_ in trouble, if I can.”

“I see. You did it for charity’s sake. If it had been my lodge-keeper’s

child you would have nursed her with equal willingness and care?”

“Certainly.”

“Ah!” His exclamation was sharp and gruff. “Then you did not do it as a

personal favour to me?”

“No.” She met his gaze steadily. “I did not do it for you.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. He turned round and gave the fire a

vigorous poke, which sent the flames roaring up the chimney. The light

caught the diamond star at her breast, and set it scintillating with

prismatic rays. Then with his eyes almost involuntarily set on the

jewel, he addressed her again.

“It is as well to know the truth,” he said, with feigned nonchalance.

“Otherwise I might have flattered myself that you nursed Phyllis for my

sake. I suppose, in reality, you consider me more of an enemy than a

friend?”

“I think I have reason to do so,” she returned, with a sigh.

“On account of the Jewish question?” he asked slowly.

“Yes.”

“I am sorry.” He spread his hands deprecatingly. “But you see it is not

my fault that you happened to marry a Jew. You know I have no love for

that race.”

“I do know, to my sorrow,” she answered quietly. “But I cannot

understand it at all. Mr. Moore, why are you an anti-Semite?”

The question was given with such direct simplicity that for a moment he

was at a loss for a reply. This was carrying the war into the enemy’s

country.

“Why am I an anti-Semite?” he repeated, with hesitation. “Well, that is

too large a matter to be entered into now. My motives are both political

and personal; but they can be summed up in one sentence: I hate the

Jews.”

“And yet you call yourself a Christian!” she said, with contempt.

His cheeks flushed. “Lady Patricia!” he exclaimed, half angrily; but she

was undismayed.

“You do call yourself a Christian,” she continued calmly. “You are

publicly known as one of the staunchest of churchmen, and you are

president of several church societies. Mr. Moore, did Christ hate the

Jews?”

There was silence, but she scarcely waited for a response. “You know He

did not,” she went on quickly. “He healed them of their diseases, toiled

for them, suffered for them, died for them, loved them to the end. To be

at the same time a Christian and an anti-Semite is absolutely

impossible. More: if England is anti-Semitic, she cannot be Christian,

and (I quote from one of your own speeches now)—the day England ceases

to be Christian she ceases to be great. Oh, cannot you see the

inconsistency of your position? How could you reconcile it with your

conscience to persecute the Jews?”

She raised her sweet face in passionate appeal. The words seemed to come

direct from her heart, and her ardour expressed itself in the depths of

her blue eyes. Moore stared at her with unconcealed astonishment. No

one—not even his friend Lawson Holmes—had dared to be so outspoken; but

this gentle girl evidently was not afraid. And her words struck home:

they pierced the outer shield of his obstinacy, and penetrated to the

true self within; they touched the inmost chords of his troubled

emotions, and set them quivering like the strings of a lyre. Yet he

displayed no resentment, rather was he abashed: for his usual flow of

language deserted him; he could, for once, find no counter-reply.

“Persecution is an accommodating term,” he said, at last. “Place the

smallest restriction on the liberty of a sect, and immediately they

proclaim themselves martyrs. We have no desire to ‘persecute’ the Jews;

we have used neither the knout nor the rack. For myself, all I desire is

to eliminate everything Jewish from our English life; nothing more.”

“To eliminate everything Jewish?” she repeated, unable to conceal a

touch of scorn. “Why, it cannot be done; the Jews have left too great an

impress on the world. Religion, history, science, the fine arts,

commerce, is there anything in which they have never had a place? We

went to church this evening: was your enjoyment of the anthem marred

because the music was composed by Mendelssohn, a Jew? And has it ever

occurred to you that our Liturgy is almost entirely of Jewish origin?

The _Magnificat_—what is it but the joy-song of a Jewish maiden?—the

_Nunc Dimittis_, that of Simeon the Jew? Why, the whole Bible belongs to

the Jews—is Jewish literature from Genesis to Revelations. And yet you

would eliminate everything Jewish from your thoughts. As well try to

wipe out the past and re-create the world!”

She paused as the door opened to admit the Countess, who was tired of

her own society, and wondered what the two could be talking about. Mamie

considered it selfish of her husband to monopolise the girl’s company on

the last night of her stay; but noticing the gravity of his expression,

she conquered her desire to tell him so.

“I hope you have thanked Patricia nicely for her kindness to Phyllis,”

she said, with complacence, as she settled herself in the opposite

arm-chair. “Have you decided what form the memento is to take?”

Her husband looked almost disconcerted. “Not yet,” he returned dryly.

“When I led up to the subject we both went off at a tangent; however,

the evening is yet young.”

“We want to give you a little souvenir of your visit,” Mamie explained

eagerly; “but we could not decide as to what it should be, so we thought

we had better ask you. I suggested a crescent brooch to replace the one

you gave to the Unemployed. Do you remember that day, Patricia? What a

tender-hearted goose you were!”

Patricia’s colour rose.

“You are very good,” she said, addressing them both, and inwardly

determining not to accept any reward for her services, however

delicately it might be offered. “But I really have more jewellery than I

can wear already. I would rather not have a present, if you don’t mind;

indeed, I haven’t the faintest idea what to choose. I have all I want.”

The Premier seemed to be turning over something in his mind.

“All you want?” he repeated slowly; “except—your husband.”

Mamie cast him a sharp glance of interrogation, but he took no notice,

and advanced towards his guest.

“Lady Patricia,” he said impressively, “you do want your husband?”

“Want him?” She choked down a sob. “Yes, I do want him; I long for him

night and day! But you are unkind: don’t tease me, Mr. Moore!”

The tears welled up in her eyes, and gathered slowly on her beautiful

lashes. She felt as if he were playing with her as a cat plays with a

mouse, and her whole being rose in revolt at such a lack of generous

feeling. But the Premier’s features showed no sign of intended satire;

he had evidently spoken in perfect faith.

“I am not teasing you,” he said, in a peculiarly quiet voice. “Patricia,

I have to make an important decision before ten o’clock to-morrow

morning. A month ago I should have given my answer without the slightest

hesitation, but now—now I see that things are different to what they

appeared a little while ago. Supposing the Edict of Expulsion were

cancelled, would your husband return?”

“The Edict cancelled!” She could scarcely believe her ears. “Do you mean

that England will open her doors to the Jews again?” she asked, in a

tone of excitement. “Oh, it seems too good to be true; I can scarcely

believe it.” She took a deep breath. “Of course Lionel would come back;

Haifa would soon empty itself of its English population. But, Mr. Moore,

is it true? Do you really—_really_ mean it?”

“It is a possibility,” he returned, as though with an effort.

“Statistics show that trade and commerce have deteriorated since the

Expulsion; and the people are clamouring for the Jews’ return. To-morrow

the question comes up in Parliament, and I shall make a speech either

for or against. My colleagues, knowing my views, anticipate my

opposition; but—”

“But you will surprise them all by supporting the resolution,” she

interpolated quickly. “Mr. Moore, you know the Expulsion Act has been a

weight on your mind ever since it was put into force; you know that it

was all a gross miscarriage of justice. If the Jews have suffered

through it, so has England, so have you. Here is a Heaven-sent

opportunity to retrieve your mistake!”

The Premier winced, scarcely relishing such frank condemnation. If he

were obliged to drink the cup of defeat he shrank from having it offered

in that way. But Patricia had conquered; and the long arguments in which

she had so patiently engaged with him all through his child’s

convalescence were about to bear fruit. She had known all along that her

insistent pleading was making some little impression on his stubborn

heart; but she had never dared to think that he would so easily

surrender. Her questions fell thick and fast as she considered the

details of the proposed repeal, and she volunteered more than one

pertinent remark. The Premier sighed as he noticed her flushed cheeks

and sparkling eyes; for what was to her a cause of profound joyfulness,

meant to him a great renunciation. Perhaps the girl never knew what the

abandonment of his principles really cost him; it was like an upheaval

of his whole political life.

It was nearly twelve o’clock before they parted for the night, and even

then Patricia seemed inclined to linger. Hope had sprung up anew within

her breast, and the thought of her husband’s probable return invested

her with fresh life and energy. She listened to Mamie’s cheerful

prognostication of the future with a happy smile, never thinking that

her elation perhaps jarred upon her host. But when the clock struck the

hour she approached him to say good-night, and the gladness on her face

grew more subdued.

“Good-night, Mr. Moore,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am sorry if

I hurt you by what I said before, and if—if you will have me as a

friend—?”

He bent over the hand and raised it to his lips.

“Certainly we are friends, Patricia,” he answered quietly, with an

involuntary sigh. “Moore—the anti-Semite—is dead.”

“And Mr. Moore the Christian statesman lives!” She glanced into his face

with shining eyes. “Oh, I am so glad—so glad! I feel as if I could sing

a _Te Deum_ of praise!”

THE LAST CHAPTER

THE SKIRT OF A JEW

So the English nation decided that it was more to their advantage to

“take hold of the skirt of him that is a Jew” than to avoid him

altogether; and the Expulsion Act was eventually repealed. But

Parliament was too wary to fall into the old error of allowing

unrestricted immigration, and determined to keep the pauper alien away

from English shores. Fortunately this class was rapidly becoming

extinct, for in the Holy Land there was work and a welcome for all, and

the term “pauper alien” would soon be as worn out as the dodo. Moreover,

the establishment of the Jews in Palestine meant an end to the

atrocities to which they had been subjected from time to time in Eastern

Europe: for in their own land they were at least free. And even though

the English population flowed steadily back to the dearly-loved native

country, there were still enough Jews in Palestine to promote the

general welfare of the Jewish State. Indeed, the return of the Jews to

England proved a beneficial check to the threatened overcrowding of the

towns.

Haifa—as Patricia had predicted—soon lost its English citizens, and

Lionel Montella found it easy to resign his post. His mother, preferring

to remain in the Holy Land, went to live with Dr. and Mrs. Engelmacher

in Jerusalem, but intended to visit England once a year. The others made

preparations to leave in the ensuing April; perhaps they were less

susceptible to the claims of ancestry.

Patricia’s joy knew no bounds, and she was so busy preparing for their

return that the intermediate months seemed to have taken wings. With

generous magnanimity her husband renounced the ownership of Burstall

Abbey in favour of his step-brother; and she had been commissioned to

see that the place was prepared for the reception of Sir Ferdinand and

his bride. Lionel himself intended to stay at Ivydene, prior to

purchasing a new and suitable town-house near Piccadilly, for Patricia

had refused her father’s offer of his mansion for the whole of the

forthcoming season. So she occupied herself in beautifying the villa so

far as its dimensions would allow, and spared no pains to make it as

attractive as possible. She called Mrs. Lowther into the nursery one day

to see the alterations she had made, and leaning against the dappled

back of the rocking-horse, gave vent to the rapture which burned within

her breast.

“To think that in a week’s time my little Julian will be here!” she

exclaimed, with joy. “And I thought when I left him that I should not

see him for years!”

And then she proceeded to relate a pretty little anecdote of his

infancy; for nothing gave her greater pleasure than to talk about her

boy.

She looked so fair and radiant that Mrs. Lowther could not help

congratulating her on her improved appearance. She went singing about

the house as blithely as a lark, and the careworn expression on her face

had entirely disappeared. The greater part of her time was spent in the

company of the Princess, who, with her husband, had just arrived on a

visit to Ravenscroft Hall. Her Highness was delighted at the turn

affairs had taken, and expressed keen satisfaction that her prophecy had

been fulfilled.

“I told you I guessed the separation would not be for long, didn’t I?”

she said, when they first met; “but tell me, Pat, how are you going to

arrange matters about Lionel’s Judaism now?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” the girl rejoined, a ring of defiance

in her voice; “there will be time enough to worry about that later on.

Besides, Lady Montella means to stay in Jerusalem, so I shall feel

comparatively free.”

“You always speak of your respected mother-in-law as if she were a kind

of policeman,” said Lady Chesterwood, smiling. “Was her interference

really so terrible as all that?”

Patricia nodded.

“Yes. You see Lady Montella is very nice, and one of the kindest and

most religious women in the world, but her rigid Judaism is very

difficult to get on with. To be honest, I am glad that she is making her

home in Jerusalem; it is the best place for her under the

circumstances.”

“I wish I could send my mother-in-law to Jerusalem!” remarked the

Princess feelingly. “She is always doing her utmost to upset my poor

Karl. We have decided to stay away from Felsen-Schvoenig as long as we

possibly can; but if we could ship her off to the Holy Land we might be

able to go back.”

Whereupon they agreed that there ought to be a special place for

unwanted mothers-in-law; and talked a great deal of nonsense to that

effect.

And so the time went on, until the long-looked-for day of the Montellas’

return dawned at last. Patricia was up with the birds, thankful for the

spring sunshine which streamed through the windows, and seemed to typify

to her the brightness of her coming future. Directly after breakfast her

friends from Ravenscroft Hall brought her some of the choicest flowers

out of the Premier’s conservatories, and gaily helped her to fill the

rooms. But they considerately refused the invitation to accompany her to

the station, thinking she would prefer to meet her people alone. They

remained until the hour of departure, and then drove back to the Hall,

the Countess making Patricia promise to bring her husband to see the

Premier at the first opportunity.

In spite of her careful calculations, the expectant wife arrived at the

station only just in time. The continental train came steaming into the

terminus just as her brougham drew up alongside the platform, and the

usual bustle and shouting of porters immediately ensued. Patricia looked

about her in bewilderment, but in another moment she was surrounded by

the party she sought. Sir Ferdinand and his happy young bride; Mrs.

Emanuel—elated at the thought of returning to her beloved Canonbury—with

her little brood; baby Julian fast asleep in the arms of the faithful

Anne; and last but not least, Lionel Montella, looking pale and somewhat

thin, but happy withal. Patricia received her husband’s embrace in

silence, unable to say a word; but he knew that her heart was full with

a joy too deep for utterance, and her hand-clasp meant more to him than

the choicest of flowery speeches.

It was not until they had parted from the others, and were driving back

to Richmond, that she remembered a non-arrival amongst the party.

“I thought Zillah Lorm intended to come, too,” she said half

wonderingly. “Did she leave you on the way?”

Montella exchanged a glance with Anne.

“Yes, darling, she left us on the way,” he returned, with a sigh. “Poor

Zillah! It is very sad.”

Something in his tone arrested the girl’s attention.

“What do you mean, dear?” she asked, with hesitation. “Is anything

wrong?”

“The poor unfortunate woman threw herself overboard soon after we left

Port Said, my lady,” said Anne, as her master did not reply. “She was

drowned almost before anyone knew, and the Lascars tried in vain to

recover her body. Oh, dear, what excitement there was on the boat! We

were all that upset we could talk of nothing else for days, she being

such a comely young person and all!”

“So I should think. But how dreadful! Poor girl!” Her eyes filled. “What

made her put such a terrible end to her life? Was she unhappy?”

“I am afraid so, dear,” replied Montella quietly. “She seemed to have no

aim in life, and to find everything as Dead Sea fruit. She was always

pessimistic and despondent. I believe she wanted to return to England

some months ago, and only remained for my mother’s sake; yet when we

eventually started, she expressed no pleasure at the thought of going

home. On board the vessel she became engaged to an English officer, but

quarrelled with him the night before her death. Whether that had

anything to do with her suicide, however, we shall never know. It is

unspeakably sad.”

It was indeed sad, and Patricia could not help thinking about it for

days. It seemed such a potent example of the consequence of a life

unsustained by faith. She knew that poor Zillah Lorm had believed

neither in God nor her fellow-creatures, and that to her the world had

been naught but a great charnelhouse of crushed and moribund desires.

But she was unable to imagine the agony of mind which had caused the

unhappy girl to throw herself into the sea. The tragedy scarce bore

contemplation; its secret reason would remain a mystery to the end.

Not wishing to mar her husband’s home-coming by the expression of gloomy

sentiments, she avoided the subject after she had learnt the news.

Arrived at Ivydene, little Julian awoke from his sleep just in time for

tea, and delighted the mother’s heart by his display of recognition and

affection. Full of happiness, she assisted Anne to put him to bed,

lingering by his little cot until he visited slumberland once more. Then

she descended to spend a quiet evening with her husband _tête-à-tête_;

for Mrs. Lowther considerately went to dine out with a friend.

It was not cold, but they had a fire lit for comfort’s sake, and watched

the cheerfully blazing embers as they talked. They had so much to say

that they scarcely knew where to begin, and enjoyed each other’s

presence in silence for a little while. Patricia felt like a child who,

after long waiting, had found its lost protector, and sat with her head

nestled contentedly against Lionel’s shoulder. Presently, however, her

curiosity got the better of her; there were so many things she wanted to

know.

He answered her questions concerning his doings in Palestine with gentle

patience. Their enemy, Ben Yetzel, had conquered, in so far as rigid

orthodoxy throughout the Holy Land was to prevail, and he had had more

than one skirmish with the Rabbi since she had taken her departure. Dr.

Engelmacher, good-humoured and pliant as usual, had accepted the dictum

with cheerful resignation, deeming it wiser to sacrifice his own view of

the matter for the sake of peace. Most of the English people who availed

themselves of the repealing of the Act retained a financial interest in

Palestine, which would result in a constant communication between the

two countries. The outlook on Jewish affairs, therefore, was of the

brightest, and more promising than it had been since the time of the

First Dispersion.

“And Lady Montella?” asked Patricia, when he had finished. “Did she

approve of your returning to England and me, or would she have been

better pleased if you had remained out there in spite of the cancelling

of the Edict?”

“I am not sure, dear,” was her husband’s reply. “My mother is so fond of

the Holy Land that she would have been delighted had I chosen to stay;

but I should have been more than human had I remained under those

circumstances. When the path which led to you became easy, how could I

refrain from taking it? Only an exaggerated sense of duty would have

made me act otherwise. Besides I wanted you so much, my darling. Those

eight months of our separation were the hardest of my life.”

“And of mine,” she added softly, with a fervent pressure of his hand.

“But, Lionel, I am surprised that your mother allowed you to bring baby

Julian back to me. She seemed to think that I had no further right to

him since I could not teach him orthodox Judaism.”

“I took the law into my hands in this instance, dear,” he answered,

dispelling the pucker on her brow with a kiss. “I told her that Julian

was your child as well as mine, and that I was determined you should

educate him in accordance with your conscience until he grew old enough

to choose for himself. Besides, there’s Ferdinand now to keep up the old

traditions of the House; and as he has married a Jewess, we can

reasonably hope for a Jewish heir.”

“And you will not expect me to feign Judaism any more?” she asked

wistfully.

“Certainly not. We shall settle the question by introducing a Jewish

housekeeper to do all that is necessary. I have thoroughly made up my

mind that the difference-in-creed bogey shall never come between us

again. I am a Jew, and you are a Christian, and so long as we do our

duty according to our respective convictions, no one has a right to

expect any more. Thank God, there is now neither a fanatical Chief Rabbi

nor a foolish Assimilation Act to interfere. We are free at last, and in

such freedom there is happiness for us both. Set your mind at rest, my

dear one; the troubles of the past can never return.”

And Patricia gave a sigh of relief as she gazed into the heart of the

fire. How broad-minded he was, and noble, and true!

“Dear boy!” she exclaimed softly. “I am the happiest creature in the

world!”

The heaviness which endured for a night had been replaced by the joy of

the morning. She felt that the suffering of the past months was as

nothing compared with the happiness which had dawned at last.

* * * * *

They went to Ravenscroft Hall before the end of the week to pay their

respects to the Premier and his wife. It was quite a summer’s day—one

which had wedged itself into April by a meteorological mistake—and they

found their friends enjoying tea on the lawn. Lady Chesterwood presided,

assisted by her sister, whilst Prince Karl pretended to be a waiter, to

the intense delight of Phyllis and Leslie. The new-comers were provided

with tea, and urged by the children to tip the waiter for his attention;

after which they suddenly discovered Raie behind a neighbouring tree.

“I wanted to give you a surprise,” she said laughingly, as she came

forward and joined the group. “Ferdinand is indoors talking to Mr.

Moore. We came over to Richmond this morning.”

“But you did not find time to visit us?” said Patricia, aggrieved.

“Oh, we went with mamma and Harriet to the Isaacson’s to lunch,” was her

apologetic reply. “Mamma insists on taking us to see all her friends; it

is such a novelty for her to possess a married daughter.”

She did not add that Mrs. Emanuel was so proud of “my daughter Lady

Ferdinand” that she was anxious to exhibit her to all and sundry. She

was so happy that what might have jarred upon her in other circumstances

simply caused her amusement now.

“What do you intend to do with the she-dragon, Pat?” asked Mamie, when

the conversation turned on domestic affairs. “I suppose her services as

lady-companion will no longer be required.”

Patricia smiled. “I have two dear companions of my own now,” she

answered happily. “I shall have to find Mrs. Lowther another berth.”

“Send her to Jerusalem,” suggested the Princess naïvely; and Raie,

unable to see the point of the remark, wondered why they laughed.

Lionel left them to finish their tea without him, and strolled through

the grounds towards the house. The French windows at the north side

stood invitingly open, and ascending the short flight of steps, he

entered the room. It happened to be the Premier’s library, and the

shelves which lined the four walls were filled with books. In one corner

stood a large writing-table, littered with documents of various

descriptions; and above it hung a beautifully painted panel mounted in

oak, and inscribed with a lengthy quotation from Shakespeare. Not caring

to linger near the open bureau, Montella would have passed on; but the

old English letters with their illuminated points attracted his

attention, and half wondering what would be the substance of the

Premier’s motto, he paused a moment to read:

“SALARINO—Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh;

what’s that good for?

“SHYLOCK—To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will

feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million;

laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted

my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what’s his

reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,

dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt

with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the

same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a

Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do

we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us,

shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble

you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility?

revenge; if a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by

Christian example? why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will

execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.”

So this was the lesson which Athelstan Moore had set himself to learn!

Lionel could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise as his eye ran

over the inscription. As in a flash, the revelation of what Moore’s

inward struggle must have meant burst in upon him; and he recognised the

courage the great man had shown even in his defeat. Full of thought, the

young champion of the Jews turned thoughtfully away, to be met by the

Premier himself before he reached the door.

There was a moment of embarrassing silence as the two men confronted one

another. The thoughts of both went back to the time of their antagonism,

when hot and bitter words had been spoken on either side. But the Prime

Minister was not long before he recovered himself, and with a softened

light in his usually brilliant eyes, he held out his hand.

“Welcome back to England, Montella,” he said, in a quiet but hearty

voice. “We parted as enemies, but I trust we meet as friends?”

Lionel gripped his hand like a true Briton.

“I trust so,” he returned, noticing almost with a pang of compunction

how grey and old he looked. “It was never my wish to quarrel with you,

Mr. Moore, but I could not help being a Jew.”

“Of course you couldn’t.” He glanced towards the panel with a sigh. “And

I know you are proud of it, too. We’ve been taught a hard lesson during

your absence, Montella. Anti-Semitism doesn’t answer in England, and it

never will; for it’s a savage and retrograde movement, incompatible both

with our Christianity and our advanced state of civilisation. Strange

that we had to have an Expulsion in order to find that out! The simplest

truths are the most difficult to learn, it seems to me.”

“They are, sometimes,” acquiesced the young man, with respect; “but we

had better forget the past, Mr. Moore. The Jew—in spite of popular

tradition—does not bear malice, and now that our beloved England has

returned our freedom to us, I am sure we shall be greater friends than

ever before.”

“God grant we may!” was the Premier’s fervent reply.

He was no longer an enemy of the Jews. He had become their staunch ally.

THE END

_Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited, Perth._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers.

4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

5. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.