Re-reading the letter, the poor parents agreed that the worst had
happened. The allusions to "blood" and "the new world" seemed
unmistakable. Isaac had fallen under the spell of a beautiful heathen
female; he was marrying her in a church and emigrating with her to
America. Willy-nilly, they must blot him out of their lives.
And so the years went by, over-brooded by this shadow of living death.
The only gleam of happiness came when Miriam was wooed and led under
the canopy by the President of the congregation, who sold
haberdashery. True, he spoke English well and dressed like a clerk,
but in these degenerate days one must be thankful to get a son-in-law
who shuts his shop on the Sabbath.
One evening, some ten years after Isaac's disappearance, Miriam sat
reading the weekly paper--which alone connected her with the world and
the fulness thereof--when she gave a sudden cry.
"What is it?" said the haberdasher.
"Nothing--I thought--" And she stared again at the rough cut of a head
embedded in the reading matter.
But no, it could not be!
"Mr. Ethelred P. Wyndhurst, whose versatile talents have brought him
such social popularity, is rumoured to have budded out in a new
direction. He is said to be writing a comedy for Mrs. Donald O'Neill,
who, it will be remembered, sat to him recently for the portrait now
on view at the Azure Art Club. The dashing _comedienne_ will, it is
stated, produce the play in the autumn season. Mr. Wyndhurst's smart
sayings have often passed from mouth to mouth, but it remains to be
seen whether he can make them come naturally from the mouths of his
characters."
What had these far-away splendours to do with Isaac Levinsky? With
Isaac and his heathen female across the Atlantic?
And yet--and yet Ethelred P. Wyndhurst _was_ like Isaac--that
characteristic curve of the nose, those thick eyebrows! And perhaps
Isaac _had_ worked himself up into a portrait-painter. Why not? Did
not his old sketch of herself give distinction to her parlour? Her
heart swelled proudly at the idea. But no! more probably the face in
print was roughly drawn--was only accidentally like her brother. She
sighed and dropped the paper.
But she could not drop the thought. It clung to her, wistful and
demanding satisfaction. The name of Ethelred P. Wyndhurst, whenever it
appeared in the paper--and it was surprising how often she saw it now,
though she had never noticed it before--made her heart beat with the
prospect of clews. She bought other papers, merely in the hope of
seeing it, and was not unfrequently rewarded. Involuntarily, her
imagination built up a picture of a brilliant romantic career that
only needed to be signed "Isaac." She began to read theatrical and
society journals on the sly, and developed a hidden life of
imaginative participation in fashionable gatherings. And from all this
mass of print the name Ethelred P. Wyndhurst disengaged itself with
lurid brilliancy. The rumours of his comedy thickened. It was
christened _The Sins of Society_. It was to be put on soon. It was not
written yet. Another manager had bid for it. It was already in
rehearsal. It was called _The Bohemian Boy_. It would not come on this
season. Miriam followed feverishly its contradictory career. And one
day there was a large picture of Isaac! Isaac to the life! She soared
skywards. But it adorned an interview, and the interview dropped her
from the clouds. Ethelred was born in Brazil of an English engineer
and a Spanish beauty, who performed brilliantly on the violin. He had
shot big game in the Rocky Mountains, and studied painting in Rome.
The image of her mother playing the violin, in her preternaturally
placid wig, brought a bitter smile to Miriam's lips. And yet it was
hard to give up Ethelred now. It seemed like losing Isaac a second
time. And presently she reflected shrewdly that the wig and the
gabardine wouldn't have shown up well in print, that indeed Isaac in
his farewell letter had formally renounced them, and it was therefore
open to him to invent new parental accessories. Of course--fool that
she was!--how could Ethelred P. Wyndhurst acknowledge the same
childhood as Isaac Levinsky! Yes, it might still be her Isaac.
Well, she would set the doubt at rest. She knew, from the wide reading
to which Ethelred had stimulated her, that authors appeared before the
curtain on first nights. She would go to the first night of _The
Whirligig_ (that was the final name), and win either joy or mental
rest.
She made her expedition to the West End on the pretext of a sick
friend in Bow, and waited many hours to gain a good point of view in
the first row of the gallery, being too economical to risk more than a
shilling on the possibility of relationship to the dramatist.
As the play progressed, her heart sank. Though she understood little
of the conversational paradoxes, it seemed to her--now she saw with
her physical eye this brilliant Belgravian world, in the stalls as
well as on the stage--that it was impossible her Isaac could be of
it, still less that it could be Isaac's spirit which marshalled so
masterfully these fashionable personages through dazzling
drawing-rooms; and an undercurrent of satire against Jews who tried to
get into society by bribing the fashionables, contributed doubly to
chill her. She shared in the general laughter, but her laugh was one
of hysterical excitement.
But when at last amid tumultuous cries of "Author!" Isaac Levinsky
really appeared,--Isaac, transformed almost to a fairy prince, as
noble a figure as any in his piece, Isaac, the proved master-spirit of
the show, the unchallenged treader of all these radiant circles,--then
all Miriam's effervescing emotion found vent in a sobbing cry of joy.
"Isaac!" she cried, stretching out her arms across the gallery bar.
But her cry was lost in the applause of the house.