Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly.
_London Lyrics._
Reuben Sachs stepped into the twilit street with a distinct sense of
exhilaration.
He was back again; back to the old, full, strenuous life which was so
dear to him; to the din and rush and struggle of the London which he
loved with a passion that had something of poetry in it.
With the eager curiosity, the vivid interest in life, which underlay his
rather impassive bearing, it was impossible that foreign travel should
be without charm for him; but he returned with unmixed delight to his
own haunts; to the work and the play; the market-place, and the
greetings in the market-place; to the innumerable pleasantnesses of an
existence which owed something of its piquancy to the fact that it was
led partly in the democratic atmosphere of modern London, partly in the
conservative precincts of the Jewish community.
Now as he lingered a moment on the pavement, looking up and down the
road for a hansom, the light from the street lamp fell full upon him,
revealing what the darkness of his mother’s drawing-room had previously
hidden from sight.
He was, as I have said, of middle height and slender build. He wore good
clothes, but they could not disguise the fact that his figure was bad,
and his movements awkward; unmistakably the figure and movements of a
Jew.
And his features, without presenting any marked national trait, bespoke
no less clearly his Semitic origin.
His complexion was of a dark pallor; the hair, small moustache and eyes,
dark, with red lights in them; over these last the lids were drooping,
and the whole face wore for the moment a relaxed, dreamy, impassive air,
curiously Eastern, and not wholly free from melancholy.
He walked slowly in the direction of an advancing hansom, hailed it
quickly and quietly, and had himself driven off to Pall Mall. To every
movement of the man clung that indescribable suggestion of an
irrepressible vitality which was the leading characteristic of his
mother.
There were several letters for him at the club; having discussed them,
and been greeted by half a dozen men of his acquaintance, he dined
lightly off a chop and a glass of claret, and gave himself up to what
was apparently an exceedingly pleasant reverie.
The club where he sat was not, as he himself would have been the first
to acknowledge, in the front rank of such institutions; but it was
respectable and had its advantages. As for its drawbacks, supported by
his sense of better things to come, Reuben Sachs could tolerate them.
It was nearly half past eight when Reuben’s cab drew up before the
Leunigers’ house in Kensington Palace Gardens, where a blaze of light
from the lower windows told him that he had come on no vain errand.
Israel Leuniger had begun life as a clerk on the Stock Exchange, where
he had been fortunate enough to find employment in the great broking
firm of Sachs & Co. There his undeniable business talents and devotion
to his work had met with ample reward. He had advanced from one
confidential post to another; after a successful speculation on his own
account, had been admitted into partnership, and finally, like the
industrious apprentice of the story books, had married his master’s
daughter.
In these days the reins of government in Capel Court had fallen almost
entirely into his hands. Solomon Sachs, though a wonderful man of his
years, was too old for regular attendance in the city, while poor
Kohnthal, the other member of the firm, and, like Leuniger, son-in-law
to old Solomon, had been shut up in a madhouse for the last ten years
and more.
As Reuben advanced into the large, heavily upholstered vestibule, one of
the many surrounding doors opened slowly, and a woman emerged with a
vague, uncertain movement into the light.
She might have been fifty years of age, perhaps more, perhaps less; her
figure was slim as a girl’s, but the dark hair, uncovered by a cap, was
largely mixed with gray. The long, oval face was of a deep,
unwholesome, sallow tinge; and from its haggard gloom looked out two
dark, restless, miserable eyes; the eyes of a creature in pain. Her
dress was rich but carelessly worn, and about her whole person was an
air of neglect.
“Aunt Ada!” cried Reuben, going forward.
She rubbed her lean sallow hands together, saying in low, broken,
lifeless tones: “We didn’t expect you till to-morrow, Reuben. I hope
your health has improved.” This was quite a long speech for Mrs.
Leuniger, who was of a monosyllabic habit.
Before Reuben could reply, the door opposite the one from which his aunt
had emerged was flung open, and two little boys, dressed in
sailor-suits, rushed into the hall.
One was dark, with bright black eyes; the other had a shock of
flame-coloured hair, and pale, prominent eyes. “Reuben!” they cried in
astonishment, and rushed upon their cousin.
“Lionel! Sidney!” protested their mother faintly as the boys proceeded
to take all sorts of liberties with the new arrival.
The door by which they had come opened again, and a man’s voice cried,
half in fun:
“Why on earth are you youngsters making this confounded row? Be off to
bed, or you’ll be sorry for it!”
Reuben was standing under the light of a lamp, a smile on his face, as
he lifted little red-haired Sidney from the ground and held him
suspended by his wide sailor-collar.
“It’s Reuben, old Reuben come back!” cried the children.
An exclamation followed; the door was flung open wide; Reuben set down
the child with a laugh and passed into the lighted room.