... This life’s end, and this love-bliss have been lost here.
Doubt you whether
This she felt, as looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together?
BROWNING: _Christina_.
Esther sat a little apart, watching the lovers.
“Does she think he is a cardboard man to play with, or an umbrella to
take shelter under?” she reflected. “A lover may be a shadowy creature,
but husbands are made of flesh and blood. Doesn’t she see already that
he is as obstinate as a mule, and as whimsical as a goat?”
And she repeated the phrase to herself well pleased with it.
It was Sunday, the day following that of the election. A great family
party had dined in Kensington Palace Gardens, and now were awaiting
Reuben in the primrose-coloured drawing-room.
Judith, side by side with Bertie, was listening amiably to a fluent
account of his adventures in Asia Minor, in which he dwelt a great deal
on his state of mind and state of health at the time; while Rose played
scraps of music for the benefit of Jack Quixano, who had a taste for
comic opera.
Judith was in such a state of tension as scarcely to be conscious of
pain. Her duties as _fiancée_ were clearly marked out; anything was
better than those days of chaos, of upheaval, which had preceded her
engagement.
Esther’s favourite phrase, that marriage was an opiate, had occurred to
her more than once during the past week.
“I sat up all night long, and read every word of it. I was determined to
make up my mind once for all,” Bertie was saying.
Rose, at the piano, put her hand on her hip and hummed a scrap from a
music-hall song, while Jack whistled an accompaniment:
“Stop the cab,
Stop the cab,
Woh, woh, woh!”
The hall-door banged to with some violence.
The voices of Lionel and Sidney were heard upraised without:
“Vote for Sachs! Vote for Sachs, the people’s friend!”
Then came the sound of another voice--
“My head was like a live coal, and my feet were as cold as stones ...”
went on Bertie.
Judith looked sympathetic, and her heart leaped suddenly within her: it
had not yet unlearnt the trick of leaping at the sound of Reuben’s
voice. Lionel flung open the door and capered into the room.
Behind him came Reuben Sachs.
Judith knew nothing more till she and Reuben were standing face to face,
holding one another’s hands.
Whatever had happened before, whatever happened afterwards, she will
remember to the day of her death that in that one moment, at least, they
understood one another.
No need for question, for answer, for explanation of motives and
feelings.
It was all as clear as daylight, in that strange, brief, interminable
moment which to the onlookers showed nothing more than a pale,
tired-looking gentleman offering his congratulations on her engagement
to a flushed, bright-eyed lady.
Even that sharp battery of eyes could discover nothing more than this.
It was not long before the hall-door closed again upon Reuben.
He flung out into the night.
“Good God, good God!” he said to himself. Not till he had actually seen
her had he been able to realize what had happened; to understand what
manner of change had come into his life; to see what might have been,
and what was.
He had so many things to tell her, which might never now be told. The
blind, choking rage of a baffled creature came over him; he sped on,
stifled, through the darkness.
Judith, sitting dazed and smiling in the gaslight, said over and over
again in her heart:
“Oh my poor Reuben, my poor, poor Reuben!”
At the piano Rose and Jack sang in chorus:
“For he’s going to marry, Yum Yum,
Yum Yum.
Your anger pray bury,
For all will be merry,
I think you had better succumb,
cumb--cumb!”
* * * * *
At the beginning of January there was a wedding at the synagogue in
Upper Berkeley Street which excited unusual interest.
The beautiful bride in her white silk dress was greatly admired. She was
very pale, certainly, and in her wide-open eyes an acute observer might
have read an expression of something like terror; but acute observers,
fortunately, are few and far between. The bridegroom, to all appearance,
enjoyed himself immensely, going through the whole pageant with great
exactness, smashing the wine-glass vigorously with his little foot, and
sipping the wine daintily from the silver cup.
Old Solomon Sachs, whose own daughters had been married in the
drawing-room at Portland Place, but who had no prejudice against the new
fashion of weddings in the synagogue, occupied a prominent place near
the ark, surrounded by his family.
Reuben Sachs stood close to Leopold Leuniger, a little in the
background. His face was absolutely expressionless, unless weariness may
be allowed to count as expression. He wanted yet a year or two of
thirty, and already he was beginning to lose his look of youth. Leo, it
must be owned, paid little attention to the ceremony. His eyes roved
constantly to where the bridegroom’s family, the Lee-Harrisons and the
Norwoods, stood together in a rather chilly group; to where, in
particular, Lady Geraldine Sydenham, in her unassertive, unaccentuated
costume, leaned lightly against a porphyry column.
Bertie’s people had accepted the situation with philosophy, and were
really fond of Judith, but they found her family, especially in its
collateral branches, uncongenial, if not worse.
On the outskirts of this group hovered Montague Cohen, absolutely rigid
with importance. Near him Adelaide tossed her head in its smart new
bonnet from side to side, her sallow face and diamond earrings flashing
this way and that throughout the ceremony.
She knew that such restlessness was not good manners, but for the life
of her she could not resist the temptation of seeing all that was to be
seen.
Poor Mrs. Quixano, proud, but vaguely distressed, stood near her
husband; while Jack, the picture of nimble smartness, ushered every one
into their places and made himself generally useful.
The wedding was followed by a reception; and afterwards, amid showers of
rice from Lionel and Sidney, the newly-married pair set out _en route_
for Italy.
EPILOGUE.
It was the beginning of May, a bright, balmy evening, and the London
season was in full swing.
The trees in Kensington Gardens wore yet that delicate brilliance of
early spring, which, a passing glory all the world over, is in London
the glory of an hour.
Under the trees children were playing and calling; out beyond in the
road a ceaseless stream of cabs, carriages, carts, and omnibuses rolled
by.
The broad back of the Prince Consort, gold beneath his golden canopy,
shone forth with unusual splendour; the marble groups beneath stood out
clearly against the soft background of pale blue sky.
And in the air--the London air--lingered something of the freshness of
evening and of spring, mixed though it was with the odour of dinners in
preparation, and with that of the bad tobacco which rose every now and
then from the tops of the crowded road-cars rolling by.
The windows of a flat in the Albert Hall Mansions opposite were open,
and a lady who was standing by one of them could smell the
characteristic London odour, and could hear the sound of the children’s
voices, the rolling and turning of the wheels, and the shuffle and tramp
of footsteps on the pavement below. She stood there a moment, one bare,
beautiful hand and arm resting on the back of an adjacent couch, her
eyes mechanically fixed on the glistening gilt cross surmounting the
Albert Memorial, then she turned away suddenly, the thick, rich folds
of her white silk dress trailing heavily behind her. The room across
which she moved was small, but bright, and fitted up with the varied and
elaborate luxury of a modern fashionable drawing-room. Among the
articles of _bric à brac_, costly, interesting, or merely bizarre which
adorned it, were an antique silver _Hanucah_ lamp and a spice box, such
as the Jews make use of in certain religious services, of the same
metal.
Judith Lee-Harrison, for it was she, went over to the mantelpiece and
consulted a little carriage-clock which stood upon it.
It was barely three months since her marriage, though to judge from the
great, if undefinable change which had passed over her, it might have
been the same number of years.
Her beauty indeed had ripened and deepened, so that it would have been
impossible for the least observant person to pass it by, and the little
over emphasis of fashion which had hitherto marred the perfect
distinction of her appearance, had vanished.
“Mrs. Lee-Harrison would be a beauty if she cared about it,” is the
verdict of the world to which she had been introduced little more than a
month ago.
But it was sufficiently evident that Mrs. Lee-Harrison did not care.
There was something almost austere in the pose of the head and figure,
the lines of the mouth, the look in the wonderful eyes.
Those eyes, to a close observer indeed told that Judith had learnt many
things, had grown strangely wise these last three months.
Yes, she knew now more clearly what before she had only dimly and
instinctively felt: the nature and extent of the wrong which had been
perpetrated; which had been dealt her; which she in her turn had dealt
herself and another person.
She stood idly by the mantelpiece, staring at the mass of invitation
cards stuck into the mirror above it.
One of them told that Lady Kemys would be at home that night in
Grosvenor Place at nine o’clock. It was to be a political party, and
like all such gatherings would begin early, for which reason she had
dressed before dinner.
She took the card from its place and read it over. Reuben would be there
of course.
Well, they would shake hands perhaps; she, for one, would be very
amiable; they might even talk about the weather; and would he ask her to
have an ice?
She put back the card indifferently; it mattered so little.
She had been home a month from Italy, and, as it happened, she and
Reuben had not yet met.
The Lee-Harrisons had dined duly in Kensington Palace Gardens, but
Reuben had been unavoidably detained that night at the House.
He had called on her some weeks ago, and she had been out.
But rumours of him had reached her. He had addressed his constituents
with great _éclat_ in the recess, and was already beginning to attract
attention from the leader of his party.
As for more intimate matters, there were reports current connecting his
name with Caroline Cardozo, with Miss Lee-Harrison, and with a chorus
girl at the Gaiety.
Some people said he was only waiting for old Solomon’s death to marry
the chorus girl.
The last month, which had been full of new experiences, of social events
for Judith, seemed curiously long as she stood there looking back on
it.
It came over her that she was in a fair way to drift off completely from
her own people; they and she were borne on dividing currents.
A sudden longing for the old faces, the old ties and associations came
over her as she stood there; a strange fit of home-sickness, an
inrushing sense of exile.
Her people--oh, her people!--to be back once more among them! When all
was said, she had been so happy there.
A servant entered with a letter.
Judith, glancing again at the clock, saw that it was nearly eight, and
said, as she opened the envelope,
“Has Mr. Lee-Harrison come in?”
He had come in half an hour ago, when she had been dressing, and had
gone straight to his room.
The gong sounded for dinner as the man spoke, and a few minutes
afterwards Bertie came tripping in, fully equipped for the festivities
of the evening.
“Blanche expects us early,” said Judith as she swept across to the
dining-room and took her place at the little round table.
Bertie looked across at her doubtfully, then put his spoon into the
excellent white soup before him.
It was the first time for some weeks that they had dined alone together,
and conversation did not flow freely.
Bertie looked up again, fixing his eyes, not on her face, but on the row
of pearls at her throat.
“My dear, you will be very much shocked.”
“Yes?” said Judith interrogatively, eating her soup.
“Reuben Sachs is dead.”
“It is not true,” said Judith, and then she actually smiled.
* * * * *
The room was whirling round and round, a strange, thick mist was over
everything, and through it came the muffled sound of Bertie’s voice:
“It occurred this afternoon, quite suddenly. I heard it at the club. He
had not been well for some time, and had collapsed more or less the last
week. But no one had any idea of danger. It seems that his heart was
weak; he had been overdoing himself terribly, and cardiac disease was
the immediate cause of his death--cardiac disease,” repeated Bertie,
with mournful enjoyment of the phrase, and pulling a long face as he
spoke.
Judith, sitting there like an automaton, eating something that tasted
like sawdust, something that was difficult to swallow, was vividly
conscious of only this--that Bertie must be silenced at any cost.
Anything else could be borne, but not Bertie’s fluent regrets.
Another woman would have fainted: there had never been any mercy for
her: but at least she would not sit there while Bertie talked of it.
So she lifted up her face, her stony face, and turned the current of his
talk.
* * * * *
Dinner came to an end at last and the automatic woman passed across to
the sitting-room.
Her husband followed her; she stared at him.
“You must take my excuses to Blanche. It is due to my family that I
should not appear to-night in public.”
“Certainly, certainly; a mark of respect, Blanche will understand. We
will neither of us go.”
She looked at him in horror, all her force of will gathered to a point:
“Go--go! Blanche will expect it. There is no reason for you to stop
here.”
“My dear girl, do you think I can’t stand an evening alone with you? It
will be a change, quite a pleasant change.”
* * * * *
He had gone at last, and she stood there motionless by the mantelpiece,
staring at the card for Lady Kemys’ “At home.”
“Infinite æons” seemed to divide the present moment from that other
moment, half an hour ago, when she had told herself carelessly,
indifferently, that she would meet Reuben that night.
It struck her now that all the sorrow of her life, all the suffering she
had undergone would be wiped out, would be as nothing, if only she could
indeed meet Reuben--could see his face, hear his voice, touch his hand.
Everything else looked trivial, imaginary; everything else could have
been forgotten, forgiven; only this thing could never be forgiven him,
this inconceivable thing--that he was dead.
* * * * *
She knew that her agony was not yet upon her, that she was dazed,
stunned, without feeling. A dim foreshadowing of what that agony would
be was slowly creeping over her.
She moved across to a chair by the open window, and sat down.
The children’s voices were silent; the iron gates were shut; the gold
cross above the Memorial shone like fire as the rays of the setting sun
fell upon it.
And below in the roadway the ceaseless stream of carriages moved east
and west. On the pavement the people gathered, thicker and thicker. A
pair of lovers moved along slowly, close against the park railings,
beneath the shadow of the trees.
The pulses of the great city beat and throbbed; the great tide roared
and flowed ever onwards.
London, his London, was full of life and sound, a living, solid reality;
not--oh, wonder!--a dream city that melted and faded in the sunset.
* * * * *
Across the great gulf she could never stretch a hand. Death had thrown
down no barriers, had brought them no nearer to one another. Wider and
deeper--though before it had been very wide and deep--flowed the stream
between them.
* * * * *
Nearer and nearer came the sound, nearer and nearer. Where had she heard
it before?
There was music in her ears now, the dreamy monotony of a waltz; the
scent of dying flowers--tuberose, gardenia--was wafted in from some
unseen region. It was a November night, not springtime sunset, and the
harsh sound struck upwards through the mist:
“Death of a Conservative M.P.! Death of the member for St. Baldwin’s!”
* * * * *
Away in Cambridge Leo paced beneath the lime-trees, a sick, blank horror
at his heart.
Nearer, across that verdant stretch of twilit park, sat a wrinkled image
of despair, surely a mark for the mirth of ironical gods.
And here by the open window sat Judith, absolutely motionless--a figure
of stone.
Before the great mysteries of life her soul grew frozen and appalled.
It seemed to her, as she sat there in the fading light, that this is the
bitter lesson of existence: that the sacred serves only to teach the
full meaning of sacrilege; the beautiful of the hideous; modesty of
outrage; joy of sorrow; life of death.
* * * * *
Is life indeed over for Judith, or at least all that makes life
beautiful, worthy--a thing in any way tolerable?
The ways of joy like the ways of sorrow are many; and hidden away in the
depths of Judith’s life--though as yet she knows it not--is the germ of
another life, which shall quicken, grow, and come forth at last. Shall
bring with it no doubt, pain and sorrow, and tears; but shall bring
also hope and joy, and that quickening of purpose which is perhaps as
much as any of us should expect or demand from Fate.
THE END.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BUNGAY.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
marrigeable Gentile=> marriageable Gentile {pg 35}
her nephews first=> her nephew’s first {pg 211}