A MODERN EXODUS
A MODERN EXODUS
A MODERN EXODUS
A MODERN EXODUS
CHAPTER IOF PUBLIC IMPORTANCE
It was the Day of Atonement—the Great White Fast. The principal synagogue in the West End of London was crowded from the doors to the Ark, and the heat was intense. Like a flock of frightened sheep, those Jews—and they were many—who ignored the claims of public worship for over eleven months at a stretch, rushed to the synagogue on this Holy Day in order to settle their accounts with an offended Deity, and obtain exemption from service for yet another year. This Day served as a test to prove whether a man of Hebrew birth clung to the Jewish faith or not; for if he retained the very smallest respect for the tenets of his religion, he would at least put in an appearance at the synagogue, and refrain from tasting food. However lax he might be throughout the year, on this Day he would try to make reparation, lest he should be struck off from the inheritance of Israel; for if he failed to observeYom Kippur, he could no longer claim—amongst his own people—to be a Jew.
People are apt to speak of “the Jews” as though they were one nation of one unvaried character, and in so doing they make a fatal mistake. The fact that Jews possess in a large measure the chameleon-like faculty of reflecting the colour—or rather the characteristics—of the country wherein they happen to reside is entirely overlooked. No wider divergence of opinion and character between that possessed by the English Jew and the Polish Jew, between the educated and the ignorant, could be imagined; yet by the easy-going Gentile the whole heterogeneous mass of the race of Israel is summed up in one category—“The Jews.” Even in this small gathering of modern Israelites there were many different types. There was the old man, clad in his burial garments, and slipperless, who swayed to and fro and smote his breast with the zeal of a devotee; there was—up in the gallery—the equally old woman, her head disfigured by thescheitel[1](tabooed by the modern Jewish matron), which she wore as the mark of her wifehood. There was the opulent Jew, newly imported from South Africa, with his consort above him; the diamond merchant from Holland; the English stockbroker; the German commercial traveller; the Oxford under-graduate. There was the vulgar Jewish matron, with her insufferable air of affluence and her display of diamonds; and the refined Jewish lady, with her less conspicuous attire and quieter manner. There were men and women of all nationalities and classes, bound together by one common tie, yet in temperament as opposite as the poles. And out of this crowd of more or less fervent worshippers there is but one who claims our attention,a man of religious views so broad as to be almost heterodox, yet still in his conformity to the fundamental principles of his religion, a faithful Jew.
1. Wig.
1. Wig.
He belonged to one of the noblest Jewish families in England. Descended from the Sephardim, his ancestors had come over in the reign of Charles II., and his forefathers for generations had been therefore of English birth. The Selim Montellas were famous throughout the land for their wealth, their munificence in disposing of it, and their devotion to their country and its sovereign ruler. Lionel, the last of the race, proved no less worthy a representative of the ancient house. After a brilliant career at Oxford, where he had earned the respect of both dons and under-graduates for his adherence to the rules of his religion, he had entered Parliament as member for Thorpe Burstall—where his father possessed an estate. He was one of the youngest men in the House, but possessed a clear-sightedness beyond his age. His youth served to intensify rather than detract from the interest he instilled into his political duties.
It was after he left the university that his religious views underwent a change. From orthodoxy he drifted into reform—a reform which was dangerously akin to Rationalism, and then putting a stern check upon himself, he adopted a belief not unlike that of the Karaites. He tried to reject the Talmud and the whole authority of tradition, and to adhere only to the written Law; but finding this unsatisfactory, he was gradually making his way back to conventional Judaism once again. That accounted for his presence in the synagogue on this solemn occasion, for whatever his views on the lesser details of the faithmight be, onYom Kippurhe was as strict as the most orthodox of hisconfrères.
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon, and vitality in the synagogue was at a somewhat low ebb. Most of the children, and those of their elders who were too delicate to sustain the rigours of an absolute fast, had gone home to lunch, leaving their stricter co-religionists to satisfy the cravings of hunger by naught but spiritual refreshment. It was in the gallery where the ordeal was found most severe, for the ladies possessed less staying power than the more hardy men; moreover, the mere fact of having to refrain from the gossip in which they delighted was in itself a trial of no little magnitude. Their faces showed signs of weariness andennui, and the air of smartness which had been theirs at the beginning of the service had almost disappeared. Two or three of them created a diversion by fainting—the majority of them were too healthy to swoon. They sat still, and counted the hours and minutes to nightfall; it seemed as if the Fast would never end.
In the quietest part of the service a noise from the street was heard. A number of boys were calling out the afternoon editions of the newspapers, but although their voices floated in through the open windows, the substance of their announcement was lost. Lionel Montella almost unconsciously raised his head to listen, for he was always on the alert for new tidings of any kind, but the peculiar enunciation of the newspaper boys baffled even his acute ear. All he could make out was the word “death.” Who was dead he had not the faintest idea.
He raised his prayer-book, and applied himself with renewed diligence to the text. They weresaying theAmeedah, and he repeated the responses with the rest of the congregation; but all the time the word “death” was at the back of his mind. It worried him so much that he was unable to give his undivided attention to the service, and when the newspaper boys repassed the synagogue, he listened to their shouts with all the intensity of which he was capable. He could not help feeling—perhaps it was a premonition—that the death was an important one, that it affected him in some way he could not define; and when at last he caught the name, the surprise which he ought to have experienced was absent—only the deep, inexpressible horror remained.
“Death of Mr. Lawrence Campbell!... Sudden death of the Premier!”
The words fell on the ears of the congregation like a knell. The reader paused almost imperceptibly in his chanting, the majority of the people looked at each other in horrified surprise. The name of Lawrence Campbell was synonymous with all that was noble and good, and as a loyal friend of the Jews, he had ever earned their respect and affection. Although he had occupied the high office of Prime Minister for over ten years, he was comparatively a young man, and his death came as a totally unexpected blow. What it would mean to the community remained to be seen, but like a sudden ray of light the possible consequence flashed across Lionel Montella’s mind. He sank on to his seat with his brain in a whirl, and in spite of the temporary feeling of weakness brought on by his long hours of fasting, tried to think clearly. He alone of all his co-religionists knew the true and perilous position of the Jews in modern Europe at the present day. TheAlien Immigration question had reached a crisis which would have to be settled at Parliament’s next session, and the issue practically depended on the unreliable temper of the Government. Various expedients for colonisation had been tried without success, for the Jews, never having been “hewers of wood and drawers of water,” did not take kindly to the manual labour necessitated by such colonisation. What form the next experiment would take, therefore, was a difficult and vexed question, and one which the Premier and his subordinate, Montella, had been threshing out together for weeks. And now Lawrence Campbell, the chief, almost the only, enthusiastic champion of the Jews in Great Britain was dead. No wonder the young politician’s heart grew faint within him!
The signal that the long day’s service was at an end—the blowing of the ram’s horn—recalled him to himself; and folding up his talith, he made his way with the others to the vestibule. The refreshing breeze from the street came as a blessed relief after the close atmosphere of the interior of the synagogue, and he leant against the balustrade for a moment before searching for his hansom. All around him the people were dispersing, and as he listened to their kindly greetings to each other, he realised the close bond of unity—more evident in the Jewish than in any other faith—which drew them together with irresistible force. A few of the men with whom he was acquainted came up to him to shake hands. One—the treasurer of the synagogue—lingered for a few moments’ conversation.
“Sudden thing this—death of the Premier,” he remarked, attacking the subject which was uppermostin his mind. “Heart failure, Cohen says. Struck down all in a minute. Bad thing for the Chosen, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, very,” Montella returned seriously, with emphasis on the words. “I saw poor Campbell only last week. I had no idea that he was subject to heart attacks.”
“Nor I either. I am sorry—very sorry. Campbell was the right man in the right place, and a difficult place it is nowadays. Can you tell me who will be likely to succeed him in the premiership?”
A little knot of men gathered round him as he put the question, leaving their women-folk to hasten towards home and food. Lionel Montella had been singled out and recognised, and the opportunity of rubbing shoulders with him and listening to his words was too valuable to be passed by. That they were personally unacquainted with him mattered not in the least, and he was so used to being lionised that he did not dream of considering their curiosity impertinent.
“Don’t you know?” he said slowly, with a slight tremor of agitation in his voice. “The successor to Lawrence Campbell will be the very last man we want to see in power. I mean Athelstan Moore.”
Athelstan Moore—the avowed anti-Semite and rabid Jew-hater, a man who possessed the dangerous power of swaying men’s minds by the force of his rhetoric, of fascinating them by the strength of his personality, of completely subjugating them by the influence of his invincible will. No wonder a thrill ran through the hearts of the people as Montella pronounced the name.
“That rabid enemy of the Jews!” exclaimed thetreasurer, in dismay. “Why, the lives of our poorer brethren will not be worth twopence if he is at the head of the State.”
Montella’s face was more expressive than he knew.
“We must not make trouble for ourselves,” he said, his words belying the troubled expression in his eyes. “We must hope that Moore is not so black as he’s painted. After all, he’s only a man, and even as chief Minister of State he can’t do more than exercise powers which are distinctly limited. Unfortunately, since the influx of Roumanian immigrants at the beginning of the century, anti-Jewish feeling among the masses has been increasingly strong. I’m afraid that it’s the impolitic and regrettable behaviour of the immigrants themselves which has brought this about. It has needed all our strength to counteract this feeling, and I am afraid it will need more than ever now. One thing we must make up our minds to do, and that is to stand by each other, no matter what our social position may be. We must remember the old truism that ‘Unity is strength.’”
Another eager listener had joined the group.
“Do you think it possible that Athelstan Moore may direct his spite against the upper and middle classes of Jewish society as well as the sweaters and aliens of the East End?” he asked, with a slightly foreign accent. “Or shall we be, as law-abiding citizens, exempt?”
“I cannot say,” Montella replied, with hesitation. “In so far as the Jewish question includes the effect of Jewish influence upon the trade and commerce of the country, it concerns all classes from the highest to the lowest. But, friends, it is getting late; and we are most of us faint from want of food. If theconsequence of poor Campbell’s death is in anyway serious, we must call a meeting in order to discuss the situation. For the present, I think we should disperse.”
He had noticed the beadle waiting to switch off the light and bolt the doors. It was characteristic of the young member to avoid causing inconvenience to any person; and in this case he could see that the synagogal officer was weary from his arduous duties, and anxious to be gone. So he shook hands with each one of his willing hearers, and bade them all farewell. Then he signalled to his waiting hansom, and was driven rapidly away.
The treasurer watched the vehicle until it was out of sight.
“Fine chap—Montella,” he said to a friend who stood near by. “One of the good old stock, and not ashamed to own it either. He’ll give that devil Moore apotchif anyone can. He’s got plenty of brain and heart and grit in him, or my name’s not Jacob Schlapp.”
The friend’s enthusiasm was less effusive.
“We will discuss Lal Montella when we’ve put something inside us,” he rejoined, taking the treasurer’s arm. “Have you forgotten that it wasYom Kippurto-day?”
CHAPTER IITHE MONTELLAS
The Montellas, in spite of their being the owners of a mansion in Portland Place, chose to occupy a flat in Knightsbridge, and to let their house to someone who had more use for the magnificent rooms and galleries than themselves. Ten years ago they had been renowned for their lavish hospitality and brilliant receptions; but a paralytic stroke having suddenly attacked Sir Julian when at the zenith of his popularity, they had been obliged to forego the pleasures of entertaining, and to retire into private life. The terrible affliction which had come upon her husband seemed also to have shattered Lady Montella’s health; and always more or less invalided, she seldom ventured forth into the maze of society. Whenever she made an effort to be present at some function, it was only for the sake of her son; for Lionel, being her only surviving child, was the lodestar of her existence. All her thoughts, hopes, and prayers were centred on him; and that he responded so faithfully to the influence of her training was the greatest joy she possessed. Had he proved otherwise, he would most surely have broken her heart.
It was twilight, the hour her ladyship loved the best. She was reclining in an easy-chair near the window, with her hands loosely folded, and her eyeswatching the dying glory of the sunset. There was a vague something in her attitude which indicated peace—peace and contentment. It was as if she had been through all the storm and stress of life, and found a haven at the end. There were traces of suffering on her forehead, surmounted by its coronal of white hair; but the curves of her lips, and the indefinable sweetness of their expression, showed that she was neither embittered by sorrow nor hardened by experience. As wife and mother, as hostess and poor man’s friend, her interests had ever been concentrated outside herself.
The tinkling bells of a clock in the adjoining room disturbed her reverie, and at the same moment the door opened to admit a girl. Pausing a moment to switch on the electric light, she advanced towards Lady Montella’s chair. Her step, elastic yet firm, indicated the exuberance of youth.
“A penny for your thoughts, auntie. You look like Patience on a monument,” she said merrily, sinking on to a little chair at her ladyship’s side. “Are you still lamenting your sins, or have you, like myself, put them away for another year? I am so glad Dr. Ford allowed me to fast for half the day. My appetite is keener than it has been for weeks.”
Lady Montella looked at the girl and smiled. Raie Emanuel was her niece only by adoption, but there was as deep an affection on both sides as if a blood relationship had existed between the two. Raie, in keeping with her name, constituted a ray of brightness in a somewhat silent household, and to its mistress was a source of comfort and delight. The eldest daughter of a large but impecunious family, her nature was a combination of practicality withromance. She could cook a dinner or compose a poem with equal facility, and although in Lady Montella’s menage the former accomplishment was never required, it was to the girl’s credit that the ability was there.
“Lionel ought to be here soon,” she ran on, scarcely waiting for an answer, “unless he calls at Grosvenor Square on the way. I wonder which he wants most: the Lady Patricia or his breakfast?”
“He must be tired and hungry after his long day’s fast,” her foster-aunt returned. “I hope he will come straight home. You are joking, Raie, in saying that. Have you any grounds for supposing that Lady Patricia is the special object of my son’s interest?”
“Yes.” The girl nodded vivaciously. “One has only to see them together to be sure of it. Patricia Byrne is Lionel’s ideal woman—fair to look upon, fair at heart. And Lionel is Lady Patricia’s hero, as indeed he deserves to be. Haven’t you noticed the change which has come over him lately—the change in his opinions about women, I mean? Until a few weeks ago he was absorbed in his politics and his poor Jews. Now there is a counter attraction.”
Lady Montella looked distressed.
“You are more observant than I am, Raie,” she rejoined. “I have noticed nothing; perhaps I did not wish to notice—this.”
She leant back in her chair, her hands interlocked. For some unaccountable reason she had not thought that her boy would go the usual way of youth, and entangle himself in a love-affair; he had always seemed much too serious and reserved for anything of the kind. Of course, she wanted him to marry some day—a girl of his own faith whom she wouldchoose. To allow himself to fall in love with Lady Patricia Byrne was the height of folly, and could only bring trouble on all concerned.
“I hope you are mistaken, Raie,” she added, at last. “I don’t think my son would do anything to give me pain.”
Fond mother who, because she has made an idol of her son, thinks he is totally devoid of the human passions which have agitated the breast of youth ever since the world began. Raie marvelled that a man should be so little understood by his nearest and dearest, but she said nothing; and at that moment the subject of their conversation himself appeared.
He came in with a number of newspapers in his hand, and having kissed his mother and inquired how Raie had fasted, informed them of the important news. He looked tired and worn; and Raie, to whom the death of premiers was as nothing compared with nearer and more practical matters, immediately hurried off to see if his breakfast were fully prepared. She returned a few minutes later, and insisted on his going to the dining-room forthwith. She would listen to nothing he had to say until he had satisfied the demands of the inner man. She captured the papers, however, and read the accounts for herself.
“Only forty-four years of age,” she remarked, as she put the last one down. “Well, I suppose he will have a state funeral; it will be worth seeing. Do you think you can get us tickets of admission, Lal?”
“Raie!” exclaimed Lady Montella, in a tone of reproof. “Is that the first thing you think of—not the serious consequence of the Premier’s death upon the nation, but only the excitement of watching his funeral procession?”
Lionel glanced at his foster-cousin with indulgence.
“Never mind,” he said kindly. “Let Raie leave state affairs to people who are forced to consider them. Time enough to be serious when the necessity occurs.”
“That’s what I think,” the girl rejoined, with a smile. “Auntie takes things much too seriously. By-the-bye, Lionel, will Lady Chesterwood have to put off her masked ball?”
“Unless she is personally related to poor Campbell, no. When is it going to be?”
“On Thursday week. I’ve been looking forward to it for months; it will be my first real ball, you know. Auntie has given me the loveliest dress you can imagine; it’s a perfect dream.”
“Not a nightmare, I hope,” he returned, and then drew back his chair. “Well, I must away to Downing Street, I suppose.” He sighed. “I wish I could look a year or so ahead.”
“Do the days pass too slowly for you, then?” asked his mother, in a tone of sympathy. “It is not like you to wish away your time.”
“The days pass too quickly for all I mean to do in them,” he replied. “It is only because I foresee trouble in the distance, mother dear. However, I won’t be a prophet of evil. Let me take a leaf out of Raie’s book, and put away dull care.”
Lady Montella followed him out into the hall.
“You will be back soon, I hope, dear?” she said. “I expect Miss Lorm during the evening.”
“I will be back as soon as I can,” he returned; “but I may be detained at Downing Street, and—and I have promised to call at Grosvenor Square.”
“To see Lady Patricia?” Her voice unconsciously hardened.
“Yes; Lady Patricia and her father.” A tinge of colour came into his cheeks.
His mother said no more, but kissing him lightly on the forehead, went to her room, and rang the bell for her maid. At dinner she listened to Raie’s light chatter with her thoughts elsewhere, and when the meal was at an end, asked the girl for music. Raie played and sang as well as most girls of her age, and having once started, was in no hurry to cease. She amused herself, and in a lesser degree her aunt, until the footman announced the advent of Miss Lorm. Then she put her music away in the rack, and rose to greet the guest.
Zillah Lorm was a singer who owed her position in a great measure to Lady Montella’s liberality. She had been introduced to her ladyship’s notice some years ago as a young co-religionist who possessed an exceptional voice, but who lacked the means to ensure an adequate training; and as Lady Montella loved to interest herself in such cases, the necessary money was immediately forthcoming. Zillah went to the Royal College for three years, after which she studied in Rome and Paris. Then, through her patroness’s influence, she secured engagements to sing at homes and receptions. Now, at the age of five-and-twenty, she was one of the most popular vocalists in London.
She entered the room with the graceful self-possession which betokened the artiste. Unusually tall, and with an inclination towards embonpoint, her evening-gown of clinging silk concealed, yet at the same time revealed the rounded curves of her figure.Her eyes, dark and luminous, wandered restlessly through the room, as though in quest of someone she desired to see; her face, as she shook hands with her patroness and Raie Emanuel, lighted up with a winning smile.
“My son has had to go to Downing Street on account of the Premier’s death,” Lady Montella informed her, although there was no reason why she should apologise for his absence. “I hope he will return before you go.”
Raie looked questioningly at her foster-aunt, and invited Miss Lorm to loosen her wraps. For no accountable reason a feeling of aversion existed between the two; perhaps it was because the young girl felt small and insignificant in the presence of Miss Lorm; and the singer was, or had been, jealous of the position occupied by Raie.
“I am in luck’s way, Lady Montella,” she said, settling herself on one of the silk-covered chairs in a way which made Raie’s movements look awkward in comparison. “I am to be commanded to sing before the Queen-Regent early next month.”
“Indeed?” Her ladyship’s face lit up with interest. “It is a great honour, Zillah. I am very glad; I am always glad when a Jewess distinguishes herself.”
Zillah moved her position.
“I—I don’t wish to distinguish myselfas a Jewess,” she replied hastily, with a spot of colour on her cheeks. “I am a singer,pur et simple. The Queen-Regent doesn’t know that I’m a Jewess, nor do the powers that be who managed the affair for me know either. The name of Jew is in such ill-favour just now that I have thought it best to sink my connection with theChosen in case it should prove a hindrance to my career. Fortunately, although I am dark, my appearance does not betray me. Do you not think me wise, dear Lady Montella?”
“From the worldly point of view, perhaps; but I would rather have you cling to your precious heritage, my dear, especially just now, when people are so ready to seize on anything which can be considered discreditable to us. My son is doing his utmost to serve his country, and to prove himself a worthy Jew. Even those who are the enemies of our people are forced to honour him. I should like you, in the same way, to prove yourself a worthy Jewess, and so raise the standard in public opinion. What do you say, Raie?”
Raie tossed her head. “I—oh, I haven’t the least respect for a Jew or Jewess who is ashamed to own it! Besides, the most superficial student of physiognomy could trace Miss Lorm’s descent in her features. It is the most difficult thing in the world to hide one’s Hebrew origin. A look or a word—even a gesture will show it.”
Zillah bit her lip to repress a sarcastic rejoinder, then changed the subject. Secretly she made up her mind to pay Raie back when opportunity occurred. Shortly afterwards she rose to take her leave. She was very fond of dear Lady Montella, but her ladyship’s dialectics on Judaism bored her excessively, and the one to whom she liked to converse was not there.
Raie hailed her departure with relief.
“I think I must be bad-tempered, auntie,” she remarked, as soon as the hall door was closed. “At any rate, Zillah Lorm always rubs me up the wrong way.”
“Why? I have never heard her say anything to offend you, dear.”
“No, it isn’t what she says; it’s the way she looks at me. She always makes me say all the sharp horrid things I can think of. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself afterwards, but I wouldn’t apologise for the world. And I know she’s trying to set her cap at Lionel, and she knows I know it; and—and—I would much rather Lal married Lady Patricia than Zillah Lorm.”
She spoke in the short, nervous way which was characteristic of herself. Lady Montella glanced at her musingly.
“I am afraid your imagination is running away with you, Raie,” she returned, in a quiet voice. “First it is Lady Patricia Byrne, then Zillah Lorm. To how many more ladies are you going to engage my son?”
“To me, if you like!” The girl laughed merrily. “Don’t you think I would make a good wife, auntie? But no, I am destined to be an old maid! I took the last piece of bread-and-butter at tea; and that, you know, is a sure sign.”
She kissed her foster-aunt good-night, and danced along the corridor to her bedroom. Lady Montella glanced at the clock, and noticed that it was nearly eleven. She gave a sigh, and wondered what her son was doing. She thought that on this night—after he had been fasting all day—he might have stayed at home.
CHAPTER IIIPATRICIA
Meanwhile, Lionel Montella, having left his card at Downing Street, re-entered his hansom, and was driven to Grosvenor Square. The casket which contained his jewel consisted of a house situated in the quietest corner; and here the vehicle slackened speed. Having pulled the great bell, Montella was admitted by a powdered footman, and shown into one of the smaller rooms at the back of the hall. Allowing himself to be divested of his overcoat, he asked to see the Earl.
It was an extremely quiet household, in spite of its grandeur. The Earl was a peculiar individual of misanthropical temperament, who shut himself up in his study, and never mixed with the outer world unless there were some urgent necessity. The death of his wife some fourteen years ago had given him ample excuse for eschewing society; and society, being aware of his crotchety ideas, returned the compliment by leaving him severely alone.
The room to which Montella was eventually conducted was a small turret-chamber approached by a special staircase from the topmost landing. There was no electric light here, and the flickering candle-light cast weird shadows across the stone walls and tessellated floor. As he entered the room twolarge blackbirds flew towards him, and encircled his head. The footman waved them away; and flapping their wings, they returned to their aviary in the embrasure formed by the window. Then the manservant retired, to leave Montella alone with the Earl.
He was a man just bordering on middle age, but his bald head and stooping figure gave him the appearance of the aged. He was bending over a tank, with the sleeves of his little velvet jacket turned up. His dress-coat had been carelessly slung over the back of a chair. The drip of the water into the tank was the only sound to break the silence. Montella for the moment remained inert.
At last the Earl turned round.
“Oh—ah—Montella,” he said, with his hands still in the water. “Roberts announced you, didn’t he? I was rather—ah—preoccupied. Hope you’ll excuse my shaking hands. Come here and look at—ah—some of my work.”
The young man did as he was told, and advanced towards the tank, which proved to be a toning-bath. Amateur photography was the Earl’s latest hobby, and one which for a while absorbed all his time. The photographs floating in the water were principally views of his country seat, but there were also a few portraits amongst them. One, of a child of about six years of age, his lordship picked up and laid in the palm of his hand.
“There!” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph. “Can you tell me who that is?”
The face in the photograph had moved horribly, and the eyes were doubled. It might have stood for any small boy in the kingdom. Montella hesitatedbefore replying; but at last he received a happy inspiration.
“The King!” he exclaimed. “One can scarcely fail to recognise him. It is the King!”
“Itisthe King.” Lord Torrens dipped the print lovingly in the water once more. “I photographed him in the grounds of the palace by special permission of his mother—ah—the Queen-Regent. He was a terrible little rascal to take—moved all over the place; but I’ve got a splendid picture of him, don’t you think so? Of course it wants touching up a bit; you can understand that?”
“Oh, certainly,” Montella replied, in good faith. Then he too dipped his hand in the water, and turned over the prints. He knew that the Earl liked to be humoured in his hobby, so he proceeded to ply him with questions relating to the art. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of pleasure. The portrait of a girl floated towards him—a girl with wavy hair, whose tendrils strayed on to a low but intelligent forehead; with large eyes, set somewhat far apart and full of expression; with a well-formed nose, short upper-lip and rounded chin. She was clasping a bunch of roses against her breast, and a garland of the same flowers nestled in her hair. “Lady Patricia,” he said, a softened tone in his voice. “This is the best portrait of her I have ever seen.”
The Earl was delighted.
“Ah, do you really think so?” he returned. “My daughter is not a good subject for a photograph; rather too fair, and doesn’t look her best in repose. However, I flatter myself that I have succeeded in getting a very happy expression. You must let me give you a copy when there is one finished.”
“You are very kind.” He gazed at the photograph as if loath to let it go. “There is no gift that would please me more—unless it were the original herself.”
He dried his hands and paced the room, overcome by an unwonted nervousness. The Earl had apparently not noticed the latter part of his speech, for he went on toning the prints with imperturbability. Montella, however, intended him to notice it, and after stalking up and down for some minutes, decided to take the bull by the horns.
“Lord Torrens,” he began, feeling more agitated than when he had given his maiden speech in the House, “I have come here to-night to ask you a question on the answer to which my whole life’s happiness depends. Since I have enjoyed the privilege of your friendship, I have learnt to know you and your daughter better than would have been possible in ordinary circumstances. I know that there are very few who are admitted to the intimacy of your home life as you have so kindly admitted me, and therefore I appreciate the privilege all the more. But to come to the point—I wish to speak of Lady Patricia. I have seen her constantly during the past year, and—and—” His flow of words suddenly broke down. “My lord, you are acquainted with my family, and I hope by now that you know something of me personally. Have I your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter?”
The choice little speech he had prepared forsook his memory just when it was most needed; even in his own ears the statement of his desire sounded lame. The Earl turned round slowly, and regarded him fixedly; but the monosyllable “Eh?” was all he vouchsafed in reply.
It is one of the most trying things in the world to have to repeat a difficult request. Montella began all over again, and gaining confidence, succeeded in giving an impassioned appeal. Lord Torrens listened with some little show of interest, because if there existed a tender spot in his heart, it was for his daughter Patricia; but he was inwardly longing to get back to his beloved prints.
“I did not think you were the man to bother yourself about women,” he said at last, jerking out the words in his characteristic way. “If you take my advice, as a friend, you will stick to your Parliament and your politics; leave the women to those young fools whose chief vocation is to become ladies’ men. The farther you keep away from frills and furbelows, the better for yourself.”
“You preach what you have not practised, Lord Torrens,” Lionel rejoined, with a smile. “I suppose that you were once in love?”
The Earl gave an expressive gesture.
“My dear fellow, I was no less susceptible than the rest; and my sweetheart—afterwards my wife, and Patricia’s mother—was a queen amongst women. But I sometimes wish that I had never crossed her path; for she managed to twine herself about my heart, became the chief delight of my life; and then—”
“Then?” questioned Montella, filling up the pause.
“Then she died; and I was left with two infants to bring up, and a dreary waste of years before me to fill up as best I could. So you see that had I never met my wife, I might have made a career of some sort; at least, I should have been saved a considerable amount of heartache and pain.”
“And love,” added the youth, secretly wondering that the prosaic and somewhat crusty exterior of the Earl should conceal the heart-feelings of an emotional being. “Is it not better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Tennyson says so. And there is no one who will ever profit by another’s experience in these affairs. So to return to my question. You will approve?”
“Have you—ah—spoken to her yet?”
“Not a word. I could not do so until I had obtained your consent. I—”
He broke off abruptly at the sound of thefrou-frouof a woman’s skirt. The small door at the top of the spiral staircase opened, and a girl in a simple white dress stood on the threshold.
“May I come in, father?” she asked; then noticed the visitor. “Mr. Montella! I did not know you were here.”
She advanced with outstretched hand, her face lighting up with pleasure. The blackbirds flew down from their perch, twittering as though in greeting. The little turret-chamber seemed transformed by her presence: an air of constraint crept over the two men, and for the moment neither of them had anything to say. The Earl returned to the tank, and turned on the tap once more. The momentary emotion caused by the mention of his dead wife was now a thing of the past.
“I am very busy, my dear,” he said, somewhat pointedly. “Very busy indeed. Perhaps you would like to entertain Mr. Montella below? This is my workroom, you know.”
“Yes. I came up here because Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed with a headache, and I was feeling a weebit lonesome.” She smiled. “Will you come down with me, Mr. Montella? I would like to hear what you think of my latest attempts at verse.”
He rose with alacrity, and holding out his hand to the Earl, turned on him a questioning glance. Lord Torrens rewarded him with a look and gesture which implied approval. Then he continued washing his prints.
Montella was foremost in descending the spiral staircase, in order to assist Lady Patricia down the final steps. Arrived at the base, they descended the grand staircase together, and made their way to the library, which was Lady Patricia’s favourite room. Here she was wont to spend many a long hour in silent communion with men and women long passed away; for books were her counsellors and friends, and supplied the companionship which, owing to her father’s idiosyncrasies, she was denied. Here, too, she wrote the lyrics and sonnets in which her poetic instinct found its outlet. From her earliest childhood she had possessed the happy gift of composing verse.
She went to her desk and fetched some sheets of manuscript.
“I am glad Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed,” she remarked, as she gave them to him. “She always laughs at what she calls my attempts to scale Parnassus, but I know that you won’t laugh, because you understand.”
“The good lady has not a poetic soul,” he said, as he ran his eye down the page. “This stanza appears to be very promising, Lady Pat. May I take the MS. home with me to study when I am quiet and undisturbed?”
She consented readily, and rolling up the sheets, he placed them carefully in his pocket. Then, closing the door, he began on the subject on which all his thoughts were set. With a glad light in his eyes, and eagerness in his voice, he told her of his love.
It caused her no surprise; indeed, why should it? She had invested Lionel Montella with a poetic idealism almost from the first day of their acquaintance. She admired the race from which he sprang, and which seemed to surround him with a halo of romance: she liked to see the verve which leapt into his eyes when he spoke of the ancestors who had been so cruelly wronged. More than this, she loved the man himself; therefore his declaration seemed the most natural thing in the world.
Nevertheless there was a mist in her eyes as she responded to his confession. She knew that he was not a man who was easily impressed by a woman’s personality, so that to have so greatly stirred his heart’s emotions was to have accomplished something indeed. She listened to his sweet nothings with her own heart beating in response, with her face upturned, and love’s ardour in her eyes. And so the moments sped on—moments to be remembered in eternity—until the chiming of a clock recalled them to the prosaicism of life.
“Half-past ten already,” he said, rising with reluctance. “I have stayed an unconscionable time, and my mother asked me particularly to come home.”
“Naughty boy!” she exclaimed playfully. “You must put the blame on me. Does Lady Montella know that—that—I mean, does she know about me?”
“Not yet, dear.” His brow clouded. “But she shall know very soon.”
“Do you think she will be displeased?”
“Displeased!” He took her in his arms again. “My darling, who could be displeased where you are concerned?”
“But I am a Christian, Lionel, and you are a Jew.”
“Yes, dear; but what does that matter? Are we to be separated for life because of the difference in our birth? The sacrifice is too great—for me, at least. Does it make any difference to you that I am a Jew?”
“None at all,” she rejoined impetuously, “unless it makes me love you more.”
He pressed her hand.
“I am glad—so glad—and yet—” A new thought came into his mind. “Patricia, my heart’s dearest, there may be dark days coming for my people. If Athelstan Moore becomes Premier, Heaven alone knows what new plans he may be able to carry out. As a Member of Parliament, and a representative of one of the oldest Jewish families in the kingdom, it is possible I may be considered the spokesman for my co-religionists. In that case, I shall have to defend their cause with all the enthusiasm of which I am capable. So you see that while I am the friend of Christians, I must, at the same time, be the still greater champion of the Jews. Patricia, dearest, this may bring me into a most unenviable position, one which I fear to ask you to share.”
He let go her hands, and paced the room in thought. The girl watched him, and a look of determination came into her eyes.
“We must not meet trouble half way, dear,” she said seriously; “but whatever happens, there is nothing that affects you in which I cannot have ashare. You must do your duty to the race to which you belong, and I—I will help you to do it. I am not a Jewess, Lionel, but I know that your cause is a just one; therefore I have made up my mind to enter into it with all my heart.”
“Thank Heaven for so sweet a helper!” he exclaimed fervently. “You have taken a load off my mind.”
There was a joyous light in his eyes as he kissed her good-bye. With her love to nerve him, he felt able to withstand the world. At parting, she made him promise to acquaint his parents of their engagement without delay. She was anxious to know what they would say when they heard that he intended to marry a Christian girl.
“You need not fear, darling,” he assured her, with convincing ardour. “I am certain that my father, at least, will approve of my action, and my mother’s blessing, if it does not come at once, will soon follow suit.”
His words, although intended to reassure his sweetheart, also served as an assurance to himself.