CHAPTER IVTHE MASKED BALL
Lionel did not feel it so easy as he had imagined to acquaint his parents of his engagement to the daughter of Earl Torrens. He tackled his father first, deeming him the easier to mollify, and succeeded in obtaining his consent to the betrothal. To win his mother’s approval was a more difficult matter, and one which he knew necessitated considerable tact. He postponed the announcement until the last possible moment, hoping that if Sir Julian had informed her of the news, she would herself introduce the subject; but as two days passed without a word having been said, he was obliged to take the initiative. His sweetheart was eagerly awaiting the news.
Lady Montella listened to her son’s confession with compressed lips and a cloud on her brow. She had nothing against the woman of his choice—the Lady Patricia was well-born, and all that could be desired in looks, manner, and disposition—but there was one great, insuperable objection: the girl was a Christian.
“Are there not good and sweet Jewish girls among your acquaintance that you must seek a wife of another race?” she asked, with a touch of reproach. “Could you not set your affections upon Raie Emanuel, for instance, or Zillah Lorm?”
“Mother!” He glanced at her in surprise. “I thought you would understand. Can a man just calmly and dispassionately choose a girl first, andthenpour his love upon her? I admire Miss Lorm, and I am fond of our little Raie, but I would no more think of marrying either of them than I would think of a journey to the moon. Don’t you see, mother, that my feeling for Patricia is totally different. She herself is different to all other women—whether Jewish or Christian—that I have ever met. Her thoughts are mine, her sympathies are mine, her love is mine. Oh, I can’t explain it properly, but surely you must know!”
There was an eager expression, half of entreaty, in his face. His mother regarded him earnestly, and realised the effort it was costing him to break through his accustomed reserve. Her face relaxed a little of its sternness, but the determination remained.
“Lionel,” she asked quietly, “are you a true and zealous Jew?”
“Yes.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “At least I try to be.”
“And yet you would marry a Christian?”
“I would marry the Lady Patricia; that she is a Christian is a mere accident of birth.”
“Until now the Montella stock has been entirely and purely Jewish. Do you think the prestige of the family would gain by an infusion of Gentile blood?”
“If you put it that way, as long as it is ‘blue blood’ I do not think the prestige of family would suffer.”
Lady Montella could not resist a smile, but it quickly faded.
“Is Patricia willing to become a Jewess or, rather, a proselyte?” she asked.
The young man’s face clouded.
“I do not know,” was his rejoinder. “Patricia and I have never discussed the subject of religion, but I believe she belongs, nominally at least, to the Church of England. If her faith is, to her, a source of happiness, I scarcely like to ask her to give it up.”
Again the mother’s swift glance seemed to penetrate his being; again the question passed her lips.
“Lionel, are you a true Jew?”
The colour surged into his cheeks.
“Have you any reason to doubt my sincerity?” he said.
“I trust not; but, my son, I am more far-seeing than you. A Christian mother means Christian children, a Christian household. In this way the Montella traditions will be destroyed.”
“If I am blessed with sons, they shall be brought up as strict Jews.” The colour still suffused his cheeks. “I promise you, and she shall promise too, that the Montellas shall ever remain a Jewish family, and faithful to their heritage.”
“Unless Lady Patricia renounces her creed and embraces ours, I shall never be satisfied. For the sake of the future generation, and for the honour of the House, I must insist on this.”
“Very well, I will ask her; and I now have your approval and consent?”
“Subject to this, yes.”
She sighed, and received his filial kiss with moisture in her eyes. She felt that her boy was no longer her own particular idol now that he had given his heart away. Hitherto she had been the only woman to whom he offered his sweet tokens of affection; nowthere was another—and for the moment more attractive—goddess to whom there was homage due. That this was in the natural course of things did not mitigate the soreness in her heart. He was her only and passionately beloved son.
“Lionel,” she said softly. “May I tell you a little story? It is about myself. When I was a girl, long before I met Sir Julian, I fell in love with a young officer—a Christian. I was so much in love with him that I thought it would break my heart to give him up. But in spite of that I would not consent to become his wife; there was something that held me back.”
“And that was?”
“Duty.” She laid an accent on the word. “My duty to my race and faith; my duty to my parents. I sent him away, and he eventually married a girl of his own faith. The happiness of my married life you know. So you see that although duty clashed with my own inclinations at the time, it brought me the truest happiness in the end.”
Lionel paced the room with bent head.
“I am disappointed in you, dear,” she continued slowly. “You must not mind my telling you the truth. I had thought that with you, as with me, duty would occupy the foremost place. I had thought that your enthusiasm for our race and your ambitions in regard to the amelioration of our oppressed brethren were such that you would forget all personal inclination. Lionel, I am certain, as I look into the future, that opportunity will be given you to prove your devotion to our cause. I am certain that you are destined to exercise a great influence, both politically and socially,as a Jew. Can you wonder, therefore,that I see in Lady Patricia a stumbling-block to your career? Will your co-religionists have the same opinion of you when you have married a Christian? Will you have the same voice, the same power, when you have married away from the race which you profess to love so deeply? Have you considered the question from that point of view? If not, you are merely acting on the impulse of the moment.”
She looked into his face almost appealingly, but knew that all the arguing in the world would not alter his determination. He was so convinced that Patricia Byrne was his true mate, that discussion of the pros and cons was to him beside the question. He wished with all his heart to do his duty to his race, and to remain faithful to his inherited religion, and in this he believed that his sweetheart would help, not hinder him. So the result of the interview was as satisfactory as, under the circumstances, it could be; on this one point it was not possible that mother and son should think alike.
Lionel could not make up his mind to tell his beloved of the conditions of his mother’s approval at once: for a short time he wished to enjoy her sweet companionship without the smallest cloud to mar the brightness of their love. He brought her to see his parents, and the Earl dined with them in state, but not a word as to their difference of religion was said by either side. The only one who ventured to object was Mrs. Lowther, Patricia’s companion; but as she occupied a subordinate position, her opinion was of little consequence. Lionel sought an interview with her in private, and won her over in less than half an hour. What Patricia’s relatives would have to say in the matter, however, remained to be discovered.
The Countess of Chesterwood, at whose masked ball Raie Emanuel intended to make herdébut, was the widow of Earl Torrens’ nephew. An American by birth, she possessed democratic views, modified in accordance with the exigencies of her position in society. She loved to surround herself with clever people, no matter what their social status, and her house was the resort of many a young literary aspirant or budding musical genius. The Montellas admired her for her shrewd common sense and vivacious manner, and Lionel was certain that in her he and his sweetheart would find a firm ally. He took Patricia to call on her, but she was not at home; and they did not see her until the night of the ball. Her congratulations were offered in the bright way which was one of her most charming characteristics.
“I wish you love and luck,” she said.
“Luck?” repeated Patricia. “My dear Mamie, you are thinking of the St. Leger. We don’t intend to run a race.”
“Luck” was the name of Lady Chesterwood’s one and only racer. The little widow smiled.
“Life is a race, and you need plenty of luck to help you steer clear of the ditches,” she replied. “However, let me satisfy your fastidious ear by terming it ‘Providence.’ Mr. Montella, you haven’t asked me for a dance.”
Lionel apologised, and took possession of her card. Then he glanced at her costume.
“You are an Italian lady?” he queried, in doubt.
“I am Dante’sBeatrice; rather an assumption, isn’t it! But I amsotired of the conventional fancy-dress people. Besides, my mask will concealmy face until midnight. What made you two choose to represent the Stuarts?”
“A lack of originality on my part, I think,” Patricia replied. “The ‘bonnie prince’ is one of my pet heroes, so I suggested him for Lionel, and Mary Queen of Scots seemed to follow suit. By the way, Mamie, what sort of people have you here?”
“All sorts and conditions. Authors, actors, musicians, artists, a sprinkling of politicians, and many mere society people. They are all thoroughly respectable, I assure you, my dear, and as you won’t be introduced, it doesn’t matter if you should happen to dance with someone of whom, ordinarily, your chaperon would not approve. Here, Equality is the watchword. In the matter of this masked ball, at least, I am a law unto myself.”
She bowed and swept away on the arm of a chivalrous knight. The musicians struck up the spirited tune of a new dance which had recently been invented, and the lovers, preferring to witness it rather than to take part, mounted to the gallery in order to view themise en scène. The ball-room was decorated in white and gold, the clusters of electric light arranged to form huge daffodils hanging at measured intervals from the painted ceiling. The musicians were almost hidden by a bank of flowers, consisting principally of orchids and the rarest ferns; a similar bank adorned the other end of the room. The motley dresses of the guests—some attractive, some merely grotesque—lent a brilliancy which was somewhat bizarre in its effect. To the onlookers, the combination of personalities was curious—perhaps not without significance to some who were there.
“There is Oliver Cromwell dancing with acharming littlevivandière,” observed Patrica, with amusement. “What must the shade of that worthy Puritan think—if think it can?”
“Let us hope that in the course of centuries it has gained sense,” Lionel responded lightly. “Do you not recognise thevivandière? It is our Raie.”
“Miss Emanuel? Howpetiteshe looks; and the Cromwell, who is he, I wonder?”
“I have no idea; but we had better avoid him, hadn’t we? Cromwell was rather antagonistic towards the Stuarts, you know.”
She laughed. “All the more reason why we should attempt a reconciliation now. Don’t be surprised if you see me as his partner a little later on.”
The lovers were obliged to separate when the music came to a close, for both were engaged elsewhere. Patricia was taken back to Mrs. Lowther, and Lionel went off to find “Cleopatra,” otherwise Zillah Lorm. He saw his sweetheart, a few minutes later, dancing with a courtier of the period of Louis XIV., and could not help remarking how sweet she looked. Miss Lorm’s eyes gleamed through the eyelets of her mask as she made a response; she was not one of those who care to hear any individual of their own sex praised.
“I must congratulate you on your engagement, Mr. Lionel,” she said, with a slight effort. “I was somewhat surprised when Lady Montella informed me of the news. I did not think that you—of all people—would marry without the pale; but, of course, there is no Earl’s daughter to be found among the Jews.”
The latter part of her speech was spoken jestingly,but the sting was no less keen. The young man’s face coloured beneath his mask. Had anyone else proffered such a remark, he could only have received it as an insult. Restraining the hasty rejoinder which rose to his lips, he kept silence, and Zillah, seeing that her dart had struck home, immediately changed the subject. But the pleasure of the evening was spoilt for Montella, and a troubled expression settled on his brow. It occurred to him that the singer had perhaps unconsciously foretold the decision of public opinion—namely, that he was marrying the Lady Patricia Byrne on account of her noble birth, and in order to strengthen his position as a member of the aristocracy. He knew that public opinion was never inclined to ascribe a man’s action to lofty and disinterested motives, but in this case it would vex him greatly if he were misunderstood.
His mind was busy all the time he danced, and Zillah Lorm might have been miles away, so little was he influenced by her charms. The room was crowded, for it was close on midnight, when the culminating point of the evening would be reached. It needed some amount of care on the part of the men to lead their partners gracefully through the maze of dancers, and two or three times Zillah narrowly escaped colliding with the others. Montella—probably because his thoughts were elsewhere—was unusually awkward, and just as he was guiding his partner round a difficult corner, he accidentally trod upon a lady’s dress. There followed the sound of tearing lace and splitting seams, and an exclamation of anger escaped from the lady at having been stopped short in that unpleasant way. Her partner—the Oliver Cromwell whom Patricia had noticedearlier in the evening—insisted that the offender had been guilty of gross carelessness, and waiving the young man’s apologies, proceeded to harangue him on the subject. There was something so aggressive in his manner that Montella felt his temper rise, and gave vent to a heated rejoinder, quite foreign to his general equability. The “Cromwell” took it up, determined to give his pugnacious propensities full sway, whilst the ladies stood by and listened uncomfortably to the wordy war.
“You have ruined the lady’s dress, and spoilt her evening,” he said, glaring at the culprit as if he were a schoolboy. “And all you do in return is to stand there and make lame apologies. I should think the least you could do would be to make amends like a gentleman.”
“Certainly. What can I do? If this lady will kindly tell me, I shall be happy to do it. I have already expressed my deep regret that the accident should have occurred.”
The lady gathered her train over her arm.
“I accept the apology of ‘King Charles,’” she said, her vexation already subdued. “It is not worth while quarrelling about.”
The clock struck twelve as she spoke, and as the last chime died away, the order was given to unmask. The two men fronted each other, and simultaneously uncovered their faces. Montella almost involuntarily gave a start, for the countenance of his opponent was curiously and unpleasantly familiar. He had seen it pictured in all the illustrated journals in the kingdom, cartooned inPunch, caricatured elsewhere; he had seen it scowling at the Opposition in the House, and at the anxious journalists in the Lobby.It was most unfortunate that this regrettable circumstance should be connected with his first personal introduction to the man.
There was a moment’s silence, during which the young politician’s eyes fell like an abashed schoolboy. The “Cromwell” was the first to speak.
“Your name?” he demanded curtly.
“Selim Montella.”
“Montella? member for Thorpe Burstall?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! Mine is—as you may know—Athelstan Moore.”
He offered his arm to his partner, and without another word, turned shortly away. Zillah Lorm looked after them with increasing interest.
“The new Premier!” she exclaimed, as soon as they were out of earshot. “Athelstan Moore, the Jew-hater! Was it wise to offend him, Mr. Lionel?”
“Wise? It was the most foolish thing I ever did in my life,” he rejoined, with a short laugh.
It was amusing—to the singer—to witness his discomfiture.
CHAPTER VTHE STORY OF FERDINAND
Acting on his mother’s advice, Lionel Montella wrote a letter of apology to the Premier, and received a short note of acknowledgment in return. It was some time before he could overcome his vexation at the unfortunate encounter, even though he was assured by his confrères that the destiny of a nation is not affected by petty personal spite. He knew that it was good policy on his part to conciliate the chief Minister of State, instead of which he had done the direct opposite by personally offending him.
The new Premier’s attitude towards the Jewish community soon made itself felt. The greater part of the press—the part which was open to bribery and corruption—was in his favour, and did not hesitate to voice his opinions and echo his antagonism. About this time a celebrated Consolidated Trust, of which the principal directors were South African Jews, went to destruction, making one of the most sensational failures on record. Hundreds of people were ruined, but the directors managed to emerge unharmed, and the rumours of swindling on their part were left unrefuted. Immediately the papers expressed their sympathy for the unfortunate Gentile victims who had been preyed upon by swindling Jews, and long leaders declared that suchthings should not be. Following the rule in such cases, the whole Hebrew community was made to suffer for the reprehensible actions of the few. Public feeling—always ready to rush to extremes—ranged itself conclusively on the side of the anti-Semites; and the man in the street, as well as the music-hall artiste, kept his sneer ready for the unfortunate Jew.
All this did not affect the Montellas so keenly as those who were more in touch with the masses. They read the papers, and inwardly burned with indignation, but from the taunts which greeted the ears of their poorer brethren they were happily exempt. Lionel went out and about, never seeking to conceal his origin from those who despised his race; but there was something in the influence of his personality which forbade any remark of disparagement to fall in his hearing. Raie Emanuel was the only member of the household who was to some extent personally concerned. She went to see her relations in Canonbury, and found them smarting under what they considered a cruel rebuff. Their only son—a smart youth of nineteen—had been dismissed from the office in which he had hoped to obtain promotion, and the two little girls had been expelled from their ladies’ school.
“Expelled!” Raie exclaimed, in dismay. “But why? what have they done?”
For answer her mother handed her the note she had received from the principal.
“That’s all,” was her reply.
“Miss Perkins regrets that owing to the wishes of some of the parents of her scholars she is obliged to ask Mrs. Emanuel to remove her two daughters,Pearl and Charlotte, from the school. Miss Perkins ventures to respectfully suggest that the girls would be happier if educated at a Hebrew school, or by a Hebrew governess at home.”
Raie tossed the note impatiently aside.
“I wish people wouldn’t call us ‘Hebrews,’” she said. “It irritates me. Well, I suppose Pearl and Lottie will be able to exist without the advantages obtained at Miss Perkins’ seminary. But how absurd it all is. As if Pearl and Lottie were the least bit different to the Smiths, Jones, and Robinson girls!”
“And I’m no different to the other chaps at the office,” Walter added, in an aggrieved tone; “but just because old Blank has taken a dislike to the name of Jew, I’ve got the sack. I wish I’d never been born a Jew.”
“Oh, you must not say that,” Raie said reprovingly. “It is a great privilege to be a Jew, and if Christians believed what they preach, they would give us the honour which is our due.”
This little speech wasà laLady Montella, whose views the girl unconsciously imbibed. The Emanuels regarded Raie as the oracle of the family, and looked up to her as living on a higher plane than themselves. Mrs. Emanuel was a widow, with six children and a small income. It had been no easy matter to rear and educate these children, even though the eldest had been taken off her hands at the age of fourteen. The second girl, Harriet, had just become engaged to the son of a wealthy stockbroker, which was a matter for congratulation to the Emanuels and their relatives. Harriet was a bright girl of seventeen, with what her mother called a “taking” manner. She contributedto the family purse by teaching music at a kindergarten school, and was out when Raie arrived.
“We’ve been looking at houses all the week,” Mrs. Emanuel said, when the girl inquired after her sister. “The sooner they get settled the better. I don’t believe in long engagements; never did.”
Raie considered a moment.
“I wonder if Harriet will be happy with Harry Levi,” she said thoughtfully. “He is not a man I could care for in the least.”
“You never did like him,” her mother remarked; “but then you’ve not got to marry him, so it doesn’t matter. He seems affable enough, I think. Have you any reason for your dislike?”
“Only that the Montellas do not approve of his family. Harry Levi’s father waxed fat over the Consolidated Trust concern, and Lionel says that Harry himself is not over-scrupulous. Lionel Montella would not say a thing like that unless there were good reason.”
Mrs. Emanuel regarded her contemplatively.
“You seem to think a great deal of Lionel Montella,” she rejoined. “You always talk about him as if he were a prophet or a prince. I shall not be at all surprised when I hear that he has fallen in love with you and asked you to marry him. Well, it would be a greatsimcha[2]for us, I am sure. TheJewish Chroniclewould give you a notice—‘A marriage has been arranged between Mr. Lionel Selim Montella, M.P., only son of Sir Julian and Lady Selim Montella, and Miss Raie Emanuel, eldest daughter of Mrs. Joshua Emanuel, late of Liverpool.’ Wouldn’t it make the Canonburypeople sit up, eh? Instead of Mrs. Abrahams snubbing me like she does, she would come and implore me to attend her next dinner-party; and I would say—‘So sorry: I’ve promised to dine with dear Lady Montella.’”
2. Joy.
2. Joy.
Raie put up her hand, as though to stay her mother’s garrulity.
“Mamma!” she exclaimed, her cheeks tingling, “I wish you would not talk like that. It’s so vul—so horrid. I would not marry Lionel Montella, even if he asked me, because I do not consider myself fitted to become his wife. As he will not ask me, however, I shall be saved the trouble of declining. Have you not heard that he is engaged to Lady Patricia Byrne?”
“What!” Mrs. Emanuel sat bolt upright. “This is news, indeed. Who is Lady Patricia What’s-her-name? A Jewess?”
“No; a—Christian—the daughter of Earl Torrens—gloriously beautiful, and with a face like a Greuze. She is far more suitable as a wife for Mr. Montella than a plain, insignificant little creature like myself could ever be.”
There was nothing either of mock modesty or bitterness in her words. She knew that she was small and slight, with ordinary features and ordinary abilities. She did not know that when she spoke her eyes sparkled with animation, and that the sweetness of her smile amply compensated for the irregularity of her features. She did not know either that there was anaïvetéabout her manner which endeared her to those with whom she came into contact. Perhaps, had she known, the charm would no longer have been there.
“Lionel Montella has no right to marry ashicksa,[3]even if she does belong to the aristocracy,” was Mrs. Emanuel’s stricture. “If you are not good enough for him, why doesn’t he marry a Rothschild? It must be a terrible disappointment to his father, especially after the trouble he has had with Ferdinand.”
3. Gentile.
3. Gentile.
“Who is Ferdinand?” asked Raie, her cheeks still burning.
“Ferdinand Montella, of course. Sir Julian’s son by his first wife, who was a Miss Klonsberg of Birkenhead, and second cousin of your poor papa’s step-brother’s wife. Do you mean to say, child, that you’ve lived with the Montellas all this time without ever hearing of Ferdinand, or that I never told you about him? It seems almost incredible.”
Raie became interested.
“I have never heard the name until you mentioned it just now,” she replied. “Tell me all about him, please.”
Mrs. Emanuel was fond of relating the personal history of anyone with whom she happened to be acquainted.
“Ferdinand is the skeleton in the Montellas’ cupboard,” she began, giving her daughter time to digest the statement. “His mother died when he was born, and until his father married again he was brought up by a relation of the Selim Montellas. He was expelled from Eton, and ran away from boarding-school, and was the sort of little monster who would never be able to abstain from wickedness outside a reformatory. When he was about eighteen, he did something shady—I don’t quite know what it was,for the matter was hushed up, but I believe he tried to embezzle, or something of the sort. Anyway, Sir Julian disinherited him, cut him out of his will, and sent him off to Australia with just enough money to pay his passage. Since then, the name of Ferdinand has been tabooed by the Montella family, which, I suppose, accounts for your ignorance of the matter.”
Raie’s eyes were wide open.
“Do they never hear from him?” she asked.
“I don’t know; but I heard that Sir Julian once received a letter from him, and returned it unopened. You ought to know whether they receive letters from Australia or not.”
“I never trouble myself about the Montellas’ correspondence; they receive letters from all kinds of places. Besides, Ferdinand may have left Australia. How long ago did it all happen?”
Mrs. Emanuel thought a moment.
“Let me see,” she replied musingly. “It was just after Pearl was born. I remember quite well, because Lady Montella paid me a visit, and I was wearing a pale-blue dressing-gown trimmed with Irish lace. It was the first day I sat up in my room. It must be about eleven years ago. Ferdinand—if he is still alive—will be about thirty.”
“So old?” To Raie thirty seemed like middle age. “What a strange story; it quite fascinates me, and”—there was a touch of excitement in her voice—“why, if there is an elder son, Lionel will not succeed to the title and estate.”
“To the estates, yes; to the title, no. Sir Julian cannot will away the baronetcy, much as he might like to do so. Lionel will never be a baronet unless his step-brother dies.”
“Poor Lal! But I do not think he has much craving for a title; he is not that kind of man. I wonder why Lady Montella has never mentioned her step-son to me?”
The matter gave her food for speculation during the remainder of the day. It seemed so strange that Sir Julian—the mild, unobtrusive Sir Julian—should go to such lengths as to disinherit his own son. The more she thought about the scapegrace the more her heart went out to him, although she knew that her sympathy was probably undeserved. When she returned to the flat she routed out an old family album, and carefully turned over the leaves. There were photographs in abundance of Lady Montella in different positions and dresses, chiefly dating from her early wedded days. There were photographs of Lionel in the various periods of infancy, as well as of the two little children who had died. Raie was deeply interested in them all, but she glanced at them cursorily in her eagerness to find the one she sought. At last her attention was arrested by a carte-de-visite in platinotype of a youth in a golf blazer, club in hand. It had evidently been taken some years ago, and was partially discoloured. The face of the young man was somewhat sensual in character, the mouth weak, but the eyes, on the contrary denoted intellect, and were so like Sir Julian’s that Raie looked at them in doubt. Flicking the dust from the album, she carried it into the study, where Lionel was writing.
“Lal,” she demanded, as he put down his pen, “is this your father when he was a young man?”
Montella glanced at the photograph, then up at the girl.
“Where have you been rummaging, Raie?” heremarked, with curiosity. “This photograph is not my father, but a lad who went abroad a long time ago. I am afraid I must not tell you his name.”
“It is Ferdinand Montella,” she returned boldly. “You see I know.”
He regarded her with surprise. “Who told you?” he asked, in his quiet way.
“I guessed it; but mamma was talking to me about Ferdinand to-day. I did not know there was such a person in existence. There seems to be quite a mystery about him. May I not know what it is, Lal?”
“You surely do not desire to know what my parents wish to keep secret, do you, Raie?”
“Oh, no—if you put it like that; but I did not think there was any harm in asking. Perhaps Aunt Inez will not mind telling me now that I am no longer a child.”
“I should advise you not to mention the subject for the present, Raie,” he answered seriously. “It isn’t worth while raking up a story of the past which people would rather forget, is it? Perhaps, if you wait a little while, my mother will tell you of her own accord.”
Raie quenched her thirst for information, and acquiesced, but still regarded the pictured face intently. There was an expression in the eyes which took her fancy; and in spite of the weakness of the mouth, the lips indicated good-humour.
“I like Ferdinand Montella,” she said decidedly, with a secret wonder at her own effusiveness. “He may not be perfect, and I suppose, from what mamma says, he is something of a scapegrace; but he has rather a nice face, I think. If ever he comes back I shall stand up for him.”
She was such an impetuous child.
CHAPTER VIA HOUSE OF MOURNING
Sir Julian was very ill. His physician had to be rung up in the middle of the night, and arrived to find him in an exceedingly critical condition. Raie, tucked up in her little white bed, awoke with a start to hear footsteps in the corridor, and the subdued sound of voices. Hastily attiring herself in her dressing-gown, she unlocked her door and peered out to see what was happening. As she did so, the bald head and gaunt figure of the physician emerged from the morning-room, followed by Lady Montella in deshabille. Raie, not wishing to be noticed, shrank back into her own room; but a few minutes later she put her head out again, and espied a maid.
“Maggie!” she called, in a whisper. “Mr. Lionel isn’t ill?”
“No, it’s Sir Julian; had another stroke. They think it’s the end. Mr. Lionel has gone for the rabbi.”
“Oh!” There was a scared look on her face. She called the girl into her room, and shut the door. “It’s frightfully sudden,” she remarked, sinking on to a little wicker chair. “He was normal when Lady Montella went to bed.”
“Yes, miss, it came on all of a sudden like. Those things always do. I remember my grandfather whomwe buried a year come Christmas; he had St. Vitus’s dance—the twitchings, you know, and—”
“Don’t tell me,” interrupted the girl, with a shudder. “I’ve got the creeps already. Tell me, Maggie, do you think I ought to go into Sir Julian’s room when the minister comes? I don’t want to go, because I feel so horribly nervous, and I’ve never been near anyone who is dying before, but if—if Lady Montella expects it—?”
“I should go back to bed if I were you, miss,” the servant advised. “There is no occasion for you to go near a death-bed unless you are obliged. You will not do Sir Julian nor my lady any good by upsetting yourself.”
“No, but I don’t want auntie to think me unkind. Will you ask her, please, Maggie? Tell her I send my love, and am very sorry; and if she wants me, I’ll come.”
The maid rose with an air of reluctance and took the message. Two minutes later she returned. Her ladyship sent her love, and wished her niece to go to sleep without frightening herself. Everything that was possible was being done for the patient, therefore her presence could not assist.
Raie jumped back into bed and snuggled down, with a sigh of relief; but sleep was impossible. She was on the alert for every sound, and heard the coming of the minister with a flutter of excitement at her heart. The atmosphere seemed to be charged with a sense of death, and the silence seemed more acute because occasionally broken by subdued snatches of conversation. She buried her head beneath the counterpane, as though in fear of beholding the King of Terrors in visible form. She recollected all thegruesome stories she had heard of death and the dying, and did her best to induce a nightmare. She imagined she felt the passing of Sir Julian’s soul, and a tremor ran through her being at the thought. Wondering if all were over, she heard the physician take his departure. It seemed as if morning would never come, for long hours passed without bringing light. Eventually, however, she awoke out of a short and troubled sleep to hear the yodel of the early milkman. The long night was over at last.
At breakfast-time she entered the morning-room, scarcely knowing how to frame the question which rose to her lips. Lionel Montella was reclining in the easy-chair with his eyes closed; no doubt he was tired after his sleepless night. He opened his eyes at her approach, and glanced at her wearily. Then he gave her the usual matutinal greeting.
“You look worn out,” she observed sympathetically. “If I were you I should go and rest until lunch-time.”
He shook his head.
“My father is dying,” he rejoined, in a low voice. “Did you not know?”
“Yes.” She did not tell him that she had made up her mind that Sir Julian was already dead. “I am so sorry, Lionel. You must feel upset, and poor auntie, too. Where is she?”
“In the sick-room; she will not leave his side. I have begged her to take some rest, but she is determined to stay with him until a change occurs.”
They sat down at the table, but neither of them could eat. Lionel left his omelette untasted, and his letters unread; and Raie forbore to glance through the newspaper, as was her daily custom. After breakfast, she screwed up her courage and knockedat the door of Sir Julian’s room. She had made up her mind that it was her duty to visit the old man; in the daytime the ordeal did not seem so great.
He was awake, and droning Hebrew prayers in an inaudible voice in company with the minister. Lady Montella sat by the bedside, her beautiful face drawn and anxious. Raie went over to her and kissed her without a word; she did not know quite what to say. She was a sensitive girl, and often restrained herself from mere shyness; but Lady Montella knew her well, and understood.
Presently Sir Julian made as if he would sit up. “Ferdinand!” he exclaimed, and then again, “Ferdinand!” He had not mentioned the name for ten years. Lady Montella rose from her seat with a start; Raie remained inert, but the name attracted her attention.
The sick man gazed at them as if he were dazed.
“Ferdinand,” he repeated; “I thought he was here. I don’t want to see him.” His words came with difficulty. “Send him away. Tell him he has brought down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”
Lady Montella bent over the bed.
“Ferdinand is not here,” she repeated, in a low voice. “We do not know where he is; but if we can find him, will you not forgive him?”
“No. He shall not have a penny.” His words grew fainter. “He is no more my son. He sold—his—birthright—for—a mess of pottage.”
Raie listened with all her ears, but the dying man did not speak again, and soon fell into the lethargy which preceded the end. The physician came again, but the baronet was beyond the reach of human aid.At two o’clock in the afternoon Lady Montella was led out of the room, half-fainting. Sir Julian was dead.
Raie had never been in a house of death before, for her father had been drowned at sea. She was too shy to go in to her foster-aunt at once, and wandered in and out of the darkened reception rooms as if she were unable to rest. The household was in a state of confusion, for it was Friday, and therefore necessary that the preliminary burial rites should be performed before the Sabbath fell. She heard Lionel and the minister arrange the details, and afterwards she saw the repulsive-lookingwachers[4]who had come to stay with the body until Sunday, when the funeral would take place. There were people coming and going all the afternoon, and she was obliged to have her tea in solitude. After it was over she was sent for to Lady Montella’s boudoir.
4. Professional watchers by the dead.
4. Professional watchers by the dead.
She obeyed the summons without delay, and clung to her foster-aunt with the tears welling up in her eyes. When the first outburst of emotion was over, Lady Montella asked her if she would like to go home until after the funeral; it would be so very dull for her in the house of mourning. Raie conquered her first impulse and decided to remain. She did not feel justified in leaving Lady Montella alone in her sorrow.
It was indeed a dull week. In accordance with Jewish usage all the blinds in the flat were kept down for seven days instead of being pulled up directly after the funeral. The principal mourners, including two of Sir Julian’s sisters, sat on low chairs to lament and receive the condolences of their friends,whilst near by a tiny float burned in a glass of oil as a memorial of the dead. Every evening a service was held in the drawing-room, attended by most of the Jewish gentlemen of the Montellas’ acquaintance, and not a few strangers. It was Lionel’s melancholy duty to sayKaddishfor his father, which prayer he would have to repeat daily until his term of mourning expired.
One of the first visitors to offer her condolence was Lady Patricia Byrne. Accompanied by Mrs. Lowther, she drove up in a closed carriage, bringing a beautiful wreath composed of lilies and violets. As no flowers were permitted to decorate the coffin, however, the wreath was placed in the room where theshiva[5]was held. It was the first opportunity Lady Montella’s relatives and friends had of observing Lionel’s future wife, and they did not scruple to make the most of it. Attired in complimentary mourning, with a black picture hat to set off the fairness of her hair and complexion, and carrying herself with an unaffected but distinguished air of grace, the girl certainly satisfied their critical eyes. With her face lit up with honest sympathy, she conversed with the mourners in a way which proved her tact and her knowledge of Jewish customs. Lionel’s face glowed with pride and gratification at the presence of his beloved.