5. Mourning.
5. Mourning.
Mrs. Lowther was a colonel’s widow, fair, fat, and forty. She was devoted to her charge, but she did not understand the girl in the least. She was much too prosaic and matter-of-fact to enter into the hidden depths of Patricia’s temperament; and although she had lived with her for years, sheknew only her exterior. Her manner towards Lionel Montella’s relatives was decidedly distant, and sitting apart, she did not attempt to join in the conversation. She showed unmistakably that she had come merely for Patricia’s sake, and not for her own. Her face expressed disapproval as they re-entered the carriage and were driven homewards.
“You are the most curious girl I ever came across, Pat,” she said, with a sigh. “I wonder what your poor mother would have thought of you had she lived.”
“À proposof what?” interrogated Patricia, with wonder.
“Why, your foolish engagement to this young man, of course.”
Patricia’s brow contracted.
“I thought you liked him,” she said.
“Yes; I’ve nothing against him personally, but I do not approve of your becoming connected with a Jewish family.”
“I am not going to marry the family,” the girl corrected amiably. “I have no desire to have more than one husband.”
Her chaperon frowned.
“You ought not to joke on this subject, Patricia,” she rejoined. “Your words confirm my opinion: you do not realise the gravity of the step you intend to take.”
“Yes, I do—to its fullest extent. That is why I have allowed Mr. Montella to give me an engagement ring.”
“Do you mean to say that you really have anything in common with those people—the people we have just left?” Mrs. Lowther asked, still unconvinced,“Cannot you see that they live in a world of their own, cemented by their religious and national customs? You may attempt to enter that world, but you must for ever remain an outsider. Even if you marry a Jew, you are not, and never can be, a Jewess. There is no strain of Oriental blood in you.”
“Do not be so sure. I believe if I choose to look up the family tree I shall be able to discover some remote Hebrew ancestor. But that is nothing. Lionel is quite as British as I am. The Torrens were originally French.”
“What shall you do?” pursued her chaperon, unwilling to leave the subject. “Become a Jewish proselyte, or turn Mr. Montella into a Christian?”
“I do not see the necessity for either,” Patricia rejoined, with a slight flush; “but one thing is certain. Situated as he is, Lionel cannot possibly forsake the faith of his forefathers. Were he to do so, the whole fabric of his Jewish inheritance would be shattered.”
“Then I suppose that if you were to find it necessary, you would become a pervert rather than he?”
“I cannot answer that at the moment. But why discuss the matter until we are obliged to consider it?”
“Why should we shirk it simply because it is disagreeable? It is one that will have to be faced as soon as you take any definite steps towards marriage.”
The girl leant back against the cushions with an expression of weariness.
“We shall not be married until Mr. Montella’s year of mourning is at an end, so I shall not haveto decide hastily,” she answered. “I shall do what appears to me to be the best. Religion is not meant to separate man and wife.”
Mrs. Lowther sighed. “What a pity you have an Agnostic for a father,” she said.
CHAPTER VIITHE UNEMPLOYED
Mrs. Lowther’s remark was not without foundation. The Earl, despite the fact that he was patron of more than one living in the country, had severed his connection with the Established Church some years ago, and now professed no religion, save that of Agnosticism. His son—a youth at Sandhurst—followed in his wake, talked grandiosely of the First Cause, and pinned his faith on Huxley. Patricia saved the reputation of the family—in the eyes of her father’s tenants, at least—by attending the Parish Church regularly when she was in the country; but as Patricia’s religion had never been properly moulded, it was liable to variation. Her first finishing governess being a Roman Catholic, her youthful mind had been filled with the mystic saint-lore of the Roman Church, and she fell deeply in love with St. Patrick, her patron saint. As Patricia had always been deeply in love with somebody or other since the days of her swaddling clothes, however, her father was not greatly concerned, and expressed no surprise when she told him one morning that she found Mariolatry and Saintolatry detestable, and asked to have the Roman Catholic governess sent away. Good St. Patrick was dislodged from the little niche she had accorded him, his image wasshattered into a hundred pieces, and Patricia was heart-whole once more. The next phase through which she passed was that of admiration for Comte and Swedenborg, but as the ethics of both were beyond her comprehension, she was little influenced by either. From Positivism she found her way into Unitarianism, and with her usual craving for some great teacher whom she delighted to honour, she made Ralph Waldo Emerson—or rather his writings—her oracle. It was somewhat curious that Patricia’s religion always concentrated itself around someperson, yet she did not seek to render her homage to a personal God. Her only experience of Christianity other than Romanism was the stern Evangelicism of her old nurse, and this creed, with its narrow interpretations and material heaven, she found equally as repellent as the former. Although not lacking in spiritual perception, she had not yet rightly understood the divine personality of the Incarnate Deity; she admired Christ, it is true, but in the same way she admired Gautama—the founder of Buddhism—and Confucius. To her, the heaven of the Christian and the Nirvana of the Buddhist were almost synonymous terms; and the gospel of right living the only one that was necessary. So that when her lover suggested with much diffidence that she should become a member of his own faith, she did not meet his proposal with the firm refusal he had anticipated.
They were sitting under the trees in one of the quietest spots in Kensington Gardens, glad to escape for the moment from the din and roar of the traffic. Although late autumn, the air was mild and dry, and Patricia allowed her sables to fall from her shoulders and to rest on the back of the chair. She listened toher lover’s words with animation in her face, and wonder in her eyes; she could not make an immediate reply.
“The idea is so curious, so difficult to grasp,” she said, when he had finished. “Judaism seems so formidable to the uninitiated. I am afraid I should break the laws a hundred times a day.”
“I do not think you would. Judaism does not demand so much from a woman as from a man. All a Jewess has to do is to see that her mènage is ordered in accordance with Jewish law, and to bring up her children in the Jewish faith. More will not be expected of you than that; and as we can have a Jewish housekeeper, you need not be worried with the details of the dietary and other laws.”
“But what of my own personal religion?”
“As long as you keep to Theism—the absolute Unity—you can believe what you please,” Montella replied. “So you see your Judaism need not be so difficult after all.”
Patricia’s eyes waxed thoughtful.
“You must give me a few days to think it over,” she said, after a short pause. “You are not in a hurry, dear?”
“Not at all. I promised the mater I would ask you. She is such an enthusiastic Jewess.”
“Yes; I admire her for it. It is a wonder she does not live in the Holy Land.”
Lionel smiled.
“I really believe she would, if Palestine were a Jewish country,” he replied. “She cherishes a grudge against the Sultan for shilly-shallying over the affair all these years. She is, like myself, an ardent Zionist.”
They rose from their chairs, and made their waytowards the Albert Gate. Patricia was unusually vivacious, and giving a truce to serious subjects, chatted in lighter vein. When they reached the main road, however, they were abruptly silenced. The smile faded from the young Member’s face, and the girl looked on with equal gravity.
The traffic was being stopped by a procession—a procession characterised by sordidness, for those who took part constituted the great body of the unemployed in the metropolis. Four abreast they walked, dirty, unkempt men, with ragged clothes and emaciated faces. They had turned out in hundreds, organised presumably by a trade-union, in order to enlist the sympathy of a good-natured public. Here and there banners were displayed, bearing the legend:—“Unemployed and starving”; “British workmen thrown out by aliens”; “Employ British labour”; “Boycott alien labour”; “Boycott foreign Jews,” and other numerous inscriptions. Along the route, which was guarded by the police, men were collecting money from the passers-by. It was indeed a sight to move the most phlegmatic.
Patricia almost involuntarily tightened her grasp on her lover’s arm. A more depraved-looking set of human beings she had never seen. Some, it is true, were stalwart Britons, or had been before the starvation process had set in; but the majority of them were unable to hold themselves erect from sheer weakness, and the dogged expression of misery was on all faces alike. The expression haunted the girl for weeks; it suggested to her naught else but the faces of lost spirits in Hades. She turned away with a shudder.
“Terrible!” she exclaimed unsteadily. “It makes me feel quite ill.”
“Do not look, dear,” Montella advised, with solicitude. “Such sights are not for you.”
“Oh, but I must look.” She turned back again. “One cannot shirk such a grim reality. I knew that while we were living in luxury there existed thousands who had not the bare necessities of life, but I have never had the fact pressed home so forcibly before. I feel as if I had no right to wear these expensive sables—which I could so easily do without—when these poor creatures have nothing to eat. The look in their eyes condemns me. Cannot we do something to help them, Lionel? Surely there must be something terribly wrong somewhere, or else we should never see such a degrading sight as this.”
She unfastened the magnificent diamond brooch she wore beneath her jacket, and impulsively cast it into the collecting-box; her tiny gold purse with its contents followed suit. Her lover, even if he thought her proceeding rash, did not remonstrate; he too divested himself of all the gold in his possession.
“The condition of these people is not exactly the fault of the Government,” he replied thoughtfully, as they moved on towards Knightsbridge. “It is always disastrous to trade when the supply exceeds the demand. It makes labour so cheap that the men cannot ask more than a starvation wage.”
“But what is the reason?” she asked, with eagerness. “It seems almost incredible that all these hundreds should be thrown out of employment.”
“Have you not noticed the banners?” he returned. “‘Alien labour’—that is at the root of their distress. It is hateful to me to have to acknowledge it—nevertheless the fact remains that the influx of pauper Jews from the Continent has been enormousduring the past few years. Athelstan Moore once introduced a Bill in Parliament for the suppression of alien immigration; but there was some flaw in it, and it was thrown out.”
“Did you vote for or against?”
“Against. You see, whatever my private opinion may be, I am tied down in this matter. I cannot vote against my own people, especially when I am told that owing to the persecution abroad they come here to try and regain their self-respect, and to develop into worthy British subjects.”
“And what is your private opinion?”
“That when they do develop into worthy British subjects, the result is satisfactory, but when they persist in being clannish and in refusing to conform to the exigencies of modern civilisation, they are a clog on the wheel of national progress. I do not consider it politic on the part of our country to continue to receive them in such great numbers. The consequence you have just seen.”
Patricia was silent for a moment, but she was not yet satisfied.
“Why do the employers prefer to engage foreigners to work for them?” she asked, after a short pause.
“Because the pauper aliens require less wages. They are so anxious to get work of some kind that they will accept the lowest wage possible; and they can live on next to nothing. Then when they have learnt their respective trades, they become sweaters on their own account. The whole system is most deplorable.”
“And the legitimate British workman goes to the wall?”
“Yes.”
“It is a great shame.” Her eyes flashed with indignation. “And yet where would the poor Jews go if they are expelled from the Continent and we forbid them to come here? They must go somewhere.”
“Ah, that is the great question.” He sighed. “If America closes her doors to them as South Africa has done, there seems to be only Australia left, and in Australia their company will be as little desired as it is here.”
“It reminds me of the Wandering Jew—the one who insulted the Christ when He was on the way to His crucifixion, and was condemned to live and wander through the ages until the Day of Judgment,” the girl said musingly. “Only in this case the wandering Jew has been multiplied into a whole horde of wandering Jews. Do you think there is any truth in the legend, Lionel?”
Her lover smiled.
“I do not know, dear,” he replied. “I dare say it is the same as other legends—a tenth part of truth, and nine-tenths superstition.”
“Yes, but it is a very fascinating legend. Do you know, Lionel, the condition of the Jews in modern days has always been to me one of the strongest arguments in favour of Christianity. It is such an exact fulfilment of prophecy. I wonder if they will ever fulfil the other part of the prophecy and eventually make Palestine their home?”
“If the Zionists have anything to do with it they will; but it is scarcely likely to happen in our time. What an interest you take in Jewish affairs, Patricia! You might be a Jewess yourself.”
The girl smiled, knowing that her interest was only on her lover’s account, and that had he not beena Jew, that interest would never have been aroused. Truth to tell, Mrs. Lowther and Lady Chesterwood were frightfully bored by what they termed Patricia’s Jewish hobby. The Countess had forbidden the subject to be mentioned in her presence.
She was there waiting for them when they arrived at Earl Torrens’ mansion, and received them with a sigh of relief. Ten minutes of the Earl’s society was to her an amplitude, and she had listened to his dissertation on the triumph of colour photography for twenty minutes by the clock. Perhaps the Earl was equally glad to be released from his arduous duty; for he retired as soon as the lovers made their appearance. Lionel, having an appointment elsewhere was obliged to take his departure; so, promising to look in again later, he left the ladies to themselves.
“Mrs. Lowther is out,” Patricia remarked, as she took off her things, and rang for her maid. “Will you stay to lunch?”
“I should like to very much. I made up my mind to do so directly your respected father informed me that the she-dragon was off duty. I really cannot understand how you can tolerate her, Pat.”
“Mrs. Lowther? Oh, she is a well-meaning soul; a little trying sometimes, I must admit, but I do not see much of her just now. I go out a great deal, you know. Lionel is a most attentive lover.”
“But I thought you told me you were obliged to be very quiet on account of his mourning?”
“Yes; we do not attend any society functions unless they are political; but we go for long walks and drives together, and we spend a good deal of our time with Lady Montella, who is one of the sweetest women in the world.”
The Countess regarded her contemplatively.
“So you are in love, and flourishing,” she observed, with a smile. “Well, I am very glad. Long may it last. Presently I may tell you my news; but it is such a great secret that I hardly know if I am justified in trusting you.”
Patricia looked up with curiosity.
“Which means that you will tell me, nevertheless,” she rejoined. “What is it, Mamie? Something new?”
The little Countess nodded.
“Something very new; but I am not going to divulge until after lunch. I am too hungry to talk secrets.”
Lunch was a somewhat dreary affair. The Earl seemed to consider it his duty to lead the conversation; and as he was a peculiarly absent-minded man, his efforts were not entirely successful. The Countess, having started her host on the subject of one of his hobbies, confined her attention to her favourite mayonnaise, whilst Patricia, like a dutiful daughter, supplemented her father’s disquisitions by the most intelligent questions she could muster. When it was over, the ladies adjourned to Patricia’s boudoir, which was the cosiest room in the house. It was decorated in the style of the Renaissance, and the few pictures on the walls were of the choicest. Patricia loved to surround herself with pretty things but she also possessed a leaning towards the antique. There was on her little table—itself of ancient origin—a gold snuff-box, which belonged originally to George I.; an old Roman coin, said to be one of the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas Iscariot sold our Lord; the quill pen with which the sentence ofLady Jane Grey was signed; and various other articles of vertu. There was also a small oaken prie-dieu, with the inscription which St. Paul found at Athens displayed above it: “To the Unknown God”; and there was an exquisite marble bust of the late Countess Torrens, Patricia’s mother. There wereeditions de luxeof the works of Patricia’s favourite poets, and as many photographs of the said poets as could be obtained. In the bow window, which overlooked the square, an old-fashioned harpsichord was placed; here Lady Chesterwood seated herself, and began to play.
The tone of the instrument was mellow, but the fingers of the Countess were stiff. Pianoforte-playing had quite gone out of fashion, for the mechanisms for automatic pianoforte-playing—by means of an attachment to the instrument—were so perfect and in such general use that it was really a waste of energy for a person to manipulate the keys in the old way. This ancient harpsichord, however, was spared the indignity of a mechanical addition. Patricia was too deeply imbued with the sense of the fitness of things to have allowed it, even had it been possible.
“Have you given up wearing a brooch, or have you lost it, Pat?” Lady Chesterwood asked suddenly. She was watching her all the time she played.
Patricia involuntarily put up her hand to her collar.
“Neither,” she answered promptly. “I have given it away.”
“Given it away? You foolish girl!” The Countess ceased playing, whilst a look of astonishment crossed her face. “You don’t mean to say it was the diamond spray you always wear?”
“Yes; the one father gave me after I was ill two years ago. I gave it to the Unemployed.”
“Patricia! Are you mad? Please explain yourself.”
Patricia blushed. “There is not much to explain,” she rejoined. “Lionel and I happened to come across the procession of the Unemployed—perhaps you have seen it yourself? Yes? Then you know how it makes one’s blood run cold to see the misery on their faces. I had only a little money to put in the collecting-box, so I gave my brooch. If they can sell it, it will do them more good than myself.”
“Preposterous!” the Countess exclaimed. “Why, it was worth at least two hundred pounds.”
“So much the better; even if they get only a hundred, it will go towards buying bread. And I shall not even miss it—I have so many trinkets.”
Her cousin shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, I won’t say any more,” she said. “You always were one of the most absurdly quixotic creatures of my acquaintance. I should not be at all surprised if you ended by beggaring yourself.”
“In that case, I shall appeal to you for assistance,” Patricia answered, with a smile. “But do not let us talk about myself. Tell me your great secret, Mamie.”
“Presently. There is plenty of time.”
Patricia glanced at her with curiosity.
“You are making a great mystery of it,” she remarked. “Whom does it concern?”
Lady Chesterwood’s fingers pressed the keys once more. There was a peculiar expression on her face, and a new gleam seemed to come into her eyes. She was a pretty woman, and possessed the indefinablecharm which generally associates itself with young widows. She turned round slowly on the music-stool, and faced Patricia with a glance which almost betrayed a touch of defiance.
“The secret concerns myself and a man,” she replied slowly. “A great man.”
CHAPTER VIIILADY CHESTERWOOD’S SECRET
Patricia’s interest deepened. “A great man?” she repeated. “In what way is he great?”
The Countess rose with an air of mystery, and closed the door, which had been left ajar. Then she established herself comfortably in one of the beautifully carved chairs, and assumed a look of importance.
“First of all, dear,” she said impressively, “you must promise absolute secrecy. I must have your word of honour that you won’t tell a living soul, not even Lionel Montella.”
“I will readily promise not to tell any of my friends,” Patricia answered, “but I have no secrets from Lionel. Is this necessary?”
“Absolutely. I would not have Montella know for worlds. Perhaps I am foolish in telling you, Pat, but I know I can trust you if you promise.”
The girl hesitated. She was not sure that she cared to be told anything which must be expressly kept back from her lover; but after a few moments’ consideration she yielded. After all, it might not be of much importance—a love-affair probably, for the Countess was still quite young.
“Very well, I promise,” she said.
“On your word of honour?”
“On my word of honour.”
Lady Chesterwood’s expression was inscrutable.
“Then I will tell you,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “I have received an offer of marriage from Mr. Athelstan Moore.”
Had she received an offer of marriage from his Satanic Majesty, her cousin could not have looked more aghast. She started to her feet, the colour ebbing from her cheeks.
“From Athelstan Moore?” she repeated, in a voice of excitement. “But surely you will not accept it? You cannot accept it!”
The Countess clasped her hands at the back of her head, and regarded her cousin imperturbably.
“Why not?” she asked, with irritating calmness. “I am only twenty-six, and tired of my widowhood. There is no earthly reason why I should not marry again. What could be more satisfactory than a widow with one little boy marrying a widower with one little girl? And Athelstan Moore is one of the first men in England, and has been angled for by every girl in society since his wife died. I should be very foolish if I did not give his proposal very careful consideration.”
Patricia paced the room in agitation.
“I thought you loved my Cousin Chesterwood,” she said. “I did not think you would be faithless to his memory so soon.”
“You have no right to use the word ‘faithless,’” the Countess returned, with a touch of hauteur. “I made Chesterwood a true wife while he lived; I have nothing to reproach myself with where he is concerned. But I have always had the desire for power. I am tired of being a mere society puppet with acoronet. As wife of the Prime Minister I should shine in a manner after my own heart. There is a certain fascination in helping to pull the wires which govern the State.”
“You would help to accomplish the downfall of Lionel Montella’s race?” said Patricia, her face hardening. “I had thought our friendship was tried and true, Mamie; but it seems that, like everything else, it is only transient, seeing that you are so willing to relinquish it.”
“Nonsense! You are too much given to high-falutin’, Pat. Be sensible. Why should the Premier’s wife be considered unworthy of your friendship?”
“It is not a case of ‘unworthiness’ at all. The Premier is the enemy of my future husband and of his co-religionists. If you marry him, it is not possible that you can still be my greatest friend. There can be no intercourse between your house and mine. Do you not understand? Mr. Moore would probably forbid you to visit or receive me, and Lionel would have to do the same.”
“I do not quite see it,” the Countess returned obdurately. “Politics need not interfere with a private and personal friendship. I think you exaggerate the matter, my dear. Why, I might even influence Moore on behalf of Montella’s cause. I might be the saviour of Judaism, and receive the thanks of every Jew in the kingdom. Instead of becoming your enemy, I might prove myself in very truth your friend.”
Her eyes glistened at the picture her imagination had painted. She would prove what a tremendous influence a woman could have over a man, and howher feminine will, as frail as gossamer, yet as strong as iron, could decide the destiny of a whole race. Here would be something worth accomplishing, a feat at least worthy of the attempt. To subjugate the invincible will of Athelstan Moore! Her face glowed with a foretaste of the charm of such a battle.
Patricia was doubtful, but her features relaxed. She wondered if the Countess, whose nature she had always considered somewhat shallow, would have the strength of purpose to fulfil her words. If she could succeed, what a glorious victory it would be! The thought caused her heart to leap and her eyes to deepen. She paused in front of her dead cousin’s wife, and held out her hands.
“Would you do this, Mamie?” she asked, in a tense voice. “Would you really espouse our cause? Oh, it would be so grand, so blessed a thing! Read the history of the Jews, and you will see what a long-suffering people they are, surely more sinned against than sinning. It is we who are to blame—we Gentiles, who, in the name of Christianity, have persecuted them throughout the ages, who have inflicted on them the tortures of the Inquisition, who have denied them the rights accorded to other civilised beings. The Jews are the elder brothers of the human race, and to hate them is to hate the God who made them. Long before Greece and Rome held sway over the world,theyhad their kings, warriors, poets, and philosophers. Has there ever been in the world’s history a greater king and philosopher than Solomon, a greater warrior than Judas the Maccabee, a greater poet than the Psalmist, a greater athlete than Samson, a greater Christian than Paul the Apostle?—and all these men were Jews. Oh, if you could only makeAthelstan Moore and his followers see the uselessness and iniquity of anti-Semitism, you would do a work which would endear you to the hearts of hundreds! But will you do it? Have you the power to carry out your determination? Have you the moral courage to risk incurring the disapproval of society? It is no trivial matter. Think—think what it means!”
Her hands unclasped and fell to her side; her face was unlifted in appeal. She was evidently actuated by a great sincerity and earnestness; and Lady Chesterwood’s playful rejoinder froze on her lips.
“Sweet little enthusiast!” she exclaimed, moved in spite of herself. “Montella is lucky in winning your love. It is your love which casts the roseate hue over the Jewish people, dear, and you see I do not possess the same incentive. Still, I will do my best, and if I marry Athelstan Moore, I promise you that I shall not lack the courage to voice your opinions. I would rather remain your friend than become your enemy, and the idea of thwarting the Premier pleases me mightily. It is like David with his little sling and stone attacking the formidable Goliath, or the tiny mouse gnawing the rope which great men cannot break. The world shall see, as it has seen before, what a beautiful woman can do. Have no fear, my dear child, I know I shall succeed.”
Self-assurance had ever been the keynote to the success of Mamie Chesterwood’s family. From a mere clerk in an engineering office in Baltimore, with little more than his pride of descent from the Pilgrim Fathers to sustain him, her father had risen to the wealth and power of an American copper king. Asa matter of course, both his daughters had married titles, Mamie’s elder sister, Olive, being the wife of Prince Charles of Felsen-Schvoenig. It was no wonder, therefore, that Mamie herself had inherited a love of overcoming difficulties, and of mounting from one high position to another. She knew that by marrying Athelstan Moore she would partially lose her freedom; but she felt that this would amply be compensated for by the exciting situations which would probably affect her as Premier’s wife. So by the time her conversation with Patricia came to an end, she had made up her mind to accept the offer of her would-be swain. She asked her cousin for pen and paper, and wrote the answer then and there.
There was always a little of her own notepaper in Patricia’s desk, so that she did not have to use Earl Torrens’ address. Patricia watched her as she wrote, and wondered what the ultimate result would be. Was the Countess unconsciously making trouble for herself, or was she really paving the way of freedom for the British Jews? Who could look into the future, and foresee the consequence of her act? Only time would show.
“May I not tell Lionel?” the girl asked eagerly, when the letter was sealed. “Why should he be kept in ignorance of the matter? He may be able to offer some advice.”
The Countess shook her head.
“For the present I do not wish him to know,” she rejoined. “I must hold you to your promise, Pat. Remember, you gave me your word of honour. Soon it will be in all the society papers. You will not have to wait long.”
Patricia said no more; and soon afterwards theCountess took her departure. When she had gone, the girl remained long in her boudoir, deep in thought. Was it Providence, or merely the irony of fate, that caused her greatest friend to become the wife of her greatest enemy, she wondered. If only she might talk it over with her lover when he came; but she was bound to silence. The fire burned low, and as the shadows gathered, a shadow seemed to oppress her heart. Presently a footman brought her some tea, and tried to make the room more cosy by stirring the fire and drawing the velvet curtains together. Certainly the electric lamps, under their golden shades, conduced to cheerfulness more than the grey twilight. But the sense of loneliness was not dispelled, and crept closer as the hours lengthened. At six o’clock Mrs. Lowther returned, and expounded on all the events of the day; but her companionship was not of the kind that the girl needed, and she was glad when it was time to dress. Her lover did not arrive until much later—just when she had given him up, and was contemplating bed. He had come straight from the House, and burst into the room with an impetuosity she had never seen in him before. His face was so pale, and his eyes so bright, that instinctively she knew that something was wrong. Being aware of the presence of her chaperon, he said not a word, but took both her hands in silence.
Mrs. Lowther, with unusual tact, gathered up her belongings, and uttering a trivial excuse, sailed majestically out of the room. Patricia gave a sigh of relief, but she was in a flutter of suspense.
“Your hands are as cold as ice, dear,” she said, with concern. “What has happened?”
“The very worst!” was his reply, in a voice which was hoarse with emotion—“worse than anything I had anticipated even in my wildest dreams. Athelstan Moore has declared open antagonism towards my people. To-night a Bill came up for its first reading in Parliament—a Bill for the banishment of all the Jews!”
“All the Jews?” the girl repeated questioningly. “The pauper aliens, you mean?”
He shook his head.
“No,allthe Jews, both English and foreign, rich and poor. Moore does not intend to do things by halves.”
Patricia drew a deep breath.
“Preposterous!” she exclaimed—“preposterous! Surely the man must be mad. Banish the Jews! Why, anyone can see at first sight that the idea is totally impracticable. How was it received?”
He sank on to a chair, looking almost exhausted.
“I hardly know. I was so dumfounded that I could scarcely move, and the whole place seemed to spin. The other Members regarded it with equanimity, and evidently knew something of it before. I suppose I was purposely kept in the dark. The House rose before the debate was concluded, and it will be brought on again to-morrow night. But think, Patricia, what it will mean. It is enough to make a man’s senses reel!”
The girl poured him out a glass of wine and made him take it. If only she had known of this before Lady Chesterwood had left! Her heart beat like a sledge-hammer against her breast, and for the moment she could find no words; but she knew that her lover needed comfort, and that it was her duty to help him.
“Your nerves are unstrung, dear,” she said, in a soothing voice. “You must go home soon and rest. I am sure you need not be alarmed, Lionel. The Bill will never be carried; it cannot, while there is justice in England. What man in his senses would counsel intoleration in these days? This is the age of freedom—of freedom in religious matters most of all.”
“It is not the Jewish religion that Moore objects to so much as the Jewish race,” Montella replied, in a dull voice. “He is as rabid as it is possible for a Jew-baiter to be, and he has, unfortunately, such a convincing manner that there are few who can withstand him. Of course, he made a great deal of the Consolidated Trust smash and those processions of the Unemployed. Yet, as you say, the Bill is impracticable. I do not see how it is possible to banish the Jews. Where are they to go? The whole thing is monstrous—absurd!”
“It is, and therefore you must not worry about it, Lal. You must laugh at it instead. The good-natured British Public will laugh, I am sure, when they read of it in the papers to-morrow. And now, dear, I am not going to talk to you any more to-night. You must go straight home to bed, and try to cool that burning forehead of yours.”
He rose and drew her affectionately towards him.
“My darling! You are brave enough to put courage into any man.” He sighed, and squaring his shoulders, added: “Well, if it’s fighting they want, we must fight to the death. But, Patricia, if by any horrible chance this Bill is passed, it will mean that I also am included under the ban. It will mean the emptying out of joy from my life—for it will mean separation from you.”
“Never!” she exclaimed, almost before the words had passed his lips. “Your cause is mine, and not all the devilish designs of Athelstan Moore and his satellites shall come between us. If you are banished, then I shall be banished, too. Oh, Lionel, what is love worth if it fails at such a time!”
She hid her face on his shoulder, her form shaken with heavy sobs; but she quickly recovered from her emotion, and regained her self-possession.
“Mamie Chesterwood was here to-day,” she informed him, as he went towards the door. “She is our friend, Lionel, and has promised to stand by us through thick and thin.”
“Has she, dear?” There was little hope in his voice. He did not seem to think the Countess would prove an ally of much importance.
“There is more in her than we think,” Patricia added, more cheerfully. “I really believe she will be of use. She is one of those who have to be fully persuaded in their own minds before they will do anything.”
Then she remembered that her lips were sealed.
CHAPTER IXTHE ZIONISTS
Montella did not go straight home in spite of Patricia’s injunction. He turned into the park, and crossed over to the Serpentine, scarcely knowing whither his steps were tending. A slight mist hung over the water, and the air was chilly with the raw dampness of November. With no sound to break the stillness, save the echo of his own tread and the rumble of far-off traffic, he was able to steady his nerves. Moore’s Bill had given him a blow from which he could not easily recover; but on due consideration he came to the conclusion that he had been unwise to have so openly displayed his agitation. What he needed were coolness and confidence; but instead of showing either he had become as panic-stricken as an animal driven to bay.
He flung himself down on a seat, with his back to the water, and tried to think out his speech for the morrow. He knew that as the only Jewish member of any importance in the House, his co-religionists would look to him to vindicate their claims. On him had fallen the responsibility of voicing the appeal for justice of the whole Jewish community, and although he was but a unit when it came to taking the majority, it was his duty to oppose the Bill tooth and nail.
The absurdity of the Bill would have caused himamusement had it not affected him so nearly; for he could see that endless complications would arise if it were passed. The banishment of the Jews was a matter easier said than done, seeing that the yellow badge and therouellewere things of the past. Well, it would be a fine test for separating true Jews from false: perhaps persecution would—as it had so often done before—kindle the smouldering fire of Judaism into a flame.
The newspapers next morning were full of the new Bill, and despite the fact that many of the newspaper proprietors were of Hebrew extraction, the attitude taken up by the majority of the dailies was in favour of the project. Instead of displaying the sense of justice and fairplay which has ever been the Englishman’s boast, the leaders were characterised by envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. The jealousy which had been kept under for so long a time now burst forth with uncontrollable fury; to Montella, it was but the impotent howling of a totally corrupt press.
His speech that night had nothing of the brilliance of the Premier’s oration, but it was manly and straight to the point. Like a second Daniel come to judgment, he stood erect and fearless; and stated his case with a lucidity which was bound to create a good impression. While admitting the undesirability of pauper alien immigration, he considered it the height of folly to desire to interfere with the peace of those estimable Jewish citizens who kept the laws and contributed to the welfare of the country. He asked his colleagues to look back to the reign of Queen Victoria—the reign which brought so much emancipation to the Jews—to note the friendliness withwhich she always treated them, and the consequent prosperity of England during her reign. He begged them not to allow the beneficent influence of Victoria the Good to be dispelled; and appealing to their common sense as well as their humanity, endeavoured to point out the disadvantages appertaining to such a Bill. He certainly had logic on his side, as well as the certainty that his cause was a just one; and his words, uttered in a low but distinct tone, commanded respect. The calmness with which he spoke contrasted favourably with the lashing words of the Premier, whose eyes gleamed with a personal hatred as well as an impersonal conviction. But despite the justice of Montella’s plea, the general feeling was against the Jews; and as the whole of the working-classes supported the Bill, there was little doubt as to its final issue.
“It is madness!” Montella exclaimed, when he told his mother and Raie of the result. “The people are all afflicted with Judaphobia; their reasoning powers are numbed. They will not be satisfied until they have broken up our homes and driven us away.”
“And is there no antidote?” asked Raie wistfully. “Cannot we come to a compromise of some sort?”
“There is the only one which Mr. Lawson Holmes suggested in the House this afternoon—assimilation. We are to sink our racial affinity, one towards another; give up our Judaism for Theism; attend Theistic places of worship, if worship in public we must; pull down our synagogues and burn ourtalithim; abstain from clannishness; marry only Gentiles; and forget our descent. That, says Mr. Holmes, is the rational solution of the whole question. Assimilation is the means by which we are to wriggleout of the difficulty. Of course, it applies only to us British Jews.”
“No doubt there are many who will think that a very sensible course,” said Lady Montella. “Still I am surprised that if the racial prejudice is really so strong the Gentiles should desire the admixture with English blood. Ah—” as a maid approached bearing a card on a silver salver, “someone to see you, I suppose.”
“Dr. Engelmacher!” exclaimed Lionel, with pleasure, as he took up the card. “I had no idea that he was in London. Show him in here please, Mary.”
“Dr. Engelmacher!” repeated Lady Montella, her eyes brightening at the name. “He must have come here for some special purpose.”
Max Engelmacher was the great leader of the Zionists in Germany, a man whose fame had spread throughout every Jewish centre. In appearance he was a typical German, with fair hair, light blue eyes covered with spectacles, and rugged features. No less Oriental-looking man could ever have been found; nevertheless, he was a very Jew of the Jews—to some a second Moses ready to lead his people to the promised land, to others the one who should come in the power and spirit of Elijah before the advent of the national Messiah. As a young man he—in common with others—had seen his visions and dreamed his dreams; but experience had hardened him into a genial cynic who was practical before everything else.
Lady Montella rose as his burly figure blocked the doorway, and held out her hand with almost the first smile which had passed across her face since herhusband’s death. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of her welcome.
“This bad business has had one good effect, since it has brought you here,” she said.
“A bad business indeed, lady,” he replied, in German. “Yet if it stirs up some of you English Jews to action, I shall not call it altogether bad.”
“You think we are too cold, eh, doctor?”
“Cold?Um Gotteswillen!yes. You sit at home in your fine houses, with your maids and footmen, your electric light and your telephone, and you will scarcely spare anebbich[6]for those of your own race who are hounded from one place to another, who are scarcely allowed to take a free breath of God’s air because they are Jews. You metaphorically gather your skirts together lest you should be defiled by contact with those whom you choose to call the scum of the earth; but you do not take the trouble to consider what has brought them so low. And you tie up your heart-strings and your purse-strings tight, lest you should be tempted to throw good money away. Cold! You are a nation of icebergs, so civilised and anglicised that what feeling you ever possessed has been refined out of you long ago. That is my opinion of the English Jews, madam. I am bound to speak the truth.”