CHAPTER XIFAREWELL!
Ben Yetzel was not slow to act on his discovery. The news of Lady Patricia’s secession spread with lightning rapidity, and in two days every one in Palestine who had the slightest connection with Lionel Montella was aware of it. In these days of liberty it is difficult to understand the importance of such an event, but in the eyes of the Palestinian Jews it was of the greatest consequence. That the Governor’s wife was not of Jewish birth had always been a drawback in their eyes, but that she should openly profess the Christian Faith was unendurable. Her return to Haifa, therefore, was practically out of the question, and she decided to leave with the Princess at the end of the week.
And then came the dispute about the child. Lady Montella was up in arms at the suggestion that he should accompany his mother to Europe; and arrived in Jerusalem in hot haste, or at least as soon as the boat and train would bring her. She said very little to her daughter-in-law, and maintained a distinctly cold demeanour; but she spoke her mind freely to her son, whose filial respect was sadly tried.
“This is the happy result of a mixed marriage!” she exclaimed, with angry sarcasm. “Did I not tell you that the pride of the Montellas would depart?Little Julian is practically the last descendant of the house—for we do not know whether Ferdinand is alive or dead—and that he should grow up a Christian would be a disgrace I should never survive. Your poor father trusted to me to do all in my power to keep up the honour of the family; to keep it—as it has ever been till now—purely Jewish. Do you think that if Patricia takes the boy she will not educate him in her faith? Of course she will; she cannot do otherwise, whatever promises she may make.”
“But he is so young,” urged Montella, with reproach. “You forget that he is only a baby. Why not let Patricia have the comfort of him until he is old enough to be taught? It will be several years before he is able to understand anything of religious matters. Heaven knows I should miss the little chap if he left me too, but I think it cruel to part mother and child.”
“It is cruel only to be kind,” she rejoined vigorously. “Julian must be nurtured in Judaism, must breathe the atmosphere from babyhood if he is to grow up a true Jew. The earliest years of a child’s life are the most important, for it is then he imbibes the ideas which cling to him till he becomes a man. Soon he will be old enough to notice the Sabbath candles, and we shall be able to teach him the beginnings of our faith. But remove him from all Jewish influence, let Patricia teach him the Christian Catechism, and whatever else he may be, he will never grow up a Jew. No, there is no alternative in the matter; no compromise is possible. Julian must stay with us to be properly trained for the responsibilities he will have to fulfil. Patricia ought never to have married you if she did not mean to remain a Jewess. If shesuffers, she has no one to blame but herself. With us religions are not lightly received to be afterwards cast away.”
By which it will be seen that Lady Montella was obdurate, and did not mean to be gainsayed. If Patricia intended to take her baby away, it would have to be by violence, and she was of much too gentle a nature to think of forcible measures. Moreover, she knew that Lady Montella was right, and that if she had the training of the child she could not help bringing him up as a Christian—thereby breaking the promise she had made before his birth. She knew also that, tended by his grandmother and the faithful Anne, he would be in safe hands; but this did not compensate her for the grief of the parting. The wrench was terrible, and on the morning of her departure she felt that she must set all at defiance and take him bodily away. The child seemed to understand what was happening, and clung to her with the tenacity of fear; and thus, clasped in each other’s arms, they awaited the dread signal which should warn them that the hour was come.
Lady Montella, away from her religious principles, was as warm-hearted as it was possible for woman to be, and could not witness the separation unmoved. She knew that both husband and wife were suffering keenly, and that Patricia’s heart was bleeding for her child. But the sternness of her decision was not relaxed, and the carriage drove up relentlessly to take the young mother away. Not caring to see the final farewell, she joined Mrs. Engelmacher in the room above; and a few minutes later she knew by the sound of wheels that all was over, and Patricia had gone.
The Princess was already at the little station when the unhappy pair arrived. She had never seen either of them look so ill, but was too wise to express her concern. Instead, she tried to make light of the whole matter, and drew their attention to the peculiar mixture of nationalities and personalities which composed the motley crowd on the platform. And there was the luggage to be seen to, and the red tape of Oriental officialism to be overcome, as well as the numerous necessities for the journey to the West. When all was accomplished, however, there still remained a little time before the train was due to start; and to the Montellas these few minutes were the hardest of all.
Lionel stood with his arm around his wife, and gazed piteously at the Princess.
“You will take care of my darling, won’t you, Olive?” he said, with a pathetic air of appeal. “In letting her go, I am parting with half of my life, and I know she feels it as much as I do, and perhaps more, because she is leaving the one little ray of sunshine she might have retained. But don’t let her fret, will you? Fretting doesn’t do a bit of good, and it will make her ill. Perhaps I shall be able to come over to Felsen-Schvoenig for a holiday next winter, or—or— Oh, we must look forward to meeting again soon, however it’s managed or whatever we do. So you’ll cheer her up, won’t you? Don’t let her get depressed. And I’ll write every mail, and—and—”
But his flow of language gave way; he could not bring himself to say another word.
“Oh, I’ll cheer her up,” the Princess returned confidently. “You may rely on me. You both lookas mournful as if you were parting for ever; but that’s quite absurd. After I’ve seen my poor old Karl, I shall go to England and get my sister to work round that wooden-headed Moore. I fancy from what Mamie writes that the Expulsion Act is not working so well as he anticipated. Anyway, coming straight from the Holy Land, I shall be able to give them both a piece of my mind. Oh, there’s no knowing what may happen in another year. You must both keep up your spirits and hope for the best. It’s a long lane that has no turning, and I guess yours will turn pretty soon.”
She was so anxious to comfort them that the words seemed to fall over each other at express speed. Lionel thanked her from the bottom of his heart, and did his best to conjure up a wan smile. Then the signal for starting was given, and the final leavetakings had to be exchanged. A last fond embrace, a cordial hand-shake with the Princess, and Montella assisted the two travellers to mount their somewhat ungainly carriage. Then a vista of waving handkerchiefs, of straining eyes, as the train puffed and snorted on its way; and a few minutes later he was left standing on the platform surrounded by people—but alone. Turning resolutely, he made his way through the crowd and back to Dr. Engelmacher’s house, his shoulders thrown back, his head bravely raised. His mother, anxious and suddenly diffident, awaited him in the drawing-room, and as he approached the door, gently called his name. But either he did not hear, or he was not inclined to respond, for he passed by quickly, and ascended to the nursery.
“He has gone to his boy for consolation,” said Dr.Engelmacher, as the baby’s joyful “Daddy!” reached their ears. “Poor chap! he seems very much—what do you call it—cut down? No, I meant to say cut up. Ach, the women! Nine-tenths sorrow to a man, and one-tenth joy. Poor Montella! I am full of regrets. He loves his wife.”
“Yes, but he must love duty more,” Lady Montella rejoined, feeling a trifle hurt that he had not come straight back to her. “It will do him no harm to suffer a little; he is a man, and men are made strong through suffering. Ah, if I were only a man, what would I not do for my people, what would I not undergo for them! Years ago I determined that what I could not do should be accomplished by my son; and all my thoughts, my prayers have been centred on him for that purpose. He must show the world what can be done by a Jew who has had all the advantages of Western culture that wealth and influence can procure; it is his vocation, and he must not shirk it. That is why I am hard as adamant when any hindrance occurs. He ought never to have taken a Christian wife.”
“Of course not,” assented the doctor complacently. “Your sentiments are most admirable, dear lady; but Montella, though a man, is human, and has a heart. It is impossible to expect him to be a mere patriotic machine; and even the greatest patriots in history have had a feminine angel somewhere in the background. Ach, the women! But Ben Yetzel was a beast; it ought never to have been necessary to send Lady Patricia away. However, whats done is done. Montella must make the best of a bad business, and live it down.”
And upstairs the young Governor was alreadytrying to carry out this very injunction. He was sitting near the open window with the child on his knee, and battling with the sore and angry feelings which threatened to rise and overwhelm him. Anne, busying herself about the room, saw that his face was white and set, and likened the expression in his eyes to that of a gazelle who had been cruelly wounded. But although her kind old heart was overflowing with sympathy, she had too much tact to speak, and knew that her respectful silence was perhaps more eloquent than words. Afterwards he joined the others below, and entered into their conversation with such zest that they were almost astonished. Lady Montella glanced at him with pride, and congratulated herself upon the fact that he had borne the separation well.
But from that day forth he was a changed man. The iron had entered into his soul.
CHAPTER XIIRAIE’S DILEMMA
Zillah Lorm was suffering fromennui. Haifa, even with Lady Montella and Lionel close at hand, was monotonous enough, but Haifa without them was simply unbearable. She had never liked Raie Emanuel at the best of times, and to have to be entertained by her was a hardship to which she could scarcely submit. But until the Montellas returned there was no alternative, and she was obliged to resign herself to the inevitable. She managed to spend most of her time with some people whom she had known in England, thus saving her little deputy-hostess a considerable amount of trouble. For several days they scarcely met, except at meals, and even then Zillah did not always choose to remain at home.
The news of Patricia’s departure, however, created a sensation, which both felt too keenly to ignore. Raie’s tender little heart was sincerely grieved, for she possessed a deep affection both for Lionel and his wife. Miss Lorm, on the other hand, seemed almost to exult over the affair, and affected an air of superior wisdom which jarred upon the younger girl.
“What a muddle Lionel has made of his life!” she exclaimed, with unusual complacency. “I always said the marriage would not turn out well—mixed marriages seldom do. I believe in her heartof hearts Patricia hates everything Jewish. I suppose she thought she had had about enough of it here; itisdull in Palestine for a society girl, I must admit. Still, she might have managed to make a more graceful exit; she could have pleaded ill-health as an excuse for returning to Europe. Anything would have been better than this: to be publicly expelled like a naughty schoolgirl!”
Raie gave the cushions on her wicker chair an unnecessary thump.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she returned coldly. “Lady Patricia has been obliged to sacrifice her home and happiness for the sake of her religion. It all seems very quixotic, very unnecessary; but—there it is!”
“Fiddlesticks! Who, in these enlightened days, sacrifices anything for religion? Neither Christians nor Jews; we are all materialists. What we can see and understand we believe—for the rest, it is all in the clouds; let it remain there! No, my dear, you will never get me to believe that. Patricia has evidently been sighing for the fleshpots of Egypt, otherwise the social amenities of English life. She is well-born, beautiful in her way, and has had theentréeto the most exclusive circles of society. Her ladyship felt cramped and bored in this insanitary hole of a place, and surrounded by Jews—always Jews. She longed to get back to her own sphere, to entertain in the parental mansion in Grosvenor Square, to drive in the park, to shop in Regent Street, to feel civilised once more. The desire was perfectly natural; I can even sympathise with her. But religion—no! This is not the age of martyrdom.”
“All the same, you are wrong—quite wrong,” returned Raie, with heat. “Patricia was devoted to her husband and her baby. Do you think she would have given them up for all the Londons in the world? You may be a materialist, but she is an idealist, and with her spiritual things are of vital importance. You do not understand her, but I do; and I am certain that away from her husband she will not go near society or take any part in the London season. She will probably bury herself in Thorpe Burstall for the remainder of her life. I am certain she would never have left Lionel of her own accord; but she was obliged to speak the truth, and the Chief Rabbi sent her away.”
Miss Lorm shrugged her shoulders, still unconvinced, but did not trouble to argue the matter further, and at that moment a masculine figure appeared in the doorway. Possessing fine features, and presumably English, Zillah wondered where he could have come from. Raie had walked to the other end of the garden, and was standing beneath a shady palm.
The stranger advanced with hesitation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, doffing his white cap. “They told me I should find Miss Emanuel here. I am sorry—”
Zillah favoured him with a quick scrutiny, and decided that he was the handsomest man she had yet met in Palestine.
“Oh, it’s all right,” she answered readily. “Miss Emanuel is here. If you will sit down I will call her.” And making room for him beside her on the settle, she let her musical voice enunciate the name—“Raie!”
Raie turned quickly and came towards them, hersimple garden-hat pushed carelessly back, and allowing the dark curls to escape their usual bonds. At sight of the visitor a warm colour leapt into her cheeks, and her eyes unconsciously brightened; but she suppressed the words which rose to her lips, and formally held out her hand.
It was very wrong of him to come in that manner, even if he did know that the Montellas were away. She managed to convey this opinion to him, although she did not put it into actual words. She was embarrassed and shy, and seemed scarcely to know what to say; and when she introduced him—as “Mr. Merryweather”—to Miss Lorm, she did it with a hesitancy which was distinctly noticeable. She wished Zillah would leave them to themselves; but Zillah meant to stop, and to find out as much as ever she could about the stranger, and to see if she could put two and two together to make four. So there was a sense of restraint between them which was uncomfortable in the extreme, and Raie worked herself up almost to the verge of tears. But it was worse still when Zillah, with almost impertinent curiosity, began to cross-question him with regard to his sojourn in the Holy Land. She was not satisfied until she had mentally “placed” him in the order of globe-trotters to which he belonged; and proceeded with such insistence that it needed all Mr. Merryweather’s skill to parry her questions. Raie found herself left out in the cold, and sat, the personification of silent reproach. She was almost glad when he rose to take his leave, and saw him downstairs with an air of dejection. Away from Miss Lorm, however, her spirits soon revived; and seeing that the library was unoccupied, she drew him inside.
He bent down, and raising her face gently with his two hands, looked into her eyes with kindly scrutiny.
“Well?” he interrogated, almost quizzingly. “I have come back. Is not my little Raie pleased?”
“Yes,” she answered, returning his gaze without a smile; “but—”
“‘But me no buts,’” he rejoined lightly. “I have displeased you, little girl. Is not that so? What have I done?”
“You should have let me know that you were coming,” she said, in an aggrieved tone. “You have put me in a difficult position. Miss Lorm is very inquisitive; she will want to know all about you—and our acquaintance—when I go back to her. I would have had her out of the way if I had known. I have been in torture during the last half-hour.”
“Poor child!” He bent still further and kissed her on the forehead. “I ought not to have come at all; but I was told that the Montellas and Anne were in Jerusalem, so I thought the coast was clear. I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise—but there! I always bungle everything I do.”
“Oh, no!” The grasp on his arm tightened. “Itwasa pleasant surprise, and of course you did not know Miss Lorm was here.” The smile which had been delayed began to play about her mouth and eyes. “Tell me what you have been doing, Ferdinand,” she added eagerly, as he pushed forward a chair. “I am longing to know. Was your mission to England successful?”
“Almost—but not quite. A man I particularly want to consult—he is a solicitor—is at present in New York; but he will be back in about six weeks’ time, when I shall have to go to England again.”
“In six weeks? Then why did you come all this way for so short a time? What trouble and expense—just to see me!”
He smiled affectionately.
“You are worth any amount of trouble and expense,” he rejoined gallantly. “But I must be honest. I have come to Haifa this time for a special purpose; and I believe you can help me, Raie.”
“Yes?” She became serious. “What is it? Of course I will help you if I can.”
He rose from his chair, and closing the door, looked stealthily round the room.
“There are some papers in connection with—the forgery,” he said, in a low but clear voice. “They must be in Lionel’s keeping; unless they have been destroyed, which is unlikely. I want them—I must have them—in order to verify a certain piece of evidence in connection with the case. And as I cannot ask for them without disclosing my identity, I want you to get them for me, dear.”
“I? But how can I?” She looked up with a startled expression on her face. “Lionel keeps most of his documents at the solicitors’—at least he used to do in England. I have not the slightest idea where to look for them. Where do you think they will be?”
For answer, he walked to the iron safe which stood in the opposite corner, and tapped it with his stick.
“This is where they will be—docketed all together with the date 19— and probably labelled ‘Ferdinand.’” He turned towards her with a gesture of appeal, and held out his hands. “Raie, you will manage this for me, dear, won’t you? Oh, you must, you must! It is of such great importance—itwill finally vindicate my character—it will mean happiness for us both. Look, this is a patent lock. I don’t know how it works, but you must seize an opportunity of watching Lionel open it; and then by hook or crook you must get hold of the keys. The papers are of no use to him—he will never miss them; but they are of the greatest consequence in the world to me, and it is of no use for me to return to England without them. Afterwards, when the whole thing is cleared up, we will tell him all about it; and I know he will say our action was justified. Raie—don’t look so strange—it’s nothing; and you have pluck. Put yourself in my position—an innocent man falsely accused. Oh, you will do it for me—forme! I know you will!”
She stood quite still, and for a moment made no response. Her face was white, and her brown eyes looked preternaturally large and troubled. And when she spoke her voice sounded strangely hoarse.
“You want me to—steal some papers out of Lionel’s safe,” she said, with difficulty. “Oh, but, Ferdinand, I—I can’t; it would not be right. Why do you not take him into your confidence instead, and ask him for them yourself? He is such a good man; he would never betray your trust.”
“I do not ask you tosteal,” he answered, with the faintest touch of irritation. “I merely ask you to borrow the documents for me. When I have done with them—when my counsel have seen them—you can put them back. My dear child, why will you not understand? To approach Lionel at this crisis would be to spoil everything. He may be the best-meaning fellow in the world, but his course of procedure would be the very opposite of mine. Oh, Ican’t explain it all; it would take days—weeks! But surely you can trust me—if you love me, dear?”
She took a step forward, and looked at him with doubt in her eyes.
“I do—love you,” she faltered, the colour returning to her cheeks; “but—but I hate anything that is not straightforward—that is underhand. Lady Montella and Lionel have been my best friends ever since I was a tiny girl; I could not bear to think I was perhaps acting as a traitor to them in their own house.”
Loyal little soul! Ferdinand could not help casting her a glance of admiration, even though he was vexed by her dalliance.
“There is nothing traitorous about the action; you exaggerate the importance,” he said; and then approaching nearer, he made her look straight into his eyes. “How can I make you believe in me?” he asked, in a voice which was almost stern, yet sad. “Raie, I swear to you that I am an honourable man, that I too would despise this means were the cause not so vitally urgent. Look!”—he held up the locket on his watch-chain, and opened it to disclose a minute but faithful portrait—“here is a picture of Sir Julian. Remember—I am my father’s son.”
She glanced down at the well-remembered features of the late baronet, and up again at the strong face of the new one, with an indefinable feeling of compunction; and her will gave way. After all, he was right; she ought to trust him—she would trust him, even with her very life. A wave of emotion swept right through her being, and found expression in the depths of her brown eyes. He saw it, and knew thathe had conquered, knew too that the struggle had been keen.
“Dear little girl!” he exclaimed softly. “You would never forsake a man in distress. Think of the future; it will mean so much for us both.”
“Very well, I will try to do what you want,” she said, with an effort; “but you must never blame me if any evil comes of it. I cannot pretend to like the commission, even though I am doing it for your sake. But I believe in you—I do believe that you have been cruelly wronged in the past, although you will not tell me all. How much time can you give me? Lionel does not return until next Monday.”
“You can have a whole month, dear,” he returned eagerly, “a few days longer if necessary. I know I can rely on you to use your discretion.”
She nodded.
“Yes; I think I know of a way. Lionel has some letters of mine locked up in that safe. If I ask him, he will give me the keys. I shall do it in less than a month, if I can do it at all. But oh, I wish there were some other means!”
She sighed, and seeing the cloud on her usually bright face, he did his best to drive it away. Then promising to meet her at Lionel’s new house the following day at sunset, he took his departure, and she was left to meditate on the subject of his request. After all, it was not so very dreadful: only to take a few papers out of the safe if she could find them, and to put them back after they had been read. But it was the idea of secrecy that she did not like; of performing an action of which she feared Lionel Montella would not approve. Since she had promised, however, there was no retraction possible,and she reminded herself of the fact with firmly-set lips.
Zillah Lorm could talk of nothing else but “Mr. Merryweather” that night. She considered him distinctly handsome, and although his manners were somewhat colonial, he was evidently cultured and well-read. Raie listened to her eulogy with a feeling akin to jealousy, and refused to state how she had become acquainted with the young man. Whereupon her interlocutor stormed the citadel by making certain suppositions, to be contradicted by Raie if she chose to do so.
“A secret love-affair!” she said, when she had almost exhausted her remarks. “I should not have thought it of you, Raie. And with a man so much older than yourself! Do you know anything of his family?”
“Yes, I know his people very well,” answered the girl, almost petulantly; and then she excused herself and went to bed. She was determined not to discuss Ferdinand with Zillah Lorm.
“Little chit!” exclaimed Zillah to herself, as she left the room. “I shall soon stop her game when Lady Montella comes back. I don’t believe she knows much more about him than I do. And as if a man of his calibre could really be in love with a silly little thing like her! Absurd! He would be much more likely to fancy a beautiful woman—like myself. I wonder—”
And resting her finely chiselled face on her hand, she gave herself up to cogitations which were vague, but pleasant. She was of too unscrupulous a nature to consider the claims of Raie.
CHAPTER XIIITHE EMPTY HOUSE
The Montellas were back in Haifa. They arrived late in the afternoon, after a stormy passage from Jaffa, and received a hearty welcome from the two girls. But of course the absence of Patricia made itself felt, even though they were careful not to mention it. It was as if a shadow had fallen on the house which made them speak softly, as though there had been a death. Lionel spent the greater part of his time in his study, and seemed always anxious to get away from his family. His most constant companion was his little boy; otherwise he preferred to be alone.
He had dreaded the return to Haifa, and had postponed it as long as possible, knowing that his worthy citizens were all agog on the matter of his wife’s departure. His eyes were open to the mingled glances of scorn and sympathy which were cast upon him when he walked through the streets of the town; and he refused to give the explanation which was expected, yet could not very well be sought. He took his part in communal matters with the same energy as of old; but apart from his official duties he was as immovable as the Sphinx. Declining all the invitations which poured in upon him from the wealthier members of the corporation, he seemed to wish to lead the life of a recluse. His mother knew not whether to bedispleased or grieved, but remonstrated with him vigorously on the subject one day.
“This will never do,” she said, when for the third time he had absented himself from her weekly receptions. “You will make yourself unpopular if you persist in holding yourself aloof socially from the people. Besides, it isn’t manly, Lionel; you are wearing your heart on your sleeve.”
So he promised to amend his ways; and the study saw less of him again; and joining more in the social life of the town, a little of his old buoyancy returned. But there always remained a sore place in his heart, only to be temporarily relieved by the balm of her precious letters. They arrived with every mail—those dear messages from his beloved.
He had been back a full week before he could bring himself to visit his new house. The operations of the builders and decorators had been suspended during his stay in Jerusalem, and he had not yet given the order for them to resume their work. Making a sudden decision one morning, however, he walked quietly up the avenue of palm-trees, and unlocked the great oaken doors at the entrance to the hall. The house was, as he had anticipated, totally deserted, and his steps echoed and re-echoed drearily on the stone floor. Passing through the wonderful atrium, whose fame had already reached from one end of Syria to the other, he entered the boudoir, and removing the holland covering, sat down on one of the dainty chairs. What a hideous, ghastly mockery the whole place appeared! how it seemed to rise up and taunt him with its emptiness, with its bright but hollow splendour! He glanced about him with a shudder, and rested his head wearily on hishand. The decorations, to which he had given so much thought—for Patricia; the exquisite frescoes painted by an eminent Jewish artist—for Patricia; the beautifully carved bureau with its cunning design—for Patricia; the hangings of vieux rose—Patricia’s favourite hue; the little oil-painting of the Thames—Patricia’s own picture. All for Patricia, the one woman in the world to whom it was a joy to render homage; and she had been snatched from him by the crass stupidity of his people, by the ignorant prejudice of a stubborn race! Oh, the foolishness of men, to bow down to the fanatical ceremonialism of dogma and creed, and turn away from the purest of all passions—conjugal love! Rising, he threw open the windows, and with bent head, paced the room; then espying the flutter of a white gown amid the myrtle bushes in the avenue, paused in silent wonder. How came a woman in the grounds—his grounds—not knowing that he was there?
He closed the window, and went forth to investigate, almost inclined to believe that he was the victim of an illusion. But no; for as he appeared beneath the portico, the figure approached and sauntered leisurely towards him. For one moment his heart stood still, a wild hypothesis taking possession of his brain. Patricia in some mysterious way had come back to him, either in the flesh, or by the projection of her astral body—he had heard and read of such things. Thought telepathy, spiritualism—he had never believed in either, yet he knew by hearsay that the most wonderful phenomena had actually occurred; and if to other people, why not to himself? But the fantastic idea born of his ardent longing was suddenly doomed to disappointment; the figureproved to be not Patricia, but merely that of Zillah Lorm.
“I wondered if you were here,” she said sweetly, as he advanced to meet her. “Do you know, I come here every day, just for a walk—the little side gate is always open. But I have never been inside the house, although I have heard so much about it. Would you not like to show it to me? We have a good opportunity now.”
He had never felt more disinclined to play the part of showman, but knowing that she was really eager to go over the place, he could not well refuse. Admitting her by the principal entrance, he allowed her to wander through the rooms at her own sweet will, and listened to her enthusiastic observations with no pleasure, and perhaps a little pain. Yielding to a feeling he could not describe, he passed over the door of the boudoir; but Zillah was quick enough to notice his hesitation, and inexorably demanded a view.
“What is it, Lionel?” she asked playfully. “Bluebeard’s chamber, or thesanctum sanctorum?”
He threw open the door, and stood back for her to enter.
“Neither,” he answered quietly. “It is the room which was to have been my wife’s boudoir.”
“Oh!” She threw him a glance of somewhat steely commiseration, and proceeded to look about her with cold criticism. Montella went to the window, his eyes dreamily scanning the distant mountain ranges of Galilee. He wanted to be blind and deaf for a few minutes, until his visitor had concluded her examination of the room. He did not want to hear her careless remarks; they affected him like so many knife thrusts.
But Miss Lorm was not the woman to spare himone small thrust. She sat down at the little piano—Patricia’s own piano—and playing a short prelude, glided into that song of Goring Thomas’s “A Summer Night.” Then her rich voice, subdued to a low tone of sweetness, sent forth its full notes to thrill her listener and fill the house with music:
“‘Have you forgotten, love, so soonThat night, that lovely night in June?’”
“‘Have you forgotten, love, so soonThat night, that lovely night in June?’”
“‘Have you forgotten, love, so soonThat night, that lovely night in June?’”
“‘Have you forgotten, love, so soon
That night, that lovely night in June?’”
She sang without effort, and almost as if her thoughts were elsewhere, but as the song proceeded, her voice gained in intensity. Lionel stood immovable, hating the sound of music in that house and under those conditions. The empty corridor beyond caught the echo and threw it back with a hollow and depressing sound. But she could sing—Heavens, how she could sing! Whatever soul she possessed seemed to be concentrated in her voice.
“You are not in the humour for music, my friend?” she said, veering round on the music-stool when she had finished, to see no gaze of admiration, but only an unappreciative back. “It does sound strange in this great unfinished house, I admit. By the way, when will the workmen have finished? When will you come into residence here?”
“Never.” He turned away from the window and faced her, with a set look in his eyes, then added, in explanation: “The house is a wilderness, an empty barn. It can never be a home—to me.”
“No?” She glanced at him questioningly from under her thick lashes. “But I thought you took such pride in it. Lady Montella told me long ago that it was your hobby. And the expense—why, it must have cost a fortune. What will you do with itif you do not intend to live in it? Oh, it seems such a shame—such a magnificent house—!”
“I shall sell it if I can,” he said, meeting the reproach in her eyes steadily. “I had hoped to spend many happy years here, but now— It is a mere white elephant to me. They can call it ‘Montella’s Disappointment’ if they like; I don’t care. I shall have this furniture removed as soon as I can; and I shall never come here again.”
“But if she should come back?”
“She will never come back; it is not possible for her ever to live in Palestine again. That dream is over, but of course the awakening is hard: and this”—he touched the silken hangings behind their cover—“this all seems part of it. I can’t realise....”
He broke off suddenly, fearing he said too much. He had spoken incoherently, and with a sharpness which betokened deep feeling. Zillah’s features relaxed into a forced expression of sympathy.
“Poor fellow!” she exclaimed softly. “You have suffered, and you are lonely. I can sympathise with you; for—although you would not think it—I am lonely too.”
“Yes?” He looked up quickly, to encounter the radiance of her eyes.
“I left England because I was unhappy,” she went on, in a confidential tone. “I was engaged to Lord St. Maur; but he was much younger than myself, and when his people found out, they persuaded him to break it off; and he was weak, and consented. Of course I wasn’t in love with him—he was a mere boy; but I would have married him if I could, since the man I did love—once—was beyond my reach.” She looked at him steadily, and added, in a differentvoice: “It is the loneliness I dread, and now I seem to have no aim in life. What is the use of my voice in Palestine? The greatest of singers is not wanted here.”
“Not yet, perhaps,” he added, in his usual voice, “but the time will come. At present all our energies are directed on the things necessary to the welfare of our citizens, the introduction of hygiene, the prevention of drought and famine, and so on. Afterwards we shall be able to turn our thoughts to lighter matters—the recreation of the people; and then you may be sure music will not be left out of account.”
“And meanwhile I must wait as patiently as I can?” She sighed. “Oh, dear, how I hate life—hate it! The inconsistencies, the mistakes, the waste of suffering—all one long series of disappointments.”
“And yet there do occur moments, sometimes, which make it worth while to have lived!”
“To you, perhaps, because you have experienced the joy of requited love, but not to me. Why, even that shallow-minded little Raie is happier than I am. She has a lover—she meets him every day, and that gives her a zest and joy in life which are like the condiments in food. But I am boring you—” She paused abruptly, and rose from her chair. “Let us go, or we shall have the full glare of the sun upon us. This intolerable heat is another of the evils which has fallen to our lot to bear.”
Lionel rose with alacrity, and replacing the coverings, relocked the door. He could not help wondering what had made Miss Lorm so unusually serious, and why she had chosen to favour him with her confidence. He was silent as they passed through the atrium, and Zillah, on her part, had little to say.She was thinking how much better it would be if Montella would and could get a divorce, so that he might be free to marry again. She knew that she was liked by his mother; and that if it were possible, she would have a good chance of becoming his second wife. To be mistress of this mansion! She caught her breath at the thought, albeit a foolish one. She knew that Patricia would be his wife as long as she lived, even though they never saw each other again.
“Did you not say Raie had a lover?” asked her companion, as he closed the great doors. “I did not know it.”
Zillah opened her sunshade, and held it daintily at the back of her head.
“Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it,” she responded carelessly, “but I think you and Lady Montella ought to know. Raie has not told me much, but it is evidently a secret love-affair. They meet clandestinely every day somewhere in this direction.”
“And the man?”
“Is a Mr. Merryweather, presumably a tourist. He came to the Government House one evening, and I was rather favourably impressed. But he is too old and too worldly-wise for Raie. He must be over thirty, and has evidently been about a good deal.”
“Merryweather?” repeated Lionel thoughtfully. “Is he a Jew?”
“Yes; at least Raie says he is, although he has not the appearance of one.”
“And they made each other’s acquaintance while we were in Jerusalem, I suppose?” There was a note of vexation in his voice. “I am surprised at Raie. My mother will be very displeased. Butperhaps Mrs. Emanuel—Raie’s mother—knows something about it?”
Miss Lorm gave vent to a little shrug. “Perhaps,” she replied carelessly. “I do not know. Don’t say I told you anything about it, will you, Lionel? Raie would be so cross, and— Good gracious, there they are!”
She stopped suddenly in her walk, and placed her hand detainingly on his arm. Montella’s eyes followed the direction of her glance with astonishment, and he could not resist an exclamation of surprise. The two delinquents were seated in a shady arbour, almost concealed by deeply-hanging evergreens. Their faces were in shadow, but Miss Lorm recognised the girl’s light hat.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, with a touch of excitement. “Catch them red-handed, or pretend not to see them?”
“I don’t know.” Montella paused irresolute. It was very wrong of Raie to meet a young man in this unconventional manner, especially as she had been brought up so strictly; but not being aware of all the circumstances, he was at a loss to know how to proceed. He had half a mind to pass by quietly, and speak to the girl afterwards; but approaching the arbour he caught the sound of his own name, and could not help standing still.
“Lionel is wiser than I thought,” the man was saying, in a tone of dissatisfaction. “So he will not trust you with the keys? But are you sure you went the right way to work, Raie, dear? You see if you looked at all agitated when you asked him, you probably made him suspicious.”
His accents were strong and well-bred. Montellastarted as at a familiar sound, but was almost too dumfounded to move.
“My cheeks did burn,” the girl acknowledged, almost tearfully. “You see Lionel gave me one of his straight looks—as if he were reading me through and through, and I felt so guilty that I dared not say a word. He gave me my letters out of the safe, and I just took them and went, thankful to get away. I did my best really, but it is such a difficult task, dear. I am sure I shall never be able to succeed.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” he returned encouragingly. “You can ask for the keys to return the letters, and have another try. Or if it comes to the worst, we must resort to stratagem; all’s fair in love and war.”
“Is it?” thought Lionel, who could remain hidden no longer. Motioning to Miss Lorm to keep in the background, he suddenly presented himself before the apparent conspirators. Raie gave a scream, and turned as pale as her dress; Ferdinand rose to his feet in an attitude of defence, his large sun-hat well over his face. For a moment there was a breathless silence, whilst Zillah looked on with enjoyment. Then Lionel spoke, although he scarcely knew what to say.
“I am the son of Miss Emanuel’s foster-aunt, and these are my grounds,” he said stiffly. “Hearing my name mentioned as I passed, I could not help listening to a scrap of your conversation. I cannot quite understand what you have to do with this young lady, who is very young, and has no right to form any attachment without the consent of her guardians. From what I can gather from your words, however, I understand that you pose as her lover merely to win her as a confederate. I shall be glad of someexplanation, if you please. I can scarcely believe that Miss Emanuel—of whom I hold a very high opinion—would deliberately help you to burgle my safe!”
He addressed the tourist alone, and vouchsafed not a glance at Raie. The girl looked appealingly at her lover, who seemed to be rapidly summing up the situation. His decision was evidently a desperate one, for he threw back his shoulders with a gesture of courage.
“I am not a burglar,” he replied, carefully choosing his words, “and I need not explain unless I choose. But I know that if I keep silence I shall be putting Miss Emanuel in a false position, and I would not do that for the world. It was my intention to keep my incognito until my innocence was absolutely proved; but I suppose that is impossible since you have found me out. Look at me, old fellow. Don’t you know who I am?”
He pulled off his hat, and stood bare-headed in the sunlight—a veritable picture of manly strength. Lionel scanned the rugged face—the deep-set eyes so like his own—and recognised it even as he had partially known the voice.
“Ferdinand!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “What does this mean? How in Heaven’s name have you come here? Where have you come from?” and suppressing the hundred and one questions which rose to his lips, he regarded his step-brother in bewildered astonishment, whilst Zillah Lorm advanced, an eager glow in her eyes.
Ferdinand assisted his sweetheart to rise, and bowed to Miss Lorm.
“I will tell you everything presently, Lionel—whenwe are alone,” he answered complacently. “I should not like to tire the ladies with an account of my adventures.”
Zillah swept past Raie and held out her hand.
“I congratulate you on your return,SirFerdinand,” she said, with stress on the title, and a curious smile on her face.
“Frank Merryweather” had risen considerably in her estimation during the last ten minutes. No matter what crime he had committed, he was a baronet, and evidently not in captivity. She was determined to enter the lists with Raie.