A modern exodus: a novel

Jerusalem—that much-coveted city of quarrels—was still under Moslem rule. The Jews—to whom it was as the golden heart of their country—had done all in their power to possess it, but the Sultan was obdurate, and had only bartered Palestine on the condition that El Kûds—the Holy—should be extra-territorialised. So the rivalry between the Greeks, Latins, Protestants, Armenians, Copts and Mohammedans continued. But the Jews stood on a firmer footing than heretofore; and if secretly they looked upon the Harâm with covetous eyes, seeing behind the Mosque of Omar the dome of their own Temple, they kept their secret well. The Zionist leaders had impressed upon their minds the need of maintaining friendly relations with their rivals; and they were urged to treat the Christian sacred places with due respect, in order to show that they were as capable as the Mohammedans of guarding them intact, if ever opportunity should occur. That the opportunity would occur some day, was to them a foregone conclusion; for however long and weary the waiting, they were certain that Jerusalem would eventually be theirs.

Dr. Engelmacher’s house was situated in the south-eastern suburb of the town, adjoining the Jewish quarter. Montella and his wife and child—who were to be the doctor’s guests—arrived late on a Friday afternoon, just before the falling of the Sabbath. They had travelled from Haifa to Jaffa by boat, and then on to Jerusalem by train, for the new railway between the two capitals was not yet completed. Engelmacher received them with a breezy cordiality which immediately put them at their ease; and his wife, a typical German frau, busied herself greatly concerning their comfort. Little Julian, who had come in the care of the faithful Anne, was installed in a pretty room transformed into a nursery for the occasion. Mrs. Engelmacher had no children of her own, her only little one having died in infancy. Perhaps that was why she had begged Lady Patricia to bring hers: she longed for the sound of a childish voice.

To the true Jew there is no happier hour than that of a calm Sabbath eve. Having rid himself of the turmoil of his daily labour, he dons his best garb to meet the Bride of the Sabbath. The Friday night supper is in itself an institution; and the ceremonial candles, the sweet wine and cloth-covered bread, serve as links to unite him to his brethren throughout the world. So felt Dr. Engelmacher, as with his velvet cap well set on his head, he intoned the Hebrew grace. To him the Sabbath had but one disadvantage: he could not smoke, for as to touch fire is forbidden, his well-beloved briar had to be laid aside until on the following evening three stars appeared in the sky. But he made the sacrifice cheerfully, even if he sometimes grumbled about it to his wife. His motto with regard to his religion was “Noblesse oblige.” The more was it to be appreciated in that it cost something to be a Jew.

“Your wife is a picture!” he exclaimed to his guest, when a little while later Patricia, on the plea of fatigue, excused herself and retired to rest. “Himmel! what eyes! One can look right through them to her soul. But she is a thorough Englishwoman. How likes she the foreign life?”

“Very well, I think,” Montella replied, with a contented smile. “She would make herself happy anywhere with me; she is only unhappy when she thinks she disappoints me in not doing the proper thing in accordance with Jewish law.”

“Then she is conscientious?”

“Yes, very; it is her nature. She is the sort of girl who would be happy in any country and under any conditions so long as she thought she was doing the right thing. She is the dearest little woman in the world!”

“Little, do you call her?” said Mrs. Engelmacher, who was short and plump. “Um Gotteswillen, if she is little, I must be a pigmy. She is tall and graceful, such as one reads of. If I were a man I should be proud of such a wife—eh, Max?”

“Ach well, perhaps.” The good doctor pinched her cheek affectionately, knowing what she desired. “For myself I prefer a small wife, because she takes up less room in a house, and you can put her in your pocket if there is nowhere else for her to go. Besides, I like to see a dear Yiddishë ponim^[11] at my side. It would not do for us all to fall in love with fair and beautiful Christians. Where would Judaism be?”

He laughed heartily, and so did Montella, who was too sensible to take offence. And so the evening passed, enlivened by anecdotes and jokes, until Mrs. Engelmacher also said good-night. Left to themselves, the two men entered upon a more serious conversation, for in connection with the Rabbinical faction there was much to be discussed. Ben Yetzel had openly declared antagonism towards any kind of reform, and in doing so had practically thrown down the glove.

“He came back from Haifa with his hands raised in holy horror,” Engelmacher said, in his short, dry accents. “According to him the city is a veritable hot-bed of heresy. He saw with his very own eyes a Jewish man carrying a walking-stick on the Sabbath; and the strange thing about it was that the heavens did not fall!”

“Ridiculous!” exclaimed the young man, with contempt. “It is a wonder he will consent to carry his clothes.”

“Well, you know he wears his pocket-handkerchief tied round his knee as a garter because it would be a sin to carry it in his pocket on the Sabbath. But there is worse to follow. He went to your house to dinner in spite of his misgiving as to the orthodoxy of your menage, and your wife actually offered him milk in his coffee thirty minutes after he had partaken of meat! After that he has given you all up as hopeless; and really, my dear Montella, I think you might have exercised greater care!”

“My wife offered him milk in his coffee!” repeated Lionel incredulously. “I can scarcely believe it. My mother was in the room, and would surely have noticed it; she is quite as particular in that way as Ben Yetzel himself.”

“But how is it there was milk on the tray at all so soon after dinner?”

“Because my wife and Miss Emanuel seldom eat meat. They find that light food agrees with them better in this climate. Of course, Patricia, who finds it difficult to realise the importance of the dietary laws, might unthinkingly have passed him the milk. It is a great pity, especially as Ben Yetzel is such a fanatic. But I dare not say anything to her about it; she would be very grieved at her mistake.”

“Oh, it isn’t worth while to rake up the matter now,” said the doctor, relapsing into his native tongue. “The question is, are we to bow down to Ben Yetzel or not? Years ago, when I was threshing out the Zionist question, I thought what a glorious thing national Judaism would be, but I left the narrowness of Rabbinical Judaism quite out of account. In this new State, it seems to me, as to my contemporaries, that we should let every man find salvation in his own particular way.^[12] How can we, who have suffered so much on account of religious persecution, afford to deny toleration to our own brethren? Let every man do that which seems right according to his own conscience, thereby abolishing the secret hypocrisy which is so detestable to an honest soul. To enforce orthodoxy as Ben Yetzel would do is absolute madness; it will simply mean the cramping and narrowing down of all the best that is in us; it will mean the practical ruin of the State.”

“And yet you are an orthodox Jew yourself?”

“I am. Use is second nature, you know, and I am willing to try and set a good example. But I am a broad-minded man of the world, and I know that that world does not end at my own horizon. People of different temperaments need various forms, even of the same religion. It is impossible for an Englishman like yourself, for instance, to beat your breast like the Polish Jew.”

Montella nodded. “You are a sensible man, doctor,” he said, with enthusiasm. “But what do you advise?”

“I hardly know. The bulk of the people in Palestine are with Ben Yetzel to a man. It is only the few emancipated, deep-thinking men like ourselves who have any thought of rebellion. For the present we must just watch and wait to see how things go. You will see Ben Yetzel, of course, while you are here?”

“My people in Haifa expect it of me. I suppose I must.”

“Then be careful what you say to him. He is an adept at catching one in one’s words. He loves to condemn people out of their own mouths; it is a form of amusement in which he delights.”

“You may rely on me to be discreet,” returned Montella, with a smile. “I can be as stolid as the Sphinx when I please.”

They parted for the night, and the young man went to his room with a light step. To his surprise he found Patricia still half dressed, her willowy figure enveloped in a loose silken wrapper. Sitting with her elbows resting on the ledge of the open casement, she looked like some frail sprite in the light of the moon. Montella went up to her, and tenderly touched the loosened tendrils of her hair.

“I thought you were in bed long ago, sweet,” he said.

She turned towards him with an affectionate gesture. “I have been talking to Anne,” was her reply. “It is just a month since her grandchild died. She seemed very much upset about it, poor woman, and I think it has done her good to tell me. I have been trying to console her.”

“At the expense of your beauty sleep?”

“I do not feel inclined for sleep; I am not so tired as I was an hour ago.”

“But you must sleep, or you will be fit for nothing to-morrow,” he urged gently. “What were you gazing at so intently out of the window?”

“Jerusalem!” she replied, and the words fell almost musically from her lips. “I look through this casement window, and I see the city stretched out before me, with its white domes and flat roofs, and a kind of spell comes over me as I gaze. See how solitary it looks, surrounded by those savage hills, and yet it is the centre of the three great religions of the world, and the goal of pilgrims from the uttermost ends of the earth. Even I, who am neither a Jewess by birth nor scarcely a Christian by faith, cannot help feeling thrilled. Eight times destroyed, it has come through fire and blood, and still remains; even Rome cannot boast of such a record as this.”

Montella smiled.

“What a fascinating goddess Jerusalem is!” he exclaimed softly. “She intoxicates us all when we first come within her walls; but you will find that the charm will wear off when you have been here a few days. A bird’s-eye view of the city is more satisfactory, I think, than a closer inspection. She doesn’t improve on acquaintance, for beneath her apparently peaceful exterior, there rises the humbug of her ecclesiastical show-places, the wrangle of creeds. When you have seen all the sights of the place, you will find that your pleasing sensations have gradually evaporated. At least, that was my experience on my first visit here.”

“You are more matter-of-fact than I am,” she rejoined, almost reproachfully. “I am sure that to me Jerusalem will always remain the same.”

She closed the casement and turned away, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. She could not imagine why the sight of the city should raise such emotions in her, since she was not bound to it by ties either of race or faith. She was always moved by places of historic interest, it was true, and she remembered how greatly she had been stirred by her first view of the seven hills of Rome; but Jerusalem impressed her in an entirely different way, and one which she could not so easily explain. She had looked forward with no especial pleasure to her sojourn in the Holy City, and had come merely because her husband wished it. Now, however, her feeling was one of inexplicable delight. She would not have missed the visit for the world.

The Princess Charles von Felsen-Schvoenig was also in Jerusalem, but she stayed at a hospice in the Christian quarter, where a friendly bishop and two or three other English Christians were included among the guests. In a fortnight’s time she would be en route for the Rhenish principality where her husband was patiently awaiting her return, but at the present moment her one desire was to “do” Jerusalem thoroughly, and in this she succeeded fairly well. Armed with Baedeker’s guide, she called at Dr. Engelmacher’s house for Lady Patricia, and chartering a light arabiyeh, drove wherever the streets would permit. The influence of the British Consul and Turkish Governor, combined with an unlimited amount of backsheesh, gained admittance to the innermost courts of the Harâm, and most effectually paved the way to the various places of interest. But the enjoyment of the Princess was somewhat marred by her inherent scepticism. She refused to believe in many cases that certain events happened on the exact spots to which they were ascribed, and therefore the great fascination of them was lost. For the city itself she possessed the deepest reverence; indeed it was this very reverence which made the morbid hallowing of certain rocks and stones so repugnant to her mind. Descended from a strictly Puritanical race, she found it impossible to manifest enthusiasm for relics—so many of them spurious—and the numerous mementoes sold by avaricious Moslems. The fanaticism of some of the Latins and Greeks was to her as incomprehensible as it was revolting.

She was obliged to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre by herself; for Patricia, being nominally a Jewess, was not permitted to enter the sacred precincts. So she left her friend in the little arabiyeh to meditate on the ambiguity of her position, and descended to the paved quadrangle alone. After what seemed a very long time she returned, thankful to be out again in the fresh air.

“Well?” said Patricia, with a smile, as she made room for her in the carriage. “Did it come up to your expectations?”

“Yes—and no,” the Princess replied, sitting down with relief. “To me the chapels are tawdry in the extreme, and the building enclosing the Holy Sepulchre is a miracle of bad taste. But to see the adoration of the pilgrims is wonderful; what a pity that the place has been desecrated by so much bloodshed! I wish you could come with me next time I go.”

“Impossible,” returned her friend, as the vehicle pursued its way. “I should be drawn and quartered by the mob. You forget that I am to all intents and purposes a Jewess.”

“Ridiculous!”

“But I am,” the girl insisted, as though trying to convince herself; “otherwise I could not be Lionel’s wife.”

“And you are happy?”

“As Lionel’s wife, yes. As a Jewess, no. Fortunately, my husband’s love is more than compensation for the difficulty I find in his religion.”

“Then, by your experience, mixed marriages are a success?”

“Yes, where there is such love as ours. Of course I cannot help wishing sometimes that we were one in our faith, especially for the sake of the child.”

“But you are one in your faith!” exclaimed the Princess, with surprise. “Have you not become a Jewess? By your own confession you had no cherished belief to renounce at the time of your apostasy—excuse the word.”

Patricia sighed, but was silent, scarcely liking to give voice to her thoughts. They had just passed through the Jaffa gate on the road to Bethlehem, and the magnificent view attracted their attention. Wild mountains stretched above them, varied by occasional vineyards and olive plantations; and a bend in the road disclosed that which was said to be Rachel’s tomb.

The stone streets of Bethlehem were so narrow that the carriage occupied almost all the available space. Their destination was, of course, the Church of the Nativity, which stands at the upper end of the market-place. Passing through the low and narrow doorway, they descended to the sacred crypt, where about fifty exquisite lamps hung from the roof. On the pavement below one of the altars a metal star had been let into the rock; it indicated the exact spot where the Holy Babe was born.

“This, I believe, is authentic,” said the Princess, as she bent down to read the Latin inscription on the star: “‘Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est.’ Can you realise that this is the very cave—the outhouse of the khân—in which the greatest event recorded in history occurred? Is it not wonderful! The thought almost takes my breath away!”

Had she been a pilgrim and emotional, she would have knelt and kissed the star. As it was, she stood by the altar with reverently bent head, her thoughts concentrated on the stupendous miracle which had been enacted there. In the adjoining church of the Latins the choir were singing vespers; and their voices, subdued by distance, rose and fell in pleasant rhythm; but within the cave itself there was silence, and the solemnity of the moment was undisturbed.

A deep sigh from her friend recalled her to the present, and with a last look at the star she turned away. To Patricia the sight of Bethlehem was like a silent reproach. It recalled with almost vivid clearness the many Christmas Days of her childhood, and how thoroughly she had entered into the spirit of the Festival; for she had been a Christian then. She was silent as they re-entered their little carriage and were driven onwards towards the village of Bêt Sahûr; and the Princess also seemed to have little to say. Their destination this time was the field “where shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground”; and arrived there they alighted to stroll among the olive groves. Near by, the Field of Boaz brought to their minds the charming idyll of Ruth the gleaner, and they could almost imagine the sweet Hebrew maiden gathering the ears of corn. Gazing down the slopes, they could see far away in the distance the brilliant waters of the Dead Sea; above them was the still deeper blue of the Syrian sky.

“This is heavenly!” exclaimed the Princess, as she flung herself down on the dry turf. “It only needs the music of Handel’s Pastoral Symphony to complete the scene. The very atmosphere seems to breathe peace.”

“I did not think you could be so enthusiastic,” said Patricia, with a smile. “I thought you were one of the nil admirari kind.”

“So I am—sometimes; it’s just how I feel. Nature appeals to me much more than the showy buildings wrought by the hand of man. Do you know, I made a splendid resolution when we were in the little crypt of the Nativity. I believe Palestine is making me good. I suppose you think I can do with it, Pat?” she added, with a naïve smile.

Patricia glanced at her curiously.

“I don’t know,” she returned honestly. “I believe your heart is in the right place, and I know you wouldn’t hurt a fly if you could help it. But you might be kinder to a certain person, you know.”

“My husband? Yes. It is concerning him that I have made the resolution. Of course he is rather stupid, but I suppose he can’t help it, and I’m afraid I did treat him rather badly. You see he always let me squash him; and he is so delicate that it made me feel mean—as if I had thrown a stone at a child. If he had placed himself on the defensive, I should not have minded in the least. But if I smote him on one cheek, he would turn the other to me also; and no woman could stand that.”

“Why smite him at all?” asked Patricia pertinently. “Is it not better to live in peace?”

“Ye—es; but if you were shut up in that grim old castle at Felsen-Schvoenig with an invalid husband, I believe even your sweet temper would be tried. However, I promised God in that little cave of the Nativity that I would go home and try and make Karl a better wife. I haven’t the least idea what made me think of Karl just then; his figure seemed to rise up and reproach me when I was looking at the star.”

“It is an excellent resolution,” said her friend, as she gazed thoughtfully over the Shepherds’ Field to the distant hills. “Strange that you should have to come all the way to Palestine to make it. I believe there is something in this atmosphere which stirs us up to spiritual action; I felt it directly we came to Jerusalem. You would not think it to look at me, would you?—but I am as worried as I can possibly be.”

The Princess looked up sharply, with an expression of surprise.

“Worried?” she repeated. “Why?”

Patricia pulled up the grass with nervous energy.

“I don’t know if I am wise to talk about it,” she rejoined slowly; “but I think I can trust you, Olive. I said a little while ago that I was a Jewess. The statement was false; I am not a Jewess.”

“No? Well, I never thought you were. What need is there to worry yourself about that?”

“Ah, you do not understand.” She threw away the blade of grass, and pressed her hands together. “I am living, spiritually, a double life, deceiving others as well as myself. I thought at the time of my marriage that it was quite easy to renounce Christianity; and indeed it was then—my soul must have been in a comatose condition. But since I have come to Jerusalem, all is changed. These sacred scenes have revived within me the faith of my childhood; almost every stone reminds me of the Master I have denied. It is impossible for one who has ever been a Christian to gaze on the Holy City unmoved. Even you have come under the influence of this wonderful place.”

“Yes, that is true. In London and New York one does not seem to have time or the inclination to trouble oneself about religion, but here Christianity is so very real. I understand your frame of mind exactly. It was absurd to ever expect you to conform to Jewish law.”

“Lady Montella does expect me to conform to the Jewish law,” Patricia continued seriously. “She is always impressing upon me that I have become a Jewess, and until now I have constantly reminded myself of the fact. Situated as he is, Lionel must have a Jewish wife. That is why I am so greatly troubled. I can no longer pretend to be what I am not.”

“But you must!” exclaimed the Princess forcibly. “Since you have married a Jew, you must abide by the consequence. I believe I know your people better than you know them yourself. It will never do for them to find out that you have relapsed—that there is a heretic within the fold. You must exercise tact and discretion: learn to be a diplomatist.”

“Learn to be a hypocrite, you mean. It will be a hard lesson! I am afraid I shall never master it. After all, what does it matter to the Montellas what I privately believe so long as I respect their Judaism? Will it not be better to make a clean breast of it, and tell them at once?”

“Tell them if you like, but do not say that I failed to warn you. I am older than you, Patricia, and have seen more of the world. Religion was never meant to disturb domestic happiness, and break up a home. Openly declare your faith, and you can no longer remain in Palestine. You yourself said that Lionel must have a Jewish wife.”

The coachman was growing impatient, and seeing that he wished to return, they bade good-bye to the Shepherds’ Field. The homeward drive was made almost in silence, for Patricia was too much disturbed to speak. She knew that her friend’s view was a correct one, and that to confess her newly-recovered faith would cause an open breach. And to leave Palestine would mean separation from the two dear ones to whom she was bound by the most sacred ties. The thought was too terrible to be borne.

“I must keep silence!” she said to herself. “I must!” But she knew that at any time her secret might escape, and she would be lost.

She went back with the Princess to supper, in accordance with the arrangement they had made before they started on their expedition; but she was poor company that night. The conversation of the guests in the hospice rolled past her like a distant echo; and even the epigrams of the Bishop (who was noted for his wit) failed to dispel her troubled thoughts. She was glad when Lionel came for her and took her home—although “home” at present was Dr. Engelmacher’s house. She nestled her head against his shoulder in the little arabiyeh, and closed her eyes in dreamy satisfaction. His very presence imbued her with a sense of protection, and drove away the worry—at least temporarily—from her mind.

“Don’t let me be away from you for a whole day again, darling,” she said, in what he always called the “baby” voice. “Olive is the dearest woman I know, but I want you. I seem to have been parted from you for ages—positively ages!” And then she laughed in order to drive away a tear.

Montella and the Rabbi Ben Yetzel had quarrelled, in spite of Dr. Engelmacher’s warning. It was a great pity, because Ben Yetzel was a dangerous man to offend; but his decision on certain matters had been so arbitrary that Montella could not help protesting, and the discussion had led to hot words on either side. Engelmacher, knowing that to overthrow the Rabbinical authority altogether was bad policy on Lionel’s part, endeavoured to make peace between them, but in vain. The young Governor of Haifa declared that he would sell his conscience in bondage to no man, were he priest or peasant; and determined to use his own judgment in matters pertaining to the people. So the incensed Chief Rabbi literally shook off the dust of Engelmacher’s courtyard from his feet, and departed in great wrath, calling down in the choicest Hebrew the vengeance of Heaven on all concerned.

“You have done wrong, my boy,” said the doctor to Lionel in the calm which followed the storm. “It is never wise to make an enemy, especially such a man as Ben Yetzel. ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’ is his motto. I am afraid he will make you suffer for what you have said to-day. He holds the majority of the Palestinian Jews in the hollow of his hand.”

“Even if it is so, I could not have spoken otherwise,” rejoined the young man, his eyes still flashing with the intensity of his outraged feelings. “Ben Yetzel must do his worst. One generally has to suffer for right and truth in this world, I find.”

“H’m, perhaps so.” The doctor applied a match to his pipe. “But as ‘this world’—as you so contemptuously call it—is the only one with which we have to do, I think we ought to jog along with as few jars as possible. However, what’s done is done, and you will have to make the best of it. Be on your guard against Ben Yetzel—that’s all. He will never forget that he owes you a grudge.”

“He is welcome to pay me back whensoever he pleases,” Montella said carelessly.

He was too young and too strong to cherish the smallest fear.

Nevertheless he knew that the quarrel was to be regretted. He had come to Jerusalem, hoping to improve matters by the aid of diplomacy, and had failed. It was perhaps that the English method of handling such affairs did not work in Palestine; but he could not help that—he was British to the backbone. What he said he meant with his whole heart, and the foreign system of prevarication and petty quibbling was to him as distasteful as it was unintelligible. Therefore it was impossible for him to tolerate the slippery dealings of Ben Yetzel and his clan; a breach had been inevitable from the first.

“We may as well return to Haifa as soon as the Princess leaves,” he said to his wife, when he had given vent to his indignation. “I can do no good here, I am afraid.”

Patricia looked up at him with her blue eyes full of sympathy.

“Poor boy!” she exclaimed softly. “You always seem to be in hot water with these rabbis. They remind me of the Pharisees of old.”

“They are Pharisees—and hypocrites,” he returned, with a touch of bitterness. “However, I am not going to trouble about them; they are not worth it. I shall try to take a leaf out of Engelmacher’s book: instead of getting angry with them he simply laughs.”

“That is the most sensible way. How many quarrels would be averted if we could only laugh!” She sighed, and added regretfully: “I shall be sorry to leave Jerusalem. It is the most wonderful little city in the world.”

She would not tell him how much she dreaded the return to Haifa, but the fact remained. Here, in Mrs. Engelmacher’s house, she had been comparatively free from the obligations of the Jewish ceremonial, but when she took up the domestic reins once more, the responsibility would again devolve upon her shoulders. Lady Montella had been careful to train her in the right way, and hitherto she had responded with a certain degree of enthusiasm; indeed, she had been so anxious to do the correct thing that she had sometimes done more than was absolutely necessary. Now all was changed. She felt that she could no longer show spontaneity in the duties of a Jewish housewife, even though she meant to perform them conscientiously for her husband’s sake; and she feared the keenly perceptive powers of her mother-in-law, who almost seemed able to read one’s thoughts. The Premier’s words to her on her wedding-day recurred with new and added force. She had thought so lightly of her apostasy at the time; she could see the reprehensibility and gravity of her action now.

It was Sunday afternoon—their last Sunday in Jerusalem—and she had promised to go to the hospice for tea. The Engelmachers were expecting friends in the evening, and she was not sorry to obtain leave of absence; but her husband, on whose account the company had been invited, was obliged to remain. She found the Princess in the pretty hospice drawing-room surrounded by a little group of admirers, whilst a good-looking curate from Devonshire obligingly handed round the tea.

The scene was in marked contrast to the glaring Orientalism without. Patricia felt as if she had been suddenly transported to a homely English vicarage, and experienced an indefinable sense of comfort at the thought. The Bishop was in the midst of one of his innumerable anecdotes, and was dilating on the humorous vagaries of a certain Scotch gillie; but he paused at the most interesting point of the story in order to fetch the new-comer a chair.

“Sit down here, Lady Patricia,” he said genially. “You will be able to get a breath of air from the window.”

And then he resumed his account of the golf-loving Tammas, to the amusement, if not the edification of his friendly audience.

“We are all going to St. George’s this evening,” the Princess informed her, when a momentary lull in the conversation occurred. “You don’t mind coming, do you, Pat? The Bishop has been asked to preach.”

“I shall be very glad,” the girl answered promptly. “It is such a long, long time since I went to church; I have almost forgotten what the service is like. But I wonder if Lionel would object? I hardly like to go without his knowledge.”

The Princess looked dubious.

“I should think he is too broad-minded to object,” she said thoughtfully. “However, you must do just as you like; I don’t want Lionel to tell me that I have led you astray.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do that,” returned Patricia quickly, wondering how she should decide. There was an uneasy sensation at the back of her mind, that in her present position she ought not to attend a Christian church; but the desire to form one of the party conquered. After all, she was acquainted with so few people in Jerusalem that it was very improbable that she would meet anyone she knew. But she made up her mind to tell her husband that same night; she had no wish to act clandestinely.

They set out just as the bells began to ring, the Devonian curate in attendance. Passing through the Damascus Gate, they paused at El Hieremîyeh—the “green hill far away, without a city wall,” which some believed, with General Gordon, to be the true Calvary, in preference to the site within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Certain it was that the caves on the southern side gave it the appearance of “the place which is called the place of a skull”; and it was the Jews’ traditional place of execution. Below was a garden, containing a rock-hewn sepulchre, which might well have been the “new tomb” belonging to Joseph of Arimathea; but by some it was said to be fifth-century work, and its authenticity was open to question. To the Princess it seemed well that the exact locality of the Great Redemption should never be decided; for the place was surely too sacred to be desecrated by the wrangling of the various Christian denominations for its possession, which had so often led to bloodshed; by gaudy altars, the bartering of candles, the gross irreverence of the Mohammedan guardians. Better far that the exact spot where Divine Love was crucified should remain unknown, since that knowledge, instead of making for reverent peace, would only serve to engender strife.

They had just examined the cave called Jeremiah’s grotto, at the foot of the hill, when Patricia became conscious of a man in the attire of a Jerusalemite Christian, who seemed to be watching her with special intent. Every time she looked in his direction she encountered the dog-like expression of his melancholy eyes, and as he did not attempt to ask for backsheesh, she wondered why he favoured her with his regard. When they left the grotto, he walked, or rather glided away in an opposite direction, but no sooner had they arrived at the Tombs of the Kings than he suddenly reappeared, although it was impossible to tell which way he had come.

Patricia felt vaguely alarmed, but she scarcely liked to communicate her nervousness to the others. The last bell of St. George’s opposite had almost ceased, and there was no time to look at the tombs, so they crossed over and entered the church without delay. The man also crossed, peered into the vestibule, and then withdrew; but, unobserved by Patricia, re-entered when the service began, and remained until the beginning of the sermon.

To no one in the sacred building did Evensong sound more solemn and sweet than to the girl who for so long had been alienated from her Church. The General Confession, Psalms, Magnificat, and Nunc Dimittis brought back a host of recollections to her mind, even though she had lapsed into indifference for some time before her marriage. She could almost imagine herself back in the little parish church of Newlingham Heath—her father’s village—with her mother’s memorial tablet and window just above her head, and the memorial chancel rails a few paces to the front. Ah, if that mother had lived, what a different training she would have received! For the Countess Torrens had been known for her gentle piety, and it was only since her death that the Earl had drifted into Agnosticism. Thoroughly repentant and subdued, she determined to reconsecrate her life to the Highest, and to do all in her power to atone for her temporary aberration. The difficulties of the situation vanished away as she meditated upon the marvellous compelling power of the Divine. She was so certain that if she were but true to the highest instincts of her spiritual nature, all things would work together for good. The pettiness of the Jewish ceremonial should trouble her not at all; she would look through and above it to the Great Majesty beyond.

There was a new impress of spirituality upon her face when, the service over, she left the church. The Princess guessed the nature of her thoughts, and instead of criticising—as she usually did—the sermon, the music, and the congregation, she remained silent for awhile. The Devonian curate suggested a walk to the Mount of Olives, for the night was fine, and the moon brilliantly full. So they betook themselves through the north-eastern suburb of the city, and past St. Stephen’s Gate, near where a belated beggar afflicted with the terrible disease of leprosy called out his melancholy warning “Lebbra!” and solicited alms. Then down they went into the Kidron Valley, and past the venerable olive trees of Gethsemane, where they paused awhile. Bathed in moonlight, the Sacred Garden seemed enwrapt by a solemn peace, and as lonely as in the time of old, save for the little chapel tended by Franciscan monks. Whether this were the authentic spot or not, it could not have been far away where the Agony of the Divine Sufferer had taken place; for the Mount of Olives was close at hand, and though all the ecclesiastical localities were spurious, this sacred mount remained unchanged.

The ascent was steep and difficult, but they climbed high enough to obtain a splendid view. They could look right down into the Temple area on one side, and towards Bethany and the Dead Sea on the other. The air was cool and balmy, and so still that they scarcely cared to disturb the silence by conversation, but the Princess could not resist the temptation to quote some verses of a poem she remembered, which so beautifully described the scene:

“I like that,” said Patricia, with a sigh of enjoyment, when she had finished. “And oh, how glorious it is up here! No wonder our Saviour loved to come here when He wished to be alone. I like this better than all the other historic places we have seen, because it is the work of Nature, and there is no chance of its having been artificially disturbed. The same blue sky overhead, the same rocks and stones and flowers as were here over nineteen hundred years ago, when He walked and taught on these slopes. This is grander than all the churches which have been erected in His name; it is an everlasting witness—Heaven’s own natural church!”

Surprised at her own effusiveness, she turned away and walked a few paces to the rear, alone. It was something to be remembered, this moonlight night on the Mount of Olives, with the sleeping city below; and the emotions of her newly-quickened soul—they were to be remembered too. How good was God; how fair was the earth; how sweet was life! Could she not say with Browning,

for at this height the troublous details of human existence sank into insignificance compared with the grandeur of eternity which knows not time. With a strange feeling of exaltation she stooped down, and plucking a tiny flower from the rocky soil, pinned it gently to her breast. Then with a sigh of perfect contentment she rejoined her friends. No matter what sorrow there might be for her in the future, she was strong—she had braced herself to endure.

It was quite late (for Jerusalem) when Patricia drove home in her friend’s little arabiyeh, but the Engelmacher household was still astir. In the drawing-room she found her husband playing cards with the doctor and two other gentlemen, and smoking a Turkish nargileh. The fumes were not unpleasant, so she would not allow him to put it away on her account. Taking the little chair he placed for her, she sat down at his side. She had no desire to watch the play—indeed the very sight of cards was distasteful to her just then; but she liked to be near her husband, and to talk to him between the deals.

“There is a letter from your father,” he said, when she had been introduced to Dr. Engelmacher’s friends. “He has been staying at Burstall Abbey, but thinks of coming over here on a visit for a change. He has photographed almost every place of interest in Europe, and would like to add a few Oriental scenes to his collection. You would be pleased to see him, would you not, dear?”

“Yes, of course, dear.”

She took the letter out of his pocket-book and read it for herself. Lord Torrens did not write often, and his epistles were generally brief and to the point, but this one extended over four pages of closely-written notepaper, and had evidently taken him some time to indite. He said he was longing for a sight of his daughter’s bonnie face; and as he usually concealed his feelings by a mask of cold austerity, Patricia was somewhat surprised. Wrapped up in his books and hobbies, she had always left him severely alone unless he particularly asked for her society. She had never given him credit for the human sympathy which, in spite of his crusty exterior, he undoubtedly possessed.

She put the letter back into the envelope as the men threw down the cards in order to partake of the refreshments which Mrs. Engelmacher had thoughtfully provided; for although they had had supper scarcely an hour before, they were already thirsty again. Montella rose and stretched himself with an air of relief. At the same moment there came a violent ringing at the courtyard bell.

“Donner und Blitz!” exclaimed Dr. Engelmacher, with resentment. “Is the house on fire? Who has the impudence to pull the bell so that it can be heard all over Jerusalem? Dummkopp! Stupidhead! I will tell him so to his face.”

He continued to demolish a huge slice of cake, however, with imperturbability, and carefully filled his friends’ glasses with wine. A moment later the door was thrown open with a flourish, and after a brief altercation without, three men appeared on the threshold. The foremost was Ben Yetzel, the Chief Rabbi, in all the glory of his official robes.

His visit at that hour, and after his quarrel with Montella, was so totally unexpected that the occupants of the room were all taken aback. Dr. Engelmacher swallowed the remaining portion of his cake in one mouthful, after which he was obliged to hastily gulp down a glass of wine to save himself from choking. His friends stared at the new-comers with curiosity, and Lionel grasped the back of the chair with an air of defiance. But the most agitated of all was Patricia, who had recognised in one of Ben Yetzel’s companions the man she had met by Jeremiah’s Grotto, and again at the Tombs of the Kings. No wonder he had watched her so carefully; he was evidently in the Chief Rabbi’s service as a spy.

Judging by the pomposity with which Ben Yetzel advanced into the room, his errand was aggressive in intent. Taking not the slightest notice of Montella, he began to talk to Dr. Engelmacher in Hebrew, his voice raised in excitement, and his features glowing with a fanatical light. For a while Lionel took no part in the colloquy, and listened in silence, with lowering brow; but at last he could restrain himself no longer, and spoke in the deep and peculiarly resonant voice which betrayed his agitation. Then there ensued a veritable babel of noise and confusion of tongues; for the simultaneous combination of Hebrew, German, and English, and all spoken in anger, did not conduce to the clear understanding of either side.

Patricia had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Although she could not understand exactly what they were saying, she knew that the dissension was in some way connected with herself. Her one desire was to escape from the room, but she dare not attract attention by rising from her seat. So she remained, until hearing her little boy crying in the room above, she took courage and moved towards the door. But the Rabbi’s lynx eyes caught the action, and just as she reached the threshold, she was asked by Dr. Engelmacher to remain.

“I am very sorry, Lady Patricia,” he said, in a more gentle voice than he had used to the men, “but the Chief Rabbi is labouring under a misapprehension, and we had better set him right. He declares, on the authority of his employee here, that you joined in the service at the Church of St. George this evening. I have told him that the employee must have made a mistake, and perhaps confused you with your friend, the Princess; but he will not be satisfied until he hears the denial from your own lips. He wishes you to tell him yourself that you did not enter the church while service was proceeding.”

There was a breathless pause. Patricia remained standing, her fair face proudly raised.

“I cannot tell him that,” she said, addressing the doctor, but looking straight at the Rabbi. “I went to the church with the Princess—the first time for many years. I saw no harm in it, or I would not have gone. I did not think I was being watched.”

Montella beat an impatient tattoo on the table at his side.

“Absurd!” he exclaimed, with irritation. “Ben Yetzel has no right to send out spies. Besides, what harm has my wife done? Surely she can accompany her friend to church without all this fuss being made? She went simply on account of the Princess; she could scarcely have done otherwise, since she was on a visit to the hospice. Dr. and Mrs. Engelmacher know that Lady Patricia is a faithful Jewess and observes the Law.”

The Chief Rabbi understood English, although he seldom cared to speak it.

“A faithful Jewess bends not the knee in a Christian church,” he said. “Yussuf here sat just opposite her and saw her join in the prayers and hymns. The lady is not a Jewess, even though she does profess to keep the Holy Law. She is a Christian; and for the wife of the Governor of Haifa to be a Christian is a scandalous thing.”

“She is not a Christian!” denied Montella, with heat. “She renounced her Christianity before she became my wife. Ask her, and she will tell you; she does not believe in Christ.”

Again the appeal was made to the girl herself. Patricia felt the eyes of the room upon her, and the colour rushed to her cheeks. With beating heart she gazed almost piteously at her inexorable accusers. Oh, Lionel, most devoted of husbands, most foolish of men! Why had he put the question direct, with so much confidence in her unbelief? Neither sophistry nor prevarication would avail now; she must speak the truth, even though to utter the words might ruin her life’s happiness. But then—quick as a lightning flash the thought came—why give these people the satisfaction of victory? Why play into their hands, and witness the chagrin of her husband? Why not say no in public and yes in private. Ah, but she could not do that; she dare not again deny her faith.

“My husband does not know,” she said, in a stifled voice. “I did renounce Christianity before my marriage, and I have tried to keep the Jewish Law until this day, and intend still to do so as long as it is necessary. But while I have been in Jerusalem my religious views have undergone a change. The Chief Rabbi is unnecessarily harsh, but he is correct in his statement. I do believe in Christ. I believe in Him with all my heart and soul!”

Had a thunderbolt fallen, the silence which succeeded her avowal could not have been more pregnant with surprise. The Chief Rabbi’s expression lightened into one of triumph, and his satellites, taking their cue from him, looked about them with calm contempt. Dr. Engelmacher spread his hands deprecatingly, and gave vent to a shrug of the shoulders which was eloquent with meaning, whilst Montella—almost stunned by the unexpectedness of the dénouement—started to his feet in sorrow and amazement.

“Patricia!” he exclaimed, in a voice of poignant grief. “You don’t mean it—you, who have been so staunch and true ever since you became a Jewess. Oh, you don’t realise what you are saying, dearest. You have been carried away by the emotions called up by these historic scenes!”

She shook her head. “I must speak the truth, dear,” she answered, softly, “or I should despise myself for a coward.”

Then she sank on to a chair, almost overcome with the heat and the excitement. The blow had fallen; she dared not think what the consequence would be.

“For the wife of the Governor of Haifa to be a Christian is a scandalous thing,” repeated Ben Yetzel quietly, in Hebrew. “Either Mr. Montella must resign his post, or there must be a divorce.”

Dr. Engelmacher was the only one near enough to hear his dictum.

“Gently, my dear sir,” he returned, in a tone of reproof. “If we live, we shall see; there is plenty of time.”

But he knew that his friend Montella was in a most difficult predicament, and that it would need all his astuteness to extract him from the same.

He rose, in order to show that he considered the interview at an end; and the Chief Rabbi, well satisfied with the work he had accomplished, took his departure with due ceremony. There was an awkward pause when the door had closed behind him, and Patricia seized the opportunity to escape from the room. Scarcely knowing whither she went, she rushed up the shallow staircase to the apartment which served as her boudoir. Her one desire was to be alone for a few minutes—anywhere away from the people she had offended. Opening the door which led into the night-nursery, she peeped timidly into the room, and seeing that her baby was alone, advanced gently towards his little cot. Although he seemed so still, he was not asleep, but lay staring up at the pattern on the wall with wide-open eyes. Hearing the rustle of her dress, however, he sat up in eager anticipation.

“Nanna just gone down’tairs,” he informed her, even before she asked him. “Baby hot.”

“Too hot to sleep?” she asked gently, and lifting him up into her arms, pushed the curls away from his forehead.

It was a relief to feel his loving little caress, to have the golden head nestling against her shoulder, to hear the piping notes of the baby voice. His very presence soothed her as no other earthly thing could have done; he seemed just like a little cherub of peace.

“Mammy not go ’way,” he said contentedly, his tiny hands grasping her wrist. “Mammy ’tay wiv baby always?”

He looked up confidingly into her face, but the expected answer was not forthcoming. A hot tear splashed on to his hair; and although but a baby, he knew instinctively that something was wrong. He did not know that his words had caused a dread possibility to flash across his mother’s mind—for the result of that evening’s confession might mean separation, not only from her husband, but from her child. Seeing her distress, he began to sob in sympathy, and clung to her with almost convulsive force.

“Mammy not go ’way!” he wailed, over and over again. “Mammy ’tay with baby!” and he refused to be consoled, until Patricia declared unceasingly that she would never forsake him.

She stayed until he was asleep again, and then, leaving him in the charge of Anne, returned to her own room. Too much perturbed to methodically disrobe, she took her favourite seat by the casement window, and rested her elbows lightly on the ledge. The moon still shone with brilliant splendour, illumining the whole city with its silvery radiance; and away to the east she could see the Sacred Mount upon whose slopes she had so recently stood. The view recalled her lofty aspirations, and endued her with courage. She was surely not so weak as to quail at the first attack!

But the sound of her husband’s footsteps caused her heart to beat fast again with apprehension. What would he say, she wondered, and how display his anger? She had never seen him angry—at least, never with her; for in all the four years of their married life they had not quarrelled once. She glanced up from beneath her long lashes as he entered the room, and noticed with a pang of compunction that he looked haggard and pale. But although she longed to say something, the words froze on her lips. Always reserved by nature, she became suddenly self-conscious, and instead of showing sympathy, as she longed to do, the result was a stony silence.

But Montella understood. Locking the door with his usual care, he advanced towards the dressing-table and turned up the light. Then taking a little chair at her side, he grasped both her hands.

“Patricia, how could you?” he said, so quietly that she could scarcely catch his voice. “How could you, dearest? You do not realise what you have done!”

He gazed into the depths of her eyes, as though he would read her very soul. She looked back, and saw that there was no anger, but only deep, impenetrable sorrow reflected there. And then he explained. He was not so shocked that she had returned to her former religion—indeed, he had always known that she had found Judaism difficult; but that she should have publicly confessed her relapse, and in the very presence of the Chief Rabbi—that was where she had done irreparable harm.

“Under those circumstances prevarication was justifiable,” he said, when she had protested her inability to answer otherwise. “You could have said something—anything—only to defy Ben Yetzel and put him off the track.”

“I could not tell a deliberate falsehood,” she answered, in a voice as low as his own. “I am sure no good ever comes of telling a lie.”

“Ah, but you do not understand!” he said, in agitation. “To Ben Yetzel your admission is the peg on which to hang his revenge. He has hated me ever since I opposed his priestly tyranny, and now he has the power to ruin me. Shall I tell you the ultimatum he has given to Engelmacher concerning us? Believe me, dearest, it is as hard for me to say as it is for you to hear; but it is this: either I must resign my post—which means leaving Palestine in disgrace—or—or there must be a—divorce.”

He brought out the last word as though he could hardly get it to pass his lips. Patricia pressed her hands to her face in an agony of feeling.

“Oh, no! no! no!” she cried, in a passionate voice. “Not divorce! It is too dreadful! Anything but that! I will go away, to Germany, to England, anywhere in Europe; but you must remain my husband, and I your wife. Surely if we are separated for ever the Rabbi will be satisfied; surely he, a minister of God, is not so utterly wicked as to wish to break the most sacred bonds of our marriage. Let him part us so that we shall never meet again. In the sight of Heaven I shall always be your wife!”

Her self-control collapsed completely, and she gave vent to such sobs as seemed to come from the depths of her being. Montella took her in his arms, and endeavoured to comfort her with the assurance that the hated contingency should never occur. But he felt no less miserable in his way than she did in hers. He knew that their separation was inevitable, and that it might be indefinitely prolonged. He knew also that life in Palestine would be almost unendurable without Patricia at his side.

“Oh, darling, darling, what grief you have brought down upon us both!” he exclaimed, in anguish. “Truly did your Christ say, ‘I came not to send peace, but a sword!’ Is not that sword piercing your heart and mine? Cursed be all creeds which bring dissension and sorrow in their wake, which separate a husband from his wife, a mother from her child! How can I send you away—you whom I have sworn to protect and cherish? To know that you are lonely, and that I cannot comfort you; that you are ill, and I cannot sit beside you; that you want me, and I cannot come. Oh, Patricia, they have laid their finger on the weak spot in my manhood’s armour! I cannot bear to let you go away!”

She had never seen him so intensely moved. She dried her eyes with a feeling almost of awe, and in her desire to comfort him, recovered her own self-possession.

“We must both be brave, dearest,” she said, in a broken voice. “If it is necessary for us to part for a time, it will not last for ever—nothing lasts for ever. Don’t let us make it harder for each other than we can help. Let us try to think of the—the—happy reunion in the future.”

“The future? But when? So far as I know, I am settled in Haifa for life. If we part, it may be for years, for we do not know when we shall see each other again.” He paused, evidently struck by a new idea, and continued impulsively: “Patricia, why should we give up our happiness for the sake of people who do not care two straws whether we live or die? Why should I slave and toil and worry, only to be rewarded by base ingratitude? Resign my post! Well, why not? What is the governorship worth in comparison with you!”

He rose and paced the room with bent head and folded arms. It was his moment of weakness, and the girl knew it; but she could not help considering the alternative he suggested. If he left Palestine, they could go and live quietly somewhere on the Continent; he might even obtain permission to return to England. At least, it would be better than an indefinite separation; she did not care where she lived, so long as she were with him. But she knew that by so doing he would be guilty of forsaking his people and losing his honour, and that she would never forgive herself for having blighted his career.

“No, dearest; you must not abandon your post just when you are most needed,” she said, with a heavy sigh. “An Englishman must do his duty at the cost of life itself. I know you better than you think, Lionel. Life would not be worth living to you without your honour. Besides, it would break your mother’s heart; in her eyes, you are ever the dauntless champion of the Jews.”

“The dauntless champion of the Jews!” he repeated bitterly. “I wonder sometimes if the Jews are worth championing. Where is the grand spirit of unity and discipline which held together the nation of old? Quarrellings, bickerings, murmurings, grumbling at every semblance of authority, one striving to out-do the other; that is what one has to contend with in these days. Oh, how I long to throw it all up, to let them go their own way, and end the struggle by the survival of the fittest! How I long to escape with you to some quiet little spot, where we might live in peace and quiet happiness with our child. Since all these people are selfish, why should not I be selfish too? The temptation is so great—so great! I have not the power to withstand it!”

“But you must!” she cried, in a tense voice. “Lionel, this is unworthy of you! When the children of Israel complained and murmured in the wilderness, did Moses forsake them in disgust? Ah, no; a leader must expect to suffer by and for his people. Having put your hand to the plough, you must not look back. You have been so brave and so noble until this very day. Do not spoil your record by turning coward at the last.”

“Coward!” The word stung him like a lash. “Good God, no! But, Patricia—” He turned towards her with a gesture of appeal. “You love me? Ah, I know you do! And yet you can urge me to stick to my guns whilst you go away to live in loneliness, perhaps for the remainder of your life? I cannot understand it.... Is this love?”

“Yes, of the truest kind,” she answered, her deep eyes glistening with tears. “‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more.’ Do you think I’m not longing to say, ‘Come with me to the other end of the world, and leave these people to look after themselves’? But I must not, I dare not! Your duty lies in Palestine, and here you must stay. I know that when you are your old self again, you will say that I was right.”

“Of course you are right; but I am not of the self-sacrificing sort. I wouldn’t mind going under fire and having a bullet put through my head for my country’s sake—that’s soon over; but I don’t like having the agony prolonged.” He flung himself on to a chair, and added, in a different voice: “What of the child? My mother will never free you from your promise to have him brought up as a Jew. She will do her utmost to retain him in her custody. You must not let him go back to Haifa if you wish to keep him with you. Possession is nine points of the law.”

She shuddered. “It is terrible to have to use force in the matter. Surely Lady Montella will not object to my having him with me while he is so young? I am his mother, and his place is with me. Afterwards, when he is grown up, it will be a different matter; but now—”

She covered her face with her hands, unable to finish the sentence. She knew even while she spoke that she would have to drink her cup of bitterness to the dregs. To part with her husband was terrible enough; yet they would both have the consciousness of having done their duty to sustain them. But in the case of her child it was different, since there was no such urgent necessity. She knew that if Lady Montella succeeded in keeping him from her, her last ray of comfort would be gone.