A modern exodus: a novel

To Raie the recognition of Ferdinand was the best thing that could have happened, and a load was thereby lifted from her mind. The task he had set her to perform had been most repugnant to her taste, and she was thankful in the extreme that the difficulty had been obviated in a more open-handed way. As it happened, the necessary documents were not in the safe at all, but in a private bureau in Montella’s bedroom; so that all her trouble and heart-burning would have been in vain. Lionel readily forgave the intended ruse, and produced the papers without delay. His greatest desire was to help his step-brother to regain his honour and good name.

But Lady Montella was not so easily won. The circumstances of the forgery had been very black against Ferdinand, even if he had been, as was supposed, the mere tool of another and older man. She knew that her husband until his dying day had believed him guilty, had wrested him from his affection, had deprived him of all his privileges of sonship to bestow them on her own—the younger—son. If, therefore, Ferdinand had been wrongfully accused, he was a much-injured man; but his personality did not impress her in that way. At least, he bore no malice towards any of his accusers, and seemed to desire to forget the actors in the unpleasant drama of the past. But, on the other hand, he appeared anxious to claim his title—valueless though it was in Palestine—to reinstate himself as a member of his fathers House, and to win back his reputation as an honourable man. Until his innocence had been established, therefore, she preferred to remain on neutral terms. But she allowed him to come to the Government House as often as he pleased, even though she would not yet receive him as a son.

He informed her of his desire to marry Raie on the very first evening of his reconciliation; and begged that if Mrs. Emanuel gave her consent she would not withhold hers. Lady Montella knew not whether to be displeased or glad, and held her answer in abeyance until Ferdinand should have paid his intended visit to England; but she sent for Raie’s mother in order to discuss the affair.

Raie was not in the room when the consultation took place, but waited on tenter-hooks in the roof-garden above. Occasionally sentences in her mother’s high-pitched voice reached her through the open window, but she riveted her attention on the book she was supposed to be reading, and resolutely determined not to hear. After what seemed an unconscionable time, she was sent for to express her views. Lady Montella was, as usual, calm and placid; Mrs. Emanuel beamed with delight.

“We have come to the conclusion that if Sir Ferdinand is able to establish his innocence in England, your engagement will receive our consent,” her foster-aunt said, in answer to her glance of interrogation; “but are you sure you love him well enough to marry him, dear? Remember the difference in your ages. He is nearly eleven years older than yourself.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” put in Mrs. Emanuel quickly, before her daughter had time to reply. “It’s much better than if it were the other way about. Besides, I should not care for Raie to marry a much younger man; and if she loves him—”

“I do love him,” said the girl, with fervour. “I should love him if he were a hundred. If I can’t marry him, mamma, I shall be an old maid.”

“God forbid!” ejaculated Mrs. Emanuel piously, under her breath. “Not if I know it.” She had not yet recovered from the rupture of Harriet’s betrothal.

“I should advise you not to place too much confidence in Ferdinand’s success, dear,” advised Lady Montella thoughtfully. “It is always difficult to reopen an old case, and two of the witnesses in connection with it are dead. And you see if he fails to prove his innocence, the slur on his name remains.”

“Oh, but he will succeed, Aunt Inez—he must!” rejoined Raie, with youthful optimism. She did not add that she meant to be true to him under any circumstances, nevertheless such was the case. As long as she was morally convinced of his innocence, the opinion of the world mattered little. She knew, however, that she could not marry him for some time to come unless the proof were found.

So the matter was settled, pending the decision of the judicial court; and Ferdinand was tacitly acknowledged as Raie’s fiancé. There was now no need for any clandestine trysts, but they still met constantly in the grounds of the empty house. Zillah often passed their arbour in her daily walk, and observing that they seemed absorbed in mutual admiration, experienced a pang of envy at her jealous heart. She had scarcely spoken to Raie since the recognition of her lover, but she always seemed to have a good deal to say to Sir Ferdinand whenever she came across him. Secretly she longed to display her superior charms; to fascinate him by the power of her voice and smile. Realising that Lionel was for ever beyond her reach, she desired to transfer her attention to his step-brother. That he was already engaged seemed to trouble her not at all; for until he were actually married she considered him free.

But as the day of his departure approached, and she had made no progress, she grew desperate; and on the last evening a crisis came. Raie, as it happened, was confined to her bed with a cold, and her lover was obliged to say his farewell by proxy. Lady Montella conveyed all the tender messages, after which she drove off to a reception with her son. Zillah, therefore, was left to entertain Sir Ferdinand for an hour alone, an opportunity of which she was determined to make the most.

As usual, she tried the effect of music first, and sang her sweetest songs. She knew, of course, that he was watching her through a thin haze of smoke; and felt almost magnetically the power of his eyes on her face. Then, rising suddenly, she suggested an adjournment to the roof. She felt, somehow, that they would both feel less restraint in the open air and under the light of the moon.

He helped her to place the filmy lace mantilla, with its red roses, on her head, and in doing so his fingers touched hers. She looked up, thrilled and eager, the colour slowly spreading over her cheeks; and struck by her expression, he returned her gaze with surprise. But they exchanged not a word, and ascended to the garden in silence; and with scarcely a remark he settled her comfortably in a deck-chair. Then he lighted a fresh cigar, and puffed away in contentment, whilst the soft breeze dispersed the smoke and gently caressed their hair.

“I have often wondered what the exact pleasure is that you men find in the weed,” Zillah observed, thinking he had gazed long enough at the deep blue of the sky. “I suppose it soothes you in a way we women cannot understand.”

“I really don’t know.” He held the cigar between his fingers and surveyed it contemplatively. “It’s all habit, I suppose; but I do think a good cigar aids one’s mental digestion. And I know that if I am in a bad temper, a quiet smoke will always pull me round.”

“‘Open confession is good for the soul,’” she quoted, with a smile. “I hope that does not often occur.”

“What—the bad temper?”

“Yes; but I ought not to say anything.” She sighed. “People in glass houses should not throw stones. I am in a bad temper with everybody and everything, most of all with myself.”

She spoke impulsively, and with such force that the young man glanced towards her with wonder.

“Indeed,” he responded courteously. “That sounds rather depressing. May I ask for what reason you have quarrelled with yourself?”

Zillah turned her face away, so that the moonlight caught her classic profile.

“The reason—oh, simply that I am unhappy.”

“And why?”

“Because I hate Palestine and everything connected with it!” she answered, a defiant ring in her voice. “I came here because I could not help myself—because—as a Jewess—I could no longer stay in the old country. I thought from Lady Montella’s letters that Haifa was a beau ideal of a place; but she sees everything Jewish from behind rose-coloured spectacles. To me it is a desert with scarcely an oasis to break the monotony, with a climate as sultry as that of the Inferno, and an atmosphere of brick-dust and tar. Building to right of us, building to left of us—scaffoldings, ladders, and paint-pots; what is so depressing as a half-built town? And as for society—why, there isn’t any worth speaking of, because the people here will not recognise distinctions of class. Yesterday a poverty-stricken woman—an odious, unkempt individual—had the audacity to approach me in a most familiar manner, in order to tell me that she lived next door to my grandfather in Poland, and as my father was no better than hers, she thought she might claim me as a friend. That is the result of liberty and equality; we are all children of Abraham, and education counts for nothing. Oh, it’s disgusting! I hate it! Until Palestine gets a king and an aristocracy the country will not be worth living in to cultured Jews.”

She raised herself on her arm, her eyes flaming with the emotion caused by her outburst. Ferdinand remarked the passion in her voice, and felt vaguely stirred. But she did not give him time to speak, and continued hurriedly:

“I want to escape—to get away from Palestine, even at the risk of offending your step-mother. If I stay here while the country is in its present condition, I shall only droop and die. Sir Ferdinand, you are the only man in the world who can help me; but will you? I have no right—except that of old friendship with the Montellas—to ask you; and yet—”

“I will help you with pleasure if I can,” he put in, unable to resist the pathetic look of appeal. “What is it you want me to do?”

“You are going to England,” she said abruptly. “But England does not admit a Jew. Tell me: how do you intend to evade the authorities?”

He flashed her a quick glance. “I have a special permit from a member of the Cabinet—Mr. Lawson Holmes,” he replied promptly. “I shall be allowed to stay until my case is concluded without being forced to take the Assimilation Oath.”

“Then you will go as Sir Ferdinand Montella?”

“No; I shall retain my old pseudonym pro tem. We have all come to the conclusion that that will be best.”

Zillah drew a deep breath. “Then my scheme is practicable,” she said, with clasped hands. “I too cannot enter the country in my own name; but disguised and under an alias—it is my only chance. Sir Ferdinand, will you take me with you? It will only be for the journey; at Charing Cross Station we can part. Once in England, I have friends to whom I can go.”

“Take you with me?” he repeated, starting with a feeling of uneasiness. “But, Miss Lorm! I don’t see how I can.”

“Why not? I can go as Miss Merryweather, your sister—a lady missionary, if you like.” Her eyes shone naïvely. “Oh, there’s not a shadow of harm in it. I merely want your protection politically; and when I arrive there I will write to the Montellas and explain. I dare not tell them before I go. They would want to keep me here.”

“And meanwhile?” He flung away his cigar, and rising, paced the garden in agitation. Then he came back and stood at her side. “You don’t understand,” he said, in a voice which sounded almost stern. “What would my people say; what would Raie’s feelings be? They might place a wrong construction—might think.... Oh, no, it wouldn’t do—wouldn’t do at all. It would place us both in an utterly false position. You must see that yourself.”

Zillah’s mouth grew stubborn.

“I don’t see it at all,” she returned, looking straight before her. “‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ If Raie cannot trust you, she is not worthy of your affection. Besides, it’s so ridiculous. Surely a P. & O. steamer is large enough to hold us both. In my part of official sister I need only speak to you at meals.”

Ferdinand shook his head.

“Whether you speak to me much or little has nothing to do with the question,” he said imperturbably. “Miss Lorm, do be reasonable. If you were engaged to a man, and that man went on a three weeks’ journey with another lady—and that lady an inmate of your house—without telling you, how would you take it? Excuse my putting it so plainly, but you give me no alternative. Raie is the most trusting little soul in the world, but she would not be human if she did not have her doubts. Were I to accede to your request, I should be landed in a most unpleasant situation. Besides, it can’t be done; my permit is available only for myself.”

His decision was evidently final, and Zillah knew that it was not to be shaken. Once on a P. & O. steamer, she had hoped to win him through the social amenities of life on board ship; and if the Montellas—as Ferdinand feared—should place a wrong construction on her departure, so much the better for the success of her plan. But seeing that she could not enlist his aid, her dream gradually and regretfully melted away, until, overcome by disappointment and mortification, she threw away her self-control and burst into tears.

“I did not think you would refuse,” she sobbed, using her handkerchief with great ostentation. “I had packed my things and made all arrangements; I could have got off without telling a soul.”

Ferdinand hated to see a woman cry, and felt suddenly mean and despicable. But he could not bring himself to give way to her desire; something within him seemed to rise up and say, “Thou shalt not!” It was his love for Raie, his fear of doing her a seeming injustice. For himself he cared not at all—he was too well-seasoned a man of the world.

Zillah dried her eyes, feeling that she had betrayed herself for nought, and shivering, asked to return to the drawing-room. As they entered through the somewhat narrow doorway, a slender, white-clad figure rose from the embrasure formed by the window. Coming from without into the glare of the artificial light, Ferdinand could scarcely believe his eyes; but he was not deceived—it was indeed Raie.

“I was so hot that I could not stay in bed, Ferdie,” she explained, putting her arm confidingly in his. “Besides, I could not let you go without saying good-bye properly, dearest, if I had fifty colds.”

And clinging to him like a child, she drew him into the library, whilst Zillah was left to nurse her anger alone. Watching them depart, her heart burned with impotent rage, as she realised how miserably she had been defeated. It seemed to her that failure was written right across her life, that she was pursued by a hard and inexorable fate. Gifted with a good voice and personal charms of no mean order, she had been ambitious—over ambitious to do well. Consequently she had frequently overreached herself when just at the point of success. She was at enmity with God, the world, and herself; and she was obliged to acknowledge it—she had only herself to blame. Nevertheless, her courage revived when her first feelings of depression had dissolved.

“He goes to England to-morrow without me,” she said to herself, in a whisper. “Never mind, I shall soon follow him up. In England I shall at least be happier than here. Assimilation is the way—I ought to have done it long ago. Fool that I was to consider the Montellas! They are intoxicated with their Judaism—but I—I—am a total abstainer from Judaism.”

And then she laughed hysterically at her feeble joke. She was clearly much overwrought.