A modern exodus: a novel

Patricia left the Princess with her husband at Felsen-Schvoenig, and journeyed back to London with Lord Torrens, whom she had met at Port Said. The Earl was somewhat annoyed at having been baulked of his Eastern tour; but as he did not care to visit the Holy Land in his daughter’s absence, his only alternative was to turn back. Secretly, he considered Patricia’s action absurdly quixotic, for he could not in the least understand her point of view. To him all creeds were but variations of one fundamental principle, and to quarrel over individual shades of opinion seemed unnecessary in the extreme. As for sentiment in religion, he refused to recognise that at all, since it could be analysed and physically accounted for by the materialistic exponents of modern thought. Nevertheless he was considerate enough not to add to the girl’s suffering by vain reproaches; he knew that, for the present, it was best to leave her alone.

The home-coming seemed so strange that Patricia felt as if she were in a dream. Coming from the brilliant sunshine of the East, London looked cold and grey, and the dresses of the people curiously prosaic after the gay colours of the Orient. It was about six o’clock in the evening, and the lamps were already lit. Clerks and business people generally were travelling homewards, newspaper boys were calling out the special editions of the evening papers, and the traffic rushed bewilderingly through the crowded streets. Leaning back in the brougham, Patricia’s head seemed to swim, for the roads and shops and people had apparently magnified themselves tenfold, and loomed large and vast through the gloom of the evening twilight. She was thankful when the carriage slackened pace, and pulled up before the familiar door. But even Grosvenor Square seemed to have extended in area. She could not imagine why everything looked so immense.

The house was still in a state of metaphorical curl-papers and overalls, for they intended to stay there only for one night. By Patricia’s orders, Mrs. Lowther—her old companion—had taken a small villa near Richmond, where the girl intended to live out her days. She established herself there the very next morning, thankful to have some occupation to distract her thoughts. The villa, which rejoiced in the romantic name of “Ivydene,” was light and pretty, and more attractive in its way than the solemn magnificence of the parental mansion. Mrs. Lowther, too, had done all in her power to make it home-like: there were bright fires in the grates and flowers in the vases, and the hundred and one little things which contribute to domestic comfort. The girl could not help feeling touched by the thoughtfulness which had evidently been expended on her account, and as she went over the small but prettily-decorated rooms, her eyes grew misty with no far-distant tears. There was one room in particular which held her spellbound, for the wall-paper depicted well-known nursery rhymes, such as “Jack and Jill,” “Little Miss Muffit,” and “Red Ridinghood”; and in one corner stood a brand-new rocking-horse.

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Lowther said, half-apologetically. “I had thought—had made sure—that you would bring your little boy.” And she wished she had had the tact not to allow the young mother to enter the room just then, for the sight of the childish appurtenances evidently called up an emotion of pain.

But Patricia begged her not to be concerned.

“It was very kind of you to take so much trouble,” she said, going to the window and looking at the tiny lawn without. “Oh, how I wish we could have Julian here! He is such a lovely boy, Lowthy, and so wonderfully intelligent. It nearly broke my heart to have to leave him behind.”

“I don’t know how you could,” her companion returned, almost severely. “It seems unnatural to part a mother from her child. If I had been you—”

Patricia put up her hands as though to ward off a blow. “Yes, I know,” she put in hastily. “Don’t hurt me, dear. If you had been in my place you would have acted just the same. You don’t understand what Judaism is—how it used to rise up between the Montellas and myself like a wall. They would not let me bring baby away for fear I should make a Christian of him, which of course I should do; for I could not help wanting to consecrate his little life to Christ. Oh, I don’t wish to go over the whole story again; it is too painful. The Montellas are quite right from their point of view, and I am quite right from mine. We must all do what seems to be our duty according to our own conscience, even if it seems hard at the time.”

Mrs. Lowther regarded her contemplatively.

“How you have changed, Patricia,” she observed, placing her hand on the rough mane of the horse. “At the time of your marriage none of these considerations seemed to trouble you. Did I not warn you during your engagement that although you might attempt to enter their Jewish world, you must for ever remain an outsider? I don’t want to be cruel, but I can’t help telling you how I regret that you did not listen to me. For look at your present position: a wife, and yet practically without a husband—a mother, and yet without a child. Oh, you poor dear girl, if you had only taken my advice you would never have made such a shipwreck of your life!”

Had she not been sincerely sympathetic, Patricia would have been irritated by her comments.

“Oh, I don’t regret the past,” she responded quickly, “not one little bit; and if I had it to live over again I would marry Lionel just the same. It is not his fault that things have turned out like this; it is the fault of a fanatical Chief Rabbi and a narrow creed. But Lowthy, if you don’t mind, I would rather not talk about it any more. You see it hurts; and—and—I shall have to get used to being alone.” She held up the locket containing the portraits of her husband and baby, and looking at it thoughtfully, added sadly: “Not that I want to forget these two dear ones. The remembrance of them will remain with me day and night. I can’t yet realise that they are all those hundreds of miles away; I want to consult my husband at every turn.”

And then dashing away the tears which in spite of her will would come, she left the intended nursery, and descended to the hall.

It took her some time to settle down to her new life in Richmond. Lord Torrens, scarcely caring for the menage of a suburban residence, left after a few days, but the faithful Mrs. Lowther remained. Of callers there were none; for Patricia’s object in coming to live so far out was to avoid those who would have visited her in Grosvenor Square. She was in no mood for any kind of social pleasure, nor for the sympathy of kind but curious friends. So she kept her arrival a secret from those who would have been glad to know, and preferred to spend the greater part of her time in solitude.

But Montella had given her a task to perform. He wanted to know her version of the condition of English affairs; and in order to form an opinion, she was obliged to go out and about. So far as she could see, the assimilation process seemed, socially, to be working well enough. The names of Cohen, Jacobs, and Levy no longer existed; but those of Cowan, Jackson, and Leigh were on the increase, and perhaps sounded more euphonious in English ears. In spite of the exodus of the alien immigrants whose presence had been so greatly deplored, however, there were still a great number of the unemployed. Trade was bad—so bad that the prosperity of many families of the middle class was seriously threatened, and complaints were heard on all sides. Several well-known shops in the West End were shut up, and the bankruptcy of a celebrated mercantile house had ruined hundreds. Affairs on the Stock Exchange were quieter than ever they had been before, and finance, in the absence of two or three of the greatest Jewish capitalists, was at a low ebb. Moreover, people began to attribute the decline in commerce to the removal of Jewish influence by the Expulsion. Many said that the Jews who had gone to Palestine had taken the prosperity of England with them; many more heartily wished for their return. Certain it was that a wave of adversity had spread over the country; the nation seemed to be under a cloud.

“I have not come across many Jews so far,” she wrote, “although there must still be a great many here. I went on an exploration expedition to Canonbury and Highbury last week, and found most of the houses there to let. The shops there—or, rather, those that remain—seem to be undergoing a hard struggle, and I was told on inquiry that it was because their principal customers in the past had been those of the Jewish race. The synagogues have, of course, all been swept away; but, judging by statistics, there appears to be very little increase in the attendance at the various churches. The theatres also are not doing so well as of old, as a considerable amount of both talent and patronage has by the Expulsion been sent away. So the practical side of the Bill does not answer so well as it did in theory, and by the man in the street the Government is roundly blamed.”

She experienced a peculiar sense of gratification in having to give so unsatisfactory a report. Perhaps she thought it would comfort her husband to know that England missed the Jews, and was not flourishing so well without them; yet she knew that his love for his native country was such that he could not help feeling sincerely grieved.

She had just returned from her peregrination westwards one day, and was walking through the High Street on her way home, when she came face to face with a lady who was preparing to re-enter her carriage. Patricia, full of her own thoughts, would have passed on; but the lady, with an exclamation of surprise, barred the way.

“So I have found you at last, you truant!” she said, in a voice full of satisfaction.

It was Lady Chesterwood, the wife of Athelstan Moore.

Patricia looked up, half abashed, and held out her hand, scarcely knowing how to greet her old friend under the changed circumstances. But Mamie had heard the whole story of the Montellas’ separation from the Princess, and had the good grace not to refer to the affair. She insisted on taking the girl into a neighbouring tea-shop in order to have a chat, and gossiped away to her heart’s content. Then she suddenly remembered the purpose for which she had come out, and broke off in the middle of her conversation to ask Patricia’s advice.

“I meant to call and ask the doctor to come and look at Phyllis—Athelstan’s child, you know; but I have not made up my mind whether to do so or not,” she said, with an expression of doubt. “Athelstan slept in town last night, but I expect him home to dinner; and if he hears that the doctor has been, he will be so frightfully alarmed. He absolutely worships that girl; and if her little finger aches, he immediately makes up his mind that she is going to die. So I never send for the doctor unless it is really necessary; it doesn’t seem worth while to have a fuss for nothing.”

“What is the matter with her?” asked Patricia equably. “Nothing serious, I suppose?”

“No, only a sore throat; a cold probably. I dare say she will be better to-morrow.”

“A sore throat,” repeated Patricia meditatively. “I don’t like anything the matter with the throat. I should send for the doctor if I were you.”

“You would? Well then, I think you ought to help me to bear the brunt of Athelstan’s alarm. Come to dinner, and bring your she-dragon with you if you like. You know where we live: the other side of Richmond Park—Ravenscroft Hall. We dine at seven o’clock, but I shall expect you at half-past six. Now”—as Patricia prepared to remonstrate—“I know you are going to put all sorts of objections in the way, but I shall not accept one of them. I will take absolutely no refusal; you must come.”

“But, my dear Mamie, how can I?” The girl looked almost bewildered. “To meet the Premier in his own house at dinner, after he has been the means of sending my husband to the Antipodes! Oh, it’s impossible! Can’t you see the irony of it? There can be no friendship between a Montella and Athelstan Moore.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the Countess, unconvinced. “Richmond is not Downing Street. In our own house we have nothing to do with politics; besides, Athelstan may not put in an appearance after all. Don’t be so absurdly sensitive, Pat; I want you to come.”

But Patricia still hesitated. The thought of being a guest at Mr. Moore’s table was so repugnant that it could scarcely be tolerated; yet she felt a secret curiosity to meet the great anti-Semite again. She would, at least, have something of interest to report to Lionel; and although she could not introduce the subject of the Expulsion, she might indirectly glean an inkling of the Premier’s views. So—not without misgivings—she yielded, and promised to be there by the appointed time. Whether good or evil would come of the visit, however, remained to be seen; and as she left her friend, she felt as if she were about to trifle with edged tools.

The “she-dragon,” as Mamie unkindly dubbed Mrs. Lowther, did not care to accept the invitation to Ravenscroft Hall, and asked to be excused; so Patricia dressed herself in a simple evening-gown and drove off alone. Excitement had lent a touch of colour to her cheeks, and as the carriage swept up the avenue she trifled nervously with her long neck-chain of pearls. Arrived at the house, however, she soon regained her self-possession, and followed the footman up the stone staircase with her usual equanimity. The Countess received her with cordiality; but seemed curiously diffident. She glanced at the door every now and then with marked uneasiness; her mind was evidently—on some account—disturbed.

“The doctor has not been yet,” she said, in answer to Patricia’s enquiry. “I am expecting him every minute. I don’t quite like the look of Phyllis; she has been shivering so terribly. I do hope she isn’t going to be ill.”

“Has Mr. Moore seen her?”

“No, he has not arrived yet, but he will be here soon. He wired that he is bringing Mr. Lawson Holmes back with him.” Her brow grew troubled. “I want to keep him away from Phyllis until after dinner, when I hope the doctor will have been. The children always come in to dessert, you know.”

The words had scarcely passed her lips when the scrunch of carriage wheels on the gravel approached them, and the hall door closed with a heavy sound. A moment later the men’s voices were heard on the stairs, as they parted to go to their respective rooms. The Countess, excusing herself to her guest, went dutifully to greet her husband; but she returned before Patricia had time to notice her absence, and together they descended to the rooms below.

“I think you will find a great change in Athelstan,” she said, as Patricia glanced at the large portrait of the Premier which adorned the wall. “He has aged terribly during the last three years, and suffers from periodical fits of depression which seem to take all the life out of him. The doctors cannot account for it, and put it down to overwork. But I believe I know what it is: there is something preying on his mind.”

“Yes?” Patricia looked up half wonderingly. “I suppose he is troubled about State affairs?”

The Countess waxed confidential.

“It’s the Jews,” she said impressively, forgetting, perhaps, the political position of her friend. “I believe they’ve affected his brain. He thinks about them all day, dreams about them at night, and talks about them in his sleep. It’s Jews, Jews, Jews—always Jews! The fact of the matter is, that in pushing the Expulsion Bill he made a tremendous mistake; and he knows it, and is suffering from remorse. But in spite of this he maintains his ground, and won’t budge an inch from his original standpoint. He is as hard and as obstinate as a piece of flint.”

Patricia turned over the leaves of a magazine with agitation. “Mamie, ought you to tell me this?” she asked, feeling that she had received a confidence which should have been withheld. “Do you think your husband would care for me to know that he is attacked by remorse? Remember, I am the wife of an exiled Jew.”

“I don’t care anyway,” the little woman returned recklessly. “If you can act on that knowledge, so much the better. Oh, Patricia! you do not know what I have suffered during the past two years. You do not know what it is to have a husband so morose that he will scarcely speak, except to say something unkind. For the first few months of our married life, Athelstan was as genial and happy as a boy; but now—now—his only smile is for Phyllis—never for me.”

She sank on to a chair, a look of wounded pride in her eyes. Patricia was genuinely sorry, but she scarcely knew what to say. She remembered the boasted power, the desire to rule which had animated the Countess at the time of Moore’s proposal. Where was that conquering influence of her feminine personality which was to have decided not only the affairs of her husband, but also of the State? Gone—all gone; nay, it had never been there. For Mamie’s will was far too frail to have ever run counter to that of the Premier; and now, after repeated storms, only a crushed and broken spirit remained.

The girl sympathised as best she could, and skilfully drew the conversation to matters of lighter trend. She did not want to hear such secrets, and shrank from prying into the private life of her husband’s enemy. But Mamie was naturally loquacious, and her thoughts expressed themselves in words almost as soon as they entered her mind. It was probably this very garrulity which had sent Moore back into his shell; for knowing that his wife could not be trusted with a secret, he naturally became more reserved.

They were both glad of the presence of Mr. Lawson Holmes at the dinner-table that night. He was a man who could converse well on almost any subject, and possessed a good many interests besides that of politics. Moore was, as usual, preoccupied and gloomy, and had shaken hands with Patricia as though she had been a complete stranger. The Countess, who had quietly been called away to see the doctor before the commencement of the meal, was pale and silent, so the two guests had the conversation principally to themselves. When the dessert was reached, however, the Premier suddenly awoke as from a sleep, and fixing his steely eyes on his wife’s face, inquired solemnly for the children.

Lady Chesterwood’s eyes fell.

“Leslie was a naughty boy this afternoon, and I was obliged to punish him,” she returned quietly. “And Phyllis—Phyllis is not well.”

“Not well?” Moore became visibly alarmed. “What is the matter with her? Has the doctor been?”

“Yes; he says she has a bad sore throat, and must stay in bed. He suggested moving her to the south wing of the house, because it is warmer there and the aspect sunnier, so we have done so. And he doesn’t think much of Leslie’s old nurse, so he is going to send a trained nurse from the hospital, and perhaps an assistant as well.” She paused, out of breath. “He is coming again to-morrow morning,” she added rapidly, “so you can see him then.”

Moore tossed off a glass of wine, and excusing himself, rose from the table.

“I shall not wait until to-morrow morning,” he said, in a rough voice. “I shall see him to-night. But I must have a look at the child first. Poor little girl! A sore throat—” and without finishing the sentence he left the room.

There was a moment’s silence, and then the Countess also rose.

“I suppose I shall have to tell him,” she said, with an interrogative look at her two guests. “The child has a touch of diphtheria; that is why we have thought it best to isolate her at once. It is not serious at present, but of course there is no knowing how it may turn out. I think I had better go up to them, if you will not think me very rude. I am so sorry this should have happened just now; it is so unpleasant. But, of course, one cannot help these things.”

“Don’t apologise, dear,” said Patricia kindly. “I will amuse myself in the library until Mr. Holmes has finished his wine. Go to your husband now. I am sure you ought to be with him. It is very unfortunate altogether; I do hope Phyllis will soon be well.”

“I should advise you to tell Moore exactly what it is,” advised Holmes, as the ladies passed across the threshold. He knew that to keep the Premier in ignorance of the true nature of the illness would only serve to make matters worse, since he must inevitably find out in the course of two or three hours.

He smoked his cigar in solitude, a thoughtful expression on his face. The presence of Lady Patricia Montella in that household had caused him a deep sensation of astonishment, for he had not been aware of her arrival in England. He knew, of course, that Lady Chesterwood was a connection of hers by marriage; but even so, he was surprised that she should be friendly with Moore. Thirsting for information, he threw down his cigar half smoked, and rejoined her without delay. Without appearing unduly curious, he elicited the whole story of her pathetic separation. Then he inquired after his old friend, Montella, in almost affectionate terms, and expressed his regret that Parliament should have lost such a gifted and true young statesman.

“I always liked Montella,” he said, when he had related more than one reminiscence of past years; “but he had one weakness: he allowed himself to be ruled by his mother. Now, I have the greatest respect for Lady Montella, but I do not believe in petticoat interference. Montella was quite capable of riding his political horse without the aid of feminine spurs.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Holmes,” assented the girl, almost surprised at his perception; “but Lady Montella is a strange woman; she has the spirit of a Joan of Arc, and the self-discipline of a nun. I have often wished myself that Lionel were left more to act on his own initiative. His ideas are on a broader plane than his mother’s, although he may be less of a Jew.”

“Quite so. Dear me, but how the poor fellow did scold me for introducing the Assimilation Bill! And, by Jove! I think he was right. We’ve made a ghastly mistake over the whole business, Lady Patricia. You can tell him so if you like.”

Patricia was all attention.

“You mean that the result of the Expulsion is unsatisfactory,” she interrupted eagerly. “I thought so, judging by all the reports I had heard.”

The Cabinet Minister bent forward confidentially.

“Shall I tell you something?” he answered impressively. “England can not get along without Jewish money and Jewish brains; and she’s shipped all the best of it away—sent it to Palestine to enrich the Holy Land. That’s the plain truth—and a truth which is going to be expressed pretty forcibly by the people in Hyde Park next Saturday. Of course, Moore pooh-poohs it, and means to hold out to the end; but it strikes me that there will be a fairly sharp ministerial struggle before long.”

“And the result?”

“Ah, who can tell? I don’t think we have ever had such a feeble Government as there is now. There’s scarcely a man among them worth his salt. Moore still wields that sort of one-man power which is occasionally beneficial, and at times so dangerous; and I believe Moore’s mind on the Jewish question is warped. We’ve got to try and drag that rabid anti-Semitic feeling out of him: it’s no easy task.”

Patricia remembered what Mamie had told her concerning the Premier’s inmost feelings, and grew thoughtful.

“I wonder if I could do anything to change Mr. Moore’s opinions,” she said slowly. “I have seen so much of both sides that I ought to be able to speak with authority. At present he distrusts me; he has scarcely spoken a word to me this evening, but of course he may have just felt in a taciturn mood. If I can win him over from anti-Semitism to common sense, will you excuse the petticoat interference for once, Mr. Holmes?”

He smiled good-humouredly at her naïve use of his own expression, but quickly regained his gravity as the door opened to admit the Countess. The unfortunate little lady seemed full of trouble, and sank on to the settee with an expression of despair. Athelstan was behaving in a most ridiculous manner, and declared he would have no trained nurses creeping about the house.

“He wants me to nurse her myself, with the assistance of an old and trusted servant of his first wife’s,” she said, in a voice which was almost tearful. “He says Phyllis has a horror of strangers. But, Patricia, how can I? I know I’m not strong, and I should be sure to catch it. My throat feels quite sore already at the mere thought.”

She looked the picture of misery, with her pale face and troubled eyes. Patricia wondered that she could so easily collapse, but taking pity on her, made a sudden resolve.

“Would Mr. Moore be satisfied if I undertook to nurse her in your place?” she said impulsively, without giving herself time to consider the consequence. “Phyllis will probably remember me; I am not quite a stranger. And I am a good nurse—I like it. So if you will have me, I am quite willing to stay.”

Mr. Lawson Holmes cast her a glance of admiration. It seemed to him that her beautiful eyes shone with the light of heroism; and he recognised that hers was the material of which soldiers are made. But the Countess could not conceal her astonishment.

“You!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet. “Oh, Patricia, you can’t mean it? Why should you do it for the child of Athelstan Moore? And think of the responsibility and the risk. Diphtheria is so infectious. Are you not afraid?”

“Afraid? No.” The girl met her gaze bravely. “I shall not neglect the necessary precautions, you may be sure; but even if I do take the disease, it won’t matter—much. Away from my husband, I don’t care what happens to me, and that is the very reason why I shall be immune. Besides, this would be what Lionel calls a Mitzvah—a good deed which brings a blessing. Oh, I should like to do it; it would give me something to occupy my thoughts!”

Her words unconsciously betrayed the unhappiness of her present position. Her recklessness with regard to the danger amounted almost to desperation; and she seemed to have fully made up her mind. So the Countess, with a feeling almost of awe, went to acquaint the Premier of her unselfish offer; she could not understand her cousin’s frame of mind in the least.

The Premier manifested not a flicker of surprise. He returned with his wife to accept the offer with formal gratitude, but Patricia could see that in reality he was much stirred. Moreover, it pleased her to know that he had confidence in her ability, that he could bring himself to trust her with his precious child. Realising the tremendous responsibility she had taken upon herself, she sat down with trembling hand to write to Mrs. Lowther for what she required. She could imagine what that good lady would say when she read the note, and the flutter there would ensue at Ivydene. Truly the situation was a curious one, though not so outrageous as Mrs. Lowther would make out. But she had long ago made up her mind that life was full of the strangest inconsistencies, and had therefore no compunction in adding one more to the list.

“I have ordered my chauffeur to get the car ready,” said the Premier, when she had finished the note. “Will you come with me, Holmes?”

“With pleasure.” The Cabinet Minister rose with alacrity. “You are going to the doctor, I suppose.”

“Yes; but I haven’t any faith in him—he is only a local practitioner. I want him to get hold of that specialist, though—I’ve forgotten the man’s name, but you know whom I mean. He cured the Crown-Princess of Germany from the same complaint, and it was stated at the time that he was the only doctor in the world who could have pulled her through. I am certain my little girl will be all right if she is in his hands, and it will be a great comfort for me to have him. But I can’t for the life of me think of his name. It was something beginning with a K.”

“I know!” exclaimed the Countess, glad to be able to come to the rescue. “It was Dr. Kesten.”

Moore gave a sigh of relief.

“That’s right,” he replied, almost cheerfully. “Kesten. He’s a splendid doctor, and a really good and conscientious man. I believe he lives in Portland Place.”

“Dr. Kesten?” repeated Mr. Lawson Holmes, in astonishment. “Good gracious, Moore, you can’t have him. He’s in Palestine—one of the victims of the Expulsion. Have you forgotten that Kesten is a Jew?”

Patricia looked up with a startled expression on her face, and exchanged a glance with Mr. Holmes. Here indeed was a curious dénouement: Moore was personally feeling the dire result of his own Bill.

And the Premier in his rage and emotion forgot himself for once.

“Hang the Jews!” was his uncivil, but forcible remark.

Patricia found her post no sinecure. The first thing she did was to send Lady Chesterwood and her little boy to Ivydene; for Mamie’s fear of infection was so great that she would most certainly have caught the disease had she remained, even though the south wing in which the child lay was quite apart from the rest of the house. Moore’s foolish aversion to professional nurses entailed greater vigilance on the part of the two physicians who were attending the case, and they were obliged to visit the Hall three or four times in the course of the day. In reality the little girl was suffering from a peculiarly mild form of the disease, but her father was so nervous that the very pronouncement of the word “diphtheria” had frightened him beyond measure. For himself he entertained no fear—his was too strong a nature to admit of cowardice; but his love for his child was passionate almost to excess. Patricia had never seen anything like it in her life.

His time was divided between Downing Street, the House of Commons, and Ravenscroft Hall. At the Foreign Office he was dictatorial and shrewd; in the House his speeches lacked nothing of their usual brilliance; but as soon as he returned to the Hall he became a different man. The pomposity departed from him, his step became light, his voice subdued; and ascending the staircase on tiptoe, the usual question, “How is she?” fell almost pathetically from his lips. If she were a little better his happiness knew no bounds, but if worse, his spirits sank to zero; and one night, when the child was really in danger, there ensued a scene which the Hall servants remembered for months. The doctors would not allow him to remain in the room, so he paced the corridor, almost distraught; and as no one dared say a word to comfort him without the fear of instant dismissal, he was left to drink his cup of bitterness alone.

But Patricia, coming off duty an hour later, brought him the welcome news that Phyllis was asleep and the crisis almost past; and inducing him to accompany her to the adjoining housekeeper’s room, talked to him quietly for a little while. She looked pale from lack of sleep, and her eyes were heavy; but in his stress of mind and self-absorption he scarcely spared her a thought.

“Do you really think she will get better—on your word of honour?” he asked, for the hundredth time; “or are you only saying it to comfort me? I don’t want to be buoyed up by false hopes; I would rather know the worst. I— Oh dear, how my head seems to spin! Or is it the room that is going round like a top?”

The girl helped him to a chair, and forced him to take a little brandy.

“No wonder you are exhausted,” she said, when he was somewhat revived. “You are wearing yourself out; your nerves are constantly on the rack. I don’t understand you at all, Mr. Moore. In public life you have the courage and strength of a giant—I have been reading about you only this morning in the Post; but in private life—here—you behave just like a nervous woman. I really feel quite ashamed of you before the doctors. If you do not take care, they will form a very poor opinion of the Prime Minister’s fortitude.”

She spoke boldly, knowing that the rebuke was just what he needed, and that it would have a salutary effect. The Premier regarded her with astonishment, and a sharp rejoinder rose to his lips; but he repressed it, and the momentary gleam of anger died out of his eyes.

“You are right,” he returned, his hands falling dejectedly to his side; “but I have had so much worry lately; I think my nerves are unstrung. And you don’t know—what it is to love a child—as I love my Phyllis.”

Her eyes deepened with feeling. “Ah, but I do!” she said, with a sudden catch in her voice. “I too have a child—a little darling whom I may never see again, although he is as dear to me as your little girl is to you. But I am brave, or at least I try to be.... And Phyllis will get better. My case is more hopeless than yours.”

“Phyllis will get better?” He grasped at the words as a drowning man clutches a straw. “I pray God she may! I pray God she may!” Then he leant his head against his hands, and continued, as though speaking to himself: “I am not superstitious—a sensible man has no right to give way to such folly; but I thought the judgment of Heaven had fallen when Phyllis was taken ill. The Jews.... They are the bane of my life ... they would pay me out if they could. Pharaoh oppressed them, and was smitten with the ten plagues.... But I won’t be beaten; I won’t.... Not if fifty plagues come on my people—not if Phyllis dies. If Phyllis dies.... Good God, what am I saying? She must not die.... Any judgment from Heaven—but not that ... my one little ewe lamb. Eh?” he added thickly, as Patricia made a movement. “What was I talking about? The brandy has got into my head, I think. Let me go—into the garden; I must have air.”

He stumbled up to the French window, which, by means of a flight of steps, gave access to the lawn. Patricia assisted him to descend, and rang hastily for his valet. Then she returned to the sick-room, thereby incurring the displeasure of the doctor; for in the hours that she was not on duty it was necessary that she should rest.

“I am on my way to bed now,” she whispered, glancing tenderly at the unconscious child; “but I wanted to tell you something, doctor. Mr. Moore seems very much unstrung, and I should like you to prescribe for him before you go. He has to preside at a Cabinet Meeting to-morrow, and unless he sleeps to-night, I am sure he will be unable to attend.”

The physician nodded.

“Very well, I will, as soon as I have given my instructions for the night to nurse,” he whispered back. “And now, Lady Patricia, I must insist on you going to bed; otherwise, we shall be having you on the sick-list too.”

The girl smiled, and quietly withdrew; but although she was tired, she felt little inclination for sleep. The stray glimpse into the secret chambers of the Premier’s mind had filled her with all sorts of curious cogitations, and she could not help pondering on the strange character of the man. He was evidently suffering either from distorted mental vision or—as Mamie had said—from remorse; and his recently-grey hair and haggard features testified that his health was being injured in consequence. But if that was the case—if his part in connection with the Expulsion was weighing so heavily on his mind, why did he not seek to atone for his action by advocating retractive measures? If he were a brave man—and his brilliant Parliamentary career proved him to be a morally strong one—why did he shrink from owning himself to have been in the wrong? Was it cowardice or sheer obstinacy which made him hold on grimly to his original views in spite of his inmost convictions? And how long would he be able to maintain that line of conduct—how long before the great mind would over-balance itself, and travel along the course which led to insanity? Could it be possible that they should ever see “that noble and most sovereign reason, like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh?”

But the next morning she found him as abrupt and self-possessed as usual. All traces of his recent emotion had disappeared, and he had evidently regained complete command over himself. The child had passed a better night, and his matutinal visit to the sick-room caused him such satisfaction that he was able to leave for London almost as soon as the doctor had been. And that day his dialectics at the Foreign Office were more irresistible than ever; he was once more his old self, now that the danger to his child was past.

Patricia found the period of the little girl’s convalescence more trying than the actual illness, for there seemed more to do, and Phyllis was often peevish and cross. Lady Chesterwood and Mrs. Lowther called every day, and sometimes twice a day; but unless she changed all her clothes, for fear the germs of infection should—according to the Countess—lurk in the folds of her nursing costume, she could not see them, and often she was obliged to let them go away: so that all communication with the outer world had practically ceased for the present, and of the daily inquirers who drove up to the Hall she saw not one. She looked over the visitors’ book sometimes, and collected the numerous visiting-cards for Phyllis to play with; but although some of the names were so familiar that they called up vivid remembrances of the days of her early girlhood, she felt no desire to see any of these quondam friends. Whether they knew of her presence in the Premier’s mansion she knew not; but it was likely that Mamie had spread the news.

One afternoon, however, a card was brought up to her which dispelled her usual indifference, and caused the colour to mount to her cheeks. It bore the inscription “Sir Ferdinand Montella,” and on the reverse side the intimation of his immediate return to Haifa. Scarcely pausing to smooth her fair hair, Patricia rushed down to receive him; for although she had never seen him before, she looked upon him as a link from the East.

His visit was the best tonic she could have taken, for his breezy manner had an exhilarating effect. He brought good news of her beloved ones in Palestine, inasmuch as they were both well, and the baby bonnier than ever. He expressed himself willing to take back any messages she cared to send, and apologised deeply for not having come before.

“I was so busy with my affair,” he said, with the light of satisfaction in his eyes. “Thank goodness it’s all settled, and I’ve won the case. I was the cat’s-paw of another fellow, you know; and I could not have come forward before without betraying him. But now he is dead, and I have been able to prove my innocence; and now that I am a free and honourable man in the sight of the world, I am going back to marry my little Raie.”

Patricia held out her hands.

“I am very glad,” she said sincerely. “I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. And I hope you and Raie will be very happy; she is a sweet girl, and will make you an admirable wife.”

“So I think,” he returned, with a glad smile, as his grasp on her fingers relaxed. “I believe we were cut out for each other; it was love at first sight, anyway. But I don’t want to talk about myself, Patricia; I want to know something about you. Lionel will be full of questions when I get back. I was astonished when Mrs. Lowther informed me that you were here. Whatever made you walk direct into the lion’s mouth?”

“Providence, or a combination of circumstances,” she answered slowly. “When I advised Mrs. Lowther to rent Ivydene for a year, I had quite forgotten that Ravenscroft Hall was so near; and you see, Lady Chesterwood was in such trouble that I was bound to offer to help. I do hope Lionel will not be angry; I would never have become an inmate of the Premier’s household under any other circumstances, and I shall leave as soon as I can. They have treated me very courteously here; I cannot complain.”

“It seems so strange—so unnecessary,” he said, with a puzzled expression, “that you, a Montella by marriage, should go out of your way to nurse the child of an anti-Semite. It is heaping coals of fire on his head with a vengeance. I cannot understand how the man could accept your services if he has any pride about him at all.”

“You do not know him, Ferdinand. He has pride, but he would not let it stand in the way where the welfare of his child was concerned. Besides, I did it for Mamie’s sake; her husband was my first-cousin. And, do you know, I am glad I came. I believe I shall be able to convert the Premier before I leave.”

“Convert the Premier,” he repeated, with an ironical smile. “What to?—Judaism?”

She laughed.

“Not quite; but you are not far wrong. I want to cure him of his anti-Semitic mania, and so far I have progressed well. At first I dare not mention the Jewish question to him; but now that I have nursed his child through a serious illness, he is beginning to trust me, and to listen to what I choose to say.”

“But do you really think that you, a mere woman—I had almost said child—can influence Athelstan Moore?” he asked incredulously. “Why, I know of no one in England who is able to do that.”

Patricia was too sensible to be piqued by his scepticism.

“I do think so,” she returned, with enthusiasm. “Mr. Moore is a man who can be led, but not driven. You know what Shakespeare says: