Chapter XII: Montella’s Old Nurse

The Montella-Byrne alliance evoked no little comment in society and the Press, and it was tacitly agreed that Lady Patricia should be socially punished for her offence. Nevertheless, friends sprang up in defence of the newly-married pair from the most unexpected quarters, and Patricia found that she was not to lose all her Christian acquaintance after all. When Parliament adjourned for the Christmas recess, she and her husband travelled to a village near Thorpe Burstall, in the vicinity of which was situated the Montellas’ country seat. They arrived there at noon on Christmas Eve, and to their complete surprise, received an ovation at the railway station. The villagers, too loyal to be affected by the anti-Jewish agitation, remembered only the never-failing kindness they had received at the hands of the late Sir Julian Montella, and turned out in full force to welcome his son’s bride. Between the station and Burstall Abbey two arches of welcome had been erected, and although the quantity of highly-coloured paper with which they were adorned conduced to a somewhat crude effect, to the happy pair they were not lacking in beauty. When the second was reached, four stalwart men insisted on taking the horses out of the carriage, and themselves dragged the vehicle to its destination. Surely there could be no greater honour than this!

Amidst the joyous sound of cheering they alighted and entered the house. Montella’s heart was so full that he could scarcely find words in which to frame his thanks. The devotion of the people, coming at a time when he had had nothing but unfavourable criticism on all sides, could not fail to touch him deeply. It showed him that the burning fever of anti-Semitism had at least not been permitted to penetrate here, and that it was still possible to show good feeling towards a Jew. He reciprocated by inviting them to dinner in the large hall on New Year’s Day, an invitation which, needless to say, was unanimously accepted.

Burstall Abbey—which was built in the Gothic style—had come into the Montellas’ possession in 1870. It was a fine old place, and Sir Julian had taken pride in seeing that it was kept in good repair. There had been two chapels attached, the first of which had fallen into decay many years ago. The second had been transformed into a dining-room, and was one of the finest apartments in the house. The altar had long since been done away with, and its place was now occupied by a massive chiffonier; but the oak wainscot and mullioned windows remained, as well as the high-pointed arches and lofty roof.

“What would the old monks say if they could see us enjoying our lunch here?” remarked Patricia laughingly, as she sat down to the table. “They would call us vandals and barbarians, I suppose.”

She was so delighted with everything in the place, that Lionel was all the more grieved that the property would so soon pass out of his hands. It seemed such a great pity to have to give up the Abbey, where both he and his father had been born. There were so many tender memories and associations of his childhood connected with it, that it would be like renouncing part of his own personality. But when the Edict was proclaimed there would be no other alternative; and sell it he must.

“I wish my father would take it over,” Patricia said eagerly, when they had discussed the question several times. “We can ask him to hold it in trust for us; some day we may be able to have it back again. Shall I write to him about it, Lionel?”

“If you like, dear; but there is no immediate hurry. You are more hopeful than I am,” he added half sorrowfully. “Some day to me means no day.”

Patricia looked up quickly and noticed the little furrow on his brow.

“It is not like you to be despondent, Lal,” she said, with a touch of reproach. “You have worried too much, and eaten too little of late I think. I want you to promise me not to give another thought to the Jews whilst we are down here. Let us be happy as long as we can.”

Had she been less unselfish, the girl would have been jealous of the subject which engrossed so much of her husband’s attention; but she was so anxious to be his helpmate as well as his wife, that she concentrated her own interest on the same question. She knew that when the call to action came he was the man of all men to be inspired with hope, and to press on towards the end he had in view. It was the forced inaction—the waiting for events—which proved such a strain to his mental system, and it was for this reason that she sought to divert his thoughts elsewhere. She encouraged him to go out as much as possible, and scoured the surrounding country with him in his motor. There were also his numerous cottages to be inspected and his favourite tenants to be visited, for Montella was not only landlord, but friend.

It was while they were on their peregrinations through the village that they came across one Anne Whiteside, who had once been Lionel’s nurse. They happened to meet her just outside her own dwelling, and she insisted on their entering to partake of tea. The Montellas, nothing loath, stepped into her little parlour, and settled themselves comfortably on the stiff horse-hair sofa. It was a pleasant little room in spite of its plainness, and everything in it was scrupulously clean. There was an old-fashioned piano which had probably not been opened for years, and a still more old-fashioned cabinet. The table—round in shape—was covered by an elaborately worked cloth, upon whose surface rested a number of books, including a huge Family Bible.

The old dame took such evident pleasure in preparing the tea, that the visitors felt no compunction in giving her the trouble. She toasted the cakes in the kitchen, but popped into the parlour every few minutes, fork in hand, to assure them that she would not be long. When all was ready, she donned her best widow’s cap, and took her seat at the head of the table. Then Montella inquired after Tom.

“Oh, Tom’s well enough,” she replied, with affability. “He’s grown mightily since you saw him last, Master Linie, only his poor brain seems to stand still. He is sitting in his corner of the kitchen, looking at a picture-book the lady up at the lodge has given him. He’s mighty fond of pictures, is my Tom.”

The “Master Linie” caused a smile to flit across Patricia’s face, and immediately she called up the vision of her husband as a child in frocks and pinafores.

“Is Tom your little grandson?” she asked.

The old nurse nodded.

“Yes; leastways, he isn’t a little boy, for he will be fifteen next March, and he’s an orphan, poor lad! Perhaps you would like to see him, my lady, after tea?”

Patricia answered in the affirmative, and proceeded to attack a somewhat substantial toasted bun. She knew that if she did not do justice to the tea, Mrs. Whiteside would feel aggrieved, so she strove courageously to demolish her share of the feast. Her duty fulfilled, she followed her kindly hostess to the kitchen, where the shining cleanliness of the stove and culinary utensils excited her admiration. In a corner by the window sat the afflicted boy. Patricia went over to him, and held out her hand.

He was small for his age, but he had a large and peculiarly-shaped head. His abnormally developed forehead contrasted almost grotesquely with the receding chin, and his small nose was out of proportion with both. His eyes were large, and surmounted by heavy lids, but there was little intelligence in their depths. They roamed shiftily from one object to another, never concentrating their gaze on anything for more than two or three seconds at a time. His mouth was large and weak, and he was unable to close it with firmness. Moreover, he was afflicted by an impediment in his speech, which added to the difficulty he experienced in making himself understood. To strangers, it was hard to understand the purpose of the poor lad’s existence, for to the end of his life he could be nothing but a useless burden. But his grandmother loved him, and never considered him a load of care. Since her husband’s death, she had saved and pinched in order to put by enough to keep the boy when she was gone. It was nothing to her that he could not understand and appreciate her self-denial; all the wealth of her affection was lavished on the lad. He took no notice of Patricia’s outstretched hand, but glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, whilst Mrs. Whiteside coaxed him to say “How do you do?” to the lady. Montella’s deep voice seemed to attract his attention more than Patricia’s gentle tones, and an expression which was almost intelligent passed over his countenance as he gazed steadily for a moment at the stalwart figure of the man. Montella noticed it, and smiled back encouragingly, but he could not persuade the boy to speak.

“Do you think he has improved at all?” he inquired of the grandmother, whose face beamed with pride. “I suppose he is not able to go to school?”

“Oh, no; I couldn’t bear to trust him out of my sight, and to think that the other boys might make game of him. Besides, he could not learn anything, poor lamb. There will be time enough for him to learn when he has put off this mortal flesh, and received his incorruptible inheritance.”

She spoke so cheerfully that Lionel was puzzled.

“Do you mean when he has finished with this life?” he asked.

She nodded.

“That thought is my greatest comfort, Master Linie,” she replied. “You see, if poor Tom cannot do any work in the world by reason of his poor weak brain, he cannot commit sins either. I would far rather have him as he is than see him grow up to drink and gamble like Widow Robson’s son next door. And I know that the Lord will make up to him in the next world for all he has missed in this; so you see that it will all come right in the end, after all.”

“What faith you have!” exclaimed Patricia, in admiration. “I suppose that you would have him cured if you could, all the same?”

“Certainly, my lady; I would travel to the other side of the earth if I thought that I should find an infallible cure at the end of the journey; but as the doctors have assured me over and over again that nothing can be done for the boy, I am resigned to the inevitable. As long as the Lord spares him to me I shall never complain.”

“Your resignation is exemplary, nurse,” said Montella, as they returned to the little parlour; and then Patricia having refastened her jacket, they took their leave.

They saw more of Mrs. Whiteside, however, before they went back to town. She had heard something of the anticipated Edict, and desired full information on the subject. Leaving Tom in the charge of a neighbour, she came up to the Abbey one morning, dressed in her best. The Montellas were in the library discussing a letter they had received from Dr. Engelmacher. The news was good, insomuch as building operations on the portion of land between Haifa and Akka, stretching to the Sea of Galilee, had now commenced.

“Haifa will be our capital for the present,” the great leader wrote, after he had given vent to his jubilant feelings. “There is a fairly good harbour here, except when the wind is in the north-west. The town seems more capable of improvement and extension than any other on the coast of Palestine, and there is already a Jewish colony near by. By the time you and your charming wife come out, my dear Montella, your place of residence will be ready for your occupation. Picture to yourself a magnificent white-painted, flat-roofed house situated amidst olive-trees, with Mount Carmel to look down upon you, and hill after hill as far as eye can reach. Why, you will wonder how you could have remained in prosaic London for so many months at a time. And the thought that we are no longer on sufferance, but that this is our own country—our own little republic—will be best of all!”

He was not lacking in enthusiasm, this big, burly, and usually matter-of-fact doctor. His letter brimmed over with expressions of cheery optimism, and he refused to be disheartened by those who opposed his schemes. What mattered the growlings of France and Russia so long as Turkey could be conciliated by _backsheesh_? Once the Palestinian negotiations were concluded and the treaty signed, he was certain his people need have no fear.

Montella put the letter away as Mrs. Whiteside was shown into the room. To the old nurse every chair in the place was familiar, and she entered with the air of one who knew her way about. She remained standing, however, and refused to be seated. She did not wish to detain Master Linie and her ladyship; she had only come to make a request. Lionel expressed his willingness to grant it whatever it might be. He thought she might want to change her abode, or to have some improvements made to the cottage, or something of a like nature. He was always ready to meet the wishes of his tenants, including this one, in spite of the fact that she lived rent free. But Mrs. Whiteside’s desire lay in another direction altogether; she was quite satisfied with the present condition of her house.

“Is it true that if Parliament persecutes the Lord’s ancient people you will go and live in the Holy Land?” she asked, in her quaint way. “Mr. Bell, the policeman, said you might; but I said you would never leave Burstall Abbey for good.”

“It will be a case of needs must, I am afraid, Anne,” Montella replied, noticing the look of concern on her face. “If it comes to being false to Judaism or leaving the country, Lady Patricia and I will have to go. But I will not sell the Abbey except to some good and responsible man, and you need have no fear that you will suffer by the change. Your house belongs to you, nurse, and no one shall rob you of it. I will tell my solicitor to prepare a document to that effect.”

The dame’s eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that, Mr. Linie,” she said quickly, with a touch of reproach. “Only it will nearly break my heart to see strangers in the old place. It was your grandfather who first got me a situation down here, and I’ve been here ever since. I remember every birth, marriage, and death in the family, and I’ve just counted time by those events.”

“You have always been a faithful retainer, nurse,” he rejoined kindly. “It is gratifying to know that our departure will be regretted.”

“Ay, it will be regretted by every man, woman, and child in the place, but by me most of all. Mr. Linie, will you do me a favour—the greatest I’ve ever asked of you? Will you take me and my boy with you when you go?”

It was out at last, and the old woman’s form quivered with excitement. If he were to refuse, it would be the greatest disappointment she had ever received. She was so devoted to the very name of Montella that she could not bear to be left behind. She watched Lionel’s face as she put the question, and awaited his answer in an agony of suspense. Lady Patricia drew forward a chair, and made her sit down. She could see that the nurse was intensely moved.

“We intend dismissing our staff of servants both in London and down here if we go,” the young man replied thoughtfully. “We shall be expected to employ Jewish labour as much as possible in the new land.”

“But you will have to employ some Gentile servants to work for you on your Sunday, sir,” she interposed eagerly. “I could see to that for you, and I could do all sorts of odd jobs for your lady and Lady Montella. I am getting old, maybe, but I can get about just as well as ever I could. I am sure you could manage the matter, Mr. Linie, if you were to try.”

The pleading in her manner touched Patricia.

“Say yes, Lionel,” she said to her husband, in a quiet voice. “As Mrs. Whiteside seems so anxious to accompany us, it would be a pity not to take her with us if we go.”

Lionel smiled.

“The Queen hath spoken: so be it,” he returned lightly. “Very well, nurse, I will promise you this. If we go, you shall go with us.”

“And Tom, too, sir?”

“Yes, certainly. We should not think of parting you from your boy.”

The old nurse was not effusive in her gratitude, but her eyes shone as she thanked them and went away.

“I believe that woman would be faithful to the death,” Lionel said, as the door closed behind her. He felt that it was good to be the possessor of such loyal allegiance.