Chapter I: Purim in Haifa

Haifa, the most modern city in Palestine, lay at the southern point of the Bay of Acre, about fifty miles north of Jaffa. Situated amid palm-trees, it retained its Eastern character whilst bearing witness to the innovations of the West. During the two years which had elapsed since the English Edict of Expulsion, the great army of Jewish artisans had laboured well. Rows upon rows of white bungalows had sprung up almost, as it seemed, in a night; and although they could not boast of the substantiality of their construction, they could be improved by degrees. The greater part of the population consisted of British refugees, who, linked together by the same home ties, concentrated themselves as much as possible in one quarter, leaving their brethren of other nationalities to settle in different parts of the country. Therefore, although it was an accepted rule that Hebrew was to be learnt and spoken, they instinctively clung to their native tongue.

They were very aristocratic, these exiled English Jews. Like many English people who travel abroad, they considered themselves vastly superior to all the foreigners with whom they came into contact. They looked down on their poor Polish and Roumanian brethren, who in their turn considered the English as irreligious moderns, scarcely worthy of the name of Jews. The brotherly feeling of equality which their leaders endeavoured to instil within them was as yet entirely lacking. Although of identical race and religion, and gathered together under one banner, the distinctions of class and nationality held them aloof.

It was the eve of Purim, the Feast of Lots. By decree of the council, a public holiday had been proclaimed; for it was intended that this day should annually be observed, and that the rejoicings should be akin to the nature of a carnival. It was not until dusk, however, that the festivities began. The day had been unusually hot, even for Syria, and the majority of the inhabitants had chosen to spend the holiday indoors. At sunset came the breeze, and the heat of the day was replaced by a refreshing and welcome coolness. No matter how hot the day in Haifa, the nights were always cool.

In a sequestered corner of a city roof-garden were Lionel Montella and his wife. Above them the moon shone with dazzling splendour, making the numberless hills stand out as sentinels on guard, and causing the waters of the bay to sparkle like myriads of jewels. Patricia reclined against the cushions of her chair, and inhaled the fragrance of the breeze with keen enjoyment. She found the Syrian climate so trying that she was thankful for every breath of air.

The two years in Palestine had changed her little, and she was still a delicately fair and beautiful girl. Devotedly attached to her husband and baby boy, she found no occasion to pine for her friends in the West. She had always possessed the power of adapting herself to her surroundings, and she soon became accustomed to the strangeness of her new life. Recently the Princess Charles von Felsen-Schvoenig had arrived to “do” Palestine, and was at present in Haifa, so that she was not entirely destitute of friends.

“The Princess is late,” she remarked, as Lionel took a seat at her side. “She said she would come here to see the fun.”

“Perhaps her carriage has some difficulty in getting through the crowd,” Montella replied. “I am just wondering if this carnival idea of Engelmacher’s is a wise one. It means practically setting the people loose.”

“I rather like the idea,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “The people have had such a serious time of it that it will do them good to relax for once. I do not see why they should not behave as well as the people at Nice or Cannes. The soldiers will keep them within bounds.”

“I can scarcely reconcile myself to the thought of vociferous Jewish rejoicing,” he rejoined. “We have sung in the minor key for so many years. Do you know, dearest, these last two years seem to have passed like a dream. I have difficulty in convincing myself sometimes that I am awake.”

“A dream of hard work, then,” was her reply. “To be governor of a city so cosmopolitan as Haifa, and where the inhabitants have scarcely settled down, is no sinecure, Lal, dear. I know of no man, not excepting Dr. Engelmacher himself, who could have done so much in so short a time. It is no wonder that there is already a streak of grey in your hair.”

He bent down and kissed her with eyes full of tenderness. His life in Palestine would have been almost unbearable without Patricia’s sweet sympathy and encouragement; for there was much in the city and the people over whom he was placed that vexed him sometimes beyond endurance. Her love was the sustaining power which made the rough places smooth, and she possessed so winning a manner that she could exert a greater influence over the people by a single sentence than he could by a long and forcible address. Political administration could do much to improve the conditions of the city, but it could not instil a high moral tone.

The rustle of silken garments announced the approach of ladies, and Montella rose from his chair. The Princess, clad in a gown of filmy white, was accompanied by Lady Montella and Raie. Just at that moment the sound of cheering came up to them from below.

“My little car has met with the approval of the people,” the Princess said, smiling. “It is the one I had in Rome.”

Montella went over to the parapet and looked down. A small white swan-shaped car, drawn by four Arabian ponies, was being driven slowly away. It was decorated with choice flowers, and illuminated with tiny lamps, resulting in a fairy-like effect. In the procession which would presently set out for the mock hanging of Haman’s effigy, it would serve as Queen Esther’s triumphal car.

“Lady Montella took me over your new house this afternoon,” the Princess informed Patricia, as she settled herself at her side. “It will be the show-place of Haifa. I like your Roman atrium immensely. Who designed it?”

“Lionel. He is so determined that I should have an artistic home that he has spared no pains to make it beautiful for me. That is why the builders have taken so much time over it. For myself, I am quite happy in this little place, in spite of its plainness. It was a sort of hospice before we came, you know.”

She smiled as she thought of her husband’s enthusiasm over the house he was having built. That house was his hobby, and he took the same pride in it as an artist over his picture. And she knew the motive of his interest was concentrated in herself; in his eyes there was no home which could be beautiful enough for his wife.

“You must invite me to come and stay with you when it is finished,” said the Princess lightly. “Meanwhile I must be content with my exalted position on the top of Mount Carmel. It is something, is it not, to stay in the very place where Elijah conquered the prophets of Baal? I love Mount Carmel!”

“You seem quite enamoured of Palestine altogether,” said Montella, joining the group. “I did not think you would stay so long, Princess—you who have seen so much of other countries.”

“I do like Palestine,” she admitted readily. “I like the Oriental colouring, and it amuses me to note the curious blending of types and nationalities to be found here. Besides, Palestine possesses an interest all its own. I am not religiously inclined myself; but it is, after all, the _Holy Land_.”

“The Holy Land!” repeated Patricia musingly. “Do you know of what the phrase puts me in remembrance? Why, of the dreaded Scripture lessons I had in the days of my childhood. My governess used to make me learn the exact position of every place mentioned in the Bible, until I could almost find them, blindfolded, on the map. I am afraid I used to hate the Holy Land in those days. I never dreamt that I should go there myself.”

“And do you like it better now that you are here?”

“Yes; but I should like any place for so long as my husband were with me.”

She glanced affectionately at Lionel. The Princess sighed. Perhaps a pang of compunction smote her for having left her own husband to lead a solitary life in the castle at Felsen-Schvoenig. Hers was a curious blending of character which the German Prince could not understand. She was alternately defiant and yielding; unfortunately, whenever she came into contact with her husband, the defiance predominated.

“To-day’s mail brought me a letter from Mamie,” she said, after a moment’s silence. “She seems to be getting on very well with her new husband, considering Moore’s temper. She says that he is more interesting than Chesterwood, because she never knows what sort of a mood he will be in next. There is something in that, you know.”

Patricia smiled.

“How does she like being the Prime Minister’s wife?” she asked.

“Oh, Athelstan is horrid in that way,” the Princess replied vaguely. “He doesn’t believe in women meddling with politics; and won’t tell her any State secrets.”

“Sensible man!” remarked Montella, with a playful glance at his wife; and then the cheering having begun anew, he returned to the parapet.

“The procession is coming,” announced Raie, who was looking down on the crowd. “Look: ‘_What shall be done to the man whom the King delighteth to honour?_’ There is the Scroll of Esther. I suppose they are going to the synagogue to read it.”

The procession was headed by the students of the new Haifa Jews’ College in full dress, and was unenlivened by the strains of any brass band. Instead, the weird chanting of Psalms in Hebrew smote the air, the voices sounding clear, but somewhat harsh. Men of all sorts and conditions followed on: the swarthy Pole walked side by side with the ruddy Saxon, the fair and slender Jerusalemite with the wiry Roumanian. Coming from a source so heterogeneous, they were yet able to sink their national differences on one common meeting-ground; and Hebrew, that sacred tongue of their fathers, served as a language for them all.

Lady Montella, with her arm within her son’s, watched them with swelling heart. To her, there was a deeper significance than the mere joy of Purim in the procession of rejoicing Jews. The chord of racial nationalism which lay so far down in her nature responded as to an harmonious touch, and quivered with an emotion which could scarcely be expressed in words. Years ago she had dreamt of a free gathering under the sign of the Shield of David. It seemed as if her dream had at last come true.

“Can I go down amongst the crowd, Aunt Inez?” asked Raie, breaking in upon her reverie. “I want to have a look at all the funny things the men are selling.”

“It would not be safe, dear,” Lady Montella replied. “You would need a stronger escort than Anne.”

“You can come with me presently, Raie,” volunteered the Princess, noticing the girl’s air of disappointment “If Lady Montella has no objection, you shall spend the night with me at the Mount Carmel Hotel.”

Raie was delighted, and having obtained permission, went to get ready forthwith. An hour later they were being driven through the densely thronged streets. The festivities had taken a more hilarious turn, but there was nothing riotous in the behaviour of any of the people. When the Jew rejoices as a religious duty, he does it with his whole heart; but as he is not addicted to drink, he is able to keep his merriment within bounds. The throwing of the modern confetti and the trampling underfoot of Haman’s effigies constituted the chief source of amusement. Indoors the better-class families were celebrating the occasion by a grand Purim feast.

Arrived at the summit of the mount, they found the hotel in a state of confusion. A tourist—arrived only that day—had been attacked by an Arab in one of the caves, and—it was said—lay in a critical condition. It was the first time for many years that an outrage had been committed so near the town.

The Princess was much concerned, for she had made the acquaintance of the tourist in question immediately after his arrival.

“His name is Frank Merryweather, and he comes from Australia,” she said to Raie, who was always anxious for information. “He is one of the finest men I have ever seen.”

“He is not a Jew?” affirmed the girl, with interrogation.

“I am not sure. He is the sort of man one can’t easily place; but as he spoke of going on to England shortly, I suppose he is not.”

Later in the evening, the physician, who happened to be staying in the hotel, informed them that his patient’s wound was not so serious as had been feared. The next morning the patient himself was brought up to the roof-garden to enjoy the air before the heat of the day.

The Princess and her friend were up early, and found him propped up on a couch beneath a shady palm. The air was fragrant with the breath of tropical flowers, and was made melodious by the sweet carolling of the birds. The sick man lay with his eyes closed, but he opened them as he heard the rustling of a woman’s dress. His glance first fell on the stately figure of the Princess, and his features relaxed in greeting. Then he looked at Raie, who, in a simple linen gown which suited her well, might have stood for a picture of perfect girlhood.

“Miss Emanuel, Mr. Merryweather,” said the Princess; and Raie shook hands with a new tinge of colour in her cheeks. Then an almost involuntary look passed between them—the intuitive sign when Jew meets Jew.

“We were distressed to hear of your accident last night,” the Princess said, as they took their seats beside him. “Do tell us about it. Do you feel better this morning?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” he replied, in a genial voice. “It was a mere scratch, which the people chose to magnify into a serious wound. I shall be as right as ninepence pretty soon. It was my own fault for prying where I wasn’t wanted. I got into one of the caves on the other side of the mount, not knowing that it was the parlour of an Arab gentleman until he set on me and whipped out a knife. I wouldn’t have intruded if I had known it was his den. I guess I’ll keep to the township for the future, anyway.”

“Have you been long in Syria?” asked the Princess, when they had both commented on the adventure. “I suppose you have visited Jerusalem and the neighbourhood?”

He answered in the negative.

“I came from Port Said to Jaffa, and from Jaffa to here,” he explained. “I am really _en route_ from Australia to England.”

Raie wondered what business had brought him to Haifa, but she was too well-bred to ask.

“I suppose England is your home?” she said gently, thinking that there was no harm in questioning so far.

“I have no home, Miss Emanuel,” was his prompt reply. “The world is my home.”

There was a touch of sadness in his words, as well as in his voice. The girl glanced up suddenly, and meeting the gaze from his deep eyes looked as suddenly away. She felt instinctively that this was a man who had been brought into contact with the rough side of life, but who yet retained his natural refinement of birth. He interested her strangely, and so strongly that she longed to find out more about him. If he were a Jew, how was it that he intended to go to England? Surely he must be aware of the expulsion of the Jews?

She was so impressed by his personality that she could not help thinking of him, even after her departure from the hotel. She visited her people—who lived in one of the white houses in the suburbs—later in the day, and could scarcely refrain from mentioning him to them. She was glad, however, that she was able to check herself in time, for Mrs. Emanuel’s badinage was the last thing that she desired. In talking to her mother, however, a half-forgotten chord of remembrance was stirred in her brain—a psychological connection between Mr. Merryweather and a former conversation. She tried to fathom it out, but the solution escaped her. One thing she was certain about: she had seen something of the tourist before.