Chapter II: Raie and the Tourist

The Princess had taken a fancy to Raie. She admired the girl’s winsome face, with its coronal of curly hair, and the animation which shone in her dark eyes. She liked, too, her naïve manner and natural freshness, for, in spite of her thoughtfulness, Raie was a child of Nature. In England the two had scarcely spoken, although they had met several times; but in Haifa the conditions of life were different, and the friendship, once begun, soon ripened. Thus it happened that Raie spent a great part of her time at the Mount Carmel Hotel, either lunching or dining with her friend.

The air of mystery which pervaded the Australian tourist still prevailed. He would give a certain amount of information about himself, but no more; and concerning his own life he was extremely reticent. He seldom ventured far into the town, and had not troubled to call at the Government House. What attracted him to Haifa, therefore, no one exactly knew; he had evidently come for a private purpose of his own.

Now the Princess possessed acute powers of perception. She soon saw that Mr. Merryweather took pleasure in Raie’s society, and that Raie reciprocated in like manner. So she set the seal of her approval on the acquaintance by giving them opportunities for its further cultivation; and in spite of her worldly wisdom she did not pause to consider whether such a friendship were desirable. The tourist was much older than Raie, and of his connections nothing was known. Yet she encouraged the girl to form a liking for him which gradually deepened into love.

He had travelled so much that conversation never languished for want of subject matter. Raie was profoundly interested in his graphic accounts of life in the bush, but she would have preferred to hear him talk about himself. She did not even know if her instinctive belief that he belonged to her own race was correct; for although they had often approached the subject, he had not yet confessed himself a Jew. She thought so much of him that she was determined to find out. It would make all the difference in the world if he were not a Jew.

He was fond of taking excursions in the surrounding country on horseback, and often remained away over night. He invited the Princess and Raie to picnic with him near the ruins of the Castellum Peregrinorum of the Crusaders one day, and seemed so bent upon their going, that they did not like to refuse. They set out at dawn, accompanied by two other gentlemen who were staying at the hotel, and three Arab servants. Their way lay along a cultivated plain between the mountains and the sea, with villages nestling on the slopes above them, and rocks and ruins below. The gaudily-dressed peasants gazed at them with distrust, evidently regarding them as intruders. Arrived at Athlit, they put up their horses at a neighbouring khan, and prepared to partake of a light repast. Their appetites had been sharpened by the ride.

Raie felt like a schoolgirl out for a holiday. She had come out with the express intention of enjoying herself, and she meant to fulfil it to the letter. Outside the khan lay a solemn-looking camel; immediately she made up her mind that she must have a ride.

The Arab in charge was a gentle-looking individual, with somewhat melancholy eyes. He wore both a tarbûsh and keffiyeh on his head, and his abbâ—or shawl—fell from his shoulders in graceful folds. He shrugged his shoulders when Mr. Merryweather’s servant proffered Raie’s request, and in consideration of _backsheesh_ allowed her to mount. This was easier said than done, for when the camel began to rise from the ground she was nearly thrown over his head. She clung on, however, with all the tenacity of which she was capable, and felt as if she had attained a victory when the animal set off at a jog-trot.

Mr. Merryweather walked alongside in order to keep her company, and endeavoured to sustain a conversation with the Arab on the way. When the girl declared that the motion gave her a peculiar sensation, he suggested a halt, and the animal was brought to a sudden standstill. Raie was not sorry to dismount, and gave a sigh of relief when her feet touched the ground. She had no desire to repeat the experience which had been hers on the sea.

Her companion paid the Arab, and sent the camel back to the khan. Then he drew Raie towards one of the fine carob-trees which abound in that district, and bade her rest beneath its shade. She settled herself comfortably on a boulder, and he flung himself down at her side. The opportunity for which he had sought had come.

“Miss Emanuel,” he said suddenly, “are you fond of Heine?”

The question was so unexpected that Raie glanced at him in surprise.

“Do you mean the German poet?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The girl waxed thoughtful.

“I admire his genius,” she replied, at length, “but some of his poems irritate me. He is so apt to descend from the sublime to the ridiculous, and to him absolutely nothing is sacred. He has the poet’s mind without the poet’s soul. What makes you think of Heine, though, just now?”

“I was thinking of a little poem I read of his a long time ago—‘Life’s Salutations.’ It was about meeting each other on the highway of life, but having little time to greet before the postillion gives the starting signal, and we have to be off again.

“‘In passing each other we nod and we greet
With our handkerchiefs waved from the coaches,
We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet,
And speed on, despite all reproaches.’

That seems to apply to our case, does it not? We have had time to greet each other, but that is all. The signal has been given for my coach to start.”

“Do you mean that you are going away?” Raie asked, with a sinking at her heart.

He nodded his head.

“Yes,” was his reply. “I have stayed here much longer than I intended, already. I must be in London at the beginning of next month.”

“You are going to England!” she exclaimed, with disappointment in her voice. If he were going to England, he could not be a Jew; and if he were not a Jew, he could be nothing to her. She glanced at him with an unspoken question in her eyes, whilst across her bright face flitted an expression of pain.

He captured one of her little sunburnt hands, and held it between his own.

“You are sorry—Raie?” he said, in a quiet voice. “Tell me the truth.”

“Yes, I am sorry.” She glanced away, and refused to meet his gaze. “I can’t help being sorry. You have been so kind to me.”

She had never felt so near crying in her life, and yet she could have laughed at her own foolishness. A mist rose before her eyes, and the mountains in the distance seemed blurred. She released her hand, and fumbled for her tiny lace handkerchief. Mr. Merryweather’s features relaxed into an expression of gentleness.

“Raie,” he said, with a tender accent on the name, “I am going to England, but I am not bound to stay there. In three months’ time I can be back in Haifa—that is, if you will give me permission to come.”

“I?” she exclaimed evasively. “What has it to do with me?”

“Everything. If I return to Haifa it will only be for you. Perhaps I have no right to speak to you like this, dear, but I could not go away without declaring myself. Raie, look me in the face and tell me the truth. Do you love me?”

He raised her chin gently with his two hands, and brought her face on a level with his own. The girl’s cheeks grew crimson as she looked back into the depths of his eyes. She answered not a word, but he was satisfied.

“You do love me,” he said, with conviction. “I can read the answer in your eyes.”

There was a moment of silence as he relaxed his hold. The girl was undergoing an inward struggle, and her heart beat fast. She was wondering what the Montellas would think of her secret lover, and what her mother would say. Would they be angry with her, and consider her conduct underhand? Would they approve of one who was presumably a Christian and a wanderer? Would it not be wiser to send him away before it was too late? In less than a minute these suggestions crowded in upon her mind.

Mr. Merryweather seemed to guess her thoughts.

“I wonder if you love me enough to trust me, dear,” he said slowly. “You have a right to want to know something about the man you intend to marry, but I cannot tell you all about myself just yet. I can assure you, though, that I come of a good family—my father is a baronet; and although I am over thirty, I am a bachelor, and have never had a love-affair. More than this I cannot tell you now, but you shall know everything some day. Until then, will you be content to take me on trust? Will you promise to become my wife?”

He spoke in the sharp, disjointed sentences which were—with him—a sign of deep feeling. Raie looked up at him almost piteously, and for the moment knew not how to reply. He was so much older and stronger than herself that she instinctively felt that resistance would be useless; besides, she did not want to resist. But something within urged her not to be rash, and she felt compelled to listen to her conscience.

“I do trust you,” she answered, almost inaudibly, “but I cannot promise to become your wife. I owe so much to Lady Montella that I could not—I dare not—engage myself without her consent. You see I believe in you because—because I know that you are good; but in her case it would be so different. I am sure she would not give her consent to our engagement unless she were satisfied that you—that you—oh, I can’t explain, but you know what I mean. And she is so particular that I am afraid she would never allow me to marry away from my religion. I suppose you are—not a Jew?”

She studied his features as though their contour would reveal what she sought. He was neither fair nor dark, and his life in the open had lent a ruggedness to his countenance which baffled her completely. Fortunately she was not kept long in suspense.

“That objection can be easily dispelled,” he answered, with a slight touch of colour. “I have the right to call myself a Jew.”

She gave a sigh of relief.

“And yet you are going to England?” she questioned, not yet satisfied. “And—and—Merryweather is not a Jewish name?”

He bent down and regarded her steadfastly once more.

“Did you not say you would trust me, Raie?” he rejoined, with a touch of reproach. “What if, for a certain grave reason, I have been obliged to change my name? Listen, child,”—his voice became almost stern—“I am a Jew; but for many years past I have made mankind my brethren, the world my country, and God in Nature my religion. When I was a youth I was expelled from home and people for a crime which I never committed, since when I have lived alone. Recently I have had reason to believe that by returning to England I may be able to prove my innocence, and as I have made my fortune out on the goldfields, I shall have the power that money can give. I can tell you no more, perhaps I have told you too much already; but I have made you a most serious confidence. Surely you can trust me in return?”

Her face was full of trouble.

“I do trust you!” she repeated, with a catch in her breath; “but what you have told me makes it harder still. Unless she knows the whole truth, I know Lady Montella will not consent.”

“She must know nothing for the present. Not a word of what I have told you must pass your lips. Raie, my darling, I must insist on this for the sake of us both. Promise me you will not say anything of this.”

She promised—but with reluctance, because she hated to have a secret from her foster-aunt.

“Won’t you tell me your real name?” she asked half wistfully. “I do not want to think of you as ‘Frank Merryweather’ if that is only a pseudonym.”

But he shook his head.

“You must have patience a little longer, dear,” he rejoined. “I dare not tell you yet.”

She glanced at him with reproach in her eyes, but forbore to put it into words. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead, and then assisted her to rise. They were both silent on the way back to the khan, and Raie, at least, was deep in thought. Suddenly a flash of light as dazzling as a revelation burst in upon her mind. She knew now why her lover’s personality had always seemed so familiar to her. The son of a Jewish baronet—expelled from home—fortune made in Australia. It was impossible that there could exist two such men.

She stopped short in her walk, and faced him with excitement.

“It is not necessary for you to tell me your name,” she said hurriedly. “I know it already. I first heard of you from my mother some months ago, and I have seen your photograph. You are the son whom Sir Julian so cruelly disinherited. You are Lionel’s half-brother—Ferdinand Montella!”