Chapter III: A Girl in Love

He met her gaze of astonishment with a curious expression on his face.

“Ferdinand Montella is dead,” he returned slowly, “or at least he is sleeping. For the present Frank Merryweather remains to take his place. You are a clever child, Raie. I did not think you would find me out so easily.”

“I seemed, somehow, to know you from the first,” she said gladly, as they continued their walk. “There was something about your personality which gave me the impression of having met you before. I suppose I never have met you before; but your ways of looking and speaking are very like your poor father’s, and of course I knew him well.”

The adjective arrested his attention.

“You do not mean to say that my father is—” He broke off shortly. “Why did you say ‘poor’?”

“Because he is dead.” Then realising her abruptness, she was filled with compunction. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she added respectfully. “I ought not to have told you like that. I made sure that you knew; it was in all the papers. He died over three years ago.”

The tourist’s face grew grave, and unconsciously hardened.

“I have lived practically away from civilisation for some time, where no news could reach me,” he rejoined, “but I do not suppose I should have been sent for, even had it been possible. Sir Julian treated me very unjustly, Raie, and I find it hard to forget. Still, he was my father, and loved me when I was a child. I am sorry he has died believing me guilty.”

Raie was silent for a few moments, and left him to his own reflections; but before they rejoined their party, she spoke again.

“Why did you come to Haifa without making yourself known to your people, Ferdinand?” she asked, eager for information.

“Frank, dear, not Ferdinand—for the present,” he corrected, starting slightly at the name. “My coming to Haifa was a mere chance, and it was not until I arrived here that I learnt that my brother Lionel was Governor. I suppose Burstall Abbey has been sold? Who lives there now?”

“It belongs to Earl Torrens, Lionel’s father-in-law; but it is standing empty for the present. Do you remember the nurse—Anne—from Thorpe Burstall? She came with us to Palestine, and is with us now.”

“Anne Whiteside? Yes, I remember her well. I must be careful, or she will recognise me. She was always very shrewd.”

Raie glanced up at him thoughtfully.

“I wish you would go and see Lady Montella and Lionel before you go away,” she said, with a touch of entreaty. “I am sure they would receive you well.”

He shook his head.

“I intend to have nothing to do with the Montellas until my innocence has been proved,” he rejoined firmly. “I do not desire pity or forgiveness; I want only justice.”

“But you will claim your title, surely? Even if it is not of much value away from England, it is your right. Some day we may all return.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“For myself I care nothing; I have roughed it too long to wish for anything of the sort. If I claim it, dearest, it will be for you.”

The colour came into her cheeks, and she made no reply. Of all the strange coincidences she had met with during her short life, this seemed the strangest. Her eyes shone with a new light when, a few minutes later, she rejoined the Princess; and on the homeward journey she was unusually silent. As they passed through the outskirts of Haifa, she found herself with her lover at the head of the little cavalcade a few paces in advance, and begged him to allow her to confide in her friend. She was so anxious to tell someone that she was afraid she would not be able to refrain from introducing the subject; so Ferdinand, knowing that the Princess could be trusted, consented. The occasion was celebrated by a dainty supper in the hotel, and Raie’s eyes shone as they had never done before. And even when her lover took his departure a few days later, the love-light in her eyes remained, so that the Montellas wondered what had come to her, and why she was so unusually joyous. Perhaps the girl wondered at herself, for it seemed almost incredible that the mere fact of knowing Ferdinand should make so great a difference. But the fact remained, and she had no power to prevent it—indeed, she had no wish that it should be otherwise. Gazing into her mirror one morning, she was astonished to find how well she looked—how her eyes sparkled, and how vivacious was the expression on her face.

“I shall be quite pretty by the time Ferdie comes back,” she said softly to herself, exhibiting for the first time a sense of vanity. “I want to be pretty for him. For myself, I do not care at all; but for him—”

And then she leant her elbows on the dressing-table and lost herself in a delicious reverie; but presently a cloud passed over her brow. Supposing Ferdinand were unable to prove his innocence, what would she do? Had she the courage to marry him with a stain upon his name and character; and even if she had the courage, would it be right for her so to do? Besides, she could not marry him whilst he retained his pseudonym, and neither in Palestine nor England could they be united under the name of Montella. Looking into the future, she foresaw difficulties so immense as to be almost insuperable, but she could not bear the thought of ever having to give up the man she loved. No sacrifice would be too great so far as she personally was concerned; but she hated the thought of grieving the one to whom she owed more than she could ever repay. It was not in her nature to act clandestinely or to rebel against authority, especially when she knew that that authority was worthy of esteem. So that if it came to breaking with either Lady Montella or her lover, the struggle would be keen and bitter; for whichever way it went she would lose a friend. She could only hope that what she dreaded might never come to pass, and that her lover would return with his honour unimpeached. Once he were able to reclaim his forfeited rights, all impedimenta to their marriage would be removed. Her foster-aunt would not withhold her consent without due cause.

“Haifa seems to agree with you better than it does with us,” her mother remarked, when in the cool of early morning she betook herself to the little white bungalow which the Emanuels inhabited. “You are looking splendid, Raie—different to our pasty-looking, freckled Harriet.”

Raie was sorry for her sister, who, since the dissolution of her engagement with the young man who had cruelly jilted her some months before they left England, had come in for an unpalatable number of home-truths.

“Harriet cannot help her freckles, mother,” she rejoined, taking up the cudgels in her defence. “I think she finds the climate trying, and I know she does not like the food.”

Mrs. Emanuel tossed her head in impatience.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, with anger. “She doesn’t give the food a chance; it is all I can do to get her to eat at all. Ever since her engagement was broken off, she has done nothing but mope and pine for Harry Levi. She has lost all her good looks, and she takes no trouble over her appearance; and I’m sure the fellow isn’t worth a thought. I’m ashamed of her, and that’s the truth; I never thought she would develop into a crotchety old maid.”

The girl was silent, scarcely knowing what to say. Thinking of her own lover, she felt more sympathy for her unfortunate sister than she dare own. But when Harriet made her appearance a little while later, she could not help experiencing a shock. Was it really love—or the lack of it—that could make such a change?

“She does look ill,” she admitted, when the girl had left the room, “I wonder if it would do her good to stay at Government House for a few days? I am sure Lady Montella would allow me to invite her. What has become of Harry Levi, I wonder. He is not in Palestine?”

“No, of course not. He is one of the ‘assimilated’ Jews. I suppose he will marry a _shicksa_,[8] and bring up his children as Christians. He doesn’t deserve to get on, spoiling a girl’s life as he did. I’d like to ‘assimilate’ him, the scoundrel! There wouldn’t be much of him left by the time I had finished. I hope you’ll be more careful when you get a young man, Raie.”

Footnote 8:

Gentile (fem.).

Raie blushed to the roots of her hair. “My young man would not throw me over,” she said playfully, and quickly changed the subject. With a somewhat forced carelessness she inquired if her mother were getting more used to the place.

“Getting used to the place?” repeated Mrs. Emanuel, in her usual high-pitched voice. “I shall never get used to Haifa if I live to be a hundred. When I want to be in bed, I’ve got to get up because it’s cool, and when I want to be up and about, I’ve got to go to bed because it’s hot. And as soon as I move out of doors I’m pestered with a lot of Moslem beggars, until I come home without a farthing in my pocket. What with the difference in the food, and the water that isn’t fit to drink, and the funny people with their silly jargon, and the stupid currency, which gives me a headache every time I have to buy anything, and the peculiar mode of living, it’s enough to turn one’s hair grey. Besides, the place is overcrowded. Palestine is too small for all the people who want to settle down here.”

Raie could not resist a smile.

“There is bound to be a little overcrowding until the people are more dispersed,” she returned convincingly. “When the other towns are ready to receive them they will leave the larger cities. There are building operations going on all over the country, and in a few years Palestine will be extended to double its present area. So you see there will be room for everybody, mother.”

“Give me Canonbury,” continued Mrs. Emanuel, following her own train of thought. “I would rather live in the Petherton Road than anywhere else in the world;” and no amount of persuasion or argument would make her think otherwise. She was too old to bear transplanting successfully, Raie thought.

She found her foster-aunt and Lionel in the morning-room when she returned to the Government House an hour later. They were engaged in a desultory conversation, for Lady Montella was writing, but a few words reached her as she passed down the corridor. Her heart seemed to leap, and she paused irresolute at the door; for they made mention of her lover’s name.

“Anne declares she has seen Ferdinand in the town,” Lionel was saying, as he put down the newspaper he was reading; “but why should Ferdinand come to Haifa? And if he did come, would he not seek us out?”

Then seeing Raie’s figure framed in the doorway, he spoke of something else, but not before the girl had had time to hear.

“Ferdie will have to be careful when he comes back, or he will be discovered,” she thought, as she advanced farther into the room.

It was a very difficult matter to elude the lynx-like eye of the old nurse, Anne.