Chapter IV: Governor of Haifa

Montella was alone in his study, with books and papers scattered on the table before him; but although he was apparently reading, very little of the printed matter penetrated so far as his brain. Deep in thought, his brow was furrowed with lines which should not have appeared on the forehead of so young a man; indeed, his whole appearance bore evidence to the fact that he had been severely tried. It was possible that the responsibility of governing the English portion of Palestine weighed too heavily upon his shoulders, or that he took upon himself more than was absolutely necessary for the welfare of his people. Certain it was that his energies were boundless, and that nothing was too great for him to achieve; but he could not spend himself without losing some of his inherent vitality, and while he was indefatigable in his efforts for the public good, his own health suffered from lack of care.

There is nothing which ages a human being so quickly as worry; and of this Montella had his share. The race for wealth among the Europeans in Palestine was keener even than it had been in the West, and the unscrupulous greed of the people, who, in the ardour of competition would financially cut each other’s throats, grieved him more than he cared to own. Not satisfied with comfort and peace in the new land, their one desire was to attain to wealth, the means to which entailed the cost of suffering to hundreds less fortunate than themselves. To Montella it was like a disease, sapping the moral strength of the people at the very root; but neither he nor his colleagues were able to conquer it; all they could do was to deprecate the evil.

And now there was a new difficulty with which to contend. Montella had seen it coming almost from the first, but he had ever done his best to drive it back. It arose from the relations twixt civil and religious Judaism, and threatened to cause a serious split in the camp. The Chief Rabbi of Palestine, Ben Yetzel, desired to exercise supreme authority in imitation of the papal power, whereas Montella and his party opposed despotism in religious matters, and favoured freedom of thought. To those who wished for progress and the civilising influences of the West, rigid orthodoxy was well-nigh impossible, and they chafed beneath its yoke; but the sacerdotal dignitaries declared that the loosening of the ceremonial ties would eventually mean the downfall of Judaism, and insisted on the strict enforcement of the letter of the law. It was the old well-known quarrel between Church and State, each striving for the mastery, and neither prepared to grant the concessions which would make for peace. And the Jews, although lacking nothing in astuteness, were unable to profit by the experience of other countries once similarly placed. They were obliged to learn their hard lesson alone.

The Chief Rabbi’s recent visit to Haifa had been an inauspicious event. Although famed for his piety and scholarship, the great man’s views were of necessity cramped by his narrow surroundings. He might have been a Hillel or a Gamaliel had he lived in Hillel’s day; but he could not realise the doctrine of evolution with regard to the moral nature of man; and to him the world continued in the same stage of development as it existed two thousand years ago. Therefore there were many customs of the English Jews in Haifa of which he keenly disapproved; and that the Governor’s wife should be of Gentile birth but added to his ire. Montella, ardent upholder of Judaism though he ever remained, was at the same time clear-headed and rational, and had no patience with the Talmudic narrowness which converted a thoughtful man into a mere automaton. His principles of sincerity and truth abolished all the ceremonial observances which had degenerated into empty forms; and he hated anything approaching priest-craft, even though it were Jewish. His opinions, happily for himself, were shared by the most intelligent of his colleagues, who openly showed their resentment towards the interference of Ben Yetzel; but the majority agreed that every religious body should have its head, and respected the Chief Rabbi’s position too much to presume to criticise his views.

A Hebrew letter from Ben Yetzel lay on the young man’s desk, and it was this which caused his present thoughtful mood. Taking up a pen, he began to translate his reply, but with a sudden gesture of impatience he tossed it aside. At the same moment the door opened slowly to admit a small boy in a white frock, and accepting this as a welcome interruption to his work, he drew back his chair. The little lad ran up to him with a chuckle of delight, and clambered on to his knee.

“Daddy, I’se tum!” he exclaimed, giving voice to an obvious fact. “I’se here, daddy, wif oo!”

Montella’s face brightened.

“What a naughty little boy to run away,” he answered lovingly. “What have you done with nurse?”

“Nanna up’tairs in garden wif mammy,” was his prompt reply. “Me ’tay here.”

Then he rested his golden head against his father’s coat, and gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction. A few minutes later he was fast asleep.

He was a beautiful boy, and his pink cheeks glowed with health. In spite of the fairness of his hair and complexion, his eyes were dark, and fringed with long lashes of dusky brown. To his parents he was an endless source of pleasure and amusement, and nothing delighted them more than to notice his comical little ways. Montella carried him up to the roof-garden, and gave him over to the nurse. It was his usual hour of sleep.

“I think he has been running about too much,” his mother said, as the maid bore him away. “It is easy to get over-tired in this heat. And you, darling, you look fagged. Can’t you take a little rest?”

He threw himself down in the deck-chair at her side, and having asked permission, prepared to smoke. Patricia applied the match to his cigar, and then leant back with an expression of content.

“It is good to have you with me, Lal,” she said softly. “You have had so little time to spare lately for baby and me.”

He glanced into her clear blue eyes with compunction.

“Never mind, sweet, I will make up for it later on,” he replied cheerfully. “When I get my full staff of assistants I shall not have so much to do. What with Ben Yetzel pulling one way and Engelmacher another, it takes me all my time to steer clear between the two. However, I don’t want to worry you with those affairs; let us throw dull care to the winds.”

“The Chief Rabbi does not like me,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “I felt, all the time he was here, that he disapproved of everything I did. I wonder why?”

“Because he is a confounded idiot,” rejoined her husband, with heat. “If you had been an old Polish woman with a _scheitel_[9] he would have taken you to his heart. It’s jealousy, my dearest, nothing else. He doesn’t like the idea of my having such a sweet and beautiful woman for a wife. I suppose, too, he considers you a sort of heathen because you are not of Jewish birth.”

Footnote 9:

Wig.

“I think I am a sort of heathen,” the girl repeated slowly, with thoughtful eyes. “I am no more a Jewess at heart than our baby is a Jew. I have tried to love the Jewish religion for your sake, Lal, but I can’t succeed. It seems so full of ceremonies which are beyond my comprehension, and which puzzle me dreadfully. I am afraid you must be very disappointed in me, dear.”

“Not at all. I never expected you to follow in my mother’s steps. _She_ has all the claims of ancestry and old association to make her love her faith; you have nothing except your love for me.”

“It is of our child I am thinking,” she continued quietly. “How can I teach him his faith as a mother ought to do?”

“Leave it to his grandmother,” Montella advised carelessly. “It will be a task after her own heart. There is no need to worry yourself about that, dear; I assure you little Julian will grow up a strict enough Jew.”

Patricia sighed.

“I am glad you are not dissatisfied with me, Lionel,” she said, placing her hand within his own. “Sometimes I have thought—and Lady Montella has hinted—that you would have been happier with a Jewish wife.”

Lionel sat bolt upright and pressed her hand to his lips. “Stuff and nonsense,” he returned, with indignation. “You will make me very angry if you have such foolish thoughts. I would not exchange you for all the Jewesses in the world.” Then he laughed at the idea conjured up by his last sentence, but added seriously, “Has my mother said anything to make you unhappy, dear?”

“Oh, no, nothing at all. It is not what she says—” She broke off abruptly, and was silent for a moment, whilst the colour rushed into her cheeks. “I love you so passionately, Lionel, that I cannot bear to think there is any flaw in your love for me,” she continued hurriedly. “And when these Jewish ceremonies crop up, they seem like barriers to drive us away from each other. And I thought when Ben Yetzel was here that you were a little bit ashamed of my ignorance of the Jewish laws. And that is why—because I love you—I have been so anxious to learn.”

She nestled her head against his shoulder, and a tear fell with a splash on to his coat. Montella was startled beyond measure, for she was a woman who seldom wept. Either she was suffering from debility, or there must be some serious cause for her emotion. Hastily he jumped to the former conclusion—his beloved could not be well.

“My darling!” he exclaimed, in dismay, tenderly stroking her hair. “Whatever has happened to give you such ideas? I’m afraid I have left you too much to yourself of late; I am such a selfish creature when I get wrapped up in my work. Why, Patricia, don’t you know what people think of you in Haifa? You are the most admired woman in the town, and the most respected. And you have endeared yourself to the heart of everyone by going so much amongst the poor. Do you want me to tell you that you are my queen, and that with you at my side, I am the most fortunate man in the world? Because that is the truth, and you ought to know it without needing to be told!”

He could not say more; and his words were uttered with heartfelt sincerity. Patricia, duly comforted, dried her eyes, and a smile like a burst of sunshine after rain illumined her face. Feeling that he could not settle down to work again, her husband fetched her hat and gloves, and together they sauntered through the white streets and across the market square. Their destination, as usual, proved to be the new house, the inevitable magnet which drew him towards itself whenever he had a little time to spare. The builders and decorators were still hard at work, and the sound of the hammers as they fell rhythmically upon the stone greeted them as they approached. A sloping avenue of palm-trees led up to the principal entrance, and the house, situated on a slight eminence, commanded a fine view. From the observatory, which was nearly completed, the mountain ranges of Galilee and Phœnicia, stretching away to Lebanon and Hermon in the distance, could be seen, as well as the Bay of Acre and Mediterranean Sea. The position was the best that could possibly have been obtained; for if there were but a breath of air stirring it would be obliged to find its way here. Patricia already felt the difference as she seated herself on the one chair of which the roof boasted, and drew a deep breath of relief. Montella left her for a few minutes while he went to give a few directions in various languages to the cosmopolitan band of workmen; but in a very few minutes he was back again.

“Your boudoir is nearly finished, dear,” he said, with jubilance in his tone. “Would you like to come down and see it? You might make some further suggestions before it is too late.”

She rose with alacrity, and they descended the handsome staircase arm-in-arm. All the rooms were situated on the ground floor, most of them abutting on the atrium, in the centre of which was to be erected a fountain in a colossal marble basin. The boudoir adjoined the night-nursery, and was octagonal in shape. It was decorated in white and gold, but the hangings were of old rose, Patricia’s favourite hue. The furniture had just arrived, and some of the pictures already adorned the walls. One, a small oil-painting of the Thames near Chertsey, had hung in her old boudoir in Grosvenor Square, and called up a flood of old and half-forgotten memories. She sank on to the silken covered settee, whilst her husband went on a tour of inspection, and gave herself up to a dreamy recollection of the past. How dull and prosy it had been in her father’s house, and how depressing the magnificence of the silent rooms. It seemed almost impossible to believe that she had existed for so long with only the companionship of the phlegmatic Mrs. Lowther, except for the occasional visits of the Countess of Chesterwood to break the dreary monotony. What a change the advent of Lionel had been! He had transformed her life, had given a zest and interest of which she had never dreamed, had flooded her heart with the sunshine of his love. How noble he was, and brave, and good! She glanced up at his stalwart figure with shining eyes. She at least had no cause to long for the past.

“Well, what do you think of it, Patricia?” he said playfully, returning to her side. “Does it meet with your little ladyship’s approval? Are you satisfied?”

“More than satisfied!” she exclaimed, with ardour. “The house will be a perfect paradise. But, do you know, Lal, it all seems unreal.”

“Unreal?” he repeated, in perplexity. “How? It is substantial enough—built of stone throughout.”

“Yes, I know. I didn’t mean that. I cannot realise, somehow, that this is to be our own house. It is more like a fairy palace than Grosvenor Square.”

Lionel laughed, well pleased.

“If this is a fairy palace, you are the fairy queen,” he replied gallantly. “You shall hold your court in the atrium, and all Haifa will come and do you homage. Ah, you do not know what pleasant things are in store for you when we have established ourselves here!”

Patricia answered him with a smile, but a sigh soon took its place. This peculiar air of unreality always affected her when she went over this new house. She could not imagine herself domestically settled in the place, and although the arrival of the furniture introduced a more home-like appearance, this feeling still remained. It was almost like a premonition—a presentiment that although the house was being built especially for her, although everything in it had been chosen in accordance with her own taste, all the care and thought had been in vain, for the simple reason that fate ordained that she should never live in it. It was so unaccountable and inexplicable that she would not mar her husband’s satisfaction in the place by worrying him with this foolish fancy. But the fancy, foolish or not, remained; and the oftener they visited the house the more certain she became that the magnificent edifice would never be her home.

Having completed their inspections, they walked leisurely back to the Government House, where a surprise in the shape of Dr. Engelmacher awaited them. The good doctor was passing through Haifa _en route_ for Beyrout, and intended to stay for two or three days. Knowing that the two men were anxious to talk over communal matters, Patricia left them to themselves. In the library she found Lady Montella and Raie.

Her mother-in-law looked up with a smile.

“I want to ask you something, Patricia,” she said, making room for her on the couch. “Do you remember Miss Lorm?”

“Zillah Lorm,” put in Raie, desiring to be more explicit. “A dark girl, with nice eyes, splendid figure, and stand-offish manner. You know her, Patricia; she sings.”

“Yes, I know her,” Patricia answered readily. “She is in England, is she not?”

Lady Montella referred to the letter she held in her hand.

“She was; but she will be in Haifa very soon,” was her reply. “Assimilation does not seem to have agreed with her very well, and she is evidently hankering after the Jews in spite of her former desire to forget her origin. She writes that on account of a disappointment—of which she gives no particulars—she is very unhappy, and wishes to join us here for a time. As I have known her for many years, I should like to invite her to stay with us for two or three months; but I would not do so without first consulting you.”

Raie made a little grimace.

“I am sure you do not want her, do you, Patricia?” she interrupted, with a comically defiant look at her aunt. “She used to be sweet on Lionel before he married you, and I know she’s fearfully jealous of you even now. I don’t like her a bit, and I don’t know what Aunt Inez can see in her. I am sure she will come and upset us all if you invite her here.”

“Hush, Raie!” said Lady Montella reprovingly. “You allow your tongue to run away with you. Miss Lorm is a very bright and nice woman, in spite of your opinion. Whether she shall be invited here or not is for Patricia to decide. What do you say, my daughter? Shall she come?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” Patricia answered promptly, but without enthusiasm. She was not anxious to play hostess to Zillah Lorm, but she was too certain of her husband’s love to listen to Raie’s warning. It was not in her nature to entertain that kind of fear.