Chapter XIII: The Empty House

The Montellas were back in Haifa. They arrived late in the afternoon, after a stormy passage from Jaffa, and received a hearty welcome from the two girls. But of course the absence of Patricia made itself felt, even though they were careful not to mention it. It was as if a shadow had fallen on the house which made them speak softly, as though there had been a death. Lionel spent the greater part of his time in his study, and seemed always anxious to get away from his family. His most constant companion was his little boy; otherwise he preferred to be alone.

He had dreaded the return to Haifa, and had postponed it as long as possible, knowing that his worthy citizens were all agog on the matter of his wife’s departure. His eyes were open to the mingled glances of scorn and sympathy which were cast upon him when he walked through the streets of the town; and he refused to give the explanation which was expected, yet could not very well be sought. He took his part in communal matters with the same energy as of old; but apart from his official duties he was as immovable as the Sphinx. Declining all the invitations which poured in upon him from the wealthier members of the corporation, he seemed to wish to lead the life of a recluse. His mother knew not whether to be displeased or grieved, but remonstrated with him vigorously on the subject one day.

“This will never do,” she said, when for the third time he had absented himself from her weekly receptions. “You will make yourself unpopular if you persist in holding yourself aloof socially from the people. Besides, it isn’t manly, Lionel; you are wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

So he promised to amend his ways; and the study saw less of him again; and joining more in the social life of the town, a little of his old buoyancy returned. But there always remained a sore place in his heart, only to be temporarily relieved by the balm of her precious letters. They arrived with every mail—those dear messages from his beloved.

He had been back a full week before he could bring himself to visit his new house. The operations of the builders and decorators had been suspended during his stay in Jerusalem, and he had not yet given the order for them to resume their work. Making a sudden decision one morning, however, he walked quietly up the avenue of palm-trees, and unlocked the great oaken doors at the entrance to the hall. The house was, as he had anticipated, totally deserted, and his steps echoed and re-echoed drearily on the stone floor. Passing through the wonderful atrium, whose fame had already reached from one end of Syria to the other, he entered the boudoir, and removing the holland covering, sat down on one of the dainty chairs. What a hideous, ghastly mockery the whole place appeared! how it seemed to rise up and taunt him with its emptiness, with its bright but hollow splendour! He glanced about him with a shudder, and rested his head wearily on his hand. The decorations, to which he had given so much thought—for Patricia; the exquisite frescoes painted by an eminent Jewish artist—for Patricia; the beautifully carved bureau with its cunning design—for Patricia; the hangings of vieux rose—Patricia’s favourite hue; the little oil-painting of the Thames—Patricia’s own picture. All for Patricia, the one woman in the world to whom it was a joy to render homage; and she had been snatched from him by the crass stupidity of his people, by the ignorant prejudice of a stubborn race! Oh, the foolishness of men, to bow down to the fanatical ceremonialism of dogma and creed, and turn away from the purest of all passions—conjugal love! Rising, he threw open the windows, and with bent head, paced the room; then espying the flutter of a white gown amid the myrtle bushes in the avenue, paused in silent wonder. How came a woman in the grounds—his grounds—not knowing that he was there?

He closed the window, and went forth to investigate, almost inclined to believe that he was the victim of an illusion. But no; for as he appeared beneath the portico, the figure approached and sauntered leisurely towards him. For one moment his heart stood still, a wild hypothesis taking possession of his brain. Patricia in some mysterious way had come back to him, either in the flesh, or by the projection of her astral body—he had heard and read of such things. Thought telepathy, spiritualism—he had never believed in either, yet he knew by hearsay that the most wonderful phenomena had actually occurred; and if to other people, why not to himself? But the fantastic idea born of his ardent longing was suddenly doomed to disappointment; the figure proved to be not Patricia, but merely that of Zillah Lorm.

“I wondered if you were here,” she said sweetly, as he advanced to meet her. “Do you know, I come here every day, just for a walk—the little side gate is always open. But I have never been inside the house, although I have heard so much about it. Would you not like to show it to me? We have a good opportunity now.”

He had never felt more disinclined to play the part of showman, but knowing that she was really eager to go over the place, he could not well refuse. Admitting her by the principal entrance, he allowed her to wander through the rooms at her own sweet will, and listened to her enthusiastic observations with no pleasure, and perhaps a little pain. Yielding to a feeling he could not describe, he passed over the door of the boudoir; but Zillah was quick enough to notice his hesitation, and inexorably demanded a view.

“What is it, Lionel?” she asked playfully. “Bluebeard’s chamber, or the _sanctum sanctorum_?”

He threw open the door, and stood back for her to enter.

“Neither,” he answered quietly. “It is the room which was to have been my wife’s boudoir.”

“Oh!” She threw him a glance of somewhat steely commiseration, and proceeded to look about her with cold criticism. Montella went to the window, his eyes dreamily scanning the distant mountain ranges of Galilee. He wanted to be blind and deaf for a few minutes, until his visitor had concluded her examination of the room. He did not want to hear her careless remarks; they affected him like so many knife thrusts.

But Miss Lorm was not the woman to spare him one small thrust. She sat down at the little piano—Patricia’s own piano—and playing a short prelude, glided into that song of Goring Thomas’s “A Summer Night.” Then her rich voice, subdued to a low tone of sweetness, sent forth its full notes to thrill her listener and fill the house with music:

“‘_Have you forgotten, love, so soon
That night, that lovely night in June?_’”

She sang without effort, and almost as if her thoughts were elsewhere, but as the song proceeded, her voice gained in intensity. Lionel stood immovable, hating the sound of music in that house and under those conditions. The empty corridor beyond caught the echo and threw it back with a hollow and depressing sound. But she could sing—Heavens, how she could sing! Whatever soul she possessed seemed to be concentrated in her voice.

“You are not in the humour for music, my friend?” she said, veering round on the music-stool when she had finished, to see no gaze of admiration, but only an unappreciative back. “It does sound strange in this great unfinished house, I admit. By the way, when will the workmen have finished? When will you come into residence here?”

“Never.” He turned away from the window and faced her, with a set look in his eyes, then added, in explanation: “The house is a wilderness, an empty barn. It can never be a home—to me.”

“No?” She glanced at him questioningly from under her thick lashes. “But I thought you took such pride in it. Lady Montella told me long ago that it was your hobby. And the expense—why, it must have cost a fortune. What will you do with it if you do not intend to live in it? Oh, it seems such a shame—such a magnificent house—!”

“I shall sell it if I can,” he said, meeting the reproach in her eyes steadily. “I had hoped to spend many happy years here, but now— It is a mere white elephant to me. They can call it ‘Montella’s Disappointment’ if they like; I don’t care. I shall have this furniture removed as soon as I can; and I shall never come here again.”

“But if she should come back?”

“She will never come back; it is not possible for her ever to live in Palestine again. That dream is over, but of course the awakening is hard: and this”—he touched the silken hangings behind their cover—“this all seems part of it. I can’t realise....”

He broke off suddenly, fearing he said too much. He had spoken incoherently, and with a sharpness which betokened deep feeling. Zillah’s features relaxed into a forced expression of sympathy.

“Poor fellow!” she exclaimed softly. “You have suffered, and you are lonely. I can sympathise with you; for—although you would not think it—I am lonely too.”

“Yes?” He looked up quickly, to encounter the radiance of her eyes.

“I left England because I was unhappy,” she went on, in a confidential tone. “I was engaged to Lord St. Maur; but he was much younger than myself, and when his people found out, they persuaded him to break it off; and he was weak, and consented. Of course I wasn’t in love with him—he was a mere boy; but I would have married him if I could, since the man I did love—once—was beyond my reach.” She looked at him steadily, and added, in a different voice: “It is the loneliness I dread, and now I seem to have no aim in life. What is the use of my voice in Palestine? The greatest of singers is not wanted here.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” he added, in his usual voice, “but the time will come. At present all our energies are directed on the things necessary to the welfare of our citizens, the introduction of hygiene, the prevention of drought and famine, and so on. Afterwards we shall be able to turn our thoughts to lighter matters—the recreation of the people; and then you may be sure music will not be left out of account.”

“And meanwhile I must wait as patiently as I can?” She sighed. “Oh, dear, how I hate life—hate it! The inconsistencies, the mistakes, the waste of suffering—all one long series of disappointments.”

“And yet there do occur moments, sometimes, which make it worth while to have lived!”

“To you, perhaps, because you have experienced the joy of requited love, but not to me. Why, even that shallow-minded little Raie is happier than I am. She has a lover—she meets him every day, and that gives her a zest and joy in life which are like the condiments in food. But I am boring you—” She paused abruptly, and rose from her chair. “Let us go, or we shall have the full glare of the sun upon us. This intolerable heat is another of the evils which has fallen to our lot to bear.”

Lionel rose with alacrity, and replacing the coverings, relocked the door. He could not help wondering what had made Miss Lorm so unusually serious, and why she had chosen to favour him with her confidence. He was silent as they passed through the atrium, and Zillah, on her part, had little to say. She was thinking how much better it would be if Montella would and could get a divorce, so that he might be free to marry again. She knew that she was liked by his mother; and that if it were possible, she would have a good chance of becoming his second wife. To be mistress of this mansion! She caught her breath at the thought, albeit a foolish one. She knew that Patricia would be his wife as long as she lived, even though they never saw each other again.

“Did you not say Raie had a lover?” asked her companion, as he closed the great doors. “I did not know it.”

Zillah opened her sunshade, and held it daintily at the back of her head.

“Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it,” she responded carelessly, “but I think you and Lady Montella ought to know. Raie has not told me much, but it is evidently a secret love-affair. They meet clandestinely every day somewhere in this direction.”

“And the man?”

“Is a Mr. Merryweather, presumably a tourist. He came to the Government House one evening, and I was rather favourably impressed. But he is too old and too worldly-wise for Raie. He must be over thirty, and has evidently been about a good deal.”

“Merryweather?” repeated Lionel thoughtfully. “Is he a Jew?”

“Yes; at least Raie says he is, although he has not the appearance of one.”

“And they made each other’s acquaintance while we were in Jerusalem, I suppose?” There was a note of vexation in his voice. “I am surprised at Raie. My mother will be very displeased. But perhaps Mrs. Emanuel—Raie’s mother—knows something about it?”

Miss Lorm gave vent to a little shrug. “Perhaps,” she replied carelessly. “I do not know. Don’t say I told you anything about it, will you, Lionel? Raie would be so cross, and— Good gracious, there they are!”

She stopped suddenly in her walk, and placed her hand detainingly on his arm. Montella’s eyes followed the direction of her glance with astonishment, and he could not resist an exclamation of surprise. The two delinquents were seated in a shady arbour, almost concealed by deeply-hanging evergreens. Their faces were in shadow, but Miss Lorm recognised the girl’s light hat.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, with a touch of excitement. “Catch them red-handed, or pretend not to see them?”

“I don’t know.” Montella paused irresolute. It was very wrong of Raie to meet a young man in this unconventional manner, especially as she had been brought up so strictly; but not being aware of all the circumstances, he was at a loss to know how to proceed. He had half a mind to pass by quietly, and speak to the girl afterwards; but approaching the arbour he caught the sound of his own name, and could not help standing still.

“Lionel is wiser than I thought,” the man was saying, in a tone of dissatisfaction. “So he will not trust you with the keys? But are you sure you went the right way to work, Raie, dear? You see if you looked at all agitated when you asked him, you probably made him suspicious.”

His accents were strong and well-bred. Montella started as at a familiar sound, but was almost too dumfounded to move.

“My cheeks did burn,” the girl acknowledged, almost tearfully. “You see Lionel gave me one of his straight looks—as if he were reading me through and through, and I felt so guilty that I dared not say a word. He gave me my letters out of the safe, and I just took them and went, thankful to get away. I did my best really, but it is such a difficult task, dear. I am sure I shall never be able to succeed.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” he returned encouragingly. “You can ask for the keys to return the letters, and have another try. Or if it comes to the worst, we must resort to stratagem; all’s fair in love and war.”

“Is it?” thought Lionel, who could remain hidden no longer. Motioning to Miss Lorm to keep in the background, he suddenly presented himself before the apparent conspirators. Raie gave a scream, and turned as pale as her dress; Ferdinand rose to his feet in an attitude of defence, his large sun-hat well over his face. For a moment there was a breathless silence, whilst Zillah looked on with enjoyment. Then Lionel spoke, although he scarcely knew what to say.

“I am the son of Miss Emanuel’s foster-aunt, and these are my grounds,” he said stiffly. “Hearing my name mentioned as I passed, I could not help listening to a scrap of your conversation. I cannot quite understand what you have to do with this young lady, who is very young, and has no right to form any attachment without the consent of her guardians. From what I can gather from your words, however, I understand that you pose as her lover merely to win her as a confederate. I shall be glad of some explanation, if you please. I can scarcely believe that Miss Emanuel—of whom I hold a very high opinion—would deliberately help you to burgle my safe!”

He addressed the tourist alone, and vouchsafed not a glance at Raie. The girl looked appealingly at her lover, who seemed to be rapidly summing up the situation. His decision was evidently a desperate one, for he threw back his shoulders with a gesture of courage.

“I am not a burglar,” he replied, carefully choosing his words, “and I need not explain unless I choose. But I know that if I keep silence I shall be putting Miss Emanuel in a false position, and I would not do that for the world. It was my intention to keep my incognito until my innocence was absolutely proved; but I suppose that is impossible since you have found me out. Look at me, old fellow. Don’t you know who I am?”

He pulled off his hat, and stood bare-headed in the sunlight—a veritable picture of manly strength. Lionel scanned the rugged face—the deep-set eyes so like his own—and recognised it even as he had partially known the voice.

“Ferdinand!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “What does this mean? How in Heaven’s name have you come here? Where have you come from?” and suppressing the hundred and one questions which rose to his lips, he regarded his step-brother in bewildered astonishment, whilst Zillah Lorm advanced, an eager glow in her eyes.

Ferdinand assisted his sweetheart to rise, and bowed to Miss Lorm.

“I will tell you everything presently, Lionel—when we are alone,” he answered complacently. “I should not like to tire the ladies with an account of my adventures.”

Zillah swept past Raie and held out her hand.

“I congratulate you on your return, _Sir_ Ferdinand,” she said, with stress on the title, and a curious smile on her face.

“Frank Merryweather” had risen considerably in her estimation during the last ten minutes. No matter what crime he had committed, he was a baronet, and evidently not in captivity. She was determined to enter the lists with Raie.