Chapter I: England Once More

Patricia left the Princess with her husband at Felsen-Schvoenig, and journeyed back to London with Lord Torrens, whom she had met at Port Said. The Earl was somewhat annoyed at having been baulked of his Eastern tour; but as he did not care to visit the Holy Land in his daughter’s absence, his only alternative was to turn back. Secretly, he considered Patricia’s action absurdly quixotic, for he could not in the least understand her point of view. To him all creeds were but variations of one fundamental principle, and to quarrel over individual shades of opinion seemed unnecessary in the extreme. As for sentiment in religion, he refused to recognise that at all, since it could be analysed and physically accounted for by the materialistic exponents of modern thought. Nevertheless he was considerate enough not to add to the girl’s suffering by vain reproaches; he knew that, for the present, it was best to leave her alone.

The home-coming seemed so strange that Patricia felt as if she were in a dream. Coming from the brilliant sunshine of the East, London looked cold and grey, and the dresses of the people curiously prosaic after the gay colours of the Orient. It was about six o’clock in the evening, and the lamps were already lit. Clerks and business people generally were travelling homewards, newspaper boys were calling out the special editions of the evening papers, and the traffic rushed bewilderingly through the crowded streets. Leaning back in the brougham, Patricia’s head seemed to swim, for the roads and shops and people had apparently magnified themselves tenfold, and loomed large and vast through the gloom of the evening twilight. She was thankful when the carriage slackened pace, and pulled up before the familiar door. But even Grosvenor Square seemed to have extended in area. She could not imagine why everything looked so immense.

The house was still in a state of metaphorical curl-papers and overalls, for they intended to stay there only for one night. By Patricia’s orders, Mrs. Lowther—her old companion—had taken a small villa near Richmond, where the girl intended to live out her days. She established herself there the very next morning, thankful to have some occupation to distract her thoughts. The villa, which rejoiced in the romantic name of “Ivydene,” was light and pretty, and more attractive in its way than the solemn magnificence of the parental mansion. Mrs. Lowther, too, had done all in her power to make it home-like: there were bright fires in the grates and flowers in the vases, and the hundred and one little things which contribute to domestic comfort. The girl could not help feeling touched by the thoughtfulness which had evidently been expended on her account, and as she went over the small but prettily-decorated rooms, her eyes grew misty with no far-distant tears. There was one room in particular which held her spellbound, for the wall-paper depicted well-known nursery rhymes, such as “Jack and Jill,” “Little Miss Muffit,” and “Red Ridinghood”; and in one corner stood a brand-new rocking-horse.

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Lowther said, half-apologetically. “I had thought—had made sure—that you would bring your little boy.” And she wished she had had the tact not to allow the young mother to enter the room just then, for the sight of the childish appurtenances evidently called up an emotion of pain.

But Patricia begged her not to be concerned.

“It was very kind of you to take so much trouble,” she said, going to the window and looking at the tiny lawn without. “Oh, how I wish we could have Julian here! He is such a lovely boy, Lowthy, and so wonderfully intelligent. It nearly broke my heart to have to leave him behind.”

“I don’t know how you could,” her companion returned, almost severely. “It seems unnatural to part a mother from her child. If I had been you—”

Patricia put up her hands as though to ward off a blow. “Yes, I know,” she put in hastily. “Don’t hurt me, dear. If you had been in my place you would have acted just the same. You don’t understand what Judaism is—how it used to rise up between the Montellas and myself like a wall. They would not let me bring baby away for fear I should make a Christian of him, which of course I should do; for I could not help wanting to consecrate his little life to Christ. Oh, I don’t wish to go over the whole story again; it is too painful. The Montellas are quite right from their point of view, and I am quite right from mine. We must all do what seems to be our duty according to our own conscience, even if it seems hard at the time.”

Mrs. Lowther regarded her contemplatively.

“How you have changed, Patricia,” she observed, placing her hand on the rough mane of the horse. “At the time of your marriage none of these considerations seemed to trouble you. Did I not warn you during your engagement that although you might attempt to enter their Jewish world, you must for ever remain an outsider? I don’t want to be cruel, but I can’t help telling you how I regret that you did not listen to me. For look at your present position: a wife, and yet practically without a husband—a mother, and yet without a child. Oh, you poor dear girl, if you had only taken my advice you would never have made such a shipwreck of your life!”

Had she not been sincerely sympathetic, Patricia would have been irritated by her comments.

“Oh, I don’t regret the past,” she responded quickly, “not one little bit; and if I had it to live over again I would marry Lionel just the same. It is not his fault that things have turned out like this; it is the fault of a fanatical Chief Rabbi and a narrow creed. But Lowthy, if you don’t mind, I would rather not talk about it any more. You see it hurts; and—and—I shall have to get used to being alone.” She held up the locket containing the portraits of her husband and baby, and looking at it thoughtfully, added sadly: “Not that I want to forget these two dear ones. The remembrance of them will remain with me day and night. I can’t yet realise that they are all those hundreds of miles away; I want to consult my husband at every turn.”

And then dashing away the tears which in spite of her will would come, she left the intended nursery, and descended to the hall.

It took her some time to settle down to her new life in Richmond. Lord Torrens, scarcely caring for the menage of a suburban residence, left after a few days, but the faithful Mrs. Lowther remained. Of callers there were none; for Patricia’s object in coming to live so far out was to avoid those who would have visited her in Grosvenor Square. She was in no mood for any kind of social pleasure, nor for the sympathy of kind but curious friends. So she kept her arrival a secret from those who would have been glad to know, and preferred to spend the greater part of her time in solitude.

But Montella had given her a task to perform. He wanted to know her version of the condition of English affairs; and in order to form an opinion, she was obliged to go out and about. So far as she could see, the assimilation process seemed, socially, to be working well enough. The names of Cohen, Jacobs, and Levy no longer existed; but those of Cowan, Jackson, and Leigh were on the increase, and perhaps sounded more euphonious in English ears. In spite of the exodus of the alien immigrants whose presence had been so greatly deplored, however, there were still a great number of the unemployed. Trade was bad—so bad that the prosperity of many families of the middle class was seriously threatened, and complaints were heard on all sides. Several well-known shops in the West End were shut up, and the bankruptcy of a celebrated mercantile house had ruined hundreds. Affairs on the Stock Exchange were quieter than ever they had been before, and finance, in the absence of two or three of the greatest Jewish capitalists, was at a low ebb. Moreover, people began to attribute the decline in commerce to the removal of Jewish influence by the Expulsion. Many said that the Jews who had gone to Palestine had taken the prosperity of England with them; many more heartily wished for their return. Certain it was that a wave of adversity had spread over the country; the nation seemed to be under a cloud.

“I have not come across many Jews so far,” she wrote, “although there must still be a great many here. I went on an exploration expedition to Canonbury and Highbury last week, and found most of the houses there to let. The shops there—or, rather, those that remain—seem to be undergoing a hard struggle, and I was told on inquiry that it was because their principal customers in the past had been those of the Jewish race. The synagogues have, of course, all been swept away; but, judging by statistics, there appears to be very little increase in the attendance at the various churches. The theatres also are not doing so well as of old, as a considerable amount of both talent and patronage has by the Expulsion been sent away. So the practical side of the Bill does not answer so well as it did in theory, and by the man in the street the Government is roundly blamed.”

She experienced a peculiar sense of gratification in having to give so unsatisfactory a report. Perhaps she thought it would comfort her husband to know that England missed the Jews, and was not flourishing so well without them; yet she knew that his love for his native country was such that he could not help feeling sincerely grieved.

She had just returned from her peregrination westwards one day, and was walking through the High Street on her way home, when she came face to face with a lady who was preparing to re-enter her carriage. Patricia, full of her own thoughts, would have passed on; but the lady, with an exclamation of surprise, barred the way.

“So I have found you at last, you truant!” she said, in a voice full of satisfaction.

It was Lady Chesterwood, the wife of Athelstan Moore.

Patricia looked up, half abashed, and held out her hand, scarcely knowing how to greet her old friend under the changed circumstances. But Mamie had heard the whole story of the Montellas’ separation from the Princess, and had the good grace not to refer to the affair. She insisted on taking the girl into a neighbouring tea-shop in order to have a chat, and gossiped away to her heart’s content. Then she suddenly remembered the purpose for which she had come out, and broke off in the middle of her conversation to ask Patricia’s advice.

“I meant to call and ask the doctor to come and look at Phyllis—Athelstan’s child, you know; but I have not made up my mind whether to do so or not,” she said, with an expression of doubt. “Athelstan slept in town last night, but I expect him home to dinner; and if he hears that the doctor has been, he will be so frightfully alarmed. He absolutely worships that girl; and if her little finger aches, he immediately makes up his mind that she is going to die. So I never send for the doctor unless it is really necessary; it doesn’t seem worth while to have a fuss for nothing.”

“What is the matter with her?” asked Patricia equably. “Nothing serious, I suppose?”

“No, only a sore throat; a cold probably. I dare say she will be better to-morrow.”

“A sore throat,” repeated Patricia meditatively. “I don’t like anything the matter with the throat. I should send for the doctor if I were you.”

“You would? Well then, I think you ought to help me to bear the brunt of Athelstan’s alarm. Come to dinner, and bring your she-dragon with you if you like. You know where we live: the other side of Richmond Park—Ravenscroft Hall. We dine at seven o’clock, but I shall expect you at half-past six. Now”—as Patricia prepared to remonstrate—“I know you are going to put all sorts of objections in the way, but I shall not accept one of them. I will take absolutely no refusal; you _must_ come.”

“But, my dear Mamie, how can I?” The girl looked almost bewildered. “To meet the Premier in his own house at dinner, after he has been the means of sending my husband to the Antipodes! Oh, it’s impossible! Can’t you see the irony of it? There can be no friendship between a Montella and Athelstan Moore.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the Countess, unconvinced. “Richmond is not Downing Street. In our own house we have nothing to do with politics; besides, Athelstan may not put in an appearance after all. Don’t be so absurdly sensitive, Pat; I want you to come.”

But Patricia still hesitated. The thought of being a guest at Mr. Moore’s table was so repugnant that it could scarcely be tolerated; yet she felt a secret curiosity to meet the great anti-Semite again. She would, at least, have something of interest to report to Lionel; and although she could not introduce the subject of the Expulsion, she might indirectly glean an inkling of the Premier’s views. So—not without misgivings—she yielded, and promised to be there by the appointed time. Whether good or evil would come of the visit, however, remained to be seen; and as she left her friend, she felt as if she were about to trifle with edged tools.