Chapter II: An Anti-Semite Still

The “she-dragon,” as Mamie unkindly dubbed Mrs. Lowther, did not care to accept the invitation to Ravenscroft Hall, and asked to be excused; so Patricia dressed herself in a simple evening-gown and drove off alone. Excitement had lent a touch of colour to her cheeks, and as the carriage swept up the avenue she trifled nervously with her long neck-chain of pearls. Arrived at the house, however, she soon regained her self-possession, and followed the footman up the stone staircase with her usual equanimity. The Countess received her with cordiality; but seemed curiously diffident. She glanced at the door every now and then with marked uneasiness; her mind was evidently—on some account—disturbed.

“The doctor has not been yet,” she said, in answer to Patricia’s enquiry. “I am expecting him every minute. I don’t quite like the look of Phyllis; she has been shivering so terribly. I do hope she isn’t going to be ill.”

“Has Mr. Moore seen her?”

“No, he has not arrived yet, but he will be here soon. He wired that he is bringing Mr. Lawson Holmes back with him.” Her brow grew troubled. “I want to keep him away from Phyllis until after dinner, when I hope the doctor will have been. The children always come in to dessert, you know.”

The words had scarcely passed her lips when the scrunch of carriage wheels on the gravel approached them, and the hall door closed with a heavy sound. A moment later the men’s voices were heard on the stairs, as they parted to go to their respective rooms. The Countess, excusing herself to her guest, went dutifully to greet her husband; but she returned before Patricia had time to notice her absence, and together they descended to the rooms below.

“I think you will find a great change in Athelstan,” she said, as Patricia glanced at the large portrait of the Premier which adorned the wall. “He has aged terribly during the last three years, and suffers from periodical fits of depression which seem to take all the life out of him. The doctors cannot account for it, and put it down to overwork. But I believe I know what it is: there is something preying on his mind.”

“Yes?” Patricia looked up half wonderingly. “I suppose he is troubled about State affairs?”

The Countess waxed confidential.

“It’s the Jews,” she said impressively, forgetting, perhaps, the political position of her friend. “I believe they’ve affected his brain. He thinks about them all day, dreams about them at night, and talks about them in his sleep. It’s Jews, Jews, Jews—always Jews! The fact of the matter is, that in pushing the Expulsion Bill he made a tremendous mistake; and he knows it, and is suffering from remorse. But in spite of this he maintains his ground, and won’t budge an inch from his original standpoint. He is as hard and as obstinate as a piece of flint.”

Patricia turned over the leaves of a magazine with agitation. “Mamie, ought you to tell me this?” she asked, feeling that she had received a confidence which should have been withheld. “Do you think your husband would care for me to know that he is attacked by remorse? Remember, I am the wife of an exiled Jew.”

“I don’t care anyway,” the little woman returned recklessly. “If you can act on that knowledge, so much the better. Oh, Patricia! you do not know what I have suffered during the past two years. You do not know what it is to have a husband so morose that he will scarcely speak, except to say something unkind. For the first few months of our married life, Athelstan was as genial and happy as a boy; but now—now—his only smile is for Phyllis—never for me.”

She sank on to a chair, a look of wounded pride in her eyes. Patricia was genuinely sorry, but she scarcely knew what to say. She remembered the boasted power, the desire to rule which had animated the Countess at the time of Moore’s proposal. Where was that conquering influence of her feminine personality which was to have decided not only the affairs of her husband, but also of the State? Gone—all gone; nay, it had never been there. For Mamie’s will was far too frail to have ever run counter to that of the Premier; and now, after repeated storms, only a crushed and broken spirit remained.

The girl sympathised as best she could, and skilfully drew the conversation to matters of lighter trend. She did not want to hear such secrets, and shrank from prying into the private life of her husband’s enemy. But Mamie was naturally loquacious, and her thoughts expressed themselves in words almost as soon as they entered her mind. It was probably this very garrulity which had sent Moore back into his shell; for knowing that his wife could not be trusted with a secret, he naturally became more reserved.

They were both glad of the presence of Mr. Lawson Holmes at the dinner-table that night. He was a man who could converse well on almost any subject, and possessed a good many interests besides that of politics. Moore was, as usual, preoccupied and gloomy, and had shaken hands with Patricia as though she had been a complete stranger. The Countess, who had quietly been called away to see the doctor before the commencement of the meal, was pale and silent, so the two guests had the conversation principally to themselves. When the dessert was reached, however, the Premier suddenly awoke as from a sleep, and fixing his steely eyes on his wife’s face, inquired solemnly for the children.

Lady Chesterwood’s eyes fell.

“Leslie was a naughty boy this afternoon, and I was obliged to punish him,” she returned quietly. “And Phyllis—Phyllis is not well.”

“Not well?” Moore became visibly alarmed. “What is the matter with her? Has the doctor been?”

“Yes; he says she has a bad sore throat, and must stay in bed. He suggested moving her to the south wing of the house, because it is warmer there and the aspect sunnier, so we have done so. And he doesn’t think much of Leslie’s old nurse, so he is going to send a trained nurse from the hospital, and perhaps an assistant as well.” She paused, out of breath. “He is coming again to-morrow morning,” she added rapidly, “so you can see him then.”

Moore tossed off a glass of wine, and excusing himself, rose from the table.

“I shall not wait until to-morrow morning,” he said, in a rough voice. “I shall see him to-night. But I must have a look at the child first. Poor little girl! A sore throat—” and without finishing the sentence he left the room.

There was a moment’s silence, and then the Countess also rose.

“I suppose I shall have to tell him,” she said, with an interrogative look at her two guests. “The child has a touch of diphtheria; that is why we have thought it best to isolate her at once. It is not serious at present, but of course there is no knowing how it may turn out. I think I had better go up to them, if you will not think me very rude. I am so sorry this should have happened just now; it is so unpleasant. But, of course, one cannot help these things.”

“Don’t apologise, dear,” said Patricia kindly. “I will amuse myself in the library until Mr. Holmes has finished his wine. Go to your husband now. I am sure you ought to be with him. It is very unfortunate altogether; I do hope Phyllis will soon be well.”

“I should advise you to tell Moore exactly what it is,” advised Holmes, as the ladies passed across the threshold. He knew that to keep the Premier in ignorance of the true nature of the illness would only serve to make matters worse, since he must inevitably find out in the course of two or three hours.

He smoked his cigar in solitude, a thoughtful expression on his face. The presence of Lady Patricia Montella in that household had caused him a deep sensation of astonishment, for he had not been aware of her arrival in England. He knew, of course, that Lady Chesterwood was a connection of hers by marriage; but even so, he was surprised that she should be friendly with Moore. Thirsting for information, he threw down his cigar half smoked, and rejoined her without delay. Without appearing unduly curious, he elicited the whole story of her pathetic separation. Then he inquired after his old friend, Montella, in almost affectionate terms, and expressed his regret that Parliament should have lost such a gifted and true young statesman.

“I always liked Montella,” he said, when he had related more than one reminiscence of past years; “but he had one weakness: he allowed himself to be ruled by his mother. Now, I have the greatest respect for Lady Montella, but I do not believe in petticoat interference. Montella was quite capable of riding his political horse without the aid of feminine spurs.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Holmes,” assented the girl, almost surprised at his perception; “but Lady Montella is a strange woman; she has the spirit of a Joan of Arc, and the self-discipline of a nun. I have often wished myself that Lionel were left more to act on his own initiative. His ideas are on a broader plane than his mother’s, although he may be less of a Jew.”

“Quite so. Dear me, but how the poor fellow did scold me for introducing the Assimilation Bill! And, by Jove! I think he was right. We’ve made a ghastly mistake over the whole business, Lady Patricia. You can tell him so if you like.”

Patricia was all attention.

“You mean that the result of the Expulsion is unsatisfactory,” she interrupted eagerly. “I thought so, judging by all the reports I had heard.”

The Cabinet Minister bent forward confidentially.

“Shall I tell you something?” he answered impressively. “England can _not_ get along without Jewish money and Jewish brains; and she’s shipped all the best of it away—sent it to Palestine to enrich the Holy Land. That’s the plain truth—and a truth which is going to be expressed pretty forcibly by the people in Hyde Park next Saturday. Of course, Moore pooh-poohs it, and means to hold out to the end; but it strikes me that there will be a fairly sharp ministerial struggle before long.”

“And the result?”

“Ah, who can tell? I don’t think we have ever had such a feeble Government as there is now. There’s scarcely a man among them worth his salt. Moore still wields that sort of one-man power which is occasionally beneficial, and at times so dangerous; and I believe Moore’s mind on the Jewish question is warped. We’ve got to try and drag that rabid anti-Semitic feeling out of him: it’s no easy task.”

Patricia remembered what Mamie had told her concerning the Premier’s inmost feelings, and grew thoughtful.

“I wonder if I could do anything to change Mr. Moore’s opinions,” she said slowly. “I have seen so much of both sides that I ought to be able to speak with authority. At present he distrusts me; he has scarcely spoken a word to me this evening, but of course he may have just felt in a taciturn mood. If I can win him over from anti-Semitism to common sense, will you excuse the petticoat interference for once, Mr. Holmes?”

He smiled good-humouredly at her naïve use of his own expression, but quickly regained his gravity as the door opened to admit the Countess. The unfortunate little lady seemed full of trouble, and sank on to the settee with an expression of despair. Athelstan was behaving in a most ridiculous manner, and declared he would have no trained nurses creeping about the house.

“He wants me to nurse her myself, with the assistance of an old and trusted servant of his first wife’s,” she said, in a voice which was almost tearful. “He says Phyllis has a horror of strangers. But, Patricia, how can I? I know I’m not strong, and I should be sure to catch it. My throat feels quite sore already at the mere thought.”

She looked the picture of misery, with her pale face and troubled eyes. Patricia wondered that she could so easily collapse, but taking pity on her, made a sudden resolve.

“Would Mr. Moore be satisfied if I undertook to nurse her in your place?” she said impulsively, without giving herself time to consider the consequence. “Phyllis will probably remember me; I am not quite a stranger. And I am a good nurse—I like it. So if you will have me, I am quite willing to stay.”

Mr. Lawson Holmes cast her a glance of admiration. It seemed to him that her beautiful eyes shone with the light of heroism; and he recognised that hers was the material of which soldiers are made. But the Countess could not conceal her astonishment.

“You!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet. “Oh, Patricia, you _can’t_ mean it? Why should you do it for the child of Athelstan Moore? And think of the responsibility and the risk. Diphtheria is so infectious. Are you not afraid?”

“Afraid? No.” The girl met her gaze bravely. “I shall not neglect the necessary precautions, you may be sure; but even if I do take the disease, it won’t matter—much. Away from my husband, I don’t care what happens to me, and that is the very reason why I shall be immune. Besides, this would be what Lionel calls a _Mitzvah_—a good deed which brings a blessing. Oh, I should like to do it; it would give me something to occupy my thoughts!”

Her words unconsciously betrayed the unhappiness of her present position. Her recklessness with regard to the danger amounted almost to desperation; and she seemed to have fully made up her mind. So the Countess, with a feeling almost of awe, went to acquaint the Premier of her unselfish offer; she could not understand her cousin’s frame of mind in the least.

The Premier manifested not a flicker of surprise. He returned with his wife to accept the offer with formal gratitude, but Patricia could see that in reality he was much stirred. Moreover, it pleased her to know that he had confidence in her ability, that he could bring himself to trust her with his precious child. Realising the tremendous responsibility she had taken upon herself, she sat down with trembling hand to write to Mrs. Lowther for what she required. She could imagine what that good lady would say when she read the note, and the flutter there would ensue at Ivydene. Truly the situation was a curious one, though not so outrageous as Mrs. Lowther would make out. But she had long ago made up her mind that life was full of the strangest inconsistencies, and had therefore no compunction in adding one more to the list.

“I have ordered my _chauffeur_ to get the car ready,” said the Premier, when she had finished the note. “Will you come with me, Holmes?”

“With pleasure.” The Cabinet Minister rose with alacrity. “You are going to the doctor, I suppose.”

“Yes; but I haven’t any faith in him—he is only a local practitioner. I want him to get hold of that specialist, though—I’ve forgotten the man’s name, but you know whom I mean. He cured the Crown-Princess of Germany from the same complaint, and it was stated at the time that he was the only doctor in the world who could have pulled her through. I am certain my little girl will be all right if she is in his hands, and it will be a great comfort for me to have him. But I can’t for the life of me think of his name. It was something beginning with a K.”

“I know!” exclaimed the Countess, glad to be able to come to the rescue. “It was Dr. Kesten.”

Moore gave a sigh of relief.

“That’s right,” he replied, almost cheerfully. “Kesten. He’s a splendid doctor, and a really good and conscientious man. I believe he lives in Portland Place.”

“Dr. Kesten?” repeated Mr. Lawson Holmes, in astonishment. “Good gracious, Moore, you can’t have him. He’s in Palestine—one of the victims of the Expulsion. Have you forgotten that Kesten is a Jew?”

Patricia looked up with a startled expression on her face, and exchanged a glance with Mr. Holmes. Here indeed was a curious dénouement: Moore was personally feeling the dire result of his own Bill.

And the Premier in his rage and emotion forgot himself for once.

“Hang the Jews!” was his uncivil, but forcible remark.