Chapter III: The Mind of the Premier

Patricia found her post no sinecure. The first thing she did was to send Lady Chesterwood and her little boy to Ivydene; for Mamie’s fear of infection was so great that she would most certainly have caught the disease had she remained, even though the south wing in which the child lay was quite apart from the rest of the house. Moore’s foolish aversion to professional nurses entailed greater vigilance on the part of the two physicians who were attending the case, and they were obliged to visit the Hall three or four times in the course of the day. In reality the little girl was suffering from a peculiarly mild form of the disease, but her father was so nervous that the very pronouncement of the word “diphtheria” had frightened him beyond measure. For himself he entertained no fear—his was too strong a nature to admit of cowardice; but his love for his child was passionate almost to excess. Patricia had never seen anything like it in her life.

His time was divided between Downing Street, the House of Commons, and Ravenscroft Hall. At the Foreign Office he was dictatorial and shrewd; in the House his speeches lacked nothing of their usual brilliance; but as soon as he returned to the Hall he became a different man. The pomposity departed from him, his step became light, his voice subdued; and ascending the staircase on tiptoe, the usual question, “How is she?” fell almost pathetically from his lips. If she were a little better his happiness knew no bounds, but if worse, his spirits sank to zero; and one night, when the child was really in danger, there ensued a scene which the Hall servants remembered for months. The doctors would not allow him to remain in the room, so he paced the corridor, almost distraught; and as no one dared say a word to comfort him without the fear of instant dismissal, he was left to drink his cup of bitterness alone.

But Patricia, coming off duty an hour later, brought him the welcome news that Phyllis was asleep and the crisis almost past; and inducing him to accompany her to the adjoining housekeeper’s room, talked to him quietly for a little while. She looked pale from lack of sleep, and her eyes were heavy; but in his stress of mind and self-absorption he scarcely spared her a thought.

“Do you really think she will get better—on your word of honour?” he asked, for the hundredth time; “or are you only saying it to comfort me? I don’t want to be buoyed up by false hopes; I would rather know the worst. I— Oh dear, how my head seems to spin! Or is it the room that is going round like a top?”

The girl helped him to a chair, and forced him to take a little brandy.

“No wonder you are exhausted,” she said, when he was somewhat revived. “You are wearing yourself out; your nerves are constantly on the rack. I don’t understand you at all, Mr. Moore. In public life you have the courage and strength of a giant—I have been reading about you only this morning in the _Post_; but in private life—here—you behave just like a nervous woman. I really feel quite ashamed of you before the doctors. If you do not take care, they will form a very poor opinion of the Prime Minister’s fortitude.”

She spoke boldly, knowing that the rebuke was just what he needed, and that it would have a salutary effect. The Premier regarded her with astonishment, and a sharp rejoinder rose to his lips; but he repressed it, and the momentary gleam of anger died out of his eyes.

“You are right,” he returned, his hands falling dejectedly to his side; “but I have had so much worry lately; I think my nerves are unstrung. And you don’t know—what it is to love a child—as I love my Phyllis.”

Her eyes deepened with feeling. “Ah, but I do!” she said, with a sudden catch in her voice. “I too have a child—a little darling whom I may never see again, although he is as dear to me as your little girl is to you. But I am brave, or at least I try to be.... And Phyllis will get better. My case is more hopeless than yours.”

“Phyllis will get better?” He grasped at the words as a drowning man clutches a straw. “I pray God she may! I pray God she may!” Then he leant his head against his hands, and continued, as though speaking to himself: “I am not superstitious—a sensible man has no right to give way to such folly; but I thought the judgment of Heaven had fallen when Phyllis was taken ill. The Jews.... They are the bane of my life ... they would pay me out if they could. Pharaoh oppressed them, and was smitten with the ten plagues.... But I won’t be beaten; I _won’t_.... Not if fifty plagues come on my people—not if Phyllis dies. _If Phyllis dies...._ Good God, what am I saying? She must not die.... Any judgment from Heaven—but not that ... my one little ewe lamb. Eh?” he added thickly, as Patricia made a movement. “What was I talking about? The brandy has got into my head, I think. Let me go—into the garden; I must have air.”

He stumbled up to the French window, which, by means of a flight of steps, gave access to the lawn. Patricia assisted him to descend, and rang hastily for his valet. Then she returned to the sick-room, thereby incurring the displeasure of the doctor; for in the hours that she was not on duty it was necessary that she should rest.

“I am on my way to bed now,” she whispered, glancing tenderly at the unconscious child; “but I wanted to tell you something, doctor. Mr. Moore seems very much unstrung, and I should like you to prescribe for him before you go. He has to preside at a Cabinet Meeting to-morrow, and unless he sleeps to-night, I am sure he will be unable to attend.”

The physician nodded.

“Very well, I will, as soon as I have given my instructions for the night to nurse,” he whispered back. “And now, Lady Patricia, I must insist on you going to bed; otherwise, we shall be having you on the sick-list too.”

The girl smiled, and quietly withdrew; but although she was tired, she felt little inclination for sleep. The stray glimpse into the secret chambers of the Premier’s mind had filled her with all sorts of curious cogitations, and she could not help pondering on the strange character of the man. He was evidently suffering either from distorted mental vision or—as Mamie had said—from remorse; and his recently-grey hair and haggard features testified that his health was being injured in consequence. But if that was the case—if his part in connection with the Expulsion was weighing so heavily on his mind, why did he not seek to atone for his action by advocating retractive measures? If he were a brave man—and his brilliant Parliamentary career proved him to be a morally strong one—why did he shrink from owning himself to have been in the wrong? Was it cowardice or sheer obstinacy which made him hold on grimly to his original views in spite of his inmost convictions? And how long would he be able to maintain that line of conduct—how long before the great mind would over-balance itself, and travel along the course which led to insanity? Could it be possible that they should ever see “_that noble and most sovereign reason, like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh_?”

But the next morning she found him as abrupt and self-possessed as usual. All traces of his recent emotion had disappeared, and he had evidently regained complete command over himself. The child had passed a better night, and his matutinal visit to the sick-room caused him such satisfaction that he was able to leave for London almost as soon as the doctor had been. And that day his dialectics at the Foreign Office were more irresistible than ever; he was once more his old self, now that the danger to his child was past.

Patricia found the period of the little girl’s convalescence more trying than the actual illness, for there seemed more to do, and Phyllis was often peevish and cross. Lady Chesterwood and Mrs. Lowther called every day, and sometimes twice a day; but unless she changed all her clothes, for fear the germs of infection should—according to the Countess—lurk in the folds of her nursing costume, she could not see them, and often she was obliged to let them go away: so that all communication with the outer world had practically ceased for the present, and of the daily inquirers who drove up to the Hall she saw not one. She looked over the visitors’ book sometimes, and collected the numerous visiting-cards for Phyllis to play with; but although some of the names were so familiar that they called up vivid remembrances of the days of her early girlhood, she felt no desire to see any of these quondam friends. Whether they knew of her presence in the Premier’s mansion she knew not; but it was likely that Mamie had spread the news.

One afternoon, however, a card was brought up to her which dispelled her usual indifference, and caused the colour to mount to her cheeks. It bore the inscription “Sir Ferdinand Montella,” and on the reverse side the intimation of his immediate return to Haifa. Scarcely pausing to smooth her fair hair, Patricia rushed down to receive him; for although she had never seen him before, she looked upon him as a link from the East.

His visit was the best tonic she could have taken, for his breezy manner had an exhilarating effect. He brought good news of her beloved ones in Palestine, inasmuch as they were both well, and the baby bonnier than ever. He expressed himself willing to take back any messages she cared to send, and apologised deeply for not having come before.

“I was so busy with my affair,” he said, with the light of satisfaction in his eyes. “Thank goodness it’s all settled, and I’ve won the case. I was the cat’s-paw of another fellow, you know; and I could not have come forward before without betraying him. But now he is dead, and I have been able to prove my innocence; and now that I am a free and honourable man in the sight of the world, I am going back to marry my little Raie.”

Patricia held out her hands.

“I am very glad,” she said sincerely. “I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. And I hope you and Raie will be very happy; she is a sweet girl, and will make you an admirable wife.”

“So I think,” he returned, with a glad smile, as his grasp on her fingers relaxed. “I believe we were cut out for each other; it was love at first sight, anyway. But I don’t want to talk about myself, Patricia; I want to know something about you. Lionel will be full of questions when I get back. I was astonished when Mrs. Lowther informed me that you were here. Whatever made you walk direct into the lion’s mouth?”

“Providence, or a combination of circumstances,” she answered slowly. “When I advised Mrs. Lowther to rent Ivydene for a year, I had quite forgotten that Ravenscroft Hall was so near; and you see, Lady Chesterwood was in such trouble that I was bound to offer to help. I do hope Lionel will not be angry; I would never have become an inmate of the Premier’s household under any other circumstances, and I shall leave as soon as I can. They have treated me very courteously here; I cannot complain.”

“It seems so strange—so unnecessary,” he said, with a puzzled expression, “that you, a Montella by marriage, should go out of your way to nurse the child of an anti-Semite. It is heaping coals of fire on his head with a vengeance. I cannot understand how the man could accept your services if he has any pride about him at all.”

“You do not know him, Ferdinand. He has pride, but he would not let it stand in the way where the welfare of his child was concerned. Besides, I did it for Mamie’s sake; her husband was my first-cousin. And, do you know, I am glad I came. I believe I shall be able to convert the Premier before I leave.”

“Convert the Premier,” he repeated, with an ironical smile. “What to?—Judaism?”

She laughed.

“Not quite; but you are not far wrong. I want to cure him of his anti-Semitic mania, and so far I have progressed well. At first I dare not mention the Jewish question to him; but now that I have nursed his child through a serious illness, he is beginning to trust me, and to listen to what I choose to say.”

“But do you really think that you, a mere woman—I had almost said child—can influence Athelstan Moore?” he asked incredulously. “Why, I know of no one in England who is able to do that.”

Patricia was too sensible to be piqued by his scepticism.

“I do think so,” she returned, with enthusiasm. “Mr. Moore is a man who can be led, but not driven. You know what Shakespeare says:

‘What thou wilt
Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile,
Than hew to’t with thy sword.’

Mr. Lawson Holmes and his colleagues might talk to him till Doomsday without the slightest effect, because he is strenuously determined to oppose them; but I have the opportunity of approaching him in his tenderest moments—when he is with his child. There are some cases in which a ‘mere woman’ can do more than the strongest man.”

He glanced at her with admiration, not unmixed with wonder.

“And if you do cure him of his anti-Semitic mania, as you call it,” he said slowly, “what will be the practical result?”

“I cannot say; but it will be a victory worth achieving. Everyone knows how the Premier dominates the Government, both collectively and individually—how they have not the courage to move a step without his approval, how they follow him just like a flock of sheep. Cure him of his anti-Semitism, and there is no knowing what may happen. Do not discourage me, Ferdinand, I mean to try very hard.”

The clock struck four, and warned her that she was due in the sick-room; but she had so many messages to send that she could scarcely bear to tear herself away. If she had only known of his coming, she would have loaded him with presents for her dear ones, but he intended to start on the morrow, and it was too late to get anything now. So she was obliged to be content with sending her love—so much of it that Ferdinand laughingly declared he would never be able to carry it; and she wept a little in spite of his cheerful words. Then she said good-bye, and went to her own room for a few minutes to finish her cry.

It might be a long time before she saw a Montella again.