Chapter II: The Montellas

The Montellas, in spite of their being the owners of a mansion in Portland Place, chose to occupy a flat in Knightsbridge, and to let their house to someone who had more use for the magnificent rooms and galleries than themselves. Ten years ago they had been renowned for their lavish hospitality and brilliant receptions; but a paralytic stroke having suddenly attacked Sir Julian when at the zenith of his popularity, they had been obliged to forego the pleasures of entertaining, and to retire into private life. The terrible affliction which had come upon her husband seemed also to have shattered Lady Montella’s health; and always more or less invalided, she seldom ventured forth into the maze of society. Whenever she made an effort to be present at some function, it was only for the sake of her son; for Lionel, being her only surviving child, was the lodestar of her existence. All her thoughts, hopes, and prayers were centred on him; and that he responded so faithfully to the influence of her training was the greatest joy she possessed. Had he proved otherwise, he would most surely have broken her heart.

It was twilight, the hour her ladyship loved the best. She was reclining in an easy-chair near the window, with her hands loosely folded, and her eyes watching the dying glory of the sunset. There was a vague something in her attitude which indicated peace—peace and contentment. It was as if she had been through all the storm and stress of life, and found a haven at the end. There were traces of suffering on her forehead, surmounted by its coronal of white hair; but the curves of her lips, and the indefinable sweetness of their expression, showed that she was neither embittered by sorrow nor hardened by experience. As wife and mother, as hostess and poor man’s friend, her interests had ever been concentrated outside herself.

The tinkling bells of a clock in the adjoining room disturbed her reverie, and at the same moment the door opened to admit a girl. Pausing a moment to switch on the electric light, she advanced towards Lady Montella’s chair. Her step, elastic yet firm, indicated the exuberance of youth.

“A penny for your thoughts, auntie. You look like Patience on a monument,” she said merrily, sinking on to a little chair at her ladyship’s side. “Are you still lamenting your sins, or have you, like myself, put them away for another year? I am so glad Dr. Ford allowed me to fast for half the day. My appetite is keener than it has been for weeks.”

Lady Montella looked at the girl and smiled. Raie Emanuel was her niece only by adoption, but there was as deep an affection on both sides as if a blood relationship had existed between the two. Raie, in keeping with her name, constituted a ray of brightness in a somewhat silent household, and to its mistress was a source of comfort and delight. The eldest daughter of a large but impecunious family, her nature was a combination of practicality with romance. She could cook a dinner or compose a poem with equal facility, and although in Lady Montella’s menage the former accomplishment was never required, it was to the girl’s credit that the ability was there.

“Lionel ought to be here soon,” she ran on, scarcely waiting for an answer, “unless he calls at Grosvenor Square on the way. I wonder which he wants most: the Lady Patricia or his breakfast?”

“He must be tired and hungry after his long day’s fast,” her foster-aunt returned. “I hope he will come straight home. You are joking, Raie, in saying that. Have you any grounds for supposing that Lady Patricia is the special object of my son’s interest?”

“Yes.” The girl nodded vivaciously. “One has only to see them together to be sure of it. Patricia Byrne is Lionel’s ideal woman—fair to look upon, fair at heart. And Lionel is Lady Patricia’s hero, as indeed he deserves to be. Haven’t you noticed the change which has come over him lately—the change in his opinions about women, I mean? Until a few weeks ago he was absorbed in his politics and his poor Jews. Now there is a counter attraction.”

Lady Montella looked distressed.

“You are more observant than I am, Raie,” she rejoined. “I have noticed nothing; perhaps I did not wish to notice—this.”

She leant back in her chair, her hands interlocked. For some unaccountable reason she had not thought that her boy would go the usual way of youth, and entangle himself in a love-affair; he had always seemed much too serious and reserved for anything of the kind. Of course, she wanted him to marry some day—a girl of his own faith whom she would choose. To allow himself to fall in love with Lady Patricia Byrne was the height of folly, and could only bring trouble on all concerned.

“I hope you are mistaken, Raie,” she added, at last. “I don’t think my son would do anything to give me pain.”

Fond mother who, because she has made an idol of her son, thinks he is totally devoid of the human passions which have agitated the breast of youth ever since the world began. Raie marvelled that a man should be so little understood by his nearest and dearest, but she said nothing; and at that moment the subject of their conversation himself appeared.

He came in with a number of newspapers in his hand, and having kissed his mother and inquired how Raie had fasted, informed them of the important news. He looked tired and worn; and Raie, to whom the death of premiers was as nothing compared with nearer and more practical matters, immediately hurried off to see if his breakfast were fully prepared. She returned a few minutes later, and insisted on his going to the dining-room forthwith. She would listen to nothing he had to say until he had satisfied the demands of the inner man. She captured the papers, however, and read the accounts for herself.

“Only forty-four years of age,” she remarked, as she put the last one down. “Well, I suppose he will have a state funeral; it will be worth seeing. Do you think you can get us tickets of admission, Lal?”

“Raie!” exclaimed Lady Montella, in a tone of reproof. “Is that the first thing you think of—not the serious consequence of the Premier’s death upon the nation, but only the excitement of watching his funeral procession?”

Lionel glanced at his foster-cousin with indulgence.

“Never mind,” he said kindly. “Let Raie leave state affairs to people who are forced to consider them. Time enough to be serious when the necessity occurs.”

“That’s what I think,” the girl rejoined, with a smile. “Auntie takes things much too seriously. By-the-bye, Lionel, will Lady Chesterwood have to put off her masked ball?”

“Unless she is personally related to poor Campbell, no. When is it going to be?”

“On Thursday week. I’ve been looking forward to it for months; it will be my first real ball, you know. Auntie has given me the loveliest dress you can imagine; it’s a perfect dream.”

“Not a nightmare, I hope,” he returned, and then drew back his chair. “Well, I must away to Downing Street, I suppose.” He sighed. “I wish I could look a year or so ahead.”

“Do the days pass too slowly for you, then?” asked his mother, in a tone of sympathy. “It is not like you to wish away your time.”

“The days pass too quickly for all I mean to do in them,” he replied. “It is only because I foresee trouble in the distance, mother dear. However, I won’t be a prophet of evil. Let me take a leaf out of Raie’s book, and put away dull care.”

Lady Montella followed him out into the hall.

“You will be back soon, I hope, dear?” she said. “I expect Miss Lorm during the evening.”

“I will be back as soon as I can,” he returned; “but I may be detained at Downing Street, and—and I have promised to call at Grosvenor Square.”

“To see Lady Patricia?” Her voice unconsciously hardened.

“Yes; Lady Patricia and her father.” A tinge of colour came into his cheeks.

His mother said no more, but kissing him lightly on the forehead, went to her room, and rang the bell for her maid. At dinner she listened to Raie’s light chatter with her thoughts elsewhere, and when the meal was at an end, asked the girl for music. Raie played and sang as well as most girls of her age, and having once started, was in no hurry to cease. She amused herself, and in a lesser degree her aunt, until the footman announced the advent of Miss Lorm. Then she put her music away in the rack, and rose to greet the guest.

Zillah Lorm was a singer who owed her position in a great measure to Lady Montella’s liberality. She had been introduced to her ladyship’s notice some years ago as a young co-religionist who possessed an exceptional voice, but who lacked the means to ensure an adequate training; and as Lady Montella loved to interest herself in such cases, the necessary money was immediately forthcoming. Zillah went to the Royal College for three years, after which she studied in Rome and Paris. Then, through her patroness’s influence, she secured engagements to sing at homes and receptions. Now, at the age of five-and-twenty, she was one of the most popular vocalists in London.

She entered the room with the graceful self-possession which betokened the artiste. Unusually tall, and with an inclination towards embonpoint, her evening-gown of clinging silk concealed, yet at the same time revealed the rounded curves of her figure. Her eyes, dark and luminous, wandered restlessly through the room, as though in quest of someone she desired to see; her face, as she shook hands with her patroness and Raie Emanuel, lighted up with a winning smile.

“My son has had to go to Downing Street on account of the Premier’s death,” Lady Montella informed her, although there was no reason why she should apologise for his absence. “I hope he will return before you go.”

Raie looked questioningly at her foster-aunt, and invited Miss Lorm to loosen her wraps. For no accountable reason a feeling of aversion existed between the two; perhaps it was because the young girl felt small and insignificant in the presence of Miss Lorm; and the singer was, or had been, jealous of the position occupied by Raie.

“I am in luck’s way, Lady Montella,” she said, settling herself on one of the silk-covered chairs in a way which made Raie’s movements look awkward in comparison. “I am to be commanded to sing before the Queen-Regent early next month.”

“Indeed?” Her ladyship’s face lit up with interest. “It is a great honour, Zillah. I am very glad; I am always glad when a Jewess distinguishes herself.”

Zillah moved her position.

“I—I don’t wish to distinguish myself _as a Jewess_,” she replied hastily, with a spot of colour on her cheeks. “I am a singer, _pur et simple_. The Queen-Regent doesn’t know that I’m a Jewess, nor do the powers that be who managed the affair for me know either. The name of Jew is in such ill-favour just now that I have thought it best to sink my connection with the Chosen in case it should prove a hindrance to my career. Fortunately, although I am dark, my appearance does not betray me. Do you not think me wise, dear Lady Montella?”

“From the worldly point of view, perhaps; but I would rather have you cling to your precious heritage, my dear, especially just now, when people are so ready to seize on anything which can be considered discreditable to us. My son is doing his utmost to serve his country, and to prove himself a worthy Jew. Even those who are the enemies of our people are forced to honour him. I should like you, in the same way, to prove yourself a worthy Jewess, and so raise the standard in public opinion. What do you say, Raie?”

Raie tossed her head. “I—oh, I haven’t the least respect for a Jew or Jewess who is ashamed to own it! Besides, the most superficial student of physiognomy could trace Miss Lorm’s descent in her features. It is the most difficult thing in the world to hide one’s Hebrew origin. A look or a word—even a gesture will show it.”

Zillah bit her lip to repress a sarcastic rejoinder, then changed the subject. Secretly she made up her mind to pay Raie back when opportunity occurred. Shortly afterwards she rose to take her leave. She was very fond of dear Lady Montella, but her ladyship’s dialectics on Judaism bored her excessively, and the one to whom she liked to converse was not there.

Raie hailed her departure with relief.

“I think I must be bad-tempered, auntie,” she remarked, as soon as the hall door was closed. “At any rate, Zillah Lorm always rubs me up the wrong way.”

“Why? I have never heard her say anything to offend you, dear.”

“No, it isn’t what she says; it’s the way she looks at me. She always makes me say all the sharp horrid things I can think of. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself afterwards, but I wouldn’t apologise for the world. And I know she’s trying to set her cap at Lionel, and she knows I know it; and—and—I would much rather Lal married Lady Patricia than Zillah Lorm.”

She spoke in the short, nervous way which was characteristic of herself. Lady Montella glanced at her musingly.

“I am afraid your imagination is running away with you, Raie,” she returned, in a quiet voice. “First it is Lady Patricia Byrne, then Zillah Lorm. To how many more ladies are you going to engage my son?”

“To me, if you like!” The girl laughed merrily. “Don’t you think I would make a good wife, auntie? But no, I am destined to be an old maid! I took the last piece of bread-and-butter at tea; and that, you know, is a sure sign.”

She kissed her foster-aunt good-night, and danced along the corridor to her bedroom. Lady Montella glanced at the clock, and noticed that it was nearly eleven. She gave a sigh, and wondered what her son was doing. She thought that on this night—after he had been fasting all day—he might have stayed at home.