Chapter III: Patricia

Meanwhile, Lionel Montella, having left his card at Downing Street, re-entered his hansom, and was driven to Grosvenor Square. The casket which contained his jewel consisted of a house situated in the quietest corner; and here the vehicle slackened speed. Having pulled the great bell, Montella was admitted by a powdered footman, and shown into one of the smaller rooms at the back of the hall. Allowing himself to be divested of his overcoat, he asked to see the Earl.

It was an extremely quiet household, in spite of its grandeur. The Earl was a peculiar individual of misanthropical temperament, who shut himself up in his study, and never mixed with the outer world unless there were some urgent necessity. The death of his wife some fourteen years ago had given him ample excuse for eschewing society; and society, being aware of his crotchety ideas, returned the compliment by leaving him severely alone.

The room to which Montella was eventually conducted was a small turret-chamber approached by a special staircase from the topmost landing. There was no electric light here, and the flickering candle-light cast weird shadows across the stone walls and tessellated floor. As he entered the room two large blackbirds flew towards him, and encircled his head. The footman waved them away; and flapping their wings, they returned to their aviary in the embrasure formed by the window. Then the manservant retired, to leave Montella alone with the Earl.

He was a man just bordering on middle age, but his bald head and stooping figure gave him the appearance of the aged. He was bending over a tank, with the sleeves of his little velvet jacket turned up. His dress-coat had been carelessly slung over the back of a chair. The drip of the water into the tank was the only sound to break the silence. Montella for the moment remained inert.

At last the Earl turned round.

“Oh—ah—Montella,” he said, with his hands still in the water. “Roberts announced you, didn’t he? I was rather—ah—preoccupied. Hope you’ll excuse my shaking hands. Come here and look at—ah—some of my work.”

The young man did as he was told, and advanced towards the tank, which proved to be a toning-bath. Amateur photography was the Earl’s latest hobby, and one which for a while absorbed all his time. The photographs floating in the water were principally views of his country seat, but there were also a few portraits amongst them. One, of a child of about six years of age, his lordship picked up and laid in the palm of his hand.

“There!” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph. “Can you tell me who that is?”

The face in the photograph had moved horribly, and the eyes were doubled. It might have stood for any small boy in the kingdom. Montella hesitated before replying; but at last he received a happy inspiration.

“The King!” he exclaimed. “One can scarcely fail to recognise him. It is the King!”

“It _is_ the King.” Lord Torrens dipped the print lovingly in the water once more. “I photographed him in the grounds of the palace by special permission of his mother—ah—the Queen-Regent. He was a terrible little rascal to take—moved all over the place; but I’ve got a splendid picture of him, don’t you think so? Of course it wants touching up a bit; you can understand that?”

“Oh, certainly,” Montella replied, in good faith. Then he too dipped his hand in the water, and turned over the prints. He knew that the Earl liked to be humoured in his hobby, so he proceeded to ply him with questions relating to the art. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of pleasure. The portrait of a girl floated towards him—a girl with wavy hair, whose tendrils strayed on to a low but intelligent forehead; with large eyes, set somewhat far apart and full of expression; with a well-formed nose, short upper-lip and rounded chin. She was clasping a bunch of roses against her breast, and a garland of the same flowers nestled in her hair. “Lady Patricia,” he said, a softened tone in his voice. “This is the best portrait of her I have ever seen.”

The Earl was delighted.

“Ah, do you really think so?” he returned. “My daughter is not a good subject for a photograph; rather too fair, and doesn’t look her best in repose. However, I flatter myself that I have succeeded in getting a very happy expression. You must let me give you a copy when there is one finished.”

“You are very kind.” He gazed at the photograph as if loath to let it go. “There is no gift that would please me more—unless it were the original herself.”

He dried his hands and paced the room, overcome by an unwonted nervousness. The Earl had apparently not noticed the latter part of his speech, for he went on toning the prints with imperturbability. Montella, however, intended him to notice it, and after stalking up and down for some minutes, decided to take the bull by the horns.

“Lord Torrens,” he began, feeling more agitated than when he had given his maiden speech in the House, “I have come here to-night to ask you a question on the answer to which my whole life’s happiness depends. Since I have enjoyed the privilege of your friendship, I have learnt to know you and your daughter better than would have been possible in ordinary circumstances. I know that there are very few who are admitted to the intimacy of your home life as you have so kindly admitted me, and therefore I appreciate the privilege all the more. But to come to the point—I wish to speak of Lady Patricia. I have seen her constantly during the past year, and—and—” His flow of words suddenly broke down. “My lord, you are acquainted with my family, and I hope by now that you know something of me personally. Have I your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter?”

The choice little speech he had prepared forsook his memory just when it was most needed; even in his own ears the statement of his desire sounded lame. The Earl turned round slowly, and regarded him fixedly; but the monosyllable “Eh?” was all he vouchsafed in reply.

It is one of the most trying things in the world to have to repeat a difficult request. Montella began all over again, and gaining confidence, succeeded in giving an impassioned appeal. Lord Torrens listened with some little show of interest, because if there existed a tender spot in his heart, it was for his daughter Patricia; but he was inwardly longing to get back to his beloved prints.

“I did not think you were the man to bother yourself about women,” he said at last, jerking out the words in his characteristic way. “If you take my advice, as a friend, you will stick to your Parliament and your politics; leave the women to those young fools whose chief vocation is to become ladies’ men. The farther you keep away from frills and furbelows, the better for yourself.”

“You preach what you have not practised, Lord Torrens,” Lionel rejoined, with a smile. “I suppose that you were once in love?”

The Earl gave an expressive gesture.

“My dear fellow, I was no less susceptible than the rest; and my sweetheart—afterwards my wife, and Patricia’s mother—was a queen amongst women. But I sometimes wish that I had never crossed her path; for she managed to twine herself about my heart, became the chief delight of my life; and then—”

“Then?” questioned Montella, filling up the pause.

“Then she died; and I was left with two infants to bring up, and a dreary waste of years before me to fill up as best I could. So you see that had I never met my wife, I might have made a career of some sort; at least, I should have been saved a considerable amount of heartache and pain.”

“And love,” added the youth, secretly wondering that the prosaic and somewhat crusty exterior of the Earl should conceal the heart-feelings of an emotional being. “Is it not better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Tennyson says so. And there is no one who will ever profit by another’s experience in these affairs. So to return to my question. You will approve?”

“Have you—ah—spoken to her yet?”

“Not a word. I could not do so until I had obtained your consent. I—”

He broke off abruptly at the sound of the _frou-frou_ of a woman’s skirt. The small door at the top of the spiral staircase opened, and a girl in a simple white dress stood on the threshold.

“May I come in, father?” she asked; then noticed the visitor. “Mr. Montella! I did not know you were here.”

She advanced with outstretched hand, her face lighting up with pleasure. The blackbirds flew down from their perch, twittering as though in greeting. The little turret-chamber seemed transformed by her presence: an air of constraint crept over the two men, and for the moment neither of them had anything to say. The Earl returned to the tank, and turned on the tap once more. The momentary emotion caused by the mention of his dead wife was now a thing of the past.

“I am very busy, my dear,” he said, somewhat pointedly. “Very busy indeed. Perhaps you would like to entertain Mr. Montella below? This is my workroom, you know.”

“Yes. I came up here because Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed with a headache, and I was feeling a wee bit lonesome.” She smiled. “Will you come down with me, Mr. Montella? I would like to hear what you think of my latest attempts at verse.”

He rose with alacrity, and holding out his hand to the Earl, turned on him a questioning glance. Lord Torrens rewarded him with a look and gesture which implied approval. Then he continued washing his prints.

Montella was foremost in descending the spiral staircase, in order to assist Lady Patricia down the final steps. Arrived at the base, they descended the grand staircase together, and made their way to the library, which was Lady Patricia’s favourite room. Here she was wont to spend many a long hour in silent communion with men and women long passed away; for books were her counsellors and friends, and supplied the companionship which, owing to her father’s idiosyncrasies, she was denied. Here, too, she wrote the lyrics and sonnets in which her poetic instinct found its outlet. From her earliest childhood she had possessed the happy gift of composing verse.

She went to her desk and fetched some sheets of manuscript.

“I am glad Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed,” she remarked, as she gave them to him. “She always laughs at what she calls my attempts to scale Parnassus, but I know that you won’t laugh, because you understand.”

“The good lady has not a poetic soul,” he said, as he ran his eye down the page. “This stanza appears to be very promising, Lady Pat. May I take the MS. home with me to study when I am quiet and undisturbed?”

She consented readily, and rolling up the sheets, he placed them carefully in his pocket. Then, closing the door, he began on the subject on which all his thoughts were set. With a glad light in his eyes, and eagerness in his voice, he told her of his love.

It caused her no surprise; indeed, why should it? She had invested Lionel Montella with a poetic idealism almost from the first day of their acquaintance. She admired the race from which he sprang, and which seemed to surround him with a halo of romance: she liked to see the verve which leapt into his eyes when he spoke of the ancestors who had been so cruelly wronged. More than this, she loved the man himself; therefore his declaration seemed the most natural thing in the world.

Nevertheless there was a mist in her eyes as she responded to his confession. She knew that he was not a man who was easily impressed by a woman’s personality, so that to have so greatly stirred his heart’s emotions was to have accomplished something indeed. She listened to his sweet nothings with her own heart beating in response, with her face upturned, and love’s ardour in her eyes. And so the moments sped on—moments to be remembered in eternity—until the chiming of a clock recalled them to the prosaicism of life.

“Half-past ten already,” he said, rising with reluctance. “I have stayed an unconscionable time, and my mother asked me particularly to come home.”

“Naughty boy!” she exclaimed playfully. “You must put the blame on me. Does Lady Montella know that—that—I mean, does she know about me?”

“Not yet, dear.” His brow clouded. “But she shall know very soon.”

“Do you think she will be displeased?”

“Displeased!” He took her in his arms again. “My darling, who could be displeased where you are concerned?”

“But I am a Christian, Lionel, and you are a Jew.”

“Yes, dear; but what does that matter? Are we to be separated for life because of the difference in our birth? The sacrifice is too great—for me, at least. Does it make any difference to you that I am a Jew?”

“None at all,” she rejoined impetuously, “unless it makes me love you more.”

He pressed her hand.

“I am glad—so glad—and yet—” A new thought came into his mind. “Patricia, my heart’s dearest, there may be dark days coming for my people. If Athelstan Moore becomes Premier, Heaven alone knows what new plans he may be able to carry out. As a Member of Parliament, and a representative of one of the oldest Jewish families in the kingdom, it is possible I may be considered the spokesman for my co-religionists. In that case, I shall have to defend their cause with all the enthusiasm of which I am capable. So you see that while I am the friend of Christians, I must, at the same time, be the still greater champion of the Jews. Patricia, dearest, this may bring me into a most unenviable position, one which I fear to ask you to share.”

He let go her hands, and paced the room in thought. The girl watched him, and a look of determination came into her eyes.

“We must not meet trouble half way, dear,” she said seriously; “but whatever happens, there is nothing that affects you in which I cannot have a share. You must do your duty to the race to which you belong, and I—I will help you to do it. I am not a Jewess, Lionel, but I know that your cause is a just one; therefore I have made up my mind to enter into it with all my heart.”

“Thank Heaven for so sweet a helper!” he exclaimed fervently. “You have taken a load off my mind.”

There was a joyous light in his eyes as he kissed her good-bye. With her love to nerve him, he felt able to withstand the world. At parting, she made him promise to acquaint his parents of their engagement without delay. She was anxious to know what they would say when they heard that he intended to marry a Christian girl.

“You need not fear, darling,” he assured her, with convincing ardour. “I am certain that my father, at least, will approve of my action, and my mother’s blessing, if it does not come at once, will soon follow suit.”

His words, although intended to reassure his sweetheart, also served as an assurance to himself.