Chapter IV: The Masked Ball

Lionel did not feel it so easy as he had imagined to acquaint his parents of his engagement to the daughter of Earl Torrens. He tackled his father first, deeming him the easier to mollify, and succeeded in obtaining his consent to the betrothal. To win his mother’s approval was a more difficult matter, and one which he knew necessitated considerable tact. He postponed the announcement until the last possible moment, hoping that if Sir Julian had informed her of the news, she would herself introduce the subject; but as two days passed without a word having been said, he was obliged to take the initiative. His sweetheart was eagerly awaiting the news.

Lady Montella listened to her son’s confession with compressed lips and a cloud on her brow. She had nothing against the woman of his choice—the Lady Patricia was well-born, and all that could be desired in looks, manner, and disposition—but there was one great, insuperable objection: the girl was a Christian.

“Are there not good and sweet Jewish girls among your acquaintance that you must seek a wife of another race?” she asked, with a touch of reproach. “Could you not set your affections upon Raie Emanuel, for instance, or Zillah Lorm?”

“Mother!” He glanced at her in surprise. “I thought you would understand. Can a man just calmly and dispassionately choose a girl first, and _then_ pour his love upon her? I admire Miss Lorm, and I am fond of our little Raie, but I would no more think of marrying either of them than I would think of a journey to the moon. Don’t you see, mother, that my feeling for Patricia is totally different. She herself is different to all other women—whether Jewish or Christian—that I have ever met. Her thoughts are mine, her sympathies are mine, her love is mine. Oh, I can’t explain it properly, but surely you must know!”

There was an eager expression, half of entreaty, in his face. His mother regarded him earnestly, and realised the effort it was costing him to break through his accustomed reserve. Her face relaxed a little of its sternness, but the determination remained.

“Lionel,” she asked quietly, “are you a true and zealous Jew?”

“Yes.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “At least I try to be.”

“And yet you would marry a Christian?”

“I would marry the Lady Patricia; that she is a Christian is a mere accident of birth.”

“Until now the Montella stock has been entirely and purely Jewish. Do you think the prestige of the family would gain by an infusion of Gentile blood?”

“If you put it that way, as long as it is ‘blue blood’ I do not think the prestige of family would suffer.”

Lady Montella could not resist a smile, but it quickly faded.

“Is Patricia willing to become a Jewess or, rather, a proselyte?” she asked.

The young man’s face clouded.

“I do not know,” was his rejoinder. “Patricia and I have never discussed the subject of religion, but I believe she belongs, nominally at least, to the Church of England. If her faith is, to her, a source of happiness, I scarcely like to ask her to give it up.”

Again the mother’s swift glance seemed to penetrate his being; again the question passed her lips.

“Lionel, are you a true Jew?”

The colour surged into his cheeks.

“Have you any reason to doubt my sincerity?” he said.

“I trust not; but, my son, I am more far-seeing than you. A Christian mother means Christian children, a Christian household. In this way the Montella traditions will be destroyed.”

“If I am blessed with sons, they shall be brought up as strict Jews.” The colour still suffused his cheeks. “I promise you, and she shall promise too, that the Montellas shall ever remain a Jewish family, and faithful to their heritage.”

“Unless Lady Patricia renounces her creed and embraces ours, I shall never be satisfied. For the sake of the future generation, and for the honour of the House, I must insist on this.”

“Very well, I will ask her; and I now have your approval and consent?”

“Subject to this, yes.”

She sighed, and received his filial kiss with moisture in her eyes. She felt that her boy was no longer her own particular idol now that he had given his heart away. Hitherto she had been the only woman to whom he offered his sweet tokens of affection; now there was another—and for the moment more attractive—goddess to whom there was homage due. That this was in the natural course of things did not mitigate the soreness in her heart. He was her only and passionately beloved son.

“Lionel,” she said softly. “May I tell you a little story? It is about myself. When I was a girl, long before I met Sir Julian, I fell in love with a young officer—a Christian. I was so much in love with him that I thought it would break my heart to give him up. But in spite of that I would not consent to become his wife; there was something that held me back.”

“And that was?”

“Duty.” She laid an accent on the word. “My duty to my race and faith; my duty to my parents. I sent him away, and he eventually married a girl of his own faith. The happiness of my married life you know. So you see that although duty clashed with my own inclinations at the time, it brought me the truest happiness in the end.”

Lionel paced the room with bent head.

“I am disappointed in you, dear,” she continued slowly. “You must not mind my telling you the truth. I had thought that with you, as with me, duty would occupy the foremost place. I had thought that your enthusiasm for our race and your ambitions in regard to the amelioration of our oppressed brethren were such that you would forget all personal inclination. Lionel, I am certain, as I look into the future, that opportunity will be given you to prove your devotion to our cause. I am certain that you are destined to exercise a great influence, both politically and socially, _as a Jew_. Can you wonder, therefore, that I see in Lady Patricia a stumbling-block to your career? Will your co-religionists have the same opinion of you when you have married a Christian? Will you have the same voice, the same power, when you have married away from the race which you profess to love so deeply? Have you considered the question from that point of view? If not, you are merely acting on the impulse of the moment.”

She looked into his face almost appealingly, but knew that all the arguing in the world would not alter his determination. He was so convinced that Patricia Byrne was his true mate, that discussion of the pros and cons was to him beside the question. He wished with all his heart to do his duty to his race, and to remain faithful to his inherited religion, and in this he believed that his sweetheart would help, not hinder him. So the result of the interview was as satisfactory as, under the circumstances, it could be; on this one point it was not possible that mother and son should think alike.

Lionel could not make up his mind to tell his beloved of the conditions of his mother’s approval at once: for a short time he wished to enjoy her sweet companionship without the smallest cloud to mar the brightness of their love. He brought her to see his parents, and the Earl dined with them in state, but not a word as to their difference of religion was said by either side. The only one who ventured to object was Mrs. Lowther, Patricia’s companion; but as she occupied a subordinate position, her opinion was of little consequence. Lionel sought an interview with her in private, and won her over in less than half an hour. What Patricia’s relatives would have to say in the matter, however, remained to be discovered.

The Countess of Chesterwood, at whose masked ball Raie Emanuel intended to make her _début_, was the widow of Earl Torrens’ nephew. An American by birth, she possessed democratic views, modified in accordance with the exigencies of her position in society. She loved to surround herself with clever people, no matter what their social status, and her house was the resort of many a young literary aspirant or budding musical genius. The Montellas admired her for her shrewd common sense and vivacious manner, and Lionel was certain that in her he and his sweetheart would find a firm ally. He took Patricia to call on her, but she was not at home; and they did not see her until the night of the ball. Her congratulations were offered in the bright way which was one of her most charming characteristics.

“I wish you love and luck,” she said.

“Luck?” repeated Patricia. “My dear Mamie, you are thinking of the St. Leger. We don’t intend to run a race.”

“Luck” was the name of Lady Chesterwood’s one and only racer. The little widow smiled.

“Life is a race, and you need plenty of luck to help you steer clear of the ditches,” she replied. “However, let me satisfy your fastidious ear by terming it ‘Providence.’ Mr. Montella, you haven’t asked me for a dance.”

Lionel apologised, and took possession of her card. Then he glanced at her costume.

“You are an Italian lady?” he queried, in doubt.

“I am Dante’s _Beatrice_; rather an assumption, isn’t it! But I am _so_ tired of the conventional fancy-dress people. Besides, my mask will conceal my face until midnight. What made you two choose to represent the Stuarts?”

“A lack of originality on my part, I think,” Patricia replied. “The ‘bonnie prince’ is one of my pet heroes, so I suggested him for Lionel, and Mary Queen of Scots seemed to follow suit. By the way, Mamie, what sort of people have you here?”

“All sorts and conditions. Authors, actors, musicians, artists, a sprinkling of politicians, and many mere society people. They are all thoroughly respectable, I assure you, my dear, and as you won’t be introduced, it doesn’t matter if you should happen to dance with someone of whom, ordinarily, your chaperon would not approve. Here, Equality is the watchword. In the matter of this masked ball, at least, I am a law unto myself.”

She bowed and swept away on the arm of a chivalrous knight. The musicians struck up the spirited tune of a new dance which had recently been invented, and the lovers, preferring to witness it rather than to take part, mounted to the gallery in order to view the _mise en scène_. The ball-room was decorated in white and gold, the clusters of electric light arranged to form huge daffodils hanging at measured intervals from the painted ceiling. The musicians were almost hidden by a bank of flowers, consisting principally of orchids and the rarest ferns; a similar bank adorned the other end of the room. The motley dresses of the guests—some attractive, some merely grotesque—lent a brilliancy which was somewhat bizarre in its effect. To the onlookers, the combination of personalities was curious—perhaps not without significance to some who were there.

“There is Oliver Cromwell dancing with a charming little _vivandière_,” observed Patrica, with amusement. “What must the shade of that worthy Puritan think—if think it can?”

“Let us hope that in the course of centuries it has gained sense,” Lionel responded lightly. “Do you not recognise the _vivandière_? It is our Raie.”

“Miss Emanuel? How _petite_ she looks; and the Cromwell, who is he, I wonder?”

“I have no idea; but we had better avoid him, hadn’t we? Cromwell was rather antagonistic towards the Stuarts, you know.”

She laughed. “All the more reason why we should attempt a reconciliation now. Don’t be surprised if you see me as his partner a little later on.”

The lovers were obliged to separate when the music came to a close, for both were engaged elsewhere. Patricia was taken back to Mrs. Lowther, and Lionel went off to find “Cleopatra,” otherwise Zillah Lorm. He saw his sweetheart, a few minutes later, dancing with a courtier of the period of Louis XIV., and could not help remarking how sweet she looked. Miss Lorm’s eyes gleamed through the eyelets of her mask as she made a response; she was not one of those who care to hear any individual of their own sex praised.

“I must congratulate you on your engagement, Mr. Lionel,” she said, with a slight effort. “I was somewhat surprised when Lady Montella informed me of the news. I did not think that you—of all people—would marry without the pale; but, of course, there is no Earl’s daughter to be found among the Jews.”

The latter part of her speech was spoken jestingly, but the sting was no less keen. The young man’s face coloured beneath his mask. Had anyone else proffered such a remark, he could only have received it as an insult. Restraining the hasty rejoinder which rose to his lips, he kept silence, and Zillah, seeing that her dart had struck home, immediately changed the subject. But the pleasure of the evening was spoilt for Montella, and a troubled expression settled on his brow. It occurred to him that the singer had perhaps unconsciously foretold the decision of public opinion—namely, that he was marrying the Lady Patricia Byrne on account of her noble birth, and in order to strengthen his position as a member of the aristocracy. He knew that public opinion was never inclined to ascribe a man’s action to lofty and disinterested motives, but in this case it would vex him greatly if he were misunderstood.

His mind was busy all the time he danced, and Zillah Lorm might have been miles away, so little was he influenced by her charms. The room was crowded, for it was close on midnight, when the culminating point of the evening would be reached. It needed some amount of care on the part of the men to lead their partners gracefully through the maze of dancers, and two or three times Zillah narrowly escaped colliding with the others. Montella—probably because his thoughts were elsewhere—was unusually awkward, and just as he was guiding his partner round a difficult corner, he accidentally trod upon a lady’s dress. There followed the sound of tearing lace and splitting seams, and an exclamation of anger escaped from the lady at having been stopped short in that unpleasant way. Her partner—the Oliver Cromwell whom Patricia had noticed earlier in the evening—insisted that the offender had been guilty of gross carelessness, and waiving the young man’s apologies, proceeded to harangue him on the subject. There was something so aggressive in his manner that Montella felt his temper rise, and gave vent to a heated rejoinder, quite foreign to his general equability. The “Cromwell” took it up, determined to give his pugnacious propensities full sway, whilst the ladies stood by and listened uncomfortably to the wordy war.

“You have ruined the lady’s dress, and spoilt her evening,” he said, glaring at the culprit as if he were a schoolboy. “And all you do in return is to stand there and make lame apologies. I should think the least you could do would be to make amends like a gentleman.”

“Certainly. What can I do? If this lady will kindly tell me, I shall be happy to do it. I have already expressed my deep regret that the accident should have occurred.”

The lady gathered her train over her arm.

“I accept the apology of ‘King Charles,’” she said, her vexation already subdued. “It is not worth while quarrelling about.”

The clock struck twelve as she spoke, and as the last chime died away, the order was given to unmask. The two men fronted each other, and simultaneously uncovered their faces. Montella almost involuntarily gave a start, for the countenance of his opponent was curiously and unpleasantly familiar. He had seen it pictured in all the illustrated journals in the kingdom, cartooned in _Punch_, caricatured elsewhere; he had seen it scowling at the Opposition in the House, and at the anxious journalists in the Lobby. It was most unfortunate that this regrettable circumstance should be connected with his first personal introduction to the man.

There was a moment’s silence, during which the young politician’s eyes fell like an abashed schoolboy. The “Cromwell” was the first to speak.

“Your name?” he demanded curtly.

“Selim Montella.”

“Montella? member for Thorpe Burstall?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! Mine is—as you may know—Athelstan Moore.”

He offered his arm to his partner, and without another word, turned shortly away. Zillah Lorm looked after them with increasing interest.

“The new Premier!” she exclaimed, as soon as they were out of earshot. “Athelstan Moore, the Jew-hater! Was it wise to offend him, Mr. Lionel?”

“Wise? It was the most foolish thing I ever did in my life,” he rejoined, with a short laugh.

It was amusing—to the singer—to witness his discomfiture.