Chapter V: The Story of Ferdinand

Acting on his mother’s advice, Lionel Montella wrote a letter of apology to the Premier, and received a short note of acknowledgment in return. It was some time before he could overcome his vexation at the unfortunate encounter, even though he was assured by his confrères that the destiny of a nation is not affected by petty personal spite. He knew that it was good policy on his part to conciliate the chief Minister of State, instead of which he had done the direct opposite by personally offending him.

The new Premier’s attitude towards the Jewish community soon made itself felt. The greater part of the press—the part which was open to bribery and corruption—was in his favour, and did not hesitate to voice his opinions and echo his antagonism. About this time a celebrated Consolidated Trust, of which the principal directors were South African Jews, went to destruction, making one of the most sensational failures on record. Hundreds of people were ruined, but the directors managed to emerge unharmed, and the rumours of swindling on their part were left unrefuted. Immediately the papers expressed their sympathy for the unfortunate Gentile victims who had been preyed upon by swindling Jews, and long leaders declared that such things should not be. Following the rule in such cases, the whole Hebrew community was made to suffer for the reprehensible actions of the few. Public feeling—always ready to rush to extremes—ranged itself conclusively on the side of the anti-Semites; and the man in the street, as well as the music-hall artiste, kept his sneer ready for the unfortunate Jew.

All this did not affect the Montellas so keenly as those who were more in touch with the masses. They read the papers, and inwardly burned with indignation, but from the taunts which greeted the ears of their poorer brethren they were happily exempt. Lionel went out and about, never seeking to conceal his origin from those who despised his race; but there was something in the influence of his personality which forbade any remark of disparagement to fall in his hearing. Raie Emanuel was the only member of the household who was to some extent personally concerned. She went to see her relations in Canonbury, and found them smarting under what they considered a cruel rebuff. Their only son—a smart youth of nineteen—had been dismissed from the office in which he had hoped to obtain promotion, and the two little girls had been expelled from their ladies’ school.

“Expelled!” Raie exclaimed, in dismay. “But why? what have they done?”

For answer her mother handed her the note she had received from the principal.

“That’s all,” was her reply.

_“Miss Perkins regrets that owing to the wishes of some of the parents
of her scholars she is obliged to ask Mrs. Emanuel to remove her two
daughters, Pearl and Charlotte, from the school. Miss Perkins ventures
to respectfully suggest that the girls would be happier if educated at
a Hebrew school, or by a Hebrew governess at home.”_

Raie tossed the note impatiently aside.

“I wish people wouldn’t call us ‘Hebrews,’” she said. “It irritates me. Well, I suppose Pearl and Lottie will be able to exist without the advantages obtained at Miss Perkins’ seminary. But how absurd it all is. As if Pearl and Lottie were the least bit different to the Smiths, Jones, and Robinson girls!”

“And I’m no different to the other chaps at the office,” Walter added, in an aggrieved tone; “but just because old Blank has taken a dislike to the name of Jew, I’ve got the sack. I wish I’d never been born a Jew.”

“Oh, you must not say that,” Raie said reprovingly. “It is a great privilege to be a Jew, and if Christians believed what they preach, they would give us the honour which is our due.”

This little speech was _à la_ Lady Montella, whose views the girl unconsciously imbibed. The Emanuels regarded Raie as the oracle of the family, and looked up to her as living on a higher plane than themselves. Mrs. Emanuel was a widow, with six children and a small income. It had been no easy matter to rear and educate these children, even though the eldest had been taken off her hands at the age of fourteen. The second girl, Harriet, had just become engaged to the son of a wealthy stockbroker, which was a matter for congratulation to the Emanuels and their relatives. Harriet was a bright girl of seventeen, with what her mother called a “taking” manner. She contributed to the family purse by teaching music at a kindergarten school, and was out when Raie arrived.

“We’ve been looking at houses all the week,” Mrs. Emanuel said, when the girl inquired after her sister. “The sooner they get settled the better. I don’t believe in long engagements; never did.”

Raie considered a moment.

“I wonder if Harriet will be happy with Harry Levi,” she said thoughtfully. “He is not a man I could care for in the least.”

“You never did like him,” her mother remarked; “but then you’ve not got to marry him, so it doesn’t matter. He seems affable enough, I think. Have you any reason for your dislike?”

“Only that the Montellas do not approve of his family. Harry Levi’s father waxed fat over the Consolidated Trust concern, and Lionel says that Harry himself is not over-scrupulous. Lionel Montella would not say a thing like that unless there were good reason.”

Mrs. Emanuel regarded her contemplatively.

“You seem to think a great deal of Lionel Montella,” she rejoined. “You always talk about him as if he were a prophet or a prince. I shall not be at all surprised when I hear that he has fallen in love with you and asked you to marry him. Well, it would be a great _simcha_[2] for us, I am sure. The _Jewish Chronicle_ would give you a notice—‘_A marriage has been arranged between Mr. Lionel Selim Montella, M.P., only son of Sir Julian and Lady Selim Montella, and Miss Raie Emanuel, eldest daughter of Mrs. Joshua Emanuel, late of Liverpool._’ Wouldn’t it make the Canonbury people sit up, eh? Instead of Mrs. Abrahams snubbing me like she does, she would come and implore me to attend her next dinner-party; and I would say—‘So sorry: I’ve promised to dine with dear Lady Montella.’”

Footnote 2:

Joy.

Raie put up her hand, as though to stay her mother’s garrulity.

“Mamma!” she exclaimed, her cheeks tingling, “I wish you would not talk like that. It’s so vul—so horrid. I would not marry Lionel Montella, even if he asked me, because I do not consider myself fitted to become his wife. As he will not ask me, however, I shall be saved the trouble of declining. Have you not heard that he is engaged to Lady Patricia Byrne?”

“What!” Mrs. Emanuel sat bolt upright. “This is news, indeed. Who is Lady Patricia What’s-her-name? A Jewess?”

“No; a—Christian—the daughter of Earl Torrens—gloriously beautiful, and with a face like a Greuze. She is far more suitable as a wife for Mr. Montella than a plain, insignificant little creature like myself could ever be.”

There was nothing either of mock modesty or bitterness in her words. She knew that she was small and slight, with ordinary features and ordinary abilities. She did not know that when she spoke her eyes sparkled with animation, and that the sweetness of her smile amply compensated for the irregularity of her features. She did not know either that there was a _naïveté_ about her manner which endeared her to those with whom she came into contact. Perhaps, had she known, the charm would no longer have been there.

“Lionel Montella has no right to marry a _shicksa_,[3] even if she does belong to the aristocracy,” was Mrs. Emanuel’s stricture. “If you are not good enough for him, why doesn’t he marry a Rothschild? It must be a terrible disappointment to his father, especially after the trouble he has had with Ferdinand.”

Footnote 3:

Gentile.

“Who is Ferdinand?” asked Raie, her cheeks still burning.

“Ferdinand Montella, of course. Sir Julian’s son by his first wife, who was a Miss Klonsberg of Birkenhead, and second cousin of your poor papa’s step-brother’s wife. Do you mean to say, child, that you’ve lived with the Montellas all this time without ever hearing of Ferdinand, or that I never told you about him? It seems almost incredible.”

Raie became interested.

“I have never heard the name until you mentioned it just now,” she replied. “Tell me all about him, please.”

Mrs. Emanuel was fond of relating the personal history of anyone with whom she happened to be acquainted.

“Ferdinand is the skeleton in the Montellas’ cupboard,” she began, giving her daughter time to digest the statement. “His mother died when he was born, and until his father married again he was brought up by a relation of the Selim Montellas. He was expelled from Eton, and ran away from boarding-school, and was the sort of little monster who would never be able to abstain from wickedness outside a reformatory. When he was about eighteen, he did something shady—I don’t quite know what it was, for the matter was hushed up, but I believe he tried to embezzle, or something of the sort. Anyway, Sir Julian disinherited him, cut him out of his will, and sent him off to Australia with just enough money to pay his passage. Since then, the name of Ferdinand has been tabooed by the Montella family, which, I suppose, accounts for your ignorance of the matter.”

Raie’s eyes were wide open.

“Do they never hear from him?” she asked.

“I don’t know; but I heard that Sir Julian once received a letter from him, and returned it unopened. You ought to know whether they receive letters from Australia or not.”

“I never trouble myself about the Montellas’ correspondence; they receive letters from all kinds of places. Besides, Ferdinand may have left Australia. How long ago did it all happen?”

Mrs. Emanuel thought a moment.

“Let me see,” she replied musingly. “It was just after Pearl was born. I remember quite well, because Lady Montella paid me a visit, and I was wearing a pale-blue dressing-gown trimmed with Irish lace. It was the first day I sat up in my room. It must be about eleven years ago. Ferdinand—if he is still alive—will be about thirty.”

“So old?” To Raie thirty seemed like middle age. “What a strange story; it quite fascinates me, and”—there was a touch of excitement in her voice—“why, if there is an elder son, Lionel will not succeed to the title and estate.”

“To the estates, yes; to the title, no. Sir Julian cannot will away the baronetcy, much as he might like to do so. Lionel will never be a baronet unless his step-brother dies.”

“Poor Lal! But I do not think he has much craving for a title; he is not that kind of man. I wonder why Lady Montella has never mentioned her step-son to me?”

The matter gave her food for speculation during the remainder of the day. It seemed so strange that Sir Julian—the mild, unobtrusive Sir Julian—should go to such lengths as to disinherit his own son. The more she thought about the scapegrace the more her heart went out to him, although she knew that her sympathy was probably undeserved. When she returned to the flat she routed out an old family album, and carefully turned over the leaves. There were photographs in abundance of Lady Montella in different positions and dresses, chiefly dating from her early wedded days. There were photographs of Lionel in the various periods of infancy, as well as of the two little children who had died. Raie was deeply interested in them all, but she glanced at them cursorily in her eagerness to find the one she sought. At last her attention was arrested by a carte-de-visite in platinotype of a youth in a golf blazer, club in hand. It had evidently been taken some years ago, and was partially discoloured. The face of the young man was somewhat sensual in character, the mouth weak, but the eyes, on the contrary denoted intellect, and were so like Sir Julian’s that Raie looked at them in doubt. Flicking the dust from the album, she carried it into the study, where Lionel was writing.

“Lal,” she demanded, as he put down his pen, “is this your father when he was a young man?”

Montella glanced at the photograph, then up at the girl.

“Where have you been rummaging, Raie?” he remarked, with curiosity. “This photograph is not my father, but a lad who went abroad a long time ago. I am afraid I must not tell you his name.”

“It is Ferdinand Montella,” she returned boldly. “You see I know.”

He regarded her with surprise. “Who told you?” he asked, in his quiet way.

“I guessed it; but mamma was talking to me about Ferdinand to-day. I did not know there was such a person in existence. There seems to be quite a mystery about him. May I not know what it is, Lal?”

“You surely do not desire to know what my parents wish to keep secret, do you, Raie?”

“Oh, no—if you put it like that; but I did not think there was any harm in asking. Perhaps Aunt Inez will not mind telling me now that I am no longer a child.”

“I should advise you not to mention the subject for the present, Raie,” he answered seriously. “It isn’t worth while raking up a story of the past which people would rather forget, is it? Perhaps, if you wait a little while, my mother will tell you of her own accord.”

Raie quenched her thirst for information, and acquiesced, but still regarded the pictured face intently. There was an expression in the eyes which took her fancy; and in spite of the weakness of the mouth, the lips indicated good-humour.

“I like Ferdinand Montella,” she said decidedly, with a secret wonder at her own effusiveness. “He may not be perfect, and I suppose, from what mamma says, he is something of a scapegrace; but he has rather a nice face, I think. If ever he comes back I shall stand up for him.”

She was such an impetuous child.