Chapter VI: A House of Mourning

Sir Julian was very ill. His physician had to be rung up in the middle of the night, and arrived to find him in an exceedingly critical condition. Raie, tucked up in her little white bed, awoke with a start to hear footsteps in the corridor, and the subdued sound of voices. Hastily attiring herself in her dressing-gown, she unlocked her door and peered out to see what was happening. As she did so, the bald head and gaunt figure of the physician emerged from the morning-room, followed by Lady Montella in deshabille. Raie, not wishing to be noticed, shrank back into her own room; but a few minutes later she put her head out again, and espied a maid.

“Maggie!” she called, in a whisper. “Mr. Lionel isn’t ill?”

“No, it’s Sir Julian; had another stroke. They think it’s the end. Mr. Lionel has gone for the rabbi.”

“Oh!” There was a scared look on her face. She called the girl into her room, and shut the door. “It’s frightfully sudden,” she remarked, sinking on to a little wicker chair. “He was normal when Lady Montella went to bed.”

“Yes, miss, it came on all of a sudden like. Those things always do. I remember my grandfather whom we buried a year come Christmas; he had St. Vitus’s dance—the twitchings, you know, and—”

“Don’t tell me,” interrupted the girl, with a shudder. “I’ve got the creeps already. Tell me, Maggie, do you think I ought to go into Sir Julian’s room when the minister comes? I don’t want to go, because I feel so horribly nervous, and I’ve never been near anyone who is dying before, but if—if Lady Montella expects it—?”

“I should go back to bed if I were you, miss,” the servant advised. “There is no occasion for you to go near a death-bed unless you are obliged. You will not do Sir Julian nor my lady any good by upsetting yourself.”

“No, but I don’t want auntie to think me unkind. Will you ask her, please, Maggie? Tell her I send my love, and am very sorry; and if she wants me, I’ll come.”

The maid rose with an air of reluctance and took the message. Two minutes later she returned. Her ladyship sent her love, and wished her niece to go to sleep without frightening herself. Everything that was possible was being done for the patient, therefore her presence could not assist.

Raie jumped back into bed and snuggled down, with a sigh of relief; but sleep was impossible. She was on the alert for every sound, and heard the coming of the minister with a flutter of excitement at her heart. The atmosphere seemed to be charged with a sense of death, and the silence seemed more acute because occasionally broken by subdued snatches of conversation. She buried her head beneath the counterpane, as though in fear of beholding the King of Terrors in visible form. She recollected all the gruesome stories she had heard of death and the dying, and did her best to induce a nightmare. She imagined she felt the passing of Sir Julian’s soul, and a tremor ran through her being at the thought. Wondering if all were over, she heard the physician take his departure. It seemed as if morning would never come, for long hours passed without bringing light. Eventually, however, she awoke out of a short and troubled sleep to hear the yodel of the early milkman. The long night was over at last.

At breakfast-time she entered the morning-room, scarcely knowing how to frame the question which rose to her lips. Lionel Montella was reclining in the easy-chair with his eyes closed; no doubt he was tired after his sleepless night. He opened his eyes at her approach, and glanced at her wearily. Then he gave her the usual matutinal greeting.

“You look worn out,” she observed sympathetically. “If I were you I should go and rest until lunch-time.”

He shook his head.

“My father is dying,” he rejoined, in a low voice. “Did you not know?”

“Yes.” She did not tell him that she had made up her mind that Sir Julian was already dead. “I am so sorry, Lionel. You must feel upset, and poor auntie, too. Where is she?”

“In the sick-room; she will not leave his side. I have begged her to take some rest, but she is determined to stay with him until a change occurs.”

They sat down at the table, but neither of them could eat. Lionel left his omelette untasted, and his letters unread; and Raie forbore to glance through the newspaper, as was her daily custom. After breakfast, she screwed up her courage and knocked at the door of Sir Julian’s room. She had made up her mind that it was her duty to visit the old man; in the daytime the ordeal did not seem so great.

He was awake, and droning Hebrew prayers in an inaudible voice in company with the minister. Lady Montella sat by the bedside, her beautiful face drawn and anxious. Raie went over to her and kissed her without a word; she did not know quite what to say. She was a sensitive girl, and often restrained herself from mere shyness; but Lady Montella knew her well, and understood.

Presently Sir Julian made as if he would sit up. “Ferdinand!” he exclaimed, and then again, “Ferdinand!” He had not mentioned the name for ten years. Lady Montella rose from her seat with a start; Raie remained inert, but the name attracted her attention.

The sick man gazed at them as if he were dazed.

“Ferdinand,” he repeated; “I thought he was here. I don’t want to see him.” His words came with difficulty. “Send him away. Tell him he has brought down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

Lady Montella bent over the bed.

“Ferdinand is not here,” she repeated, in a low voice. “We do not know where he is; but if we can find him, will you not forgive him?”

“No. He shall not have a penny.” His words grew fainter. “He is no more my son. He sold—his—birthright—for—a mess of pottage.”

Raie listened with all her ears, but the dying man did not speak again, and soon fell into the lethargy which preceded the end. The physician came again, but the baronet was beyond the reach of human aid. At two o’clock in the afternoon Lady Montella was led out of the room, half-fainting. Sir Julian was dead.

Raie had never been in a house of death before, for her father had been drowned at sea. She was too shy to go in to her foster-aunt at once, and wandered in and out of the darkened reception rooms as if she were unable to rest. The household was in a state of confusion, for it was Friday, and therefore necessary that the preliminary burial rites should be performed before the Sabbath fell. She heard Lionel and the minister arrange the details, and afterwards she saw the repulsive-looking _wachers_[4] who had come to stay with the body until Sunday, when the funeral would take place. There were people coming and going all the afternoon, and she was obliged to have her tea in solitude. After it was over she was sent for to Lady Montella’s boudoir.

Footnote 4:

Professional watchers by the dead.

She obeyed the summons without delay, and clung to her foster-aunt with the tears welling up in her eyes. When the first outburst of emotion was over, Lady Montella asked her if she would like to go home until after the funeral; it would be so very dull for her in the house of mourning. Raie conquered her first impulse and decided to remain. She did not feel justified in leaving Lady Montella alone in her sorrow.

It was indeed a dull week. In accordance with Jewish usage all the blinds in the flat were kept down for seven days instead of being pulled up directly after the funeral. The principal mourners, including two of Sir Julian’s sisters, sat on low chairs to lament and receive the condolences of their friends, whilst near by a tiny float burned in a glass of oil as a memorial of the dead. Every evening a service was held in the drawing-room, attended by most of the Jewish gentlemen of the Montellas’ acquaintance, and not a few strangers. It was Lionel’s melancholy duty to say _Kaddish_ for his father, which prayer he would have to repeat daily until his term of mourning expired.

One of the first visitors to offer her condolence was Lady Patricia Byrne. Accompanied by Mrs. Lowther, she drove up in a closed carriage, bringing a beautiful wreath composed of lilies and violets. As no flowers were permitted to decorate the coffin, however, the wreath was placed in the room where the _shiva_[5] was held. It was the first opportunity Lady Montella’s relatives and friends had of observing Lionel’s future wife, and they did not scruple to make the most of it. Attired in complimentary mourning, with a black picture hat to set off the fairness of her hair and complexion, and carrying herself with an unaffected but distinguished air of grace, the girl certainly satisfied their critical eyes. With her face lit up with honest sympathy, she conversed with the mourners in a way which proved her tact and her knowledge of Jewish customs. Lionel’s face glowed with pride and gratification at the presence of his beloved.

Footnote 5:

Mourning.

Mrs. Lowther was a colonel’s widow, fair, fat, and forty. She was devoted to her charge, but she did not understand the girl in the least. She was much too prosaic and matter-of-fact to enter into the hidden depths of Patricia’s temperament; and although she had lived with her for years, she knew only her exterior. Her manner towards Lionel Montella’s relatives was decidedly distant, and sitting apart, she did not attempt to join in the conversation. She showed unmistakably that she had come merely for Patricia’s sake, and not for her own. Her face expressed disapproval as they re-entered the carriage and were driven homewards.

“You are the most curious girl I ever came across, Pat,” she said, with a sigh. “I wonder what your poor mother would have thought of you had she lived.”

“_À propos_ of what?” interrogated Patricia, with wonder.

“Why, your foolish engagement to this young man, of course.”

Patricia’s brow contracted.

“I thought you liked him,” she said.

“Yes; I’ve nothing against him personally, but I do not approve of your becoming connected with a Jewish family.”

“I am not going to marry the family,” the girl corrected amiably. “I have no desire to have more than one husband.”

Her chaperon frowned.

“You ought not to joke on this subject, Patricia,” she rejoined. “Your words confirm my opinion: you do not realise the gravity of the step you intend to take.”

“Yes, I do—to its fullest extent. That is why I have allowed Mr. Montella to give me an engagement ring.”

“Do you mean to say that you really have anything in common with those people—the people we have just left?” Mrs. Lowther asked, still unconvinced, “Cannot you see that they live in a world of their own, cemented by their religious and national customs? You may attempt to enter that world, but you must for ever remain an outsider. Even if you marry a Jew, you are not, and never can be, a Jewess. There is no strain of Oriental blood in you.”

“Do not be so sure. I believe if I choose to look up the family tree I shall be able to discover some remote Hebrew ancestor. But that is nothing. Lionel is quite as British as I am. The Torrens were originally French.”

“What shall you do?” pursued her chaperon, unwilling to leave the subject. “Become a Jewish proselyte, or turn Mr. Montella into a Christian?”

“I do not see the necessity for either,” Patricia rejoined, with a slight flush; “but one thing is certain. Situated as he is, Lionel cannot possibly forsake the faith of his forefathers. Were he to do so, the whole fabric of his Jewish inheritance would be shattered.”

“Then I suppose that if you were to find it necessary, you would become a pervert rather than he?”

“I cannot answer that at the moment. But why discuss the matter until we are obliged to consider it?”

“Why should we shirk it simply because it is disagreeable? It is one that will have to be faced as soon as you take any definite steps towards marriage.”

The girl leant back against the cushions with an expression of weariness.

“We shall not be married until Mr. Montella’s year of mourning is at an end, so I shall not have to decide hastily,” she answered. “I shall do what appears to me to be the best. Religion is not meant to separate man and wife.”

Mrs. Lowther sighed. “What a pity you have an Agnostic for a father,” she said.